How a Gunman Says Goodbye Page 3

  ‘Tommy. Shit! Tommy. Do you know what time it is? Are you off your face or something?’ Spikey’s staring at him through half-closed eyes. Scott always liked Spikey. They seemed to have similar ambitions. He always thought of Spikey as a cut above most of their other friends. Now, something’s changed. Scott understands that. His ambitions have far outgrown Spikey’s. Scott’s moving on to a different level, and leaving mediocrity like Spikey behind.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ he’s saying, making sure to get the ‘mate’ in there. ‘I need a gun. Like, right now. Nothing fancy, just something that works. I don’t have much cash on me, but I’ll pay what I’ve got and owe you the rest. You know I’m good for it. I can pay you either in cash or gear–your choice. We can probably make a good deal on gear, as it happens.’

  Spikey’s looking at him with a frown. Too many words to process at this hour. ‘You want a gun. I thought you didn’t want one.’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘Uh-huh. But I don’t have any. Not just now. I can get you one, if you want, but it’ll take a few days. You should have said. When I had them, I mean.’

  ‘How can you not have guns?’ Scott’s asking. There’s a bit of anger in his voice that Clueless and Spikey have both noticed. ‘You sell the fucking things for a living.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, back off a wee bit, huh? I do sell them. I sold a shitload of them a few weeks ago. Made a good pile out of it. Sold the lot to the one buyer. Same people I got them off, actually. They wanted them back. Paid up to get them, too. Nice profit for nothing. I’ve got more coming, though, if you’ll wait.’

  That was the go-to option. Where the hell do they go to now? The only other people with guns that Scott knows are people who probably won’t sell to him. Spikey’s such an idiot. Scott knew it as soon as Spikey told them about selling the guns back to the previous owners. He doesn’t seem to get it. They sell the guns to him, and then buy them back at a higher price. Only one reason why you throw money away like that. They have someone willing to pay a much higher price now. If Spikey had anything resembling a brain in his head, he’d have turned down their offer and gone looking for the better offer himself. Nope, he took the quick profit. No ambition. No initiative. That’s why he’ll never get anywhere.

  ‘Do we have to use a gun?’ Clueless is asking.

  ‘If he has a gun and we don’t, we’re fucked. Even two to one. This guy’s a professional, and we’re not. We have to do this right. So that we can show Shug that we know how.’

  Mark Garvey. Nasty piece of work. Sells guns, though, everyone knows it. Sells to some of the worst people. Seems to be able to keep himself off the police radar, God alone knows how. Must be one lucky bastard, because he’s in it up to his armpits. Robbers, gunmen, dealers, pimps–the whole nine yards. Some people say he shut up a couple of his own suppliers before they had the chance to drop him in it. Might be bullshit. There’s a lot of it about. Scott knows where he lives, or at least where he used to live. If he’s moved, then they’re about to wake up the wrong guy.

  Knocking on another door. A nicer area this time. The door’s opening. Attractive woman in her thirties, short nightdress.

  ‘Erm, we’re looking for Mark Garvey,’ Scott’s saying. A light’s gone on behind her. Hmm, maybe not quite so attractive now. Bottle-blonde, crow’s feet, not the best skin. Would still look good with a bit of make-up on.

  The woman’s gone. Garvey’s standing in the doorway now, frowning. Early fifties, bottle-brown hair, trying to look young for the wife, no doubt. Hard to keep up with a second marriage.

  ‘What do you want?’ Garvey’s asking. Looking at Scott, paying Clueless no attention. At a glance, he knows who matters here.

  ‘We need a weapon,’ Scott’s saying quietly. Maybe Garvey doesn’t tell the little wife everything. ‘Anything usable will do us.’

  ‘Will it now? Good for you. I think you got the wrong address.’ He’s moving to close the door.

  ‘I think we got the right address,’ Scott’s saying, sticking his foot in the jamb. ‘I know you don’t sell to strangers. Fair enough. I have an organization behind me. I can either pay you cash or set up a good deal on gear. Your choice. This could become a standing arrangement.’

  ‘No, it couldn’t,’ Garvey’s saying. ‘Now get your foot out of my door before I lose my rag.’

