How a Gunman Says Goodbye Read online

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get someone round. Won’t be me or Shug. It’ll be someone to take care of him. Someone to get rid of him. You sit tight. Don’t let him move.’

  He’s thinking that he should have been more enthusiastic towards the boy. Too late now–he’s hung up. Getting rid of Frank MacLeod, that’s a coup. Jamieson’s gunman. One of his closest allies. If Frank went to kill them, and they got the better of him, then they’ve done something noteworthy. Something many others have tried and failed to do. Have to tell them that later. The first people to get the better of Frank MacLeod. First he knows of, anyway. If anyone else had bettered Frank, he’d be dead by now. Nature of the work he does. Would be preferable if there was a way of doing this without contacting Shug. This is why Fizzy ought to know more about the business. Especially about the people they’re using. He knows Shug’s using Shaun Hutton as his gunman now, although he hasn’t had a job for him yet. He likes Hutton, seems a better option than Davidson was. A more pleasant person, anyway. Not that that’s how you judge a gunman, but still. Shug knows Hutton’s number, Fizzy doesn’t. Shug is keeping a lot more secrets than he used to.

  The phone’s ringing. It’ll take a while for Shug to answer. His wife will wake first, and then wake Shug. Then he’ll spend thirty seconds bitching into thin air. Then he’ll answer his phone. They’re too old for this. This is the first time it’s occurred to Fizzy. If they were going to do this, they should have done it ten years ago. They were in their twenties, they had fewer responsibilities, and the market would have been easier to get into. They had the energy and the ability to take risks. Starting in your thirties has more disadvantages than advantages. More money to start you up, but less of everything else.

  ‘Fizzy–Jesus, have you looked at a clock lately?’ Still sounding groggy, not happy to be awake. Shug’s not an instinctively aggressive soul, and he doesn’t hold grudges, but he can be tetchy.

  ‘We have an issue.’

  ‘What sort of issue?’

  ‘A little bit good, bigger bit bad.’

  Fizzy’s explained what’s happened. He’s told Shug that Frank MacLeod is lying on Tommy Scott’s floor, waiting for a bullet. Someone needs to deliver it. Shug’s said almost nothing so far.

  ‘What about Scott? He’s got MacLeod’s gun.’

  ‘Scott’s not a gunman,’ Fizzy’s saying, digging the boy out of a hole. ‘This is a great chance to get rid of MacLeod and weaken Jamieson. We get rid of one of Jamieson’s best–think how that’ll look. If Scott and his halfwit pal do the job, God knows what might go wrong. We need a pro round there. Someone who can do the job and remove the body cleanly. Get this right and we get rid of the old man without anyone knowing.’

  There’s silence on the other end. Shug’s thinking. Fizzy can hear him moving around. He’ll be out of the bedroom by now, into his den. Doesn’t want to keep Elaine awake.

  ‘Okay. You’re right. I’ll make a call.’

  Shug’s hung up; he’s going to call Hutton. This is just horrible. Fizzy’s sitting in his living room now, his phone in his hand, and he doesn’t know what to do. Nothing. There’s nothing he can do. His part in this is over. Wasn’t much of a part. Hutton will go there and do the job. The phone traffic will stop, so as not to link people to the scene any more than they already are. The proper and professional thing to do is nothing. Never used to be like this. Not back when they started. Best mates, running a small business, making a bit on the side with stolen cars. A few times the owners caught them in the act. Had to fight their way out. One was quite badly injured. That was unpleasant. Still, nobody ever died. They never crossed that line. Now they’re leaving that line a long way behind.

  9

  Phone calls are waking a lot of people tonight; Shaun Hutton isn’t the last. Like many in the business, he’s a multiple mobile-phone owner. He’s now searching for one of his work phones. He has three. All cheap models, pay-as-you-go. Nothing smart about them. He’s always kept his work schedule to a minimum. It’s one reason why he doesn’t carry much respect in the business. People think he comes and goes when it pleases him. They don’t think he’s reliable because he’s not always available. They see him as being half in the industry, half out. That’s a dangerous thing to be. They want you all the way in. Makes them feel comfortable. He works enough to pay his bills. No more, no less. He has a nice little house, where he lives alone. He has a nice little car. He has a nice little version of all the things he wants. That’s the way it’s going to stay. No rush to riches. He has the right phone, at last.

