The Night the Rich Men Burned (40 page)

‘Don’t worry about the driver,’ Marty’s saying to Patterson. ‘He’s bought and paid for.’

Two men are getting out of a car that wasn’t here when Patterson went in. One he doesn’t immediately recognize. Late thirties, maybe early forties. That’s a guess. That fellow’s looking at the ground as he walks silently past them and into the pub. That’s when the penny drops. Russell Conrad, freelance gunman. The bigger one behind him Patterson recognized instantly. That was Nate Colgan. Patterson’s watching him go in. A few seconds after the door closes behind them, it opens again. The two men from the bar make their way out and over to the extra car. Colgan and Conrad must be the kill squad. No one else required.

‘You could have warned me about the performance,’ Patterson’s saying quietly.

Griffiths and Summers are making their way back to the car, mumbling to each other. If you listen carefully, you can just hear Griffiths use the words ‘fucking heart attack’, but you’d have to be listening carefully. Doesn’t want Marty to hear him complain.

‘Yeah,’ Marty’s saying. ‘I guess. But you didn’t really think I would ditch you for him, did you? That reptile? The one who just went to Alex MacArthur for support?’

Patterson’s shrugging. ‘It’s an unpredictable business.’

Marty’s laughing. ‘It is that. We need to get together and discuss you taking control of my books. Not like they’re all that huge, but still, best to be prepared. You might want to take one or two staff of mine on board as well. Although there’s a few you can ditch. Good opportunity to clear out the shit. Have to move fast to grab some of Potty’s business as well.’

He’s about to say more when his phone starts to ring. Taking it out of his pocket and looking at it. Frowning as he sees the name on the screen. ‘I better take this. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, set a time for the meeting.’ Taking a few steps the other way up the street and answering the phone. A private conversation.

Patterson’s made his way back to the car. Dropping into the passenger seat. Griffiths is starting the car, pulling out. Potty’s car has gone, Marty’s muscle are pulling away. Three men exhale at once, and then laugh a little. Tension making its happy departure.

‘That was a bit more drama than it needed to be,’ Griffiths is saying.

‘It was,’ Patterson’s agreeing. But they got what they wanted. A deal with Marty that makes them the only collection business in the Jamieson organization. With Potty gone, they’re very close to being the biggest in the city. But it’s more than that. It’s revenge for Alan. ‘It was worth it though,’ Patterson’s saying quietly.

10

Instinct has carried Glass this far. No reason to rely on anything else now. There are a few places he could go, but he’s settled on Mark Garvey. Nobody likes Garvey. A complete bastard and an absolute show-off, but he’s the one Glass is going to. Not sure why, but instinct tells him that Garvey will take two hundred quid. Can’t think of anyone else who would sell to him at low price.

It’s not as though Glass knows a lot of places he could go for help. Spikey Tokely for one. But Spikey wouldn’t help him for two hundred quid. Might not help him at all. You go to the person you’re sure is willing to give you a hand. Someone who won’t apply any standards to their sales, so long as the money is paid.

He’s been walking for longer than he thought. Feels like hours, but it probably isn’t. Lost track of time ages ago. Sitting in that pub. It’s getting dark now. Must be early evening, he figures. Time doesn’t matter. Just distance that matters. He’s got a lot more walking to do, and the backs of his legs are already beginning to hurt. He’s not used to this much effort. He’d rather be back at the flat, warm under the covers in bed. But that’s not an option now.

That life, it’s gone. All of it. You can’t just take Ella out of his life and expect him to keep living the rest of it as normal. Doesn’t work that way. In Glass’s mind, all of it was tied together. One part of it falls, it all falls. Ella, the flat, the life. He’ll never go back to any of it. Couldn’t bring himself to. It’s all gone now, and he has to move on. Has to move on by cutting all those ties to that life.

That’s what he’s doing now. Yeah, he’s a bit drunk, so it sounds much nobler to him. But he knows it has to happen. What he’s going to do tonight has to be done. Otherwise this follows him for the rest of his life, however long that happens to be.

