Open Wounds E-Book

Douglas Skelton

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Davie McCall is tired. Tired of violence, tired of the Life. He's always managed to stay detached from the brutal nature of his line of work, but recently he has caught himself enjoying it. In the final instalment in the Davie McCall series old friends clash and long buried secrets are unearthed as McCall investigates a brutal five-year-old crime. Davie wants out, but the underbelly of Glasgow is all he has ever known. Will what he learns about his old ally Big Rab McClymont be enough to get him out of the Life? And could the mysterious woman who just moved in upstairs be just what he needs?

Leseprobe

DOUGLAS SKELTONis an established true crime author, penning eleven books includingGlasgow’s Black Heart,FrightenerandDark Heart. He has appeared on a variety of documentaries and news programmes as an expert on Glasgow crime, and is a regular contributor toSTVon criminal history. He has also interviewed many well-known crime writers for festivals as well as appearing in his own right. His 2005 bookIndian Peterwas later adapted for aBBCScotland radio documentary, which he presented. His first foray into crime fiction was the acclaimedBlood City, which introduced Davie McCall. It was followed byCrow Baitin 2014 andDevil’s Knockin 2015.

By the same author

NON-FICTION

Blood on the Thistle

Frightener(with Lisa Brownlie)

No Final Solution

A Time to Kill

Devil’s Gallop

Deadlier than the Male

Bloody Valentine

Dark Heart

Indian Peter

Scotland’s Most Wanted

Glasgow’s Black Heart

FICTION

Blood City

Crow Bait

Devil’s Knock

Open Wounds

DOUGLAS SKELTON

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Luath Press Limited

EDINBURGH

www.luath.co.uk

First published 2016

eISBN: 978-1-910324-80-6

The author’s right to be identified as author of this work under the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

© Douglas Skelton 2016

December 2002

FUNERALS IN THE SUNdidn’t feel right to him – even a bloodless winter sun that hung low over the trees and glinted off the hard, frosted ground. There should be clouds, he thought, and rain. People should be hiding under umbrellas, not squinting against the light as they waited to file into the crematorium.

There weren’t many of them. Some wouldn’t dare show up – not after what happened. Those who had were the ones who really cared, who mourned.

There would be no religious element to the proceedings. There would be a memorial stone placed after the brief ceremony, but it carried merely a name and dates. Simple. To the point. No other inscription, because what could you say?Gone too soon?Sleeping with angels?To hell with that.

He’d say a few words, for he was his closest friend. Who else would do it – Rab McClymont? No way. Big Rab wasn’t even there, which was telling. He didn’t like funerals anyway. He always said he’d been to enough to last a lifetime. Caused a few, too. Some of the faces were familiar, others weren’t, which was no surprise. They had been close mates, but for ten years they had moved in different worlds. To an extent, anyway. He smiled slightly, but it was a rueful smile. They had been pals but were so very different. One was quiet – shy, even – the other talkative, outgoing. One was dark, the other blond. But they both had bad memories. The Life left scars that never healed, lesions that continually seeped poisons to taint the blood, to shadow the mind, to murder sleep.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned. First there was pleasure, then shock.

Vari.

He hadn’t seen her in years. She was still beautiful, even with her eyes brimming with tears as she greeted him by name. They hugged, held each other for a long time, then broke. He looked for the words but they wouldn’t come. He knew she would have questions, but he didn’t feel like yielding to them. He didn’t know what to tell her. He didn’t know how much hecouldtell her.

He looked down at the boy holding her hand tightly and felt something hit him like an open-palmed slap. The kid was dark-haired, his face serious, but it was the eyes that sent his head spinning. He knew who the lad was even before Vari spoke.

‘This is Davie,’ she said.

1

Two Years Earlier

OLD JINTY WASTHEonly one walking in the street that day, pushing her pram as usual, her bare legs milky white but lined with varicose veins that rose from her calves like a relief map of the Pyrenees. There was nothing in the pram, of course, hadn’t been for many a long year. Not since her son choked on the eye of his teddy bear. But she still pushed it through the streets and talked to the baby as if he was there.

