Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘We okay for tomorrow?’

  ‘Absolutely. See you then and nothing changed in the script?’

  ‘Nothing. Just I’ll have someone with me so we both need to act the part.’

  She put the phone down, closed her eyes and decided to stay in the office till the surveillance operation was resolved one way or the other.

  Sean Grainger had that feeling of being a long way from home, therefore all problems were left behind in Edinburgh. It was self-imposed delusion, and he was trying to rid himself of the nagging worries about the situation with the business and Paul acting the arse. The thought that his brother might suspect him of being a grass made him grind his teeth after all he’d done for the mad bastard. He supposed there was some logic in such thoughts, because so often it was someone close who was feeding the bizzies with the ammunition to bring you down. So often the last person you would suspect turned Judas because the pigs had managed to dig up dirt somewhere, and then it was that straight choice to either turn or take your chances in front of the guy in a wig. Often enough he’d heard the old-timers talking about the days when there was real loyalty to the boss or team you worked for, and he supposed it might have been partly true. Trouble was, now people were all material and weak. The difference in those old days was that unless you were a boss, those gangsters didn’t have that much whether they were outside or inside. Life was generally shit, and some even took the time away as a relief from the wife and kids they couldn’t afford. A kind of career break.

  Sean made a final stop in a service station; he was well ahead of time for the meet so decided to relax for half an hour and down some coffee. He found a seat where he could eyeball most of the service area in case there was anyone giving him too much attention. By the time he was partway through a doughy 500-calorie bun, he’d finished half the first coffee and ordered a second.

  He saw nothing obvious – everyone just seemed like they were miserable and in the last place on God’s earth they wanted to be. A couple two tables away were arguing like fuck, and the female kept raising her voice a little at a time till it was just short of a full-scale shouting session. The guy, on the other hand, kept it low, almost begging her to calm down.

  ‘We’ll find the money somewhere,’ he kept insisting.

  Everybody was tuned into the drama, although they pretended it wasn’t happening, and there was a real bonus when the female had just had enough, tossed what looked like a cappuccino into the boy’s gob and that did it: he stood up and whacked her full force round the chops. Her head seem to rattle for a few seconds and the place almost came to a stop. It was written all over the boy’s face: What the fuck have I just done? A couple of security guys seemed to appear out of the ground and grappled him to the floor, at which point the female, who’d recovered her mojo, tried to kick him while he was restrained and helpless.

  It was a classic. Sean could barely stop himself from laughing and the little drama lifted his mood completely. He picked up his phone and called Paul.

  ‘Speak.’ It was always Paul’s first and only word when he answered the phone. He’d picked it up from watching a film about the Mafia – it seemed the way a top man should answer a call.

  ‘I’m nearly there, everything good so far and checked in wi’ our friends down here. A bit early so havin’ a break before the meet. Everything okay your end?’

  ‘What the fuck would be wrong, Sean?’

  The anger was there again for no good reason and he wished he’d never made the call, but it was the way they’d always done things.

  ‘I mean, unless some fucker has tipped off the bizzies then there’s fuck all to worry about, brother. That’s the case, isn’t it?’ Paul asked.

  It was there in his voice again. His brother was even more paranoid than usual, and now it was obvious Paul thought he might be the grass. It stuck in his craw because all he’d ever done was follow his brothers and do whatever was asked. So much for fucking loyalty – it was too much and even Sean Grainger had limits.

  ‘You get a fuckin’ grip, brother. I’m stickin’ my arse up as a target an’ you’re givin’ me snash.’

  It was a once-in-a-blue-moon job for Sean to lose the place with Paul, but he’d had just about all he could take. He had never let his brothers down that he was aware of. Of the three, he was the one who seemed to have the best nature, though if violence was required Sean could do it with bells on. He was all Irish when it came to a square go, and what he lacked in physical bulk he made up for in every other sense. He was a heavyweight in a middleweight’s frame.

  ‘You and I need to talk because I’m done if you keep this up. And by the way, you need to stop wi’ the white snuff – it’s turnin’ you into a complete arse.’

  The phone went quiet for a few moments as Paul absorbed his brother’s words. Sean wished he’d been a bit more diplomatic, but what the fuck? He was about to pick up enough gear to put him inside till middle age if things went wrong.

  ‘Well, let’s just see how this goes.’ Paul’s voice had lost all the heat and dropped somewhere just above freezing point. ‘You been takin’ brave lessons, Sean? Want big brother’s job maybe?’

  Sean had wasted his time – there was no dealing with Paul when he was in this type of mood – and he decided he would face him up when he got back. ‘We’ll talk in the mornin’, an’ I want Dominic there.’

  It was as if he’d burned Paul with a cigarette end. ‘Oh, it’s you an’ fuckin’ Dom now, eh? I knew there was somethin’ goin’ on.’

  Sean stabbed the ‘end’ button on the phone and felt his hands shaking.

  A few yards away a surveillance officer relayed back to his team that the target had been on the blower and looked upset about something. The fact that he’d made the call was recorded in the surveillance log that ran on every operation. It was there so every event could be recalled and, if necessary, might become evidence.

