The Sudden Arrival of Violence: A Glasgow Underworld Novel 3 (8 page)

‘Hell of a risk for a life you might not enjoy.’

‘I don’t enjoy this one much, so it’s a risk worth taking.’

William’s sitting in his armchair, nodding his head. The conversation’s become morose. Failing lives. Might as well get that one last miserable question out of the way.

‘What about Ma?’

Calum’s sighing. ‘I don’t want to have to do this to her, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t go see her. People will ask her about me, and I can’t have her place me in the city any time after last night.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Calum, you can’t let her think you’re dead. She nearly fell apart when Da died. What’s this going to do to her?’

‘Well, what do you want me to do? Go round and tell her the truth. Hey, Ma, guess what: I need to flee the city because I killed a bunch of people! What would that do to her?’

William’s rubbing his forehead. ‘We’ll come up with something. I won’t have you dying on her, poor old cow. You’re her blue-eyed boy. We’ll find a way to keep her content.’

Now William’s gone out for a couple of hours. He was due to meet some friends to play five-a-side football. Does it every Tuesday after work. He wanted to cancel; Calum said no. You go and you act normal. Nobody thinks there’s anything going on. You do nothing that raises an eyebrow. So he’s gone. Agreed to send a text to Calum’s mobile. He’ll send a couple more, and make a few calls in the next few days. Calling a phone he knows is lying on Calum’s kitchen table. Keeping up appearances. Calum knows how this will work. William’s upset because his little brother is going away. Because there’s risk involved. He’s not bothered about the risk to himself. It’s Calum he’s frightened for. Calum’s the one who could be killed for walking away from a man like Peter Jamieson. But tomorrow William will be bustling with energy. Ready to face the challenge. Ready to go and see the counterfeiter. Play his part. It’s a reassuring thought. Comforting to have someone else’s enthusiasm to feed off.

11

Richard David Hardy. A sixty-one-year-old widower. A professional accountant all his working life. A regular at his local church. A hard-working individual. A gentleman. An intellectual. And one crooked little son of a bitch. That was DI Michael Fisher’s first instinct after a quick glance around the office, and he’s not finding anything to prove him wrong. He’s carefully writing out the list of clients mentioned on file. Of the eleven so far, there are only two names he doesn’t recognize. The nine others are all names that have crossed his path at one time or another. In Fisher’s experience, it is fair to judge a man by the company he keeps. To be honest, none of these men are in the top rank. None of them are serious players. They’re all low- to middle-grade criminals. Schemers and crooks of various varieties, but nobody Fisher would work up a sweat to arrest. Not worth it. None of them worth it but one. Hugh ‘Shug’ Francis.

That file’s caught his attention. He’s flicking through it now. Sitting at Hardy’s desk, the office door open. Higgins and McIntyre are still around. The two women across the hall have developed a habit of leaving and returning to their office. All so that they can peek in through the office door and see what Fisher’s doing. They’ll see nothing interesting. What they’ll see is the sort of thing that gets a conviction. Flicking through pages of numbers, trying to work out what should be there and what shouldn’t. There’s plenty. Hardy keeps details. There seems to be info on every deal Shug’s done, every employee he keeps. It’ll take an expert to unpick it all. Work out what Hardy changes, to make the numbers add up. Something must have been changed. There are people listed here who must be involved exclusively in criminal work for Shug. Money brought in through criminal work, and then hidden amongst the honest cash.

Fisher’s closing the book. Take a step back and consider everything you have. Hardy’s gone missing. Car’s outside with his mobile in it. Didn’t make it home last night. Made it as far as his car – that’s why the mobile’s there. So someone picks him up outside work. No reports of someone being forced into a car last night, so let’s say he goes willingly. You go willingly with someone you know. Who, that Hardy knows, would turn up at the end of the day and pick him up in the car park, rather than book an appointment? Someone with malicious intent, obviously. Someone with a lot to hide. Someone who’s concerned that Mr Hardy is no longer the best person to hide his secrets. Wouldn’t be any of the low-level crooks. They aren’t capable. Wouldn’t be willing, either. They just want things hidden away. No, it has to be someone growing. Or someone trying to grow. Someone very much like Shug Francis.