The sun burned in an unbroken blue sky and the street trapped its rays like a desert canyon, the red sandstone tenements rising on either side soaking up the heat, bleeding it back through the mortar. There was no cooling breeze and the air was heavy and hot and no-one moved, apart from Jinty. In the hottest summer to hit the city in over thirty years, many people chose to stay indoors and swelter in privacy, their windows open to invite the faint promise of cool air, fans whirling, cold drinks near to hand, the ice cubes in them melting so swiftly it was as if they’d never existed. Others thronged the city parks in search of an open space where they might find a pleasing breeze, where they could sit on cool grass and eat ice cream, where the sun worshippers could bake their bodies and burn out the pasty white of a Glasgow winter. The heatwave topped the headlines in print and on screen, while radio jocks dished out advice on staying cool, then segued into The Lovin’ Spoonful singing ‘Summer in the City’.

Jinty, though, seemed oblivious to the stifling temperature, for she wheeled her pram along the searing concrete pavement at her usual pace, muttering to herself as she always did. She was well known, and most of the adults – the ones who knew her story – tended to look on her with pity. But the youngsters were a different matter. To them she was a target, a figure to be followed down the street, her ragged appearance fodder for their cruelty along with her empty pram, the constant monologue that only she understood, and the pink carpet slippers on her feet. They had once been fluffy but were now worn through; they were coming apart at the seams and her toes poked out from the front, but she scuffed along the pavement, talking to the empty pram and not noticing anything that was going on around her.

Until she saw the man in the car.

Approaching from the rear, first she saw a dog sitting up in the back seat, but as she drew level she noticed the two men inside. The driver was young; a baseball cap perched on top of his head, his scalp cropped to the wood at the sides, the first wisps of a moustache tickling his upper lip and a fag dangling from the side of his mouth, jerking up and down as he spoke.

But it was the other one who caught Jinty’s attention. He was nearing forty, his dark hair greying at the sides and also cut short, but not cropped. His face handsome, but not like a pretty boy. A thin scar ran down one cheek. And his eyes were blue like the sky, but sad and cold. Jinty knew this man, knew what he was. And as he turned those cold, sad blue eyes on her, she felt the air chill and she was afraid. So she pushed her pram faster to get by, to get away from that man, that car and that street. She wanted no part of what was going to happen here.

The man saw her scurry past as fast as her footwear would allow, then dart a look at him through the windscreen before ducking down to reassure her non-existent child. He knew she’d recognised him, feared him, but he was used to that. It was nothing unusual.

The windows of the blue Rover were cranked open all the way to prevent the interior turning into a furnace, but it was an exercise in futility. He fanned himself with a copy ofThe Sunwhile beside him, the boy talked. There was nothing unusual in that either. Like many a Glasgow ned, Jimsie was garrulous. The man didn’t mind the chatter. It reminded him of old friends, long gone.

‘I was watching this programme the other night on the telly, a documentary. I watch a lot of documentaries, me. They’re a lot better than most of the other shite that’s on, eh, McCall?’

Davie McCall said nothing as he moved his gaze from the mad old bat with the pram to the tenement door opposite. He knew his silence would neither offend Jimsie nor staunch the flow of words.

‘Anyway,’ said Jimsie, ‘this one was on Channel 4, orBBC2, or maybe it was the Discovery Channel – anyway, it doesn’t matter. It was about these Eskimo guys, right? And when they need food they cannae just slip out to Tesco, know what I mean? So they go out and cut a hole in the ice and then they stand there with this dirty great rifle and wait for a seal or a fuckin penguin to stick its nose up. They can stand there like that for hours, so they can, waiting for something to show up. But when it does –bang!’

He shouted the last word loud, clapping his hands for extra emphasis. McCall glanced at him, just briefly, and returned his attention to the tenement.

‘But see, the thing is, these guys are going deaf. It’s so bloody quiet on those ice fields and it’s something to do with the sharp sound of the rifle going off that’s affecting their ear drums. What do you think, McCall?’

McCall sighed. ‘I sometimes wishIwas deaf.’

The boy looked hurt. ‘You don’t mean that. If I thought you meant that, I’d shut the fuck up right now. Is that what you want? You want me to shut the fuck up right now? Just say the word, I’ll do it.’

‘Jimsie, son, I want you to shut up right now.’