  ‘We’re in a hurry here. Helping us out won’t be forgotten.’

  ‘You listen to me,’ Garvey’s saying, leaning forward aggressively. He’s not a big man, but the movement does the trick. Scott’s pulled his foot away. ‘If you’re in a hurry for a piece and you got an organization behind you, then you go to the organization. That’s what it’s there for. You don’t go waking me up in the middle of the fucking night, understood?’ He’s closed the door. Not with a slam–that might be heard by the neighbours, and a guy like Garvey doesn’t want the neighbours knowing he’s had visitors.

  Plodding the streets again. They’ve tried two more dealers. Ignored by one, door shut on them by the other. Scott doesn’t know any others. The old gang probably have something, but he’s not so close that they’d give it to him. They protect their valuables jealously. He could go to Shug. Would probably get a gun from him. But that would render the whole thing pointless. Shug would almost certainly send someone else round to do the job. Then they’d only get credit for reporting it. Credit doesn’t go far.

  Plodding back to the flat, Clueless complaining. He’s been no bloody use. They’re back where they started, and Scott’s thinking hard. Trying to work out how you bring down a killer like Frank MacLeod. How two men stop one man and his gun. This is the initiative that matters.

  5

  Doing the rounds. Nothing special, just putting in an appearance. It matters. People need to see that you’re active, that you’re keeping an eye on them. Puts a little pressure on. John Young’s had one meeting already this morning. Went to see one of their two main suppliers. Had to be particularly careful with that one. Suppliers are a tetchy bunch. They need to be wary, fair enough. Police operations against the big importers tend to be better funded, better run. The better funded and run they’ve become, the harder suppliers have become to deal with. This was a casual meeting. A little business, mostly just getting a subtle message across. Young’s heard rumours about people that matter switching suppliers. People falling out like bloody school kids. That’s dangerous for everyone. He’s a little more reassured now. Supplier says it’s small stuff. Contained. A couple of people squabbling over money. Won’t turn violent. Isn’t contagious.

  First little concern calmed. Now on to the next one. There are always plenty. This one’s closer to the business. People really aren’t very bright. It surprises Young every day how stupid people can be. People who really should know better. It’s money that does it, you know. Greed makes people stupid. Stupid to a point where they’re willing to risk vastly more than they stand to gain. Marty Jones runs a dirty little operation that makes money. He’s basically a pimp. Nobody likes him much, but he does a job and he makes money. He cuts the organization in, and in exchange gets the benefits of being part of the Jamieson group. Marty supplies a product that people want to use, and he makes good money. But that’s never enough for people like Marty. They can’t just be happy with what they’ve got. Not until they learn.

  Young’s had Marty watched this morning. Just got a call that he’s gone to the nightclub that his brother runs. Perfect. The scene of the crime. Young’s pulling up outside the club and getting out of the car. Huffing and puffing. Could do with losing some weight, he’s realizing. Into the club. Unfamiliar. Asking a woman mopping the floor in the foyer where he can find the manager. She’s pointing along a corridor. He would laugh at the lack of security, if it didn’t remind him of their own. Along the corridor, finding a door with ‘Manager’ written on it. Not knocking, just going in. Poky little place. Grim. Marty sitting on a chair in front of the desk, his brother Adam in the chair behind it. They’re both looking at Young
and neither knows what to say. Just the start he wanted.

  There’s an old chair at the side of the room. Young’s taking his place in it.

  ‘I think you both know why I’m here,’ he’s saying. No smile, no jokes, no playing the smartarse. This is business and they need to understand how serious it is.

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Marty’s saying, and stopping. He’s not sure what to say.

  ‘I know that you two have been running private parties out of this place. I know that you’ve been using merchandise provided by us. I know that you’ve been making a tidy profit from it, and not passing that profit on. I’m not going to tell you to stop the parties. I’ve come here alone, as a gesture of my goodwill. You’re making money. Good. You cut us in. You’re making connections with other organizations through these parties. Good. We can all benefit from that.’ He’s looking at Marty now. ‘In the next couple of days you’re going to come round to the club and show me the books on these parties. You’re going to provide the back-pay of our cut. We’re going to make an agreement that works for both of us. If not, I’ll come round here again and I won’t be alone.’

