It was always the same, one insult drew retaliation and so it went on. He was already in a foul mood and sanctimony from a woman who seemed to be matching him pull for pull was the last thing he needed. ‘You have some fucking nerve. Okay, I got it all wrong, but . . . Christ, you’re throwing it about like the slag you are.’
She cut him off in the middle of that one and he cursed himself for losing it again. It happened every time, but lawyers sticking their fat fingers into his business could be the next nightmare keeping him awake at night. The pressure would be coming from three sides now and there was a danger that he might lose control of the situation.
The door opened and his brothers walked in. Jude answered him just as they sat down.
‘By the way, if you want to tell all to my dad, go ahead – do your best and see if I fucking care.’ She put the phone down before he could say anything else.
For a moment, he did nothing. Her words had surprised him. He’d always thought that was his ace card.
Eventually he put the phone down on the desk and tried to pretend he was calm, that he couldn’t feel the thundering beat of the pulse in his neck.
He’d been right on the money about Paul. As soon as he’d breezed through the door he was full of it, even more than usual, and if he’d been a pain in the arse before, it was probably about to get worse. He’d scored a goal against the bizzies and it would be talked about, and do his reputation in the trade no harm at all. Sean grinned but Dominic thought he looked tired, though he probably deserved to after what he’d been through.
Paul ran over what had happened, his eyes bright, the pupils dilated like black holes, as he told the story. He was pleased with himself, no doubt about it. Sean stayed quiet and only came in at the end.
‘I fucked up – spoke to the boys about the run. Nothing I can do about it now.’ It was what it was and neither Paul nor Dominic said anything that would rub salt into that particular wound.
‘No great harm. It happens and a lesson for the future, eh?’ Paul said it without an edge to his voice and he meant it.
‘Only thing I’d say is that the bizzies aren’t going to forget this one. They’ll look for payback if they get a chance.’ Dominic wanted to say more, but his relationship with Paul was on a hair trigger and there was no need to apply pressure to a loaded weapon. ‘What now then?’ Dominic directed the question to Paul, as he was the one making the play.
‘You mentioned havin’ a line into the force. That still stand?’ Paul looked his older brother straight in the eye as if he was watching prey, waiting for the slightest wrong move.
‘Absolutely, meet arranged for later. First things first though. I just hooked this guy up and I need to test him.’ He said ‘him’, which left the possibilities wide open – mentioning a woman could have made it more difficult to cover. ‘Was going to test the guy about your runner they lifted. See if he’s talked.’ He felt that would do for the moment and hopefully keep Paul quiet for the time being. ‘Where do you go now if there is a grass?’
‘No if. It’s happened. Problem is the guy has to be spooked. They know we’re lookin’ for them and have to be sweatin’ blood. Guess they’ll keep quiet for a bit in case it goes tits up again.’
Paul flipped a cigarette into his mouth. It was another little trick copied from an American gangster film and he waited, wanting to see what Dominic’s reaction would be. He was pretty sure Sean was sound, but everyone else was a suspect, including his older brother, till it was cleared up. As far as he was aware, his older brother shouldn’t have known about the run south, which would rule him out, but it was always possible one of their team was feeding him from the inside.
‘There’s always the possibility that you’re being bugged, Paul. It’s the twenty-first century and the bastards do it all the time now. Who knows? Think it would be worth paying for a security firm to sweep everything? Maybe get some new phones. What do you think?’ He turned to Sean, who as usual had to be forced into the conversation.
He looked sheepish and, given that he’d fucked up by opening his mouth at the wrong time, didn’t really feel entitled, but his brothers waited for his reaction. For different reasons, they would always try to bring Sean into the discussions, even though his opinion rarely swayed them. They were both safe from Sean – he would never be a threat – so they both played him in order to draw him onside if they could. They treated him like a swing voter, and although he was loyal to Paul first, he knew the business would only work with Dominic at the head. If Paul ever took over he’d declare war on every competitor, including the Campbells.
‘No’ sure. Whatever or whoever it is, this is close. Good idea to get the place swept. See there’s a Weegie team in the news. At the High Court and they bugged them to fuck. Seems the way they do it now. Think it’s worth asking if you have this bizzie on the inside. Could be worth their weight.’
Paul and Dominic both nodded. There wasn’t much else to say till Dominic had spoken to his mole, so they agreed to wait till he’d had the meet and then take it from there.
As the meeting wound up, Dominic thought he’d got off lightly and had maybe even bought a bit of time to straighten something out, at least on their problem (which just left him with all the other ones). That thought lasted till Paul got to the door and turned.
‘By the way, Dom, want to chew the fat over a bit of expansion in the business. Chance to make some serious profit.’
‘What?’ It was all Dominic could say; his stomach churned again and he already had indigestion. He never got indigestion.
‘Movin’ some pros.’ Paul grinned as if they were discussing football. ‘Few contacts in Glasgow and south of the border makin’ megabucks movin’ girls round the country.’
‘Pros?’ Dominic could only manage the one word again.
‘Aye, pros. You know what they are: tits an’ arse . . . Fuck’s sake.’