‘Like fuck I will. And I’ll tell you why – you need someone like me around you. Because you’re too taciturn for your own good. You know what taciturn means?’

McCall did not answer. A small smile flirted around his lips, but because his head was turned away, Jimsie couldn’t see it.

‘You need me to bring you out of yourself,’ said Jimsie. ‘Because you’re too taciturn. Look it up in the dictionary – right beside “taciturn” it says “Davie McCall”. So where the fuck was I before I was rudely interrupted?’

‘Deaf eskimos.’

‘Aye, right – deaf eskimos. So there I was watching this thing on the telly and I was thinking, we’re just like they guys…’

McCall twisted in his seat to look at the boy, his face a question mark.

‘No, look – we are!’ Jimsie insisted. ‘Okay, we’re no going deaf – no matter what some us might hope for – but we spend a helluva lot of time hanging around waiting for something to turn up. I mean, look at us now. What’ve we been sitting here for… what? An hour? Just waiting for this geezer to show up. So, see, he’s the seal and we’re the eskimos and that closemouth over there, that’s the hole in the ice and we’re just…’

Jimsie stopped talking and tensed. McCall didn’t need to look towards the opposite kerb to know that their wait was over. A black Audi had pulled up at the opening to the tenement. Standing beside it locking the door was a balding man wearing an expensive dark suit and carrying a briefcase.

‘Looks like grub’s up, Nanook,’ said McCall.

They waited until the man disappeared into the gloom of the tenement mouth before Jimsie reached down to spring the boot lock and they both climbed out of the car. The young man walked to the rear as McCall hefted a pair of long-handled bolt cutters from the well of the driving seat, then glanced over the headrest at the dog, who was standing on the seat expectantly.

‘Stay, Arrow,’ he said and the dog sat back down obediently. He was used to this. The windows would remain open, of course, and any little scroat with larceny in mind would have to deal with the dog. McCall thrust the bolt cutters into the folds of his long lightweight coat and waited for Jimsie, who slammed the boot closed and joined him, both hands in his pockets now, the folds of his own coat pulled tightly to his body as if he was cold. He crossed the road before McCall could say anything. McCall’s eyes narrowed as if he was squinting against the sun. Something wasn’t right here.

They paused in the shadow of the tenement opening to pull thick woolen ski masks over their heads. The flat they wanted was on the ground floor and Jimsie had already pressed the bell before McCall caught up with him, his gaze flitting over the young man. He was hiding something and McCall’s instinct told him it wasn’t something good. He was about to challenge him when they heard a movement inside before the door opened a crack and a woman’s face became visible behind a security chain. All they could see between the door and the frame was her full, thick head of red hair, a face bearing the lines of middle age and a mouth puckered from sucking on too many cigarettes.

Jimsie leaned closer to the gap in the door and said, ‘Afternoon, hen – Just wondering if you’ve found Jesus?’

The woman’s eyes widened as they flicked to McCall and then she tried to slam the door shut, but McCall was already moving, thrusting the bolt cutters into the gap, working at the chain. The thin metal snapped and Jimsie shouldered the door open.

‘Where is he, Bridget?’ McCall asked, his voice low and even.

The woman tried a bluff, but it was half-hearted. ‘Where’s who?’

‘Don’t fuck us about, hen,’ said Jimsie, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘We saw him come in, so where is he?’

Bridget didn’t answer, but her eyes darted reflexively to a room on her left. Jimsie grinned again as McCall grabbed the woman’s arms and pushed her towards the door. The young man tapped it open with his foot and stepped inside. It was a bedroom, the curtains drawn against the sun in a vain attempt to cool the air. Jimsie’s smile broadened when he saw the balding, overweight man perched on the edge of the bed hastily pulling on his trousers. The man looked up, took in the scene – Jimsie with his hands still not visible, McCall holding Bridget by the arm – and decided he’d try to bluster his way out of it.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He demanded as he stood up, his imperious tone undermined by the fact that he was holding the waistband of his dark trousers round his bulging gut with one hand. ‘Who are you? How dare you burst in here and…’

‘Shut the fuck up, Henry, and listen,’ Jimsie said, quietly, and the man’s mouth snapped closed. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Henry. A very naughty boy – and not just because you’ve been playing hide the Cumberland sausage with another man’s wife.’

