He kept glancing over at Grainger, a good-looking guy in a sharp suit with a female who looked the absolute business, and it gnawed at his bones. The injustice of it all. His eyelids drooped and the room seemed to be spinning slightly, but it was time to act.
He walked too close to the table where Grainger was adding up the proposal that had been made to him. Normally he would have spotted what was coming a mile off but he was preoccupied by the fact that signing up as a police informant seemed to make sense.
‘Hope she gies ye the clap, man.’ The guy followed his words up by tipping the remains of his pint in Grainger’s lap.
It wasn’t the sort of insult Grainger responded to; his style was to make arrangements to get a private face-to-face with such people and sort it so there was no risk of a conviction. He wouldn’t risk anything in front of witnesses and had made an art form of staying out of the light. This meant there shouldn’t have been a problem – the bouncers were already on their way and they fully intended to impress Grainger with what they would do to the guy. In fact, nobody expected what happened next.
Hadden was on her feet before the twat could even start grinning, chopped the outside edge of her hand across the area of his Adam’s apple and he went down as if he’d been hit by an axe. The action was so quick that hardly anyone saw it, and he was out of the game.
Hadden stood over him, her chest heaving with rage as she resisted the temptation to drive her fingers into his eyes. She’d been in total control and then the idiot had stepped into something he didn’t understand.
Grainger looked at her and said, ‘For fuck’s sake,’ quietly. He knew and understood violence, but he also saw something in her that he thought only existed on the male side of the fence.
She looked at him and tried to control herself, almost embarrassed that she’d exposed her other self, the side she couldn’t always control. It was like a demon living under her skin, ready to erupt at any moment. There were two people inside Janet Hadden grappling for dominance, and in the rare moments she knew it was happening, it could terrify her or turn her into someone who could hurt and destroy without a flicker of emotion.
‘Is there a problem?’ She glared at him when she said it and all she’d achieved with him looked like it was hanging on a very loose nail. Grainger saw something that could be exploited and he regained a large slice of his confidence.
‘Not for me.’
He stared at her and waited as he dabbed his lap with some napkins. He nodded to the bouncers, who were waiting for his signal. They dragged the idiot to his feet as he struggled to get the breath past his aching windpipe.
‘Don’t be gentle with him, boys. Catch you later for a drink.’
Both the heavies looked delighted and saw it as a possible opportunity for future employment with the Graingers, which wasn’t to be sniffed at. They’d make sure the culprit would hurt where it mattered, so his suffering was far from over.
‘I think we need to fuck off before we attract any more attention,’ Grainger said calmly as he watched her try to put back the mask she’d been wearing earlier. There was something like fear and confusion in her eyes for a moment, but it passed quickly as she buried the demon. She nodded and they headed for the door.
Arthur Hamilton’s two watchers stared at what had unfolded and had uttered the same expletives as Grainger at almost the same time. They were hard bastards, but the speed the woman had moved to take out the drunk was something to behold. They looked at each other and shrugged, gulping what was left of the drinks, and headed for the door to see where they’d gone.
They were too late; Grainger and Hadden were already in the back of a taxi and away when they opened the door into the cold night air. But they weren’t too upset because they were confident Big Arthur would be interested in this latest story, plus they had a photo of the skirt. Someone had to know a bitch with that temper and fighting ability.
What was puzzling was that she looked classy – what did that mean? But it wasn’t for them to worry about – as far as they were concerned it was for Big Arthur to decide what happened next.
16
‘What was that all about? He was a fucking mouth an’ the bouncers had it all in hand.’ Grainger wanted an answer and wondered where this new relationship was heading.
Hadden had regained her face and cool. She knew she’d made a wrong move and that Grainger would use it if he could. They were on even ground now and it was a case of who could take control again.
‘Don’t worry about it. Shit happens and it makes no difference to what we do. Let’s get back to your little problem.’ She smiled the way she had back in the bar and in that moment Grainger knew he was dealing with someone who was unpredictable. Like most criminals, he didn’t like unpredictable because it could land you in the tin pail or fertilising an unmarked grave. He decided to hold it there and let her do the talking, seeing as the law was right on his case and that had to be resolved. What had happened in the bar told him he needed to wait and see if the cool, steely woman who’d reeled him in at the bar came back to life again or whether he should worry about the one who’d made a brief appearance disabling the arsehole. The answers might give him a handful of aces or ruin his day.
‘Where we going then, chief?’ the taxi driver called over his shoulder, thinking what a handsome couple they were.
She jumped out at Waterloo Place and told Grainger she’d get in touch with him later in the week and they’d follow the script she’d presented in the bar. She kissed him on the cheek before she stepped out onto the pavement and smiled back at him.
‘Nice-looking girl.’ The taxi driver was only trying to be polite when he said it.
‘Dangerous, my friend.’
‘What was that, chief?’
‘Yes, she is.’
Grainger leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what he’d let himself in for.
17
‘She did fuckin’ what?’ Big Arthur Hamilton liked clarity and wondered for a moment whether the two boys he’d brought through to watch his son-in-law had gone on the piss, but he was well aware of his own reputation and he’d been assured they were pros.
