Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  She was interested, and the value of sealing the deal on running Dominic Grainger as a CHIS was going up as each minute passed. Getting him sewn up after what had happened would be a real bonus and a nice taster. That was the whole reason she was gambling: he had links to all levels of the crime and business world, plus a couple of politicians, and he could gift her the big names. She thought about the detective super who had ripped some strips off her back. Throwing Paul in the tin pail would be a nice prize, and she would find a way not to involve the same team in this one.

  ‘I can do that, but what about this source? How do I know you just won’t take care of him and stick two fingers up?’ She raised her glass to him.

  ‘Because I can’t, for fuck’s sake. If my problems come out in the open, my business and health are toast. This is survival. I want your boy for something else. To work for me. Handing him to my brothers wouldn’t put another penny in the great big black fucking hole I’ve been digging for myself.’

  She nodded, weighing it all up. There was risk, but then that’s exactly why she was there. There was the thrill, her heart racing with the thought of the gamble she was taking. The exhilaration was worth it all, just to feel that alive.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We have a deal. If it goes wrong then we’re both fucked.’

  She put the glass down. ‘I’ll be back to you tomorrow with the other handler. As I told you before, there has to be two of us for all official meets. That’s when I become your main handler. We set things up and you tell us about the guns. Not on the first meet. We go through the business with you, threaten you about money laundering and you agree to sign on the dotted line. Second or third meet you give us the guns story officially. Before that you give me the whole story in private. Okay?’

  He nodded, his breath shortening at the possibility of uncovering something the police had in their secret locker.

  ‘It’s Tonto. He’s mine.’ She stood up and for a moment considered giving Grainger the other thing he clearly wanted. But she had to keep that one dangling and she was tired. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  His lips tightened but he tried not to show surprise. Christ, they’d suspected the bastard, so Paul had been right again. On the other hand, Paul should have known that the boy had trouble stamped into his DNA and never taken him on in the first place. Every fucking thing that he touched turned to rat shit. Well, on the plus side it worked out perfectly for what he had planned, and he wondered what Hadden would think if she knew what he really had in mind. If she wanted to fucking swim in the sewer she had to accept the risks he and people like him took every day. He asked her some things about Tonto’s habits and where he spent his time.

  ‘Thought you’d have known all about him. He works for you after all.’

  ‘He doesn’t work for me, and I definitely don’t need the hassle with the guffies my brothers employ. This is an exception. I told you, I have serious grief with Paul and the bastard will move against me if he gets half an excuse. I want somebody I can manipulate on their team. So I want to know where I can find him without making a fuss.’

  ‘Like it. Devious but makes sense.’ Hadden told him what she knew about Tonto’s habits when he was away from the business. It was pretty straightforward: being a regular in the Jambo boozers, home games and a snooker club were the sum total of his social life, and he tended to be in the same places on the same nights if he wasn’t dealing.

  Grainger liked it. Tonto wasn’t a loner but the next best thing, so he should be able to get a hold of him without witnesses. When he was satisfied, he stood up and offered her another drink.

  She shook her head then walked over and ran her hand over the side of his face. ‘We’ll do good things together.’

  Once again, he imagined her gasping for air, the small veins popping in her face and eyes as his hands squeezed her throat. That image was starting to become a habit.

  ‘Okay, see you then,’ he replied, putting on one of the lopsided smiles that women liked. ‘You’re welcome to stay if you want.’ He knew as soon as he opened his gob it sounded feeble, but they were both half-pissed, so it was worth a try.

  ‘Not tonight. Lot to do.’ She turned at the door. ‘After we meet tomorrow I’ll see you again tomorrow night so I can hear all about the guns. Do we have time?’

  ‘The deal won’t happen for a couple of weeks. Just getting the logistics arranged.’

  ‘Good. Who’s the contact over there? I want a name to research before we move on this. You don’t give anything away at this stage. Just a name. I gave you Davy McGill and all I want is a name.’

  ‘Tommy Souter. He comes from the Donegal Pass area.’

  Grainger felt naked for a moment. Exposed. The Belfast men were serious players, but it was all or nothing now. It was the same stakes for both of them and their fates had suddenly become intertwined. A complex game plan was in motion, and if any part of it failed, everything else would go with it. Hadden could solve part of his problems, but she couldn’t replace the small fortune he’d wasted, and that would be a difficult one to resolve. Which was why he’d just traded the name of the Belfast man who’d cut his throat without a moment’s hesitation if he knew what was taking place. Grainger was a problem gambler but this was the biggest bet he’d ever made, and he’d need some luck along the way.

  He closed the door behind her, went back into the kitchen and poured another drink he didn’t need. It was better to get fully pissed because he knew that, sober, the odds of it all coming off would seem crazy, and he needed to sleep. He didn’t bother with any mixer in the drink, throwing it over in one, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the raw spirit scorch its way down his throat.

  ‘Aaaaaaah.’

  Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he walked through to the lounge and switched on the TV. He tried to focus on the news but it was hopeless, so he put on some music and let his head rest back on the seat. Less than a minute later he was snoring gently and had the temporary relief he wanted that night.