He’s nearly there now, which is a relief. He’s feeling the tiredness of too little sleep and too much effort. He won’t rest though. If he stops to rest, he won’t start again. He knows that. Knows he’s too much of a coward to motivate himself a second time. Now or never, as they say. So he’s pushing on. Onto the right street. Knowing which house it is. Everyone knows where Mark Garvey lives, and what he sells from that house. As long as Garvey hasn’t moved, he’ll be okay. Now he remembers who pointed out Garvey’s house to him. Told him it might be useful one day. Oliver Peterkinney. One of the last times they hung out together. That wasn’t long after Peterkinney started working for Roy Bowles. Man, that feels like a long time ago now.

Glass is walking up to the door. Knocking twice and stepping back. He doesn’t know how Garvey will react to this. Instinct said this was the guy to try. No better option. But it’s late and he might not react well to a drunk young man turning up on his doorstep. But then, how else does a man like him make a living?

The door’s opening. Garvey looking back at him. A deep frown because he doesn’t immediately recognize the young man before him. Then a creeping recognition, although he’s still not quite sure.

‘I need to buy a gun from you,’ Glass is saying.

Garvey’s leaning his head out the door and looking up and down the street. Letting Glass know that that’s not the sort of sentence you blurt out on a man’s doorstep. ‘That right?’ he’s saying.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have much money. But I need it. I really do. I have two hundred quid.’

Garvey’s snorting. ‘I think you came to the wrong house, kid,’ he’s saying, and moving to close the door.

‘Please. They killed my girlfriend last night. I need that gun. They killed her and I need the gun.’

Garvey’s looking down at him. Pausing. Thinking this through. Some dumb emotional kid running round with one of his guns is usually bad news. Sort of thing he’s careful to avoid. Only sell to people you trust. People who know how to use and then safely get rid of a gun. Only sell to people you’re sure won’t be caught and blab about where they got the gun they were caught with. But chances come along. The opportunity to ingratiate. You don’t pass that up.

‘Hold on there. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ Garvey’s saying. Closing the front door and bounding upstairs to the spare room. Getting one of his mobiles out from the drawer in his desk and ringing the only number stored on it.

Takes a while for Marty to answer it. Must be busy. Always busy these days. Answering the phone with a curt hello. Sounds like he’s outside; there’s a car driving past.

‘Marty, Mark Garvey. Listen, I got a kid at the door you might be interested in. The Glass kid. Remember him? Wasn’t he pally with that Peterkinney boy you were after?’ Marty told Garvey the story at a party. How Peterkinney screwed him over. His way of making sure Garvey knew that Peterkinney was
persona non grata
. That any man who sold him weapons would be an enemy of Marty’s.

‘He was. What does he want?’

‘Says someone killed his girlfriend last night. Looking for a gun he can’t afford. Revenge, probably.’

There’s a pause while Marty thinks about it. Garvey allowing him the time to work it out. If it was one of Marty’s boys that killed the girl then this is a warning. Letting him know that Glass is on the prowl. If it wasn’t one of Marty’s then this might be an opportunity for him. Let Glass cause problems for someone else.

‘Sell him the piece. I’ll make up the difference.’

‘You don’t need to do that, Marty. Just thought I’d clear it with you first. I’ll catch up with you sometime,’ he’s saying. His way of saying that he’s doing Marty a favour here and that he expects something in return.

‘Sure,’ Marty’s saying, and hanging up. Obviously it’s not one of Marty’s boys that did the deed then.

Garvey’s out into the corridor and pulling open a cupboard door. Opening a suitcase on the floor and taking a small handgun from the inside lining. He doesn’t make a fantastic effort to hide his stock. If the police come calling, they’ll turn the place upside down anyway. No such thing as a good hiding place. You make a little bit of effort to hide the stuff, but you’re just inconveniencing yourself to do more.

He’s wrapped his hand in a cloth before he handles the gun. Now he’s stuffing it into one of the large Jiffy bags he keeps in the cupboard. Making his way quickly downstairs. Opening the front door. Glass is still there. Looks like he hasn’t moved an inch. Perfectly still and perfectly miserable.

‘Let’s see your money,’ Garvey’s saying quietly.

Glass is reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bundle of notes. Some twenty-pound notes, some ten, some five. Always a sign that the person wasn’t prepared for the purchase. That this is a rush job, bringing together any note they can lay their hands on. Garvey’s reaching out and taking it, handing the Jiffy bag to Glass.

‘It’s loaded,’ Garvey is telling him. ‘If you get caught with it, you do not tell anyone where you got it from. You got that?’