Paul grinned as he watched the lines form on his brother’s forehead. He knew trafficking women was far too real life for him, but times were changing and Paul Grainger was just the man to bring about that change.
‘We’ll speak in the mornin’. You’ve got enough to worry about, eh, Dom?’ He closed the door behind him.
Dominic saw the problems just pile up in front of him. He wondered what Paul meant by ‘you’ve got enough to worry about’. The bastard was trying to wind him up, and he was throwing the first dice in whatever fucked-up game he was playing.
Paul wanted to go into the sewers to make money. Trafficking women would take them into a business where gangsters from all over Europe cooperated or fought. This was a game where one wrong move had professional killers slicing your face off, or, if they were really pissed, doing the same to your family. This was a move into a European super-league and Dominic knew they weren’t equipped for that kind of business. It would draw even more attention from the law – as if they hadn’t enough problems as it was.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered and called his assistant. ‘When you’re out for coffee will you get me some indigestion tabs?’
‘You don’t get indigestion.’ She was right, up to a point.
‘I do now.’
29
Dominic left the office a bit earlier than usual and had arranged to meet Hadden later on. He needed to clear his head and think through what was coming his way but struggled trying to work out what he should deal with first.
He decided to walk along to the nearest bookies, have just the one bet and limit it to fifty quid. Putting a bet on always gave him that brief high of expectation that something wonderful might happen. It was almost the same with the women he picked up, hoping that all his failures would be forgotten when he hit the jackpot.
He pulled up his collar against the cold. Scotland had, even by its own shite standards, suffered a long, wet and miserable winter and now it had pissed down half the summer. It dawned on him that he hadn’t had a decent holiday in the sun for an age and he imagined himself on a long white bea
ch with nothing to do but soak it all up.
Suddenly she was there again: Janet Hadden, there in his imagination. ‘Fucking weird,’ he muttered to himself.
His attention was grabbed by a piss-head on the other side of the road who was swaying on the edge of the kerb, one eye closed as he tried to focus and navigate his way safely across. He almost envied the guy for being pissed, all his worries gone for a few hours.
He turned off and stepped into the warm blast of air in the bookies. A couple of the regulars nodded and went back to the lines of information on the screens.
The subcontractor stayed well behind Grainger because he was pretty certain about where he was headed anyway. The boy liked a bet, and sure enough that’s exactly where he ended up. He noted the slumped shoulders and the dragging feet – the boy looked down and was definitely somewhere else in his head. He called Frankie Mason.
‘He’s away from the office and back to the bookies. The boy looks fucked off, for want of a better word. The two brothers were there earlier, or take it was them. The two guys who were there certainly match the descriptions you gave me. Anyway, what do you want me to do?’
‘Stay with him. I’m workin’ on some phone stuff here. If anythin’ interestin’ happens get back to me an’ I’ll come to you. If he just heads back to his flat I’ll take over and you can knock off till the mornin’. That okay with you?’
‘You’re payin’ the wages, my friend, so I’m happy.’
Mason had identified more of the phone subscribers. There was an escort service that came up a few times; he knew the guy who ran it and he would try and track down whether the calls were business or pleasure. The pimp who ran the girls would sell his granny for profit and Mason had used a couple of the girls himself. It shouldn’t be hard to find the girl or girls Grainger had used. He knew most guys had their favourites.
He sat back and wondered again about the Belfast number. What was that about? he wondered. All he knew was that a contact was there. It had to be heavy-duty business, but it was difficult to see what more he could do with it in the absence of more information. He’d get a result for Arthur Hamilton, but he was going well beyond the parameters of the contract. It would be necessary to get into someone a bit closer to Grainger, and he knew he’d have to stay on his toes: those Ulster prods didn’t fuck about if someone sniffed the air anywhere near their business.
Fuck it, he thought. There was something there – secrets – and he wanted to know what they were. He pulled a cold beer from the fridge and ran his finger down the side of the bottle, watching the line of clear glass trail behind his finger. If the subcontractor drew a blank he might call up the escort service and get one of the girls over to his flat. He enjoyed it when they saw the state of his place. It was a fucking midden, but that’s how he liked it.
His phone buzzed into life again.
‘He’s away from the bookies but definitely not headin’ home. Still in the New Town, walking along Howe Street. Seems to know where he’s goin’ and looks a bit perkier than when he went into the bookies. What do you want me to do?’
‘Stay on him an’ I’ll be there as soon as.’
Mason stuck the phone in his pocket. Where you off to, Dominic? he thought. A smile crossed his face. Fuckin’ love this game.
He put down the half-empty beer and grabbed his car keys.
Dominic Grainger felt just that bit lighter on his feet and his mood had lifted. A donkey that should have been entertaining children on a beach had caught his eye, and at odds of 25–1, he’d plonked fifty quid on it to win. Somebody had pressed the donkey’s go-faster button and the thing had ended up winning. Grainger had punched the air and seen it as a good omen that blues skies were ahead. That’s what addicted gamblers did.