  Outside the flat, Hadden tried to straighten out her head. There was a lot to do but she seemed to have sealed the deal with Dominic. The arse of a head she was going to have in the morning was the least of her worries. If she could sign him up, get the Belfast man from him in front of the co-handler, maybe the bonus of Paul Grainger locked up . . . what a start that would be. Absolute gravy, she thought, and she’d paint it up as an organised-crime job to keep the terrorist units or the spooks well away from it.

  ‘Fuck them,’ she said to the empty street.

  Not totally empty, though, because Frankie Mason was studying her, wondering what had taken place inside. They hadn’t been in there that long, but if Grainger had been stamping her card maybe it was a quickie and she had to get back to her other half if there was one.

  He scratched his chin. He was going to enjoy finding out who this one was, but he’d also have to report something back to Big Arthur in the next few days.

  First things first, he thought, as he watched her swaying ever so slightly along the pavement, tapping numbers into her phone and putting it to her ear. He was still too far away to hear what she was saying and was reluctant to open the car windows. Anyway, by the time she reached the junction with Dundas Street, where she stopped and waited, Mason knew exactly what she was doing. A woman who was gently pissed and without a coat in the light cold drizzle no doubt just wanted to get home, and fuck the expense. Sure enough, the taxi arrived a couple of minutes later and she stepped inside.

  It was an easy follow at that time of night when the old city was so quiet it was as if no one could be bothered to come out and play.

  The taxi headed to Comely Bank and he watched it pull up in Raeburn Place, where she got out, paid the driver and entered one of the buildings. He said ‘please’ and hoped he’d get a clue to which flat she was in.

  Bingo! The middle flat lights went on as she appeared at the window and pulled the curtains together.

  ‘Good girl.’ He clambered out
of the car, walked to the main door and looked at the nameplates. ‘J. Hadden. That’ll do nicely, girl.’

  He wrote the name and address on a small pad he always carried and thought that it had been a good day. He just knew that J. Hadden, whoever the fuck she was, would be interesting. The way she’d gone into the flat and pulled the curtains suggested she might be on her own rather than married. It was time for a cold beer and maybe a horror film when he got back to his own flat.

  Janet Hadden looked round the barren place that was supposed to be a home. She hated it but knew it wouldn’t matter where she lived. She was incapable of making the place homely. Decorating was more or less a complete waste of time. The walls were all emulsioned in the same neutral colour and there wasn’t a single picture on the walls to show a memory or something that made her stop and think about the past. For her, the past meant nothing; it was something that had happened in another time, and she’d almost forgotten her family, as if they were just people she’d bumped into along the way. There was furniture, the basics that is, a TV she rarely watched and in the bedroom there was a bed and wardrobe but nothing else. The place was almost as sterile as a hospital ward. She only had two sets of plates in the kitchen because no one ever came round to visit, and she couldn’t be arsed to spend the money on something she wouldn’t use.

  She kicked off her shoes, pulled open the fridge door and stared at the contents as if there was really a choice. Fruit juice and half a dozen beers. Those was her reserves if she couldn’t get out of the house for some reason.

  She grabbed a beer and felt a stab of guilt as she pulled the ring from the can. Guilt – that was an unusual feeling for her, but it didn’t last. She said ‘fuck it’ a couple of times and sat in the chair opposite the TV. Hadden didn’t bother putting it on and watched her reflection on the dark screen as she raised the tin in a mock toast.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Hadden.’ She saluted. ‘Maybe Assistant Chief Constable. Christ, that would do, Janet. What do you think?’

  She raised her eyebrows as if she’d been asked the question. ‘I think that would be a very good idea.’

  She put the tin to her lips and the cold beer felt good. She put it on the floor and switched the light off, sighed and was asleep a few minutes later.

  She woke with a start, frightened, and her brain refused to cooperate with her eyes as she tried to focus in the half-light. The curtains weren’t quite closed and there was enough artificial light spilling in to make the place look grey and foreign to her. She felt panicked and for a moment couldn’t remember where she was. Her mouth felt dry and that was the clue. Another fucking hangover on the brew.

  ‘Christ.’

  She shivered. Even at this time of year the house was freezing, because she hardly ever put the heating on.

  She felt her way through to the bathroom, held her mouth under the cold tap, took the toothbrush out of the glass there, filled it to the top and went through to her bedroom. It felt even colder than the lounge so she didn’t bother taking her clothes off. The bed was chilled and she shivered through the next twenty minutes until exhaustion took over and she managed to fall asleep again.

  Across the city, Frankie Mason rarely slept more than three hours at a time, but it never worried him. Sleep always felt like a waste of time. He never felt that deep pleasure that most humans experienced of slipping between clean sheets or with someone who mattered and could share those night hours together.

  He got back to the flat and made up some notes of what had happened and what he needed to do the next day. When he was finished, he stripped down to his underwear and struggled into the heavily stained dressing gown that he’d used for years and never bothered replacing, despite the fact he needed something at least two sizes bigger these days.