But Glass has already turned away and is walking down the front path to the gate. No desire to stay and chat. No desire to stay and hear a rule book he already knows. He’ll never talk to anyone about the gun. Never would. He’s not even thinking about it. Just walking along the street with the Jiffy bag in his hand for all to see. He knows exactly where he’s going now.

11

Arnie’s waited and waited. Hoping that Glass will come back to the flat of his own free will. He wasn’t emotional when he left. Just worried about the police coming to talk to him. Something they will eventually do and something Glass will have to face. Needs time to get used to that idea. Just wait and the boy will come back.

Sitting in the flat, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the police to demand some answers. They should have called by now. Maybe they didn’t think to ask the receptionist at the hospital. Well, if they’re that desperate they’ll put out some sort of appeal. Arnie worried about what Glass will tell them. What moronic act of self-sabotage he might be drawn into. But that’s not the only worry.

What will Arnie tell them? They’ll question him too. They’re not stupid. Well, the ones that ask the important questions aren’t. They’ll spot the connection to Oliver. They’ll begin to piece it together. Sitting in his armchair, wishing there were other people in his life. Sixty-four years old and he has so few people to care for. Even fewer who care about him. It would help if there was someone else he could talk to. Tell them about this. A different perspective. But there’s nobody. There’s Arnie, there’s Glass and there’s Oliver, and that’s the end of it.

It’s well past teatime. Getting dark out there. A silent day. No Glass. No police. He wants to do something. Needs to do something. Needs to go and find Glass. He could be sitting in a police station right now. Might have gone straight there in the morning and started talking. Arnie’s phoning Glass’s mobile. It’s ringing, but there’s no answer. Calling again and being ignored a second time.

It would be switched off if he was in a police station. A deep breath. Think about it. Where would he have gone? An emotional boy, who just lost his wee girlfriend. He would have gone back to their flat. That’s an obvious answer. He wanted to be away from everyone. Away from the world, and living in silence. His own flat would be a good place to do that. Time of crisis, flee for home. The right place to check first.

Going to his neighbour’s flat first. He could take the bus, but there’s a feeling of urgency settling in his guts. Wherever Glass is, Arnie wants to be there fast. If the kid doesn’t know what he’s doing, then he has to be stopped from doing it. His neighbour is still willing to lend the car. The more Arnie asks, the less willing he is, but Arnie’s built up a decent store of goodwill.

Driving through the city, but the going is slow. End of the working day. Everyone eager to get away from whatever place they call work. Not all so eager to get to whatever place they call home. Arnie’s struggling to get through the traffic. Not getting impatient though. Glass has had hours of a head start. Could be anywhere he wants to be at this point.

Parking outside the block and going inside. Up the stairs and along to the front door. The door of the next flat is wide open, although there’s nobody there. Arnie’s knocking on Glass’s door. Standing back and waiting.

‘Not in,’ a voice is saying gruffly to him.

Arnie’s looking to his right. A man of roughly his own age is now standing in the open doorway of the neighbouring flat. Stocky, wearing a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Lighting a cigarette, which is presumably the reason he’s standing in the corridor.

‘Has he been here today, do you know?’

‘Uh-huh. Here a while ago. Came and went . . . The girl died.’

‘I know,’ Arnie’s nodding. Not sure whether this man has any idea who he is, or whether he’s just making bad conversation. ‘You don’t know where he was going?’

‘No. Came and went. Didn’t have anything with him when he left . . . He do it?’

Arnie’s looking at the man. Angrier than he should be. Hardly a surprise that people are speculating on who killed Ella. Hardly a surprise that people want to point the finger at Glass. He’s an obvious target. A young man with no job and known connections to criminals. Too easy a target to miss.

‘No, he did not,’ Arnie’s saying. Letting the anger rumble out. Turning and walking back along the corridor, leaving the neighbour to raise his eyebrows in barely bothered response.

Down the stairs and back out to the car. Glass came to the flat and then left. Why would he come to the flat? Maybe to collect something. Well, that doesn’t take a lot of working out. What would he have in the flat? A weapon? No. Any weapon in the flat the police would have taken. Money, maybe. Money to drink. Money for drugs. Or money for a weapon, if you want to wake up and get real here.