  It’s Shug Francis. At this time of night, it means there’s either a warning or a job. Hopefully the latter; a warning usually means unpredictable work with little reward.

  ‘Hello, Shaun speaking.’

  ‘Shaun, it’s Shug, how are you?’

  He still doesn’t have the hang of this. Asking how a guy is when there’s probably some emergency that needs addressing. Too civil. Too much of a normal civilian, still. ‘I’m fine. What’s up?’

  ‘Got a job for you. Right away. You know Frank MacLeod?’

  Stupid question. ‘I know of him.’

  ‘You know Tommy Scott?’

  ‘Eh, no, should I?’ he’s asking, but he sort of knows. He’s buying time while he thinks. He knows Scott is a dealer working for Shug. He’s heard that Scott’s been making a point of stepping on a lot of toes. Toes better left alone.

  Shug’s explaining what happened. Hutton’s listening, taking it all in, twisting it backwards and forwards in his mind, and finding the right angle. Old Frank MacLeod. Took a long time for someone to catch him out. Kind of sad it was a punk like Scott, but that’s the way the wind blows. Kids are coming through street gangs and turning into pros. They’re hard before they even get started. Maybe Frank took him too lightly. Maybe he’s just getting too old. Young man’s game, and all that. Shug’s still prattling on. He’s given an address, and Hutton’s mechanically memorized it. Top of a tower block–well, that’s bloody brilliant. Couldn’t be worse for a removal. Two other people there as well. Two strangers that he might not be able to depend on. This just keeps getting better. Shug keeps calling one of them Clueless, which is apparently his nickname. He’s going to have to find himself a new tag. That’s not inspiring at all.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Shug’s asking.

  He shouldn’t be asking. He should be telling. He’s the boss. He gives the orders; the gunman follows them. Hasn’t quite got the hang of leadership yet.

  ‘I think the removal is going to be the hardest part. Could be a nightmare, up there. I think there’s going to be fallout from this as well. Most of it will fall on Tommy Scott.’

  ‘He can handle it,’ Shug’s saying.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Hutton’s answering, not so sure. Scott’s going to need to learn to lie very low after this. He’s inexperienced, he and his mate. High chance of one of them making a mistake and paying for it. ‘I’ll need to go get a car; I’m not using my own. If they’ve got Frank’s gun, then I can use that when I get there. I’ll need to get some equipment as well, to get rid of the body. It’ll take me,’ Shaun’s saying, and pausing while he pretends to look at his watch, ‘the best part of an hour. That’ll be twenty past two. Can your man sit on him until then?’

  ‘He can. Come and see me tomorrow, when it’s done.’

  ‘No, better to wait longer than that. You won’t hear from me for another week, unless there’s an emergency.’

  It’s three minutes since he hung up on Shug, and he’s still deciding what to do next. You pick sides in this business. You don’t have to like the politics, but doing a job for one person inevitably means pissing off another. You choose your jobs based more on who you can afford to piss off than who you want to work for. It’s okay if you’re in an organization; there’s no choice to make. You work for the organization and piss off whoever the boss wants to piss off. If you’re freelance, you have to plot a careful course. You have to
make sure you leave enough friendly future employers. He’s putting the phone down and going into the cupboard in his bedroom. There’s another mobile there. Hasn’t switched it on for a couple of months. Might not have any battery power. The screen’s lighting–there’s still some power in there. One bar. That’ll do. It’ll be a short call. Dialling a number he memorized a long time ago. There’s no sense of guilt in it. This is a business. You pick your sides. You always have to make a living.

  ‘Hello?’ He doesn’t sound sleepy at all. That’s because John Young’s always been a night owl. He was up and about when the phone rang.

  ‘John, this is Shaun Hutton.’

  ‘Shaun, what’s up?’ There’s already a note of caution in his voice. Young knows Shaun wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. John Young knows how this business works. He’s known Hutton for six years. Used him on a handful of jobs in that time, nothing major. Threw a few things his way because he was a useful contact to have. Put some money his way, too, just to buy a little loyalty. Then Shug started courting him to be his new gunman. That was a godsend for Young. Six years secretly cultivating a contact finally paying off. Now this late-night call from Shug’s gunman. Hutton’s wondering if Young’s already connected the call to Frank. He must know Frank’s out on a job, working against Shug. He’ll know what to expect.