  Sean headed back to the car and for a moment considered turning in the other direction, heading back up the road and telling Paul he was out of the game. Sean had thought about it often enough; he did what he did because of his surname, but in his heart of hearts he wished he was a million miles from what they did as a business. The longer he went on, the less he liked it, and the all-pervading feeling that wouldn’t leave him now was that the whole thing was coming apart.

  There was no real evidence to feel that way, and he did understand the losses might still have been shit luck rather than anything else. He’d heard about other teams who’d had a bad run against them and then everything had gone back to normal, and the vast majority of guys in the business were never really touched by the law. There were just too many people involved in it; the plod could only do so much at a time and their big operations could take years and still fall apart in court.

  So the law of averages was that if a gangster didn’t get too greedy, they should be able to survive. But then the bizzies did have to get a result in the bag every so often to justify their existence, and Sean – like everyone else – knew that it would always be some poor bastard’s turn to go down the swanny – that was just how the world turned. The constant worry was that no one really knew if they might be next – apart from the ones who had the right detectives in the right place, of course.

  Sean set off and headed for the city, thinking he would finish this job and when he got back it would be face-to-face time with his brothers – and if necessary he would walk away. Dominic had been putting a lot of dosh away for the three of them so maybe it was time to cash in and find a different way to live this life. He was single, no debts, no wife or kids, so how hard could it be to start again somewhere? He stopped worrying and hardly looked in the mirror on the rest of the journey.

  Sean arrived at the service station and circled the car park a couple of times till he saw the guy nod him into a space beside the 4x4 that had been described to him. They both knew how it worked: the first rule was do not give the other guy an advantage. He may be about to rob
the fuck out of you, so be careful and make sure the dosh and gear were handed over at exactly the same time. Then head off before any nosey bastard took an interest.

  The Leeds team knew exactly what they were doing and had even picked the place to park because the CCTV there didn’t cover that one patch of concrete. They hardly spoke a word, and Sean shoved the soft luggage bag containing the gear into the back of the car. He had a look round and saw nothing to spook him, but of course he knew it was pointless worrying once you had the gear. If the bizzies did appear then you were fucked anyway.

  As he headed back up the road, he wasn’t to know that the surveillance commander had told his base team to let the Scots know their man was on the way back up the road and there would be a handover to them near the border.

  When Sean was thirty miles from Berwick, he called Dominic. It was unusual – although they got on well enough he rarely called on anything other than urgent business – and when Dominic picked up, he thought something had to be wrong.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just been south to take care of some business, Dom. Just thought I’d give you a call.’ He paused, wondering if he was going over a line with no way of stepping back. ‘It’s Paul. Worried about the man. Can we meet up?’

  ‘Wait a minute. What the fuck are you down there for? Thought that’s why we pay the staff good wages. Is he losin’ his marbles or what?’ Dominic didn’t like this one bit. With all that had happened, Paul had decided to throw the dice, with his youngest brother taking all the risks.

  ‘Jesus! Have you got cargo?’ He gripped the phone tight and felt his gut knot up.

  ‘Big one.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, I said I had someone inside. Couldn’t he wait? Jesus! Straight back, Sean, and unload it as soon as you get up the road. Come to the office first thing.’

  After he’d rung off, Sean chewed his lip during the miles to the border, wishing he’d called Dominic before the run. It all felt wrong.

  Torness power station appeared on his right and he watched the south shoreline of the Forth open up in front of him. He decided to take the scenic route and turned off to head along the coast road past the beautiful little coastal town of North Berwick and the picture-postcard villages on the way to the city. He was almost there, and he was pretty sure that if there had been a problem it would have happened before then.

  He slowed to make sure he was within the speed limit and looked for all the world like just another smartly dressed businessman in a Beamer on his way home or heading to one of the endless top-end golf clubs along that stretch of coast.

  He saw the village of Gullane just ahead at the same time that he noticed the police road check. He fought the urge to turn around and bolt. It had to be just some bizzies doing routine shite, and they looked placid enough as he slowed down.

  The first one strolled towards the car, and as he was rolling the window down, the cop smiled broadly. He relaxed again, just for that brief moment before they came at him from every direction. Plain clothes. He stepped out of the car, turned around and put his hands on the roof before they asked. As they grabbed him, he cursed Paul under his breath and swore he’d knock his fucking lights out if he ever got the chance. Two of the plain-clothes team just couldn’t wipe the grin off their faces when they started searching him.

  ‘Crap day, Sean, eh? Bet you were all sweaty, nearly back up the road brand new, then we come along.’ He was obviously a loudmouth; the other plainer looked pissed off and told him to shut up.

  Even though he wasn’t that bright, Sean didn’t miss why the pig was annoyed. Loudmouth had already given him enough to say this was definitely no accidental pull, and ‘back up the road’ meant they must have known he’d been on a run south. He wanted to say ‘fuck’ to confirm he was annoyed, but he was programmed to shut it as far as the law were concerned, although just a little arrogance was always in order.

  He turned his head to face the loud bastard and smiled, a nice friendly one just to show that he didn’t give a fuck, or at least to appear that way. ‘Always happy to help the polis, an’ sure this is just a wee misunderstandin’, Officer. By the way, how’s your mother – still on the game?’