Jimsie turned to favour Bridget with a long, appraising look, his eyes lingering over her curves, before turning back to Henry, who stood shivering near the window, still clutching his trousers to his love handles.

‘Sure, she’s no a bad bit of stuff for her age, but that’s no excuse. It’s one of the Ten Commandments, Henry –Thou Shalt Not Shag Another Man’s Bird. You’re a lawyer, you should know that’s a big no-no. But, bad though that is – and it’s bad, Henry, really bad – that’s not why we’re here. See, there’s a wee rumour that you’ve no been representin your clients to the best of your ability. In fact, we’ve heard that you’ve deliberately blown some cases just so’s you can do the horizontal jog with your clients’ women. Bridget here being a case in point.’

This appeared to be news to Bridget, who forgot her own fear to give Henry a suspicious eye. Henry caught the look and tried to wriggle off the hook. ‘It’s not true, Bridget, none of it. The evidence against Tom was compelling, there was nothing I could do.’

‘Ah, see, that’s not what we’ve heard,’ countered Jimsie. ‘We’ve heard there was a witness who could’ve cleared Bridget’s man, but you didn’t call him.’

‘He was clearly lying! The jury would never have believed him!’

Henry looked back at Bridget as she jerked her arm free from McCall’s grasp. She glared at Henry, knowing instinctively that what Jimsie was saying was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.

‘Bridget, you have to believe me!’ Henry was pleading now. ‘I did everything I could to keep Tom out of prison.’

‘You bastard!’ Bridget fired the two words like bullets across the room and lunged, but McCall caught her arms and hauled her back.

‘Now, here’s the thing,’ Jimsie said, his tone still affable. ‘Our boss thought Tom was an okay kinda guy and hasn’t taken too well to the notion of losing him to Her Majesty’s Prison Service. We could report you to the Law Society, but our boss is the impatient sort. He likes instant results, if you know what I mean. So, here’s the choice…’

‘Choice?’

‘There’s always a choice, Henry. First we have Mister Side-By-Side here.’ Jimsie had cut holes in the pockets of his coat to allow his hands to hold the 20-gauge shotgun, the barrel sawn-off to about a foot in length. He let the folds fall back as he raised the weapon and pointed it straight at the wide-eyed lawyer. McCall had suspected it was there but now that he saw it he was still shocked. There was no need for this, no need at all.

But Jimsie wasn’t finished.

‘Or we have…’ With the 20-gauge held in one hand, he flourished an open razor with his other. The lawyer took a step back, his back flat against the bedroom wall. ‘Now, we can either do your legs with the shotgun, which is messy and painful but has the bonus of being quick, or I can have a go at your manhood with the Wilkinson Sword Special Edition. That takes longer, is even messier and nips like buggery.’

McCall wanted to say something but he knew he couldn’t. Never show weakness – that could be lethal – even in front of a scumbag like Henry. He’d never have agreed to come along if he’d known what Jimsie had been planning. Give the guy a slap, that was all Rab had said. But this was more than a slap, this was much more.

If Henry had looked towards McCall at that moment he might have detected a slight change in his body language. A stiffening of the shoulders that signified discomfort. He might have realised then that, if he played his cards right, he could have an ally in the room. But Henry didn’t look at McCall. He only had eyes for the two weapons in Jimsie’s hands. ‘You don’t honestly expect me to choose between…’

‘The clock’s ticking, Henry.’

‘Come on, you can’t.’

‘Tick-tock, tick-tock…’

‘Look, we’re reasonable human beings here!’

‘Tick-tock, tick-tock.’

‘Can’t we sit down and talk about this, for God’s sake?’

‘Tick-tock, tick-tock… DING! Time’s up, caller – it’s make your mind up time.’

‘Are you off your head? I can’t!’

Jimsie lost his patience suddenly and screamed, ‘Make up your mind or so help me I’ll use both!’

There was silence while Jimsie held out the shotgun and the razor. Henry looked from one item to the other, before glancing at McCall in a mute appeal for help. But the moment had passed. McCall simply stared back at him. The lawyer gave his would-be lover a pleading stare, but the look in Bridget’s eyes told him she was ready to emasculate him with her bare hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his upper lip, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. Finally, Henry closed his eyes, swallowed hard and said, almost in a whisper, ‘The legs.’