  ‘Listen, John, you have a situation. Frank MacLeod went to hit Tommy Scott, but the kid jumped him. I got word that Frank’s knocked out in Scott’s flat. They want me round there to finish him and get rid of the body. I told them it’ll take me an hour to get a car and the tools I need. You have an hour to send someone round and get Frank. If he’s still there when I arrive, then I have to do the job. I can’t back out. You got an hour.’

  He’s switching the phone off and shoving it back in the cupboard. Young’s been good to him, always kept him onside. A desirable future employer. He owes him a warning, but he doesn’t owe him any more. Backing out of the job would put his own neck on the block. He won’t do that. The first priority is keeping yourself alive. Young’s been good enough to buy himself an hour. You get a job and you go do it. If someone just happens to beat you to it, that’s too bad.

  10

  As you might imagine, there are many thoughts swirling round Young’s head. The first is always the paranoid instinct. Is this a set-up? Is Hutton trying to lure another Jamieson man round to the flat so that he can double his money? It would make sense. An ambitious gunman might try his luck. Make it a double celebration for Shug. No way of finding out. Probably not a set-up anyway. Most gunmen are more cautious than that. Most good ones, anyway.

  He’s angry with Frank now. How the hell do you get jumped by an overgrown scrotum like Tommy Scott? A man of Frank’s standards. His first job back since he had his hip replaced. Maybe he’s gone over the hill. Maybe he rushed back, insisting he was ready. Young’s angry, but Peter Jamieson won’t accept losing Frank. He’s always seen Frank as some sort of kindly uncle. Looked after him. Sent him to the villa in Spain to help him recuperate from the operation. The gnarled old veteran with more talent than anyone, who helped Peter establish his organization. Frank gave them credibility when Jamieson was just another pretender, and Young his unproven right-hand man. People know Peter and Frank are close. They can’t lose Frank. It would be terrible PR.

  Call Jamieson. You have one hour. If you’re going to do this, then you can’t waste a second. Is an hour enough? Not under normal circumstances. This could just be sending someone else to fail. Throwing away a second gunman to try to rescue an already-doomed first one.

  ‘Peter, you awake?’ Calling Jamieson on his regular phone, while trying to find his damned car keys.

  ‘Uh, yeah’ is the uncertain response.

  ‘Listen to me, we have a problem. You listening? It’s Frank. That little prick Scott jumped him on his way to the job. They’ve got Frank in Scott’s flat. They called in Shaun Hutton to do the job on him. We have one hour before Shaun gets there. What do you want to do?’

  Sometimes you see a man like Jamieson, messing around with horse racing and marathon snooker sessions, and you doubt his ability. He can give the impression he’s too laid-back, doesn’t take his work seriously. Not a leader. Then a moment like this arrives.

  Without a second’s thought Jamieson’s talking. ‘I’ll call Calum MacLean. You get to the club with a gun for him; he won’t have one of his own. I’ll get Kenny as well. He can drive Calum to the flat; Calum and Frank can come back in Frank’s car. I’m on my way to the club as well; I’ll see you there. Let’s be quick about this.’

  Jamieson’s hung up. Not a moment of indecision. In a way it almost doesn’t matter if his decision is right or wrong; by being quick he’s giving them a chance. It’s a hellish risk, though. Putting Calum at huge risk to save Frank. Maybe losing them both. Calum’s good. He can handle the unpredictable better than anyone–the Davidson incident proved that. Young doesn’t doubt his ability to do the job, just the value of making him do it. All this risk to protect Frank, and for what? How much can they rely on the old man after an incident like this?

  Out of the house and into his car. It’s turned into a cold night. Windscreen’s frosted. Pulling away with the heater at full blast. Young has to move fast, but not so fast that a speed-camera picks him up. Moving around at all at this hour of the night can make you stand out. Everything about this job is wrong. Everything. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard: twenty-eight minutes past one. They maybe have fifty-five minutes left to beat Hutton to the flat. That’s if Hutton takes the full hour, which he can’t guarantee. Young’s not going to beat himself up about Hutton. If he’d kept him closer, given him more work and more money, then Hutton might have been willing to back out altogether. Then they could handle this their way. Their pace. That’s still a maybe. A freelancer doesn’t want a reputation as a guy who stabs his employers in the back. Then again, Hutton might not want to be a freelancer. He might be looking for employment with an established organization. Backup to an established gunman. If Young had offered him that over the phone tonight… No, don’t dwell on it. Maybes kill progress. You can’t plan for something like this. You can’t keep everyone close. There isn’t room. If Shug had hired anyone else to be his gunman, they wouldn’t even have this hour.

