How a Gunman Says Goodbye (23 page)

Staring out the window, watching the rain come down. The life of the loner. How did Frank do it all these years? Calum’s been thinking about that for the last hour. Not thinking so much about Emma. He liked Emma, but it was only two months. She was great company, but anyone would have been welcome after so long without. Calum’s twenty-nine. Frank’s sixty-two. He’s had thirty-three more years of it. Right up until the Scott job he seemed as if he was handling it all happily. He must have had moments like this, when the sacrifices didn’t seem worth it. Maybe not. Maybe he was always stronger than Calum. It’s not the sort of thing you ever get to find out. No gunman is ever going to tell you about an emotional crisis. Strange thing is, this has only crept up on him in the last six months. Before that, nothing. He was happy to go along with the life he had. As long as he had control of it, he could live with the sacrifices.

A bitter determination. Time to take action. Do some work. Frank’s risking everyone’s freedom to try to protect his own. Inexcusable. Jamieson has to know. Calum’s pulling his coat on, picking up his car keys. No more messing around. This is the life you’re stuck with; let’s not make it any worse. He knew what the sacrifices were when he started. They’ve never been a surprise to him. He has no right moping about it now. You have a job. You have money. You have a life. You’ll have none of that if Frank talks to the plod. You don’t have to like the life you live, but you still have to protect it.

He’s out the door and down the stairs, out into the rain. Looking up and down the street. Moving slowly, not caring if he gets a little wet. It’s more important to be careful than dry. Make sure there’s nobody out there watching you. He’s in work mode now. He’s about to go and report to Jamieson. It’s important. The sort of thing Frank would want to stop if he were aware of it. It’s Frank he’s looking for, but there’s only an empty street looking back at him.

He’s parked a street away from the club. He’s walking briskly, but not too fast. The speed a person should walk in this weather without drawing attention. There’s nobody outside the front of the club, so he’s ducking into the alley. He’ll go in the side door. None of the regulars turn and look at him. They know better. Not for them to crane their necks at people who don’t want to be watched. A couple of people at the snooker tables look at him. Kenny’s one. The driver. He nods a hello and doesn’t say anything. The guy Kenny’s playing is Marty. A pimp and loan shark. A real scumbag with a big mouth. Calum doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s popular, though, because of what he supplies. All the wannabe gangsters want to get close to the guy who organizes the private parties. And he’s very profitable, so Jamieson and Young are willing to suffer his company now and again.

Marty’s probably there for a meeting. He’s probably sent word along the corridor to Jamieson that he wants to meet him. Doesn’t matter to Calum. Queue-jumping is hardly the worst thing he’s ever done. He’s marching along the corridor to Jamieson’s door. The security really is terrible, he’s thinking. Knocking on the door, waiting for a response. It takes a few seconds, but he gets a ‘Come in’. He’s opening the door and walking inside. Jamieson’s behind his desk. He’s sitting facing Young, who’s on the couch, as ever. They’re both looking at him. Watching him drip water onto the nice carpet. Calum has a stern look on his face, letting them know that this is serious. He tends to look stern and miserable anyway – it doesn’t require any effort. Perhaps they don’t realize that this is anything special. Jamieson’s turning back to Young, nodding dismissal.

Calum’s sitting across the desk from Jamieson. Jamieson’s good at doing the dead face, expressionless. He can do it whenever he wants to, which isn’t now. Now he looks worried. He knows Calum’s here to report, and that he wouldn’t turn up in the evening, drenched and dripping, unless he had something worth saying.

‘So what is it?’ Jamieson’s asking.

Worse than you think, Calum’s thinking. He won’t say that. That’s for Jamieson to judge. ‘I followed him yesterday and today. Yesterday, nothing. Today he went and met a guy. They met in a house out Renfrew way. I followed Frank in, followed the other guy out. The other guy drove back into the city centre. Stopped at Cowcaddens. At the police station. Parked in the car park, went in through the back. He was one of them.’

He’s told Jamieson what he needs to know. Now Jamieson’s saying nothing. Sitting there, staring at the top of his desk. It’s like he’s been asked a question he doesn’t know the answer to, and doesn’t want to admit it. He’s gone blank.

‘You sure he was a cop?’ he’s asking now. It’s a stupid question.

‘Wouldn’t have gone in the back on his own if he wasn’t.’ This doesn’t need to be said.

The wheels are turning. He’s thinking that every investigation that’s ever been done into his work has come from that station. He’s thinking that if Frank was ever going to turn grass, that’s where he would go. There are cops there desperate for Jamieson. They would protect Frank to get at the bigger fish. Frank could probably cut himself a handy deal.

‘There must have been contact before this meeting,’ Calum’s saying. He’s not going to sit in silence and play gooseberry to Jamieson and his brooding. ‘Phone records, maybe.’ If it was anyone else, Jamieson wouldn’t need corroborating evidence. But it’s Frank.

‘Tell me about the cop,’ Jamieson’s saying quietly.

‘Nothing special. Middle-aged, I’d say. Drove a red Renault. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I got his reg.’ He’s taking a slip of paper from his coat pocket and passing it across the desk. It might be useless, it might not. ‘The only thing I noticed that might be something: when he came out of the house, he looked pissed off about something. He came out after Frank. Gave him a head start. When he came out, he pulled open the car door, slammed it shut behind him. Looked as if he threw something onto the passenger seat – I don’t know what. He looked like a guy who didn’t get what he wanted out of the meeting.’ Offering Jamieson a crumb. It’s no more than that. The fact that the meeting happened is all he needs to know. Frank couldn’t gain protection without spilling a lot of beans. Not after everything he’s done. There’s no comfort in the suggestion that their first meeting wasn’t a roaring success.

Jamieson’s nodding. They both know the cop’s mood means nothing. Frank has broken the golden rule. There are all sorts of bullshit rules in the business, most of which mean the square root of nothing at all. Most rules are never enforced. Most only exist because people want to look strong. Want to look like they’re organized. Truth is, only two things matter. Money and police. You don’t screw a senior out of money; that will be punished. You don’t talk to the police; that will be punished severely. The rest of it’s minor. All the talk about loyalty and honour, that’s fantasy. Men have done appalling things and been forgiven because they were profitable. Money is god. Police are the devil. Frank’s supping with Satan, and will have to pay the price. They both know it. Nothing gets done until Jamieson confirms that he knows it. Doesn’t matter that Frank’s actions affect everyone else. Calum could go and do something about it and get away with it. He’d be forgiven, eventually. But you don’t do that. You don’t make the boss look weak by acting without permission.

‘Okay,’ Jamieson’s saying, ‘I’m going to think about this.’ It’s said with finality.

Calum’s getting up, making his way out of the office. He’s opened the door, not expecting to hear any more.

‘I’ll probably be in touch,’ Jamieson’s saying. Quietly, with no enthusiasm. ‘Soon.’ His way of saying: Be ready.

Calum’s out the door and down the stairs. Going out the side door, so that he doesn’t have to face people. Happy people, going dancing. People looking for a good time. He doesn’t want to have to look at them. Emma’s gone from his life. With Frank out, he’s the only gunman Jamieson has. His next job will almost certainly be deeply unpleasant. A job’s a job. It detaches him from reality. It takes him away from all the boredom of his life. It gives him something to think about, every waking moment. Being in pro-mode is a relief. He’s checking all around him as he drops out of the rain and into the car. There’s nobody there. He’s starting up the car. He has work to do.