Jimsie nodded, took a couple of steps back. ‘Wise choice.’

He didn’t give Henry the chance to reconsider. He levelledthe 20-gauge, and pulled the trigger once, then again to discharge both barrels. Henry shrieked as his legs were blasted away from under him and he clutched at the wounds as if he could hold back the pain. McCall let go of the woman, expecting her to help the injured man somehow, but she merely stood over him, her eyes leaking fury and hatred, her mouth a snarl as she spat one word.

‘Bastard!’

Jimsie closed the razor, shoved the shotgun under his coat again and smiled over at McCall. ‘Ain’t love grand?’

They didn’t waste any time getting out of the flat and back to the car. The shotgun blasts would’ve attracted attention and they got away from the street as fast as they could without drawing any more. They were confident that neither Henry nor Bridget would give the police any useful information. In their world, that was not done. As he drove, Jimsie rattled a spirited drumbeat on the steering wheel with his hands. McCall watched him, his eyes expressionless.

‘What a rush, eh, McCall?’ The young man’s voice was filled with glee and his eyes sparkled.

McCall’s voice was soft. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘What? The choice thing? That was mine. Big Rab just wanted him cut or his legs done, left it up to me. I thought I’d add a wee flourish by letting old Henry decide. Don’t worry, there was no way I’d’ve done his balls. No way was I touching another bloke’s tackle.’

McCall felt the muscles in his jaw clamp. Rab knew he wanted nothing to do with guns. The lawyer needed slapped, sure, and he would’ve done it. If Rab had told him that he’d sent the boy out tooled up, there would’ve been words. There would be now, anyway. When Jimsie pulled the trigger he’d felt his gorge rising but he’d disguised it well. He’d hidden it, just as he’d hidden many things for many years. Jimsie’s ‘wee flourish’ was also troubling. The boy’s tendency to go over the top was, to McCall, deeply concerning.

‘Rab knows I don’t like guns,’ McCall said, quietly.

‘Relax,’ said Jimsie. ‘It was only loaded with rock salt. It’ll’ve flayed the hide off him, maybe, but not much else.’

‘Don’t be getting to enjoy these things, Jimsie,’ said McCall, his voice soft.

‘Are you kidding? Bastard is a right scumbag, so he is. He deserved it.’

‘Listen to me, son.’ A sharp edge cut into McCall’s tone that made the young man stop short. ‘Sometimes in The Life we have to hurt people. Most of the time they deserve it, other times they don’t. We have to do these things because it’s what we do and, God help us, we’re good at it. But never take pleasure in it. The minute you enjoy it, you’re lost.’

Jimsie shrugged. ‘Listen, Davie, I like you and I respect you and all that, but you’re no Obi Wan fuckin Kenobi, you know what I’m saying? You’re no my teacher. I don’t need you to look out for me or to guide me – I’ve got my granddad for all that, okay?’

McCall sat back in his seat, satisfied he’d said his piece but recognising that what the younger man had said was true. McCall wasn’t his mentor. He wasn’t his father. Jimsie was young but he was a big boy now and he’d learn the hard way that The Life wasn’t fun and games. For some people, the hard way was the only way.

Jimsie watched the traffic ahead and then another thought struck him. ‘Is that what happened to you? Did you get to enjoy it?’

McCall closed his eyes briefly, the images flashing uninvited.

A face…

A voice, pleading…

Screaming…

He forced them from his mind, pushed them into the darkest part of himself, where he knew there were other memories waiting to be released. Over the years he’d become very adept at keeping most of them locked away, but that one kept surfacing and he didn’t know why. He turned away, leaving Jimsie’s question unanswered.

‘Just as I said,’ Jimsie commented. ‘Taciturn as fuck.’

McCall rested his head on the side window, the glass cool against his forehead, and watched the buildings, the streets and his life slide past.

The words had been painted on the cemetery wall with a brush, not spray-painted, as was usual. There were places where the white emulsion had run and long tails ran down the brickwork, and even as the car sped past McCall and Jimsie could see the brush strokes.