The bookie nodded at Grainger’s back as he left the shop, stuffing the readies into his pocket. He knew how it worked: the money in the punter’s mitt was only away for a short break, because serious gamblers like Grainger were on a merry-go-round. Occasionally they had their slice of luck, but the main result was that they became even more addicted to the game. It was there in black and white, and all you needed to do was google it or use the common sense that God didn’t give to everyone. The bookie always fucking wins.
Hadden did it properly. She used her tradecraft and gave Grainger the exact time she’d arrive at the bar. She told him that he should be there fifteen minutes later. She wanted to make sure it was safe and pick her seat. His flat was out of the question for the time being, as there was always the risk he’d set up a recording of the meet. What she was doing was risky enough without that particular nightmare scenario. She’d stick on the wig and glasses just in case. The bar was upmarket and she knew it well enough. It was full of locals. No scum and lots of discussion about Brexit and golf.
Grainger didn’t get the importance of what she’d said and was still enjoying the moment he’d scored a beauty against the bookies when he arrived at the pub door at the same time she did. She hissed through her teeth and resisted the temptation to tell him to fucking pay attention to what she said. If they walked into the pub together, Sod’s Law might come into play and someone who knew one of them might be sitting in the bar for the first time in their lives. It happened. Arriving separately would have meant they could ignore each other if necessary.
Hadden paused for a moment, caught in two minds, until she realised there was little choice, and although she should have just fucked off, the previous day’s events meant this little meeting had the word crisis written all over it. She nodded and they walked in together.
The subcontractor had a special gift in that even after a long, almost uneventful day he stayed on his toes. There hadn’t been much time to take in the obvious meet with the female, but he’d not only clocked it, he’d also registered her discomfort. Did they meet by accident or design? It didn’t matter, a meet was a meet. He managed to get a picture – not a great one but better than nothing.
Mason joined the subcontractor ten minutes later and looked more than interested when he was told what had happened at the door. As he stared at the photograph on the subcontractor’s phone, he felt his heart take a couple of extra bumps, as if he’d overdosed on espresso. It was impossible to clearly identify the woman from the range the picture had been taken; nevertheless, she was familiar, and he knew where from, but he had to be sure.
‘You can take off, son. Good job. I’ll stay in the car. I just need to see them up close when they leave. That’ll do me for the night.’
The subcontractor left and said he’d be on station first thing in the morning, and Mason manoeuvred the car till he found a spot where he could safely cover the front of the boozer.
After setting up his camera he relaxed. It was top kit, and with a bit of luck he’d get a decent shot of the woman. It was all good. He had a feeling they wouldn’t be too long in there, whatever it was they were up to.
30
Janet Hadden had to work hard at pretending she was happy with the situation. It was awkward but she had to get the project back on track. Problems appeared all the time and her job was to solve them within the rules. That’s what they taught at the college so it had to be true. Like fuck, she’d thought the first time she’d heard some dewy-eyed instructor tell it to the congregation. It depended on the problem; what she was creating and dealing with wasn’t in the textbooks.
She breathed a sigh of relief that at least the place was fairly quiet but not too quiet, and there was a rerun of an old game on the box that was generating just enough noise level to cover what they were about to discuss.
She looked up when she ordered the drinks at the bar to see Lionel Messi and his Barcelona mob sticking it right up the opposition again; their manager’s face looked like he’d swallowed some bleach. Every face in the pub was concentrating on the genius of the little Argentinian and wishing he was a Scot. At least it made it easier for her to talk business.
She sat down with the drinks she’d insisted on buying
to prove it was no longer a man’s world. He half-smiled; the bulge of the notes in his pocket still felt good. His high hadn’t worn off yet, but he needed some answers and, more importantly, some serious help.
‘What happened yesterday? You had to know about it. Was the plan to take my brother out and then come for me?’ He lifted his beer and waited. He was calm enough and had accepted there was a set of confusing and potentially dangerous problems on his doorstep. His choice was simple: take them on or at least one of them would ruin either his finances, his reputation or his health. Possibly all of them together. The woman opposite could provide answers and possible solutions, but there was nothing simple about her or what she was doing.
He waited while she took a stiff shot of her wine. The glass was half-empty when she put it back on the table and she definitely wasn’t bothering to savour it. Like him, she needed the hit, but he had no idea what she was up to or dealing with and that was another problem. He knew he wouldn’t get all the answers, but he was determined she wasn’t pulling his strings for free this night.
He looked round as a collective murmur of admiration greeted Messi sticking a second beauty round a flapping goalkeeper.
Hadden shook her head at the TV. ‘Man’s a genius.’
It wasn’t what he’d expected her to say.
‘Didn’t take you for a football fan?’
‘Love it, especially the way that wee man plays it.’
For the first time, she seemed to have taken her mask off and he felt like he was speaking to someone a bit nearer reality.
‘Anyway, to get back to the question. Yes, I knew about it, and what do you expect? It’s my job but I didn’t have all the levers in my hands.’
She’d decided earlier that a bit of truth should precede the lie. There was no point in trying to convince him that she’d had no idea as that would have insulted his intelligence.
Our Little Secrets Page 15