It’s not exactly a case, but it’s a workable theory to be getting on with. Could be that Mr Hardy will walk through the door and ask what all the fuss is about. Could be that Shug has taken him, to talk: tell Hardy what he’s going to do for Shug now. Then he lets him go. Not likely. Not with a guy like Hardy. If he’s been taken, it’s to be killed. You don’t grab someone like him off the street just to give them a warning, or to force new instructions upon them. Nah, you grab them to get rid of them. Can’t release someone like Hardy and trust him to follow instructions. Someone who perhaps doesn’t understand the consequences. Someone who thinks the police can protect him. No. If they took Hardy, they took him to kill him. He’ll be dead already. That should give Fisher the power he needs to get all this paperwork investigated.

Needs to find out more about Hardy. Find out how close he was to his clients. One in particular. Find out if he had any debts. If he was fiddling around with women he should have avoided. Long shot, but it could catch you out. You go racing after Shug, and find out Hardy had three mistresses and a mountain of gambling debts – they’ll be laughing at you for months. First, prove that there could have been no other motive. Then go for Shug. Until then, he needs to keep this quiet. Higgins he trusts. That boy’s been useful before. Smart and honest, willing to work. McIntyre, on the other hand . . . Going to have to be more careful with him. Those two old biddies across the hall aren’t to be trusted, either. Nothing Fisher can do to stop them blethering away to their leathery-skinned, turkey-necked peers. Witnesses – they really are insufferable!

Fisher’s going out into the hall. Higgins and McIntyre are both there.

‘Don’t need two of you,’ he’s saying. ‘Higgins, you stay here, you can help me bag some of this. You,’ he’s saying to the other one, ‘can go and find something else to do.’ That means: go and do anything that doesn’t have you under my feet. Sod who you’re supposed to be working with – I don’t want you here.

McIntyre’s nodding. Looking a little downcast, but that’s for show. This gives him the opportunity to dawdle his way back to the station. Fisher’s given him the chance to piss away the next hour or so. McIntyre’s not the sort of man to waste such an opportunity.

Higgins, on the other hand, is walking briskly into the office, eager to help. He knows Fisher’s the sort of guy who could get him interesting cases. Maybe even push a promotion his way. The sort of cop who can hold your career in his hands.

‘Close that bloody door,’ Fisher’s saying with a frown. He can hear the door across the hall opening again. He might be more patient with the women if they were useful. They have no idea about Hardy’s clients. No idea about Hardy twisting the numbers in his accounts. No idea about his home life. Bloody useless.

‘The women across the hall identified the man who came today as Ashraf Dutta,’ Higgins is saying. ‘His family have been known to the police for some time.’

‘They have,’ Fisher’s nodding. ‘His son and nephew had some piss-poor little racket selling fags. They’re nothing. Neither is the old man. He’s not who we’re looking for. He would hardly come here and place himself at the scene.’

‘If he had an appointment he might think he had to be seen keeping it. And maybe it wasn’t him who ordered it. Maybe it was the younger ones.’

‘No,’ Fisher’s saying firmly. Higgins is pissed off because he didn’t recognize the witness when he had him at the scene. He wasn’t paying attention because he didn’t think it was important. That was a mistake, and he wants to take the frustration out on the witness. ‘This,’ Fisher’s continuing, ‘is where we’re going to find what we’re looking for.’ He’s gesturing to the pile of files. Not specifically at Shug’s, but it is at the top, and Higgins is too sharp not to notice.

‘Okay,’ Higgins is nodding. ‘What can I do?’

‘I want you to go through every drawer in this office. Every folder. Every slip of paper. Let’s find anything that’s obviously out of place. Anything we get before the experts take over will buy us a head start. I’m going to let them know that we need the finance unit to look through all this. When you’re done here, you’re going back to Hardy’s house. Get inside, rummage about. Find anything interesting. Might be a better chance of getting personal info there.’

There’s plenty else to do, and a lot of it will be boring. Doesn’t matter. This feels good. Feels like one of those sneaky little chances that you can grab hold of. Fisher’s lost a couple of chances lately. Good ones. This feels different already. Hardy wasn’t in the industry, not properly. Better chance that he slipped up. A chance that this could lead to big arrests. This does feel good.