Jimsie asked, ‘Who’s Dan Miller, d’you know?’ McCall shook his head. Jimsie puffed his cheeks and commented, ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s a dead man…’

McCall watched the words DAN MILLER IS A GRASS recede in the side mirror and wondered who Dan Miller had offended. Then Jimsie turned a corner and they arrived at the taxi office.

It was a low building in an industrial estate near the river. There was space for parking outside, a tall aerial on the roof and a high mesh fence around everything. No-one knew what the fence was for, because none of the local vandals or break-in artists would dare set foot near the place, not if they knew what was good for them. They all knew who owned it.

The heavy front door had been specially strengthened to withstand anything up to a nuclear detonation and the first thing McCall saw when he pushed it open was Stringer’s bullet head. McCall may have been an old pal, but he was too much of a maverick for Rab McClymont’s liking. Stringer was Rab’s right-hand man, a powerful bloke of McCall’s height whose muscles started just below his chin and went all the way down to his ankles. He was going bald, so he shaved what was left of his hair right down to the scalp and that coupled with the fact he had no neck made him look like a reject fromMasters of the Universe.

‘He’s been waitin for you,’ Stringer said in what was virtually a soliloquy for him. McCall knew he was taciturn, but Stringer was downright monosyllabic. McCall nodded and headed towards the office at the back of the building. He wasted no breath at all on Stringer. He didn’t like the man, didn’t like his methods, didn’t like the way he preened himself in front of mirrors, baring his bulging arms to flex and extend his biceps. He knew the feeling was reciprocated. Stringer had no time for him, mostly because he was jealous of his long-standing friendship with Rab. McCall walked past the small kitchen where three cab drivers were enjoying a break. A radio was on and Madonna was singing ‘American Pie’. He preferred the original.

McClymont’s hulking frame bulged behind a desk as he studied theDaily Recordracing section, the tabloid looking like a pamphlet in the brickies’ hods he used for hands. McClymont was very dark-haired and by lunchtime he sported a heavy five o’clock shadow. That and his wide lower jaw made him look like Desperate Dan. All he needed was a Stetson and a cow pie andTheDandywould’ve been reaching for a lawyer.

Joseph McClymont was stretched out on a two-seater settee against one wall, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He was as tall as his father but not as thick-set, having inherited his mother’s slim frame. He was eighteen now, a thin-faced, sallow youth with eyes like black holes that allowed nothing out. McCall didn’t think he’d ever seen the boy laugh. Those dark eyes flicked his way as he entered, but the youth gave him a barely imperceptible nod.

Rab set the paper down on the desktop beside the oscillating fan that pushed the warm air around then sat back in his swivel chair, which creaked in protest. ‘Joseph, give us a minute, eh?’

Rab shielded his son from how he really made his money, but McCall suspected the lad knew more than he let on. Rab wanted him to go to university and study Law, reasoning that it would do no harm to have a lawyer in the family. Save him on legal bills. Wordlessly, Joseph rose and left the office. McCall was relieved. The boy always unsettled him.

Rab waited until the door was firmly closed before he said, ‘How’d it go?’

McCall dropped himself onto a wooden chair opposite the desk while Arrow followed his habit of padding round to let Rab give his ears a rub. ‘Fine.’

‘He get the message?’

McCall nodded. ‘You didn’t tell me about the shooter.’

Rab shrugged, stopped scratching the dog’s ears and picked up his paper again. ‘You didn’t need to know.’

McCall felt cold rage build. He didn’t like it when Rab spoke to him this way, but it was becoming all too common. Rab had changed over the years, especially since the death of his wife. For that reason, McCall reined himself in, as he had done many times in the past five years, but wondered how long he’d be able to do it. Arrow had returned to his side and stretched out on the floor before he spoke again. ‘You should’ve told me, Rab.’

‘You wouldn’t’ve gone.’

‘The man would’ve been just as punished with a slapping.’

Rab laid the paper down and leaned forward again. ‘No – he wouldn’t. He needed a right message, the liberties he’s been taking.’

‘Then you didn’t need me on it. You could’ve sent Stringer.’

‘I needed you there to make sure the boy didn’t go too far.’

McCall saw the logic, even though he didn’t like it. Stringer didn’t know what too far was. But if Jimsie’s ‘little flourish’ wasn’t going too far, he didn’t know what was, yet he’d failed to stop it. He wondered if he was losing his touch.