‘That’s it all, Mr Hamilton,’ the older of the two Weegies said, shrugging. The other one chewed his lip because something about the job didn’t feel right. Grainger was what he was, but who the fuck was the woman with the Jackie Chan hand skills? He’d noticed her himself before Grainger came into the bar and thought she was a bit tidy, and when he’d seen her in close-up a couple of times on the way to the cludgie, that had only served to confirm she looked top drawer.
It wasn’t just her obvious style – the first time he’d walked past the two of them, Grainger looked like he’d just been told he had cancer and was staring at the woman as if she’d delivered a terminal prognosis. Grainger had been Mr Cool himself the first time they watched him pick up, and when he came into the bar the next time he was the same. That was how he’d been described to them before the job, so what the fuck had upset him after meeting who they presumed was a complete stranger? It was all gut feelings and probably wouldn’t make sense to Big Arthur, who wanted facts, so he kept it shut and chewed his lip as the other boy talked.
‘Need us for anythin’ else, Mr Hamilton?’ the older Glasgow boy asked, praying they were done with this and could get back to normal service in their own city.
‘Tell me somethin’, boys.’ Hamilton looked between them and saw them tense up; a hard question from a boss could often be the prelude to a punch in the pus for neglect of duty. They didn’t want hard questions, just to fuck off back to the Wild West.
‘How many women in our game have you seen who looked like her and handled herself the way she did? Know what I mean?’ It was a fair question and they looked at each other, but the answer was obvious.
‘No’ many. In fact, none, now you mention it, Mr Hamilton.’ They both shrugged again and waited, happy that it was an easy question with
no blame attached.
‘Aye, that’s what I thought as well.’ Hamilton looked troubled. He was sharp, knew the game and had an expert’s nose when something was rotten. He was going to slip them a bonus and tell them he’d have a think about it. That’s when a small light went on in the younger Weegie’s napper. He’d still been worrying about the woman when the trace of another story ran through his head. It was probably fuck all, but he had a feeling that if he didn’t clear his chest on this it might backfire later.
‘Wan wee thing, Mr Hamilton. Maybe nuthin’ . . . ’
The older Weegie looked annoyed because he always did the talking.
‘Wee things can turn into big things, son. Go ahead.’ Big Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the table and knew something was coming. He felt it in his water.
‘Well, our boss’s boy got ripped off a few months ago. Apparently a real classy burd and had an east-coast accent. Maybe Edinburgh. Said when they were on the job it turned out she had a wig, an’ she had glasses as well. Dressed the same and on her own when he picked her up. Bitch chores his wallet an’ phone. He was fuckin’ ragin’, by the way. A few of us were sent round the boozers tryin’ to get a line on her. Probably nuthin’, Mr Hamilton.’
He suddenly wished he hadn’t mentioned it; he knew his partner was pissed off with him for coming up with something interesting.
Hamilton wasn’t annoyed at all and studied the two ambitious young gangsters. It should have been just what the boy said – probably nuthin’ – but he trusted his instincts, and there was something here. Lesser men missed small things but not Big Arthur Hamilton. When there was a problem, the clues were usually available if you knew the right place to look.
‘Show the laddie the photos you took an’ get back to me pronto. An’, boys, there’s a wee bonus in the envelopes on the table there.’
He stared at their backs as they left the room, stuffing the money into their jackets. Something bad was on its way and he’d have to be ready. He’d been heading to full retirement but now there was a mess to confront. The fault lay with the bastard who’d married his daughter.
He’d heard rumours that Dominic Grainger was at it, and he’d acted even though Jude treated him with contempt. Why hadn’t she said something? No matter how she felt about him, if she needed help or money, she could still ask without a shred of guilt. He wondered whether she knew what he was up to.
Of course, she might be playing her own game – and maybe with Big Arthur himself. She had reason, and every day of his life he dreaded the moment she might decide to disclose in front of his family or friends – or to the law. The thought made his skin heat up and sweat. The guilt was an awful weight to carry and if she ever chose her moment to destroy him, it would create a firestorm. How long would what he’d done remain their little secret? He asked himself the question every day.
Before the two Glasgow boys had even arrived back at Queen Street station, Hamilton had spoken to their boss and told him what he wanted. He didn’t expect any arguments, even though it concerned the man’s son. ‘I want it done right away. This is important. Agreed?’
There was no argument from the Glasgow end; the man owed Hamilton big time, and a major chunk of his business came through their lasting friendship.
Hamilton put the phone down and wondered why it mattered. He’d identified the fact that his son-in-law was fucking around already so the women involved shouldn’t have made any difference, but for some reason this last one did. He didn’t know why but it did.
Two hours later he got the call back and a definite ID that the woman who’d been with Grainger in Edinburgh had ripped off his friend’s son in Glasgow.
He put the phone down and stared out of his study window. It had been cold and wet, but he saw the summer flowers were well through and it was going to be another year where they couldn’t figure out what season it was. He sighed, absent-mindedly scratching his chin, and wondered whether he should just leave it all alone. Was he going to open one cupboard too many and expose his own skeletons?
