How a Gunman Says Goodbye (20 page)

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Authors: Malcolm Mackay

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction

BOOK: How a Gunman Says Goodbye
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37

He’s spent most of the day looking over old case notes. Some date back to the Seventies. Some of them name Frank MacLeod. Some hint at his then-employer’s involvement. None comes up with enough evidence for a charge. Not even close. Even now, decades later, it’s obvious that Frank MacLeod was guilty. Not in all of them. Some of them it’s hard to tell. Some of them he’s probably innocent. Not as if he was the only murderer in town. There are even a few cases where people have clearly thrown Frank’s name in there with no good reason. They were desperate. They had a victim and they wanted to convict Frank of murder. Unfortunately there was a big gap between those two facts, where the evidence should be.

Always the same two. Two cops who never worked together. One had retired before the other became a detective. Both with a bee in their bonnet about Frank MacLeod. Determined that they would be the one to nail him. The older one retired twenty years ago: Richard Whyte. Fisher remembers the younger of them. He was still around when Fisher started out. Guy called Douglas Chalmers. Very old-school. Good cop, though he never got close to Frank, either.

Fisher’s at his desk, a slip of paper in front of him. Is he becoming those two old cops, or is he betraying them? Maybe the latter. They would definitely think so, but times have changed. Frank isn’t the big fish he once was. Not if he’s on the outside. Besides, catching him as a contact is a catch of sorts. Not the lifetime stretch he deserves, sure. That would be the ideal, but it won’t happen. Frank was always too good for that. Then he got old, like everyone else. Had his hip replaced. Obviously isn’t fit enough for it any more. Now he stops being the big catch and becomes the bait. He could lead to Jamieson. To all of Jamieson’s people. That would be worth a guarantee of safety. Not one he truly deserves. How many people has he killed? He should be inside. It could still happen. Tell Frank he gets safety for info. When you have the info, arrest him anyway. Then forget about ever getting another contact in the business. Shit, it always has to be this bloody awkward. People like Frank MacLeod can never give you an easy ride.

He has the number on a piece of paper in front of him, daring himself to throw it in the bin. Go for the short-term prize of MacLeod himself. Tail him. Wait for him to slip up, now that he has no protection. Then get him in the dock. Wait for him to slip up – that’s a laugh. Fisher’s running his hand over the pile of case notes again. Not a single mistake in there. Not one. No reason why Frank should slip up now. Less reason, in fact. No safety net means more precautions. Less work. A man like Frank MacLeod will adapt to suit his conditions. So the hope of an arrest dwindles. The hope of a contact remains. Talk to him. Offer an olive branch. Give him the only protection that can guarantee a prison-free retirement. Still might not take it. Free of prison, but an enemy for those he informs on. It would still be a life on the run. Hiding until death.

He’s picking up the phone and dialling. Only one way to find out how this will go. It’s ringing. Still ringing. No answering service. Fisher’s hanging up. So either Frank isn’t at home or he’s not answering his phone. Might be better to go round there, but that’s not how you cultivate a contact. Turning up on their doorstep scares the crap out of them. Fisher knows that. Seen it happen before. You turn up and put that sort of pressure on and they run a mile. First thing they do is look to their boss for protection. If, like Frank, they don’t have a boss, then they go to ground. You’ve lost them forever as a contact. Subtle manoeuvres. Like trying to get a shy girl to go out with you. Slow and steady, nothing to frighten them away. Frank MacLeod isn’t like other contacts, though. Nobody else has his experience. Experience of the business, the people in it, its relationship with the police. He must know so much. He isn’t going to be frightened by the same things that normal people are.

If he’s frightened at all. Sitting here in an office in the police station, dark outside, making assumptions. Any other gunman would be nervous, surely. Out of one organization, looking around for somewhere to go. Old Frank might be different. Old Frank might already have a plan. He might already have been through this sort of thing before. Knows exactly what to do. Already contacted an organization that he knows will take him. A bigger one than Jamieson’s. Sell your soul to another ageing scumbag like Alex MacArthur. Give him everything you know about Jamieson. Wouldn’t be long before Jamieson’s world fell apart around him. Frank’s biggest threat would be gone, his safety almost assured. Don’t kid yourself that there’s loyalty amongst these people. They’re all as fickle as the wind. They go where the money is. They go where they’ll be safe from the consequences of their own actions. Greedy cowards, by and large. Just because he’s old and smart, that doesn’t make him any different.

Dialling the number a second time. He’s let twenty minutes pass. Maybe Frank’s back home. Or maybe he ignores strange numbers first time round, as a matter of routine. Perhaps he’ll answer this time. It’s ringing, again. Fisher hasn’t thought about what he’ll say. No point. These people can be very unpredictable. The only thing you can consider is your tone. Polite, but not friendly. You’re not here to make a friend. Firm, but not aggressive. They have to know you’re in charge, but they also have to know they’re safe with you.

‘Hello?’ A wary voice. Clearly not young, but not feeble-sounding, either.

‘Hello, is this Frank MacLeod?’

The slightest pause. ‘It is. How may I help you?’ If not old, certainly old-fashioned. Much too polite to be a modern gangland figure.