Rab circled a nag’s name in the paper and asked, ‘How’d Jimsie shape up?’

‘He was fine. Talks too much.’

‘A fuckin mute talks too much compared to you. I like the boy, though. He’s got a lot to live up to. His auld grandfaither was some guy. Still is.’

McCall said nothing. He knew Sammy was ‘some guy’. He’d known that since their time together in Barlinnie Prison, years before.

McClymont asked, ‘He ready for the big stuff yet?’

‘He needs to learn how to get in, get the job done, get out. He’s been around Stringer too long.’

‘What you got against Stringer, Davie?’

‘I don’t like him.’

‘He does what he’s told.’

McCall said nothing and McClymont smiled. Not for the first time, McCall felt the big fellow enjoyed this needle between him and Stringer, even promoted it, perhaps believing it kept them on their toes. That annoyed him. He didn’t like to be manipulated like that, especially by an old mate. But then, Rab had stopped being a real mate when the four-wheel drive erupted in flame. He’d stopped being a lot of things then.

‘Jerry O’Neill’s out,’ said McClymont, changing the subject. McCall waited. ‘Bastard’s still shooting his mouth off. Still sayin I fitted him up for that MacDougall job. Now that Criminal Cases Review Commission has been listenin and he’s out on bail pending an appeal.’

McCall remembered very little about the case. O’Neill had been sentenced to fifteen years for his part in a dramatic raid on the home of a successful bookie in 1994. The gang – at least four of them – got away with over two hundred grand, which was never recovered. Only Jerry O’Neill, fingered as the ringleader, came to trial. As soon as he was in jail, McClymont took over his security company, adding it to his already growing list of legitimate enterprises, all showing a profit, all dwarfed by Rab’s real moneymaking empire.

‘I’ve heard he’s talkin to anyone who’ll listen,’ said McClymont. ‘Tellin lies about me. I need him sorted, Davie.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ said McCall.

‘It’ll take more than talking. Take Jimsie.’

McCall looked across the desk, his face blank but his voice firm. He didn’t want a repeat of that day’s bloodbath. He doubted the lawyer or Bridget would say anything to the police, but it was still reckless. ‘I’ll talk to him, Rab.’

2

THE WOMAN WAS BLONDE. Not bright and brassy but a soft blonde, a honey blonde. Sometimes she had it tied up in a ponytail, held together by a red ribbon, but today it was long and loose and draped over her shoulders like a shawl. She wore a white t-shirt and a pair of blue denims. She wasn’t thin, but there was no way you could say she was fat. She had a figure and it was eye-catching enough to make Jimsie look twice.

She emerged from the closemouth as Jimsie pulled up at the kerb and McCall started to climb out. She nodded to McCall, giving him one of her electric smiles as she passed. Jimsie watched her walk down the street, admiring her curves. ‘Oh, man, would you look at that?’

She must have heard him because she stopped, looked back. Jimsie’s face reddened but his Glasgow machismo did the talking for him. ‘Anytime you’re ready, doll. You and me. I’ll show you a good time, know what I’m sayin?’

She frowned, took a few paces towards them, her eyes looking the young man over, as if she was appraising him.

‘Tell you what, son,’ she said. ‘Next time I’ve got ninety seconds to spare, I might take you up on that.’

McCall felt his lips tremble as he fought a grin. Jimsie’s mouth flapped open as if he had something else to say but he had nothing. She gave McCall another smile, turned and went on her way. Jimsie watched her go, then gave McCall a sideways glance. When he saw the stung look, McCall couldn’t keep the smile at bay. It felt good to smile, he did it less often these days. The young man glared and his voice was subdued when he spoke, ‘When’dshemove in?’

McCall opened the back door to let Arrow out. ‘A couple of months ago, the floor above me.’

Jimsie squinted across the roof of the car at McCall. ‘She got a name?’

‘Everyone’s got a name.’

‘Aye, so what’s hers?’

‘Donna. Donna Bernardi.’

Jimsie grinned, ‘So you do notice women, eh, McCall?’

McCall frowned back at the boy, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’re no the cold fish we all think you are, are you? Don’t get me wrong, we don’t think you’re gay or nothin, but we didn’t think you noticed women, that’s all.’