  Once he was sure he’d done what needed to be done, he opened a bottle of dark beer. He usually tried to have no more than four or five before he eventually went to sleep. He watched the news, but it was all about Brexit and Tories stabbing each other in the back, and he was bored with the whole subject. He switched channels but all the news was about much the same thing.

  He decided instead to put on a new horror film he’d been looking forward to. He loved the genre and always reckoned he could have done well on Mastermind if it wasn’t for the general-knowledge side.

  The phone interrupted his train of thought and he screwed his face up as he looked at his watch, wondering who the fuck called at 2 a.m. It wasn’t like he had friends.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered, picking up the phone. It was Arthur Hamilton. He straightened himself in the chair as if the big man could see him. There shouldn’t have been any surprise because the same thing had happened in the past – Hamilton operated round the clock. If he wasn’t in bed, he thought nothing of calling people who worked for him, and he expected no complaints.

  ‘Any progress, Frankie boy? Just in from a piss-up and thought I’d give you a wee ring.’ Hamilton sounded like he’d had one scoop too many, and he could be an even more obnoxious bastard with a drink in him.

  ‘Goin’ fine. Doing the phone stuff and that takes a bit of time, know what I mean? Interestin’ boy though, an’ as far as the lassies go he just loves to play. Think I might have a line on the female in the bar. Should have somethin’ for you in a few days. By the way, you know the boy likes a bet? A serious bet, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Good man. Keep on this. There’s a bonus if you get me some shite on this bastard.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Mason heard the phone die at the other end.

  ‘Big Arthur Hamilton at war wi’ Dominic Grainger. Fuck’s sake.’ It was something he did a lot, talking aloud to himself.

  He reached for the remote and settled back as the title of the new horror came on and he leered at the TV. He loved slasher movies and apparently this one had a body count that could equal the Vietnam War.

  Mason was as happy as a pig in shit, which was basically what he was. This was his favourite time of the day, where he could switch off from the world, just drink beer and watch stories where people were cut to bits.

  Mason’s world, however, was about to collide with a number of others, and while some slept soundly, others were disturbed knowing that events were not in their own hands. For the ancient city, this was nothing new; corrupt men and women would always struggle to gain advantages that would bring ruin for some and rarely make the survivors happy. Only the city really survived these little dramas.

  32

  Mason swore when the phone rang on the cabinet next to his bed. He looked at his watch as he answered the call. He’d slept half an hour more than he expected, which was unusual because no matter how tired or pissed he was, he tended to wake at exactly the same time. The film had been a beauty, so good he’d run it through his head a few times before he dropped off, but, unusually, it had disturbed his short sleep.

  It was the subcontractor on the blower. He was having a plate of bacon and eggs before he went out on the job and the way he chewed and spoke at the same time annoyed Mason, who just couldn’t understand food first thing in the morning anyway.

  ‘Any instructions?’ The guy seemed permanently in a good mood, which was something else that tended to annoy Mason, especially so early in the day. He held his temper in check because the subcontractor was on the money: it was early, but the first rule of surveillance was to be in place before the target moved or you’d be watching an empty house. He knew it was the subcontractor’s great strength; he was totally reliable. Hand him the job and he was on it and, best of all, no questions asked. He simply wasn’t interested in the whys or who the fuck was paying money to spy, he just did the job, took the money and spent his time off looking after his pigeons. The man was content, which was a gift few people were blessed with.

  ‘Stay on the boy. There’s a female come into the game and I’ll take her. Keep in touch and let me know what he’s doin’ durin’ the day. Speak later.’

&
nbsp; He pulled himself upright and stretched his neck. He should have been on the go and in place near the female’s gaff by now and reminded himself that Hamilton was the man paying the bills so he needed to earn his wages. Fucking off the big man wasn’t really an option; he might have been semi-retired but Mason knew exactly what Hamilton had done in his day and, more importantly, who he was alleged to have done it to. He didn’t want to miss the woman, who was in his head for some reason, and his interest was definitely up and running.

  He put together some of the paperwork he’d been working on alongside the subscribers for Grainger’s phone and if the woman didn’t move he could do some work in the car, make a few calls and try and work out who she was.

  Mason dressed, which didn’t take long because washing and shaving wasn’t a priority. The clothes he’d worn the day before were simply picked up from the heap they’d formed on a chair at the side of his bed. He swallowed an aspirin, picked up his laptop and headed for the door. At that time of the morning, it was a twenty-minute drive to Comely Bank from the scabby flat he occupied in Portobello.

  When he arrived in Raeburn Place, which was already starting to heave, it dawned on him that he might toil to get a parking space where he could watch the mystery woman’s stair door in comfort. He was already agitated because he was later than he should have been, which meant finding a place with a decent eyeball on her flat might require a minor miracle. It was a lottery: on the one hand traffic wardens would start hunting the area like starving dogs, and on the other, in common with so many parts of Edinburgh, there were certain streets where cars trawled endlessly, more like slavering predators, waiting for a parking space to pounce on.