Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘How’s life, Frankie? Been raking in any politicians’ bins lately?’ She laughed and it sounded like she might have had a couple, which was par for the course. Something in her genes meant she could abuse her body on a regular basis, sleep for six hours and wake up looking like a star.

  Mason dusted some crumbs off his lap as if she could see him and as if it would have made a difference. He was in his old dressing gown and had consumed a couple of slices of days-old pizza with his beer when he’d settled down. He’d dozed off before the call with a piece of crust and a layer of crumbs settled on him and the chair underneath, until the phone had startled him back into the world, sucking in air like a man about to drown. He’d been in the dream zone again.

  The army life was long gone and he’d never shed a tear for the service, but the memories of Belfast and the Troubles still came back in his dreams. There was always one memory that seemed to override every other horror. His mates all said the same thing, and the police detectives he’d met through his investigations told him a similar story.

  For Mason, it had been his second week in Belfast and a call from the peelers for assistance. A body had been found near the edge of the Falls Road and the locals were somewhere between pissed off and attacking the cops. The army had been called in to support the problem and it wasn’t the most difficult operation – just another day in the Troubles. They’d whacked a few heads, and the local boys hadn’t really been up for it that day anyway because the hard men were away on a job.

  When they’d cleared the area, he’d caught sight of the body and it had pulled him up for a few seconds before a bastard of a sergeant had told him to move his arse. He wasn’t a fully fledged cynic then but getting there, and years in the army had put a shell round him that seemed rock hard. The body was a young man who’d been executed as a tout, and the strange thing was that, on the great scale of things, it hadn’t been that messy. The boy’s face had been close to beautiful, with a halo of wheat-coloured hair round a face that had seemed almost at peace, despite whatever had happened before death. All the damage had been to the boy’s hands, legs and body.

  It was as if it had been intentional to contrast the angelic face with the ravaged body. It was unusual for the paramilitary intelligence teams to leave a face untouched when there was treachery, so whoever had done this had been cruel to the extreme, but then it had been a war. It was simple: he’d been an informant and the wolves had uncovered him.

  Mason had seen much worse in his time, but that face still came back to him in the night. Always the same, the boy pleading for Mason to help him. But he could never move a muscle to help as the victim pleaded with him over and over again.

  He tried to focus on the present. ‘Not bad, Jacquie, not bad at all. What about you?’ His heart was still racing as he pushed the boy’s face into a subconscious box and shook the booze haze from his brain. He didn’t want to sound like an arse to this woman in particular.

  ‘Busy enough but looking for a bit of fresh news to excite the punters. Anything good to tell me? There’s a drink in it?’

  It sounded lame but a simple offer of a drink turned him into a helpless teenager who couldn’t do his lines. He would have sold his soul to be seen with her as partners, and for all his cynicism, every single time she called he thought that this time it might just happen. It was foolish but he was a man thinking through his trousers.

  ‘Some good stuff, Jacquie. Definitely have somethin’ for you.’

  ‘Okay, Frankie. Usual place tomorrow round six?’

  ‘Fair enough. Only thing is I’m on a job, but if I get held up I’ll text.’

  ‘Okay. Laters, Detective.’ She had a remarkable ability to sound on top of the world even in the early hours of the morning and with several drinks under her belt.

  Mason smacked his lips; his gob felt dry. He shook the can on the coffee table next to his seat and found it was at least half-full. He drank it in one go, looked at the clock and groaned because the new day wasn’t far off and he felt shagged out. If he was going to meet Jacquie Bell, he had to make an effort, but there was no way to recreate himself to the body beautiful in less than a day.

  ‘Fuck it.’

  He pulled the ring on another can and swigged it back so he couldn’t change his mind. Sleep wasn’t going to be an option, and he didn’t want to see the boy’s face again in what was left of the night. The call had been the push he needed. His instincts were to follow up on Janet Hadden and whatever the fuck Dominic Grainger was up to, but the dream had reminded him of the reality of the world he lived in. He was sticking his nose right into the business of the Graingers, Big Arthur and perhaps some Loyalist nutters. He was tired and just didn’t need the hassle. He decided to suppress his own instincts to find out what was going on, because this thing stank like a rotting corpse. Jacquie Bell had far more resources than he did, and although the story was just a collection of intelligence fragments, it was the type of thing she liked to know.