  He’s getting up and leaving. Neither of them says a word. They’ve been caught red-handed. Marty’s just smart enough to know that he has to play this straight. He’ll cut them in. He knows what the price will be, if he doesn’t. The threats were all a little clichéd, but it’s what they understand. Young isn’t the sort to go in and be violent from the start. That would ruin any prospect of profiting from this. On the other hand, you can’t be too subtle with them. They need to understand what will happen if they don’t clean up the mess they’ve made. The money isn’t huge, but it was worth Young making the appearance himself. They need to know they can’t ignore the organization. Everyone needs to know that. But it’s more than that. These parties have potential. It was when he found out who was attending that he became most interested. People with important roles in some big organizations. People it would pay to be close to. People with information–Young’s favourite weapon.

  One quick meeting before lunch and then back to the club. This one matters most. No role is more important than defending themselves from their enemies. Only way to do that is to find out what your enemies are up to. He’s at a flat he uses a lot. Small place, but secure and neatly positioned to make it impossible for an observer to see who’s coming and going from which flats. Good place to meet people that you don’t wish to be seen meeting. He has been using it for a while, though. He’s already keeping his eye open for a suitable alternative. His contact is there before him. Long-term contact, not entirely reliable. That’s why he has to do the waiting. Young will be last in and first out. The contact will wait for him to arrive and give him time to get away before leaving.

  ‘So you’re working nights,’ Young’s saying, taking a seat at the kitchen table. It’s a sparsely furnished flat, always cold.

  ‘This week and next,’ Greig’s nodding. PC Paul Greig. Rather too enthusiastic a contact. Young’s known him for years. A cop in his late thirties destined never to rise from the bottom of the heap. Seems to have talent as a cop. Also has a reputation. So bent that even the criminals can’t trust him. But occasionally he delivers.

  ‘Tell me what I need to know,’ Young’s saying.

  ‘I think the Lewis Winter investigation is almost as dead as he is. Pretty much only Fisher working on it now, and even he has other things to do these days. People have lost interest.’

  Young’s nodding along. Trying to make it look like he doesn’t already know this. Just let the contact talk. Don’t annoy or scare him.

  ‘Fisher’s problem is that he can’t put the pieces together,’ Greig’s saying now. He’s experienced. He knows what Young wants. ‘He has all the names that matter, just can’t put them in order. He knows there’s something between Shug and Jamieson. He knows Glen Davidson was involved and that he’s disappeared. He knows Lewis Winter was involved and he’s dead. He knows Davidson called this guy MacLean just before he disappeared. He knows MacLean moved house the day after. Doesn’t take much of a genius to piece it together, but you need evidence. I don’t think he’ll find any, either. Too many professionals involved.’

  Young’s looking at him. The mention of Calum is always a worry. They’ve tried to keep him off the radar for as long as possible, but it was never going to last. That’s the business.

  ‘So Fisher’s putting all these pieces together, is he?’ Young’s asking. Making it seem like he doesn’t much care. Fooling no one.

  Greig’s shrugging. ‘He’s got the pieces, but it would take one hell of a leap to make a case with them. Maybe a better cop could. Get one of those bolts of inspiration. Fisher ain’t that kind of cop. He won’t let go, sure, but he won’t go anywhere with it.’ Another shrug.

  Young’s nodding, not believing. Fisher’s dangerous enough. Takes an idiot to underestimate someone so tenacious. Respect your enemy.

  Into the car and driving through the city. Heading back to the club, but taking a detour. Fisher’s house is twenty minutes out of his way. A journey worth taking. Not to do anything. You don’t do anything to a cop. But you need to know what they’re up to. You find out about them and their family. Find out about their friends. Their lifestyle. Any little detail that might have value later on. All for defensive purposes, not attack. He doesn’t need to drive past the house, but he finds it easier to work things out with a clear picture before him. See the house–imagine the man inside. No family worth speaking of. Few friends. There has to be a weakness. Has to be. They’ve checked his emails and phone, but found nothing. There are other things they can do. Get a key to the house. Have a poke about inside. Check his browser history. Information. If you find nothing of value, create it. That’s last-resort territory. However much a pain Fisher is, he’s still a cop. And you don’t provoke a cop.