  On the road to pick up a gun. There’s a few places you can go, if you know the right people. Gunmen typically use dealers they know and trust. Young doesn’t have those connections. He’s never fired a gun in his life, but he knows where a few are stored. He knows, because he stored them. He’s the only person who does know. You can plan this much. He’s driving to a building that Jamieson owns, has owned for a few years. It now has a third-rate travel agent on the ground floor and two flats above. They leased it out, but Young still has a key. About a year ago Jamieson had one of his men pick up a bagful of handguns that were on the market. There were four, apparently clean. Young stored three of them for a rainy day. In the middle of the night he hid one behind panelling in a cupboard that was once a coal cellar, beneath the travel agency.

  A part of the job he hates. Having to creep around. It’s not something he has any talent for. There are people who do it for a living, housebreakers. Very few pros left, these days. Most burglars are junkies. Young needs to get into the building, get the gun and get out without making a noise. He’s legally entitled to be here, he thinks, but someone in the flats could hear him, panic and call the cops. Then he’d have to explain what he’s doing here in the depths of the night. That’s a hard conversation to have with a cop, whilst holding a gun. There are two other guns hidden in better locations in the city, but this is the closest, and time matters more than convenience.

  In the back door, pressing the code on the alarm box. Thing probably isn’t active anyway. The couple who run the travel agency are a pair of swindlers, and not good ones. They won’t be paying running costs for security. Along the corridor and down the bare concrete steps to the cupboard. Pitch-blac
k. Feeling carefully, taking a step inside. He’s found the panel. It’s stiffer than he remembered. He’s pulling at it; it’s scraping against the brickwork at the side. Noise. Horrible noise. He’s reaching out a hand. A plastic bag with something bulky inside. That’s what he’s here for.

  Moving faster now. Pulling the door quietly shut behind him, across the street and back into his car. Opening the bag, unwrapping the cloth, looking at the gun and a little cardboard box of ammo. Exactly as he left it. There’s a cold feeling tingling away in the pit of his stomach. What if it doesn’t work? What if you provide the gun that doesn’t work, and Calum dies because of it? Don’t think about that. Just get it to the club. The gun looks fine. Every gunman takes a risk with their weapon when they go on a job. It’s the nature of their work. Their risk to take. Your mistake, their punishment. He’s starting the car, pulling away from the side of the road. He’s taking a quick glance behind him as he goes, making sure none of the lights in the flats above the travel agency have come on. They haven’t.

  He’s looking at the clock again as he’s pulling up outside the club. It’s one thirty-four. A quarter of their time has gone already. This could easily all be for nothing. Calum could turn up when it’s too late to save anyone. Or he could turn up and confront Hutton. That would be even worse. Calum’s sharp, though, he won’t get into a fight if he doesn’t have to. Nor will Hutton. He knows how to play this, too. Young’s out of the car, walking briskly along an alleyway to the side of the club, holding the bag tight to his side. There’s nobody about. They’ll replace the CCTV that the club has covering the area with repeat footage from another night. Every precaution taken.

  Neither Jamieson nor Calum is at the club yet. Young’s unlocking the side door and ducking inside. Pitch-black again. Moving in a dark world–sort of thing gunmen are supposed to be very good at. Young does most of his work in the daylight. Making his way carefully along what should be an empty corridor, but you never know. The cleaners will have left less than an hour ago. Wet floors and a stink of detergent. He’s found his way to the bottom of the stairs and he’s making his way quickly up. Awkward stairs, each step shorter than you think it’ll be. A lot of people fall on them, but he knows them well enough. Through the snooker hall, along the corridor and into Jamieson’s office. He’s pulling the blackout blinds shut and switching on the little lamp on the desk. It’s not much light, but it’s enough. He’s put the bag on the table and he’s pulling the cloth out. It’s a long thin strip, and he’s not going to take any chances with it. He’ll burn it along with the plastic bag. He hasn’t touched the gun itself, and he won’t. He’s not putting his prints on it, given what it could be about to do.