  ‘She’s fuckin’ welcome,’ he muttered, then emptied the can and headed for the fridge to resupply. He didn’t usually do this kind of session, but something was jagging his brain and he wanted to get pissed enough to flake out. He could live with a hangover; in fact, he wondered when he’d last felt well and full of energy.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said again, placing the cans next to his seat, and stuck a horror on the box. It was Mary Poppins compared with Belfast and the memories of the boy with the beautiful face.

  38

  Mason got to the meet with Jacquie Bell twenty minutes early. He wanted to check out his phizog in the lavvy mirror to make sure he looked his best. He didn’t need telling that his best wasn’t that impressive, but he’d done what he could in the circumstances of too much booze and only a couple of hours of restless sleep. The good suit that he kept for very special occasions and funerals had been brought into the light. He hadn’t had it on for long enough because there were almost no special occasions in his life, and he didn’t like anyone enough to turn up at their funerals these days.

  Once he was in the hot shower, it had felt so good he’d wondered why he didn’t do it more often in the morning. Shaving had been a bit of a trial though, his skin puffy from his body trying to cope with the toxins that had flooded his system when normal punters were tucked up in bed. He’d cut the spot where his top and bottom lips met and growled, ‘Fuck it,’ as the blood trickled down his chin.

  The razor had opened up another cut on his chin and when he’d run his hand over his face, he’d still been able to feel little gardens of stubble concealed in the slack skin round his neck. He’d sworn again and given up.

  Mason had lost a few pounds since he’d last worn the suit and it hung just a little too loosely to look tidy, but it was better than his everyday clothes. After he was dressed, he’d put two fingers between the collar of his shirt and his neck and remembered that the shirt had been just a bit tight when he’d first bought it. ‘How’s that?’ he’d asked before swearing again, because he knew the answer. His lifestyle was shit and his body couldn’t recover any more. For all the beer he consumed, he was losing weight because what little he ate was crap and he knew it.

  By the time he examined himself in the mirror of the upmarket boozer, he looked a bit better, and the weariness of the morning had been helped by a couple of double espressos and a few smokes. His palms were sweating but otherwise he was okay.

  He ran the comb through his hair again, turned his head to show his best side, and surveyed the punters but didn’t recognise anyone he knew. It was George Street so it was mostly tourists and office twats talking bollocks. The girls working behind the bar seemed to drift back and forward as if he was invisible. Eventually there was no one else needing served, so one of the girls stood opposite him and waited with an expression that said nothing, let alone ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘Pint, darlin’ . . . lager.’ He pointed to the pump and the Polish girl looked at him as if he was on the barred list.
It annoyed him because she seemed to have been all smiles for everyone else at the bar. When she told him the damage, he nearly choked.

  ‘Jesus! That a joke, hen?’ He knew what the prices were but just wanted to annoy the staff. The girl looked over at one of the barmen who was the size of a Princes Street statue. It seemed like his biceps were about to burst the sleeves of his polo shirt. The giant lived for these moments when all his work in the gym would prove its value. He gave Mason the you want some of this? look and flexed his pecs. Mason watched the chest muscles ripple but wasn’t impressed because he’d seen it all before. Okay, the guy could probably wipe the floor with his face but so what?

  ‘Nice tits, son, but I’m no’ available the night.’

  He looked at the girl again, lifted his glass and winked. He was streetwise enough to know that the barman could flex all he liked, but he couldn’t beat Mason up at the bar for moaning about the price of the beer. If he did, he’d be locked up, and Frankie boy would get a fuck-off compi claim against the boozer. Lurch thought about it and realised that he wasn’t impressing the guy, nodded to the girl to serve another customer and went back to cleaning the glasses.

  ‘You causing bother again, Frankie?’

  He turned to see Bell behind him, grinning from ear to ear and showing a perfect set of teeth that made