He stared at the TV screen above his desk. The sound was down but it didn’t matter; the news never changed from all bad and he watched a picture of crying children – it was Syria again. He clicked the off button and thought he’d stop watching the news because it was too fucking depressing.
He picked up the phone and called a private investigator he used periodically and asked him to come round to discuss a job. For the time being, he’d keep eyes on Grainger and see if he could find out if shagging was just a hobby for his son-in-law or whether something else was going on. He was obsessed with getting him out of his daughter’s life but had to tread carefully to avoid the mess turning against him.
He squeezed his eyes tight, rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands and wondered again how much his daughter knew about his business. He was never sure if it was all just his imagination or the fear of what she knew already.
Despite what had happened, he would have cut his arm off to make her smile and love him again.
He remembered watching TV one evening when the subject of domestic violence came up and Jude was in the room with him. She had swung her head round and her eyes had flared with loathing. In front of the family she would be completely different and put her arms round his neck so that everyone called her a daddy’s girl. It was a kind of slow-burn torture; she wanted to make her revenge last. He knew she was biding her time – Dominic Grainger was just another form of punishment, a way to hurt him – but what was her endgame?
18
The detective was with him two hours after the call. Hamilton paid top whack and didn’t care how the job was done; in fact, that was why he employed a man regarded by almost everyone who knew him as a scumbag with absolutely no morals. He used Frankie Mason because he did the business, no matter what was required, was value for money and nearly always got a result. Mason knew what crossing a man like Hamilton meant and had a machete scar the length of his back to prove it, gained after an indiscretion years earlier where he’d opened his mouth about a man who didn’t do forgiveness.
Mason started life as an average Maryhill ned and spent ten years in the army before joining a dodgy private investigation company in Glasgow that bent every law ever invented, and he was impressive in the role. The scar was a gift from the managing director, after he’d got pissed and mouthed off in a bar that his boss was a wanker. It was probably a blessing in disguise because he’d learned the trade, or at least the way they did it, packed up and moved to Edinburgh, where he thought there might be a gap in the market. It took years, but he got there and now he was the go-to guy for most of the top men in the east. Big Arthur was his number-one client and he’d do whatever the man wanted, because Hamilton didn’t care what he paid if he got the right result.
Mason stared at the photograph Hamilton had given him of the woman with Dominic Grainger and suppressed a leer. Without thinking, he picked at his nose and wiped it on his jacket. Luckily Big Arthur was distracted or he would have dug into Mason. He was meticulous about hygiene and had problems sitting anywhere near the creep, who definitely had problems in that area. However, being a talented, old-school criminal, he knew that needs must and he’d had to tolerate some unpleasant people in the past to be successful.
Mason could definitely be classed as unpleasant. He was just under six foot with a frame that had been fairly muscular in his army days but had diminished through a poor diet and lack of use. He smoked too much, drank too much and had worked out pretty early on that no woman in her right mind would have anything to do with him, so grooming had never become one of his strong points. The saving grace was that he had been a good-looking man in his day, and on the odd occasions he scrubbed, up he was almost presentable.
‘Very nice-looking woman, I must say. Very nice indeed. So you want me to find her?’
Hamilton pushed some coffee towards Mason in an old mug that he would toss away after the detective had used it. ‘No. Or at least that’s n
ot the starting point. I want you to watch Dominic to see if he meets up with this female again, or any other female for that matter. Cards on the table: I know he’s fuckin’ around, an’ you’ll know he’s married to my girl. I’ve already got the goods on the bastard but want a bit more. If this skirt comes back on the scene, though, I want you to find out who she is. You don’t need to know why, but that would be a bonus.’
He sat back and watched Mason slurp the coffee noisily and wondered whether the detective deliberately tried to revolt people. He had to know he was a pig. Hamilton squirmed a bit in his chair and waited.
‘I’ll have to spend a lot of hours on a job like this and might see hee-haw. You know how it goes. Surveillance is expensive, Mr Hamilton.’
‘Fuck the expense. Just do it an’ let me know at the end of the first week how it’s goin’ and we’ll take it from there. I might just pull the plug on it but let’s see.’ He fidgeted with a pen. Mason was just such an annoying, horrible bastard. He had no pre cons but hadn’t a redeeming factor to his name.
What got to him was that a man like Mason had no sense of what he was and, particularly in his case, how he offended people just by being in the same room with them. Big Arthur was guilty of some dark and awful crimes that might yet drag him down, but it was a flaw that he couldn’t help – that’s how he made sense of it. Men like Mason didn’t have to be disgusting, but they chose to be so, and it made Hamilton want to chew his nails.
In his own career in crime he’d done good things at the same time as the villainy. He’d looked after his parents, his friends and was a gold mine for local charities. He knew that his legacy might burn in flames if the truth came out, but men like Mason would never suffer for anything they did, and he was almost jealous when he thought about it. As far as he was concerned, Mason was a poisonous insect who crawled out in the dark to hunt and disappeared once his victims had been poisoned or devoured. Trouble was, every so often he needed the bastard.
Our Little Secrets Page 8