12

It’s long enough. Been hanging around the house all day waiting for him, but nothing. It’s nearly five o’clock in the afternoon now. Deana’s nerves can’t take any more of this. She has to do something. The only thing that ever calms her nerves is action. Sitting here waiting for the phone to ring or a knock to come to the door, that’s not helping. But what? She can’t just go out and look for him. Where the hell do you start? He could have gone anywhere. Might not even have been in the city. Jamieson has contacts and business all over the place. Little stuff mostly, but getting his foot in the door in new markets all the time. Kenny’s told her all about it. Jamieson has work all over the country; he could send Kenny anywhere. No, looking for him herself is a non-starter.

She could go to the club. She would, too, if she didn’t much fancy surviving past the end of the day. As it is, she’s rather attached to this living lark, so rattling that cage is out. If Kenny’s been killed, then it’s surely by Jamieson. They found out. Fine, they found out that Kenny was a grass, and they killed him. That was the risk Kenny took. Or maybe not. Maybe Kenny went out on an actual job and was jumped. Maybe Jamieson doesn’t know about it. Kenny always says that when people go on a big job, they don’t go back to the club. They stay underground for a few days. Let the heat die down. Maybe they think Kenny’s doing that right now. He was supposed to have a couple of days off. Maybe they’d be horrified to find out that he hasn’t come back. No. Jesus, stop kidding yourself, woman. You’re smarter than this. You know the business better than this. Jamieson found out. Or, more likely, that creepy little shit John Young found out.

So there’s nothing she can do for herself. Not without getting into more shit than she has any hope of wading through. Makes her feel pretty hopeless. Can’t go to Jamieson. Best-case scenario, he pats her on the head and tells her not to worry. These guys don’t tend to lean towards best-case scenarios. So that’s out. And it leaves her with one option. One bad, filthy and almost certainly useless option. But it’s the only one she has. It’s the option that probably killed Kenny. She’s sitting on the window ledge in the living room, looking out onto the road. No cars. Nobody coming to tell her what happened. No Kenny. She could do nothing. Most would, in her situation. A woman who’s lived in the industry knows that you do nothing. Your man doesn’t come home, you stay silent. Don’t report him missing. Don’t raise the alarm. Accept that he took the risk and lost. Move on. Thirty-four isn’t old. She’s still attractive, and she knows it. No kids, so no baggage to scare a man away. She could easily start again.

But she won’t. Not yet. For one simple and curious reason. She owes Kenny better. All the cheating, all the arguments – they were regrettable. But it was still a great relationship. He was weak, he wasn’t burdened by great intelligence, he wasn’t entirely faithful to her either, but he loved her in his way, and she loved him for it. Now that he’s gone, and she’s quite convinced now that he has, who else will stand up for him? Who else is there to find out what happened to him? To make sure there’s justice. Kenny’s father’s dead. His mother’s alive, but Kenny hadn’t seen her in years. He has a sister, but God alone knows where she is. He had friends too, but none of them will step up. They know who Kenny worked for. They know the possible consequences of making a fuss. If Deana doesn’t do it, nobody will. Only she will stand up for the dead.

One of Kenny’s other failures: very predictable. A man with a mediocre memory, who keeps a little notepad badly hidden in his bedside cabinet. Not hard to work out what sort of thing is going to be in there. Phone numbers and addresses. You can see in the first couple of pages where he’s tried to code it. Badly. A is one, B is two, and so on. He gave up on his coding effort quickly. Terrible handwriting, but she can recognize the names and numbers. She’s shaking her head as she flicks through another page. He was just a driver. Didn’t have the talent to be anything more than that. Just a driver. She shouldn’t have pushed him towards the police. But he brought it up. His nerves . . . Forget that. The fifth page is the last with anything on it. DF and a number. Detective Fisher. Kenny was Fisher’s contact, and he may be dead because of it.

Downstairs, sitting comfortably. Time to begin. There was an office number in black ink. Then, below it in blue, a mobile number added later. She’s calling the mobile, so Fisher should answer. Maybe he’ll recognize Kenny’s home number, maybe not. It’s ringing.

‘Hello,’ says the emphatically and deliberately bored voice on the other end. A cop who wants his contact to know that he doesn’t matter.

‘Hello, Detective,’ she’s saying. A pause, and silence. ‘You don’t know me. My name’s Deana Burke. I’m Kenny McBride’s partner.’

More silence. Doesn’t matter how cool the smug arsehole wants to play it, he knows who Kenny is. Kenny was his contact inside the Jamieson organization, and no detective forgets something like that.