‘My name’s Michael Fisher. Do you know who I am?’

Another pause. This one longer. ‘I do.’

Fisher’s allowing Frank that little moment of silence. Let him gather his thoughts, question what this call means. Let him compose himself, so that he doesn’t feel he’s being jumped.

‘Then you probably have a fair idea why I’m calling.’ Matter-of-fact tone. Two guys who’ve been around the block, talking honestly to one another.

‘Why don’t you tell me why,’ Frank’s saying. Sounds a little like defiance. Probably a default setting. A cop calls you up, and you immediately get all defensive.

Fair enough, Fisher should have seen that coming. Frank might be smart, but he’s had forty years of conditioning. At a time like this, his instincts will be taking over.

‘I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, Frank, but I have a few things I think you should hear. You’re on the outside now. I know it; so do you, so does everyone. It’s common knowledge by now.’ That’s a little white lie, but it’ll come true soon enough. ‘I know where that leaves you. I want to make you an offer.’ Pause, leave it hanging. Wait and see what reaction you get. For an uncomfortably long time, nothing.

He’s thinking about it, which is a start. There are plenty of people who would have told him where to stick his offer, without even stopping to hear what it is. Not old Frank. He has more sense than that. How much more remains to be seen. He’s still not speaking.

‘I’m not going to demand anything of you right now,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘I think a face-to-face would be a good thing. We’ll both be better able to judge how this might go.’

There’s a sigh on the other end. Sounds like exasperation, not disgust. ‘I doubt it would go very well for either of us,’ Frank’s saying.

Time to put some cards on the table. ‘Maybe not,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘On the other hand, I can offer you something you won’t get anywhere else. You’re on the outside now. You’ll become a target, no matter what you do. You know how these things work. I can offer you safety. Hide you; protect you – whatever’s needed. I can keep you out of jail. I’m not asking for yes or no right now. But let’s meet.’

Another pause. ‘I have your number now,’ Frank’s saying quietly. ‘Let me think about it. Call you back.’

It went better than expected. It wasn’t no. It was a probably not – but that’s something he can work on. Frank will call him back. Could take a while, but if he can get a meeting, then Fisher would be halfway there. Once a person commits to meeting, it usually means they’ve already made up their mind. There’s a lot of risk in a meeting, so it’s a commitment in itself.

There’s nobody else in the office now. Couple of the guys from the nightshift have come and gone. God knows where to, probably the canteen. He doesn’t care. For once, Fisher’s not in the mood to chastise. This is his one chance. A chance to crack the Scott killing, maybe the Winter killing, too. Maybe a number of others. A chance to bring down Peter Jamieson. A chance to do something that would actually matter. So little of what he does matters any more. You round up some moron with a gun who thinks he’s a gangster, and you chuck him in jail for ten years. Within a fortnight three other morons have taken his place. You arrest the attention-seekers, the ones who think they’re celebrities and live accordingly. All the while, the people who matter stay hidden away. Safe. Then you get the chance. The once-in-a-decade opportunity to bring down an entire organization that matters. This might just be it.

38

His alarm goes off at half past seven. He always gets up at half past seven on a weekday, eight at weekends. It occurs to him now that he could ignore it. It occurs that he should have been ignoring it all his adult life. Never had a proper job. A job making something, contributing something. He’s only ever been a destroyer. Destroyers don’t need to get out of bed early. But he will. He’s spent so long forming the habit, it’s become impossible to break. When you live an unpredictable life, you need to form some sort of routine. It’s comforting to Frank. You don’t control your work. Your work controls the kind of life you’re able to live. So you build routines, and you stick to them.

He’s out of bed, into the shower, dressed, downstairs for breakfast. Now he’s thinking about his situation. Where does he stand? All alone, it seems. He can’t think of another organization he would want to go and work for. Plenty that would take him, there’s no doubt. He could find work if he needed it. And protection, which he does need. People would give it, but they would want so much in return. He would have to deliver them Jamieson, and all his people. They would only take Frank because of what he knows. They would dismiss his skills as those of an old man, as Jamieson has. It wouldn’t be progress. He doesn’t want to give them Jamieson.

He’s making a second cup of coffee. A little less milk in it this time. Looking round his house. Looking at his lifetime’s accumulations. Nothing. At least, nothing that he couldn’t live without. No family at all. No friends that he couldn’t leave behind. A lifetime of gaining nothing. It didn’t feel like that at the time, obviously, but you can see it on reflection. All that time, all that work. In the end you have nothing.

He’s going to the shop. It’s an excuse to get out of the house, nothing more. Buy a few things that he probably doesn’t need. A loaf of bread that’ll go green and be thrown out. A carton of milk that he’ll use half of. He’ll buy a newspaper and read maybe three pages of it. He has his coat on, and he’s out into the street. A casual look around – nobody there he doesn’t recognize. After a job he’s usually very careful to check. You’re on the lookout for reprisals, no matter who the target was. If it was someone in an organization, then there could be a professional after you. Harder to spot a pro, but they’re less likely to come after you anyway. Organizations don’t go after gunmen; they go after the person who hired them. Different when it’s a smaller target. Some guy trying to get rich on his own, steps on toes. Not connected to an organization, just trying to make money for him and his family. You can never predict the reaction of a family to a hit. People get emotional, pledge vengeance.