  That worked a treat. Loudmouth grabbed Sean’s face and squeezed because he could. As Grainger’s wrists were already handcuffed behind him, there wasn’t much he could do but stare straight into the pig’s eyes and show the bastard he was a rank coward – so that was what he did, until the other plainer grabbed his partner’s arm and pulled him away from Grainger, who put the smile on again and kept eye contact.

  ‘Okay, smart-arse, let’s see what’s in the back and then we’ll get you locked up for a long time, eh?’

  The pig looked like this was the best day of his life; it was obvious he couldn’t wait for the climax to the afternoon’s show. One or two locals had started to wander near to the cordon that had been set up and a couple of cars heading west were backing up on the coast road. They could have turned and easily found an alternative route, but they didn’t want to miss the show, given they already had a great view.

  Sean picked up another hint from the cops: they didn’t look inside the car but headed straight for the boot. Another clue that they knew exactly what had happened. He realised that at least in part, Paul had been right, and there was no doubt that they had a spy somewhere in the camp or else the bizzies had bugged them. Either way, they had a problem, but Sean had the mother and father of them all. Without a miracle, he was away for years, and Paul had fired him right into the dock. There was nothing he could do for the moment but tough it out, and he was fucked if he would show the loudmouth that he couldn’t take it.

  ‘Bring him round to the boot.’

  Two uniforms had him by the arms and walked him round to face the bastard’s grinning coupon again.

  ‘Here we go.’ He gave Sean the words of the caution and seemed delighted with himself and the day so far. It was obvious that the other plain-clothes cops had much the same opinion of Loudmouth as Sean – he saw their gritted teeth and the expressions that said, ‘For fuck’s sake, get on with it.’

  It turned out Loudmouth was the DS and team leader. He opened the boot and grabbed the handles of the soft luggage bag.

  ‘Now, Mr Grainger. What do you say is in this bag?’ He grinned at the other cops, who stayed deadpan.

  ‘Never seen it in my life before, Officer. You must have planted it, I guess. I heard stories about these things but never guessed the police actually did it.’

  That pissed off Loudmouth, who wanted Grainger to break like a child. That’s what always gave him the jollies.

  ‘Smart-arse, eh? Not so fuckin’ smart, though, are we?’

  He put the bag on the ground, went down on one knee and opened it up. The fat packages were there and looked the part, but the mood changed when the pig squeezed the bag in his hand and his face puckered up in confusion. He looked at his partner and then sniffed the bag. His face gradually froze as he made a small cut in one and then raked among the sausages, lots and lots of sausages – and unless Sean was wrong, they had to be porkers.

  The cops looked round at each other as Loudmouth started to lose it. For a moment, he thought that it couldn’t be happening and what he was looking at had to be a very clever concealment.

  He ripped open a couple of the sausages but they just contained pork. His face paled as he stood up slowly and seemed unable to decide what his next move or words should be. He was no more surprised than Sean Grainger, who just couldn’t keep it straight. It was a set-up, a great big beautiful set-up. After cursing his brother, Sean realised just what he’d done: he’d thrown the rat, whoever he was, the bait of a big prize – one of the Graingers – and they hadn’t been able to resist it.

  ‘What in the name o’ fuck is this bag o’ shite?’ Loudmouth was stamping his left foot, barely able to contain his rage and trying to figure out how he’d ended up looking like Police Scotland’s twat of the month.

  ‘W
ell, I’d say it was a bag of sausages, Officer, definitely not a bag of shite.’ Sean could have kissed Paul at that moment. Although he knew his brother was still half off his trolley, this was a moment and he was glad he was here to see it.

  They took Sean in, to give him what they thought was a hard time and on the way into the back of the van Loudmouth whacked him a shot when there were no eyes on him.

  Sean turned to the cop with a trickle of blood on the side of his mouth. ‘Is that it? Is that your best shot?’

  He spat some blood onto Loudmouth’s right shoe, sat in the back of the van and closed his eyes.

  They held him for no more than a couple of hours before a detective super closed it down and told them to toss Grainger back onto the street. The super walked along the corridor, opened the door of Janet Hadden’s office and found her chewing the end off a pencil as she tried to figure out exactly what had happened. It had all being going so well, so fucking well, and then this. It couldn’t be Tonto, she thought, because this was all too ambitious for him. So what was it?

  The super always just walked in without bothering to knock. He had a reputation as someone who was permanently in a foul mood about something, and the fuck-up with Sean Grainger was right up his alley in more ways than one.

  Hadden just managed to say the word ‘Sir’ but didn’t get as far as ‘Do you want a coffee?’ when he lit the building up and tore some lumps out of her. He’d authorised the job and was boss of the unit who’d run the operation. He was waiting and hoping for another promotion and all the signs had been good. He had one more rank in him before he retired but this kind of situation could be the difference between success and failure. His competitors would certainly make sure that they extracted all the mileage possible from what was already being called the Great Sausage Caper by the troops, who just loved someone else’s fuck-up. It would fit very easily into the all-time jobs-gone-wrong legends and various hoots from the past.