The suggestion of a fresh smile flickered at McCall’s lips and he glanced back at the figure of the woman walking down the road.

‘I’m taciturn, Jimsie, son,’ he said. ‘Not dead.’

McCall’s foot tapped to the beat of ‘Bizet Had His Day’ by Les Brown and his Band of Renown as he shaped the drawing on the pad. He sat in what had become known as his music room – a bedroom filled with vinyl albums andCDs alongside a stereo system that had cost Joe the Tailor, Davie’s old friend and mentor, a considerable sum back in the day. Joe had loved the music of the Rat Pack era and old-fashioned swing music, and young Davie had learned to appreciate it, too. His tastes had broadened in the years since Joe’s death, but he still returned to the old albums. He never invited anyone in here, for this room was his fortress of solitude. This was where he could forget The Life and be himself. This was where the bad memories could be kept at bay. Most of the time, anyway.

He had started to draw in prison and continued on his release – people he’d seen that day, places he’d been or seen in photographs. There were a number of Arrow and some of his previous dog, Abe, sketched from memory. There were other drawings, sketches he hardly looked at, all tucked away between the vinyl albums. These were images of the past, faces of the dead, mostly. He didn’t need to look at the drawings to remember them. They were there, in the dark recesses of his mind, always waiting to swim to the surface.

His glasses were perched halfway down his nose as he peered at the sketchpad on his lap. In two years he’d be forty, an age he’d never believed he’d see, and as Bobby had once remarked, middle age comes at the cost of eyesight and hairline and replaces them both with love handles. McCall’s dark hair was not thinning but it was threaded with grey while his waistline remained trim. But he’d found his eyes needed correction two years before, just for reading and close-up work. No-one knew he wore glasses, though, partly through vanity, partly because the ageing process could be viewed as weakness.

He was working on a country scene, a small white cottage beside a loch and a mountain in the background. It was a typical Highland Scotland scene and he’d drawn it before – lots of times and from different angles – and he knew he’d draw it again. He’d never been further north than Stirling, but there was something about the scene that made him want to find it for real. Maybe some day. Maybe never.

He carefully – lovingly, even – shaded in the side of the mountain with the pencil. When he was finished, he held the pad out at arm’s length and studied the drawing over the top of his glasses. It was, to him, a little piece of heaven.

A smallTVflickered in the corner, the sound muted, and something on the screen caught his eye. He slipped off his glasses just as a shot of the cemetery wall with the words DAN MILLER IS A GRASS etched in white paint appeared on screen. Then the image cut away to a long shot of police standing around a stretch of wasteground that McCall recognised as the site of a disused factory near the Gallowgate. There were more cops and guys in white overalls studying what looked like a bundle of clothes in the background, but McCall knew it wasn’t old togs that were attracting all this attention. Then the picture of a brown-haired man flashed up, obviously police issue because he looked like a mean bastard, as they all did in their mug shots. McCall had never seen the guy before but he didn’t need to turn up the sound to find out what this particular news segment was about. He knew instinctively the body on the wasteground was that of Dan Miller. He didn’t know if the man had been a grass or not, but someone obviously wanted him out of the way. McCall knew how it would’ve worked without even being there. Miller would’ve been lured out by someone he recognised, someone he trusted, and somewhere a third man would’ve stepped out and shot him. Chances were, the last face he saw was of the man who’d betrayed him. That’s what The Life did. It destroyed friendships, it destroyed trust.

He was so very tired of it all.

Voices drifted in from the stairwell outside. He’d heard them a few minutes earlier, a man and a woman, as they passed the door of his flat on their way to the floor above but now there was an edge to them, especially the woman’s. He laid his sketchpad on a small coffee table, sat his glasses on top, and stood. Arrow had been stretched out on his side in front of the stacks of albums but as soon as McCall moved he was on his feet and following him out of the room. McCall opened the front door a crack and listened. He couldn’t make out the words but he recognised Donna’s voice. He motioned Arrow to stay, stepped out and began to ease up the stairs, the words becoming clearer as he grew closer. He halted midway up the first flight and listened.

‘No, Peter, I’ve told you before.’ Donna’s voice, thin, stretched, trying to be patient.