Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘I want a report, Inspector. You hear me? A full report on exactly what went wrong here today and what the implications are. A blind man can see that this was a massive set-up, so what or who has been exposed? Do we have sources at risk because of this? Someone certainly suspected a source, and it looks like they’ve just proved it at our expense. You’d just better hope the press don’t get a hold of this or we’ll be a laughing stock again. I swear to fucking God this place is going to the dogs.’

  He slammed the door behind him and Hadden stared into the wall.

  The super had been right on one account: they’d been set up and she had to figure what had been compromised. Tonto had definitely told her that a few of the team knew that Sean was going south and she could use that. She had to think through what she was going to say to Dominic. Her original plan was that Sean would be locked up and she’d be able to turn various screws on him, but that was all down the tubes so she needed fresh cover. Dominic wasn’t going to be happy, and she couldn’t be sure whether he’d been involved in the set-up himself, but she thought it was unlikely. It sounded like Paul’s work – he’d been obsessed with the possibility they had a rat under their feet.

  She had the night to think it over but she’d just taken a giant hit and was still shaking after the humiliation poured over her in buckets by the super. Hadden bit right through the pencil she was gnawing and spat the fragments onto the desk. She held what was left of it like a knife and smashed it into the desktop again and again, pulverising it till it was only the edge of her hand pummelling the surface.

  ‘Fucking superintendent. We’ll see. We’ll just fucking see.’

  She promised herself that there would be a reckoning with the bastard. It was typical: if it was a success it was his, and if it went belly up it was someone else’s problem. The way of the world – shit always falls downwards.

  As Hadden worried, Sean got back to his flat and poured a treble shot of spiced rum. It was his favourite drink, although he usually saved it for weekends or after the game. This was up there with the Hibees humping the Jambos – a bit special. Given that for a few minutes earlier in the day he’d been convinced he was on his way to Saughton for a lot of years, he couldn’t have felt more relieved. He picked up the phone and punched in Paul’s number. It rang a few times before it was picked up.

  ‘Speak.’

  This time the word made Sean smile. ‘You bastard. You any idea what you did to me? The bizzies are pissed, brother. Very, very pissed. Must admit I’m impressed. And pork sausages – that’s fuckin’ inspired!’

  ‘See, you didn’t trust your big brother. All fuckin’ aggression.’ It came straight out of the phone that Paul thought he was the dug’s baws and then some.

  ‘Listen, we don’t know where the leak is and could even be this thing we’re speakin’ on. Know what I mean? Meet in the mornin’ and take it from there. Okay?’

  ‘Quite right, brother, see you then.’

  Paul called the Leeds number on a safe phone and told them what had happened. ‘One way or another they know we’re workin’ together, so guess you’re gettin’ attention, my friend.’

  The Leeds man sounded hacked off but thanked Grainger and said they’d do a spring clean.

  Sean filled up another treble but didn’t get to the bottom of it before he fell asleep. He’d been through a full roller-coaster journey all in one day and his imagination and nerves had been stretched to their limit. The hit from the rum and the elation in the moments he realised he wasn’t going away for a decade had exhausted him.

  He slept deeply, but just before his eyes flickered in those moments before sleep he thought that a corner had been turned and things were going to be alright.

  27

  Tonto got the call from one of the team in the morning. The guy was high and knew exactly what the set-up meant.

  ‘They’re lookin’ for a grass, Davy. Somebody’s gonnae get it tight. It’s a fuckin’ certainty an’ Paul’ll be lookin’ straight at us.’ The guy was coming apart. Tonto knew the boy was swallowing a shitload of speed, and he was another one already on a yellow card with the Graingers. He was a good boy, but since his mother had popped her clogs the year before, he’d just fallen off a cliff.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Tonto tried to reassure him, but he knew this brought suspicion even nearer to him. The bonus, for what it was worth, was that Sean mouthing off had given him some cover – there had been half a dozen guys in the boozer the day Sean had been spilling his guts.

  ‘Sean’s been openin’ his gob all over the place so it could be anybody. Maybe the bizzies have tapped his phone.’

  It was the line that came out every time there was a problem for a gang. Everyone was convinced that the police were listening in to their phones. Even daft wee housebreakers would talk in code, as if the power of the state was turned towards them rather than the terrorist threat.

  ‘It’ll be fine. See you at the ranch.’

  Tonto put the phone down and it immediately started ringing again. It was Paul, who wanted everyone to meet in the ‘office’, which was an old workshop they owned just off Gorgie Road. They used it as an office more than anything and rarely for storage of gear. They knew the bizzies would probably have it on their intelligence systems, so it was only used for meets or, at most, short-term storage of chored gear that was going to be moved straight on.

  Tonto arrived at the workshop half an hour after the call, his head thumping from the volume of lager he’d consumed the previous night. He had been drinking for Scotland and was beginning to think the habit was running out of control. It didn’t matter what he did, though, and regardless of his daily hangovers, by late afternoon he felt like the only thing that mattered was that sensation when he gulped back his first of the day. There was no other way to unload, no one to talk to unless he counted Hadden, and he was beginning to wonder what that particular relationship was going to do for his long-term health. He had the shakes and wondered if he could look Paul or Sean in the eye and not give away what he was. Hadden had said, as if he needed reminding, that he was a grass – the lowest form of humanity. For a while he’d completely gone with the idea that he was an agent, a CHIS, because it sounded good, but now reality had crashed through the roof and he was back to basics.