He doesn’t think of the Scott job as a job at all. It wasn’t his kill, in the end. Calum was the guy who did the job, not Frank. They’re Calum’s victims, another two notches for him. Hard to know how to feel about it. It’s strange that he’s still thinking about them. Scott and McClure. He’s usually stopped thinking about a target this long after a job. You think about nothing else in the build-up, and then you do the job. The second it’s finished and you’re clear of the location, your life goes back to the old routine. You think and do the things that you usually do, and the victim is no more than a name in the newspaper. It sounds cold, he realizes, but you have to have that detachment. Can’t spend your life thinking about all the jobs you’ve done, it’s not a sensible way to live. As he’s walking along the street, heading for the corner shop, he’s thinking about Scott and McClure again. Two people he didn’t kill. Should have. Didn’t. They could be his last ever targets.

He’s in the shop. Loading a few things into a basket, hardly even looking at them. He has to do something. He suddenly knows that he has to do something. He can’t live this life. He can be the sad old man when he has work to keep him thrilled, but not without it. Without it, he really is just a wreck, waiting for the end. He’s placing his basket on the counter; the woman behind the counter is adding it up. He sees her three or four times a week, but he has no idea what her name is. She must be in her mid-thirties, maybe a bit older. She looks a little worn, but she’s not wearing a wedding ring. Twenty-something years his junior, but he’s always thought of himself as a young man. In the past he would never have thought of asking her out. Too close to home. If he’s not working any more, then why not? Because he’s built the image of the sad old man – that’s why not. This is the cost of the life you’ve led.

A single bag of shopping; walking back along the street. He knows what he’s going to do. A mildly attractive woman in a shop, and he knows. If he’s ever going to have the freedom to have that life, to be able to ask, then it needs to be away from here. It needs to be a life outside the business. Only one organization can make that happen. He has to call Fisher. It feels like a betrayal, but why should it? Jamieson pushed him out, not the other way round. Peter Jamieson threw him overboard, and now he has to find any life raft he can. He keeps telling himself that it’s not a betrayal. He hasn’t convinced himself yet, but he’ll keep saying it. Into the house; the few items of shopping put away. Over to the phone. Going through the menu, finding the last number that called. Fisher’s office number. Everyone in the business knows Fisher. They know he specializes in anti-organized crime. Tough. Respectable. A man they hate because they fear him.

Pressing Dial and listening to it ring. He might not be there. Will Frank have the guts to call him a second time? Unlikely. He knows how hard this is.

‘Hello.’ Enthusiastic, expectant. Sounds like Fisher was sitting by the phone, waiting for the call. Nice to feel important, even if it is the police.

‘Mr Fisher. It’s Frank MacLeod. I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.’

‘Good,’ Fisher’s saying. Now he’s waiting for the follow-up, but nothing’s coming.

Frank can’t quite bring himself to say it. He’s already made the decision, but until he says it, he isn’t a traitor. Isn’t the worst of the worst. He’s told himself that a lot of other people have done it, but that doesn’t help. Just means there’s a lot of other traitors. Forty years of being told that it’s the worst thing you can do is hard to overcome.

‘I think we should meet,’ he’s saying at last. It sounds like he’s forcing the words out, as if he wants rid of them. ‘Soon, I think,’ he’s adding. It’s hard to hide the nerves.

‘I think soon would be best,’ Fisher’s saying. Good to get the agreement in, make it seem like they’re on the same wavelength. ‘Do you have any preference for where?’

Frank’s thinking. Where the hell do you do this sort of thing? Where would be safe? Nowhere is totally safe, that’s the truth of it. The location matters less than the cop probably realizes. If you’re being watched, then anywhere is deadly. If you’re not, then most places are safe enough.

‘There’s a house we can use,’ Fisher’s saying, impatient at the delay. ‘Or I can come round to you, if that would make you feel safer. The choice is yours.’

He certainly won’t have the cop round to his house. That’s a dumb suggestion, Fisher should realize that. Meeting in public would be fine if he could be sure they wouldn’t be spotted. ‘I think this house of yours would be the best option. What’s the address?’

It’s not too late to back out. Go to Jamieson; tell him you’ve been contacted by Fisher. Tell him you have the address of Fisher’s meeting house for contacts. Jamieson can have it watched; see what he learns from that. It might just prove that Frank’s not useless, that he can still contribute to the organization. Nah, that’s not how they would see it. They’ve got it into their heads that he’s a decrepit old fart, with nothing to offer. If he went and told them about this call, they would view it with suspicion. They now see Frank as a suspicious character. He’s seen it happening to others, he knows it’s happening to him. Still not too late to walk away from this.

They set the meeting for tomorrow. Mid-morning. Quite possible to stay away. He’s not truly committed until he turns up. Not a traitor until he goes through the door. All this because of Tommy-bloody-Scott. What a laugh! Scott’s finally important, but only because he’s dead.

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