  6

  Frank had a good night’s sleep. There was a day, rather a long time ago, when he would be nervous in the hours before a job. Not any more. Having a routine settles you. It becomes familiar and enjoyable. Takes the edge off the preparations. Once the job’s actually started, it’s easy. Your focus becomes the dominant emotion. No room for worry. He’s up and showering, having his breakfast, checking the newspaper. He needs to find out about the occupants of the flats, but that’s easy enough. One early phone call to a contact. He’ll get the info through a third party. Probably more than a third party–fourth or fifth. Anyway, somewhere down the line you get to some old woman working in an office for the local postal service. She’ll never hear Frank’s name, never know that the information is for criminal use. She’ll get a small payment and share the information about who occupies which flats. It’s the best Frank can do at such short notice. Hardly the most reliable info. Chances are there’ll be people crashing in an empty flat or two in that building. That’s the risk you take. You can only work with the best information to hand.

  Reading the paper, then heading out to the shop. Walk a little every day. Exercise the hip, build up your strength. Also, be seen in the community. Frank’s spent years playing a part locally. Looking like the slightly sad ageing gent, living all by himself. He’s never been close to his neighbours, but he makes sure they see just enough of him to prevent them getting nosy. He’s heading to the corner shop at the bottom of the road. A short walk, but it means he’ll be seen acting normal on the day of a job. That’s what this is about. He doesn’t need the pint of milk and packet of biscuits he’ll buy. He just wants to be seen being his normal, ordinary self. If anyone round here knows what he does for a living, then they’ve never mentioned it. Never even suggested that they know. Maybe they’re just smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

  The shopkeeper’s seen him. A couple of other people were in the shop, too. Now he’s back at the house, wasting the afternoon away. It’s the one downside of the job. When you’re working, you have to stay away from all your colleagues. It’s a strange thing. The older he gets, the
more he enjoys going to the club and seeing people there. Shoot a frame of snooker, waste a couple of hours. He goes along two or three times a week when there’s no work on. Ostensibly to play the role of security consultant, make the job seem convincing. In truth, he enjoys the company. You stay away from the person who hires you for a job. You keep your distance for at least a few days afterwards, sometimes as much as a week. Depends on the heat. There probably won’t be much for someone like Scott. It’ll be a gang-related death. Not likely to get a lot of traction with the media, not unless it’s a particularly slow news day. The police won’t make a big play of it, either. Better not to scare the locals with talk of gangland killings.

  The afternoon has gone. He’s cooking his dinner. Nothing too heavy, and nothing exotic. You don’t want your innards to trip you up. There will be some nerves at the time. Not a lot, experience deals with that, but there might be something. The nerves can come in a rush. If everything goes well, no surprises, then he’ll be fine. When everything happens quickly, and exactly as expected, he can go through a job without feeling the slightest flutter. That’s not healthy, he knows it. You should have some nerves. Keeps you on your toes. If a surprise comes along, then the nerves come with it. They can come in a wave, race up on you and consume you. It’s how you handle those that matters most. Experience helps, but it’s not everything. You can have no experience, but a calm mind. You can have a mountain of experience, as Frank does, and the nerves can still cripple you. It’s happened. People get surprised by something and freeze. Never happened to Frank.

  It’s dark outside now. He’s starting to prepare. Getting the plain clothing on. A little bit of a cliché to dress in black. The colour doesn’t matter much, but when you’re working in the night it’s a reasonable precaution to go dark. The most important factor is making sure the clothing has no distinguishing marks. You wear nothing that can be accurately described. You make sure that the police can’t find replicas and show it to the world. Utterly plain, worn only once and then destroyed. He’ll cover his face. He doesn’t on every job. If you have a job where there’s no prospect of witnesses or cameras, then why bother? Sometimes you have to be ultra-careful to get close to someone. That can mean no covering your face because that makes you stand out. These days it’s balaclavas more and more. The good old days–no such thing as CCTV. Back then, he wouldn’t have worn one for this job.