  Paul Grainger’s face was tight with suppressed rage. He was with Sean when the team started to arrive, and each time one of the boys came through the door and tried to talk he just blanked them. He sat behind an old desk and stared straight ahead as Sean took a seat at the side of the desk and hardly moved his eyes from his shoelaces. Tonto lit a cigarette and sat as far away from Paul as he could get. There was an old bench that was as uncomfortable as fuck but would do for the time being. When everyone was in, Paul stubbed out the remains of his smoke.

  ‘Well, some fucker make the tea then, eh?’ His voice was half its normal volume and even in tone. All the boys apart from Sean jumped at the same time in an attempt to do something to please the man who everyone in the room knew was on the trail of a rodent. Maybe he’d already done it and it was just a case of finding some poor fucker guilty, then carrying out the sentence of the court. The mood he’d been in lately meant it was pretty sure to be the ultimate deterrent.

  Paul then seemed to come to life, starting a speech about what he was going to do when he found the person who was working for the bizzies, and despite his early control, he started to lose it the more he spoke. Before the boys had arrived, Sean had disclosed that he’d said too much in the pub, so apart from the team, God knows who else knew – because they could never keep it shut.

  It made no difference to Paul in one respect. He was pissed off at Sean, who’d partly fucked up what should have been a great job, but he knew they were close to finding the rat, and chances were, it was still someone in the meeting. He’d told him to mention the run only to two of the team, including Tonto, and if Sean had only kept his gob shut, it would have meant either Tonto or the other boy was the grass
– or they were bugged up to the eyeballs. That would have been enough: they could have tortured Tonto and the other suspect till they got the truth, then dropped whoever turned out to be Roland off the Forth Road Bridge before spring-cleaning for bugs. Job done – or it should have been.

  ‘Just get this straight. When I find out – an’ I will – I’ll fuckin’ string the bastard up by his thumbs. You hear me?’

  He almost screamed the last question and thumped the desk. They all nodded, in no doubt. Tonto thought he was going to wet himself; it felt like his stomach had turned to water.

  Paul scanned the room back and forward, locking onto each of them to look inside their heads. He wanted to see if he could identify who was carrying the lie, who was the traitor.

  ‘Right, you’ve all got jobs today so get fuckin’ out there.’

  They stood up as one and headed for the door without seeming to rush.

  ‘Oh, by the way . . . ’ It was Paul again. ‘When I find out who this is, you’re all invited to the show.’ He managed a grin. It was no happy smile, just a confirmation that he meant every word he said. No one in the meeting doubted it.

  Sean walked out with them to get a breath of air, still feeling shattered after the events of the day before.

  ‘I’ll be back in a second, just goin’ along the road for some smokes,’ he told Paul. His brother nodded, still imagining what he’d do when he found out who the rat was. When Sean had told him that he’d gobbed to the whole team, he’d been pissed off, but it was what it was, and they’d find the bastard eventually; it would just take a little longer. Paul didn’t say it to his brother, but he had suspected him, although now he was pretty sure that he, at least, was clean. Tonto still bothered him, as did the whole thing with the Pole and what had happened after the incident. It was just a matter of waiting and watching, letting things cool off a bit then throwing some fresh bait. He knew that rats ate anything – it was a well-known fact.

  Tonto felt like he was going to throw up and empty his bowels all at the same time. He scanned the road both ways, wondering where the fuck he could make it to. He couldn’t have used the cludgie in the workshop because Paul would have seen it as a mark: the fear of the man who’d let them all down. He saw the boozer sign and, although it was only minutes away, the way his guts felt, it could have been the other side of the city. This was an emergency, and he didn’t even know if he could make it that far before nature took its course. He started to jog, grabbed the base of his stomach and it was as if time slowed down. He was sure he couldn’t hold it.

  Sean walked out behind his team and blinked into the sunshine. He had smokes already; he just wanted to be clear of Paul for a couple of minutes before he went back in. He was annoyed that he’d bumped his gums to the team and it was just confirmation that it was the family name that gave Sean a bit of privilege and not much else. Paul had been pissed off when he’d told him but, surprisingly, not as bad as Sean had expected. His brother was always full of surprises though.

  He lit up, heard a couple of the guys laughing and looked to see what the big joke could be after the crisis meeting they’d just attended. Tonto was jogging across the road, holding his gut with one hand. Sean had noticed that the boy had looked the colour of slate inside but knew he liked the swally just a bit too much. It might be nothing – Christ, who didn’t get a bad gut sometimes, especially given the amount of Indian food that boy ate?

  Sean pulled on the cigarette and ran his fingers through his hair. He blew the smoke out on a long stream, watching Tonto pull the pub door open and disappear inside. He stared in the direction of the pub for a minute, nodded a couple of times and made a note to keep a close one on Tonto. His brother already had his suspicions and maybe he was right again. Sean had never been that sure and thought Paul was homing in on the boy as an easy target after the thing with the Pole. And if they convicted the wrong person and the rat was still in place, then that was an even worse proposition.

  He took his time with the smoke because not only was he knackered with it all, he had a bastard of a headache.

  Sean returned to the workshop a few minutes later and, thankfully, Paul seemed to have got it all together again. You just never knew where you were with the man, he thought. He was either high as a fucking kite or convinced the world was conspiring against him.

  ‘What now then?’ he asked. ‘Think the boys got the message loud and clear?’

  Paul looked at his brother long and hard, his brain working too many scenarios. ‘Well, you arranged a meet with Dom, remember?’

  He waited for Sean to reply. He didn’t need the meet, but then why not? They were in the middle of a crisis so maybe it was best to clear the air.

  ‘I’ll call a taxi.’

  28

  Dominic Grainger had already heard what had happened, as Sean had called him on the way to the meet at the workshop. Whether he was pissed off at Paul or not, the set-up with the bizzies had worked, and despite what was being arranged with Janet Hadden, it looked like there might be another source inside his brother’s side of the business. Dominic still thought that Paul could have achieved the same objective with a bit more subtlety. His brother had thrown a handful of crap into the faces of the bizzies and that wasn’t always the best way to do it. They’d be determined that a rematch took place after the humiliation, and those bastards had long memories.

  He was also full of questions about his own situation, the first of which was: did Janet Hadden know about the run to Leeds? She had to – it was her fucking job. He didn’t trust her anyway, but this put him even more on his guard. He was playing a game without knowing what the rules were . . . And what the fuck happened if he lost?

  He stared out of the window and sipped a strong black espresso his assistant had brought in for him. Same time, same order each morning. It gave his brain the kick it needed to get the day started. Hadden wasn’t due to turn up till later and his brothers were on their way first thing. He had to change the plan after the events of the previous day.

  He called the number Hadden had given him for their unofficial contact.

  ‘Dominic, what’s up?’ She tried to be as matter-of-fact as possible but had half-expected a reaction.

  ‘You telling me you don’t know? What the fuck do you take me for?’ He’d intended to keep the conversation businesslike but there’d been too many problems building, and now this.

  ‘It’s not what you think. Easy to explain. Listen, why don’t we cancel the official bit today. I’ll tell the guy I was coming with that there’s a change of plan for the moment; he won’t question it. We can meet and clear this up before we move on. How does that sound?’

  ‘Just what I was thinking.’ For some reason, and despite his deep mistrust of Hadden, he still felt a stirring both physically and emotionally, and once again it threw him. How could such mistrust, almost fear, go hand in hand with attraction?

  They agreed to meet in a bar not too far from his St Vincent Place flat. He put the phone down and squeezed the bridge of his nose; even though it was still early in the day he felt weary. Everything felt heavy and the coffee hadn’t given him the usual boost he expected.

  The phone rang again and he looked at it for a moment, wondering whether to let it be. He didn’t want to speak to anyone because he already had enough on his mind for the day. His brothers were on their way and that was probably the maximum he could cope with for one morning.

  Paul would be full of it: if anything, it would make him even more bolshy as far as Dominic’s position was concerned. He knew in his guts that at some stage they were going to go head-to-head. It was suicidal, but it was the way of the world. Paul wanted more, always more, and there was never enough for some people.

  He felt his heart race when he thought about the money problems, frightened to even think about how far down he was with the debt that was building with almost a will of its own. His luck seemed to have turned to shit. When he went to the casino, it was as if the tables, crou
piers and dealers were all conspiring together to rip the cash from him. It was that old thing that when you’re down, luck seems to fuck off into someone else’s life, and he watched the dealers frown at his losses. They knew the signs when the regulars with a problem were breaking in front of their eyes.

  The big losers would stare at the empty space where there had been a pile of chips as if they could be given back in a sympathetic gesture. Dealers tried to look understanding when they heard a customer say, ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ as if that was all it was and all it took. But in Dominic’s case the gods had deserted him, his only solace being the women he pulled and impressed as if it was all good.

  The phone rang and when he picked it up it all got worse in the space of a few words. It was his wife, Jude.

  ‘Listen, Dominic. I need to tell you that I’ve got my lawyers involved. I’ve had enough of this shit and it’s time to sort it out. I suggest you do the same. I’d like to say I’m sorry about this, but actually I’m not.’ His wife’s voice was ice-cold, and he knew her well enough to understand that this wasn’t up for argument, but he was human and his emotions were already being tested to the limit.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and mouthed ‘fuck’. He needed this call like he needed a dose of the clap. ‘We should talk about this, Jude. Christ, all we’re doing is giving these fucking lawyers money for old rope.’ What he said was pointless and he knew it.

  ‘We can talk, but what good will that do? Please surprise me with an answer. We’ve had all the chances to talk and what have you done about it? Absolutely fuck all as usual. Too busy picking up fresh meat. Christ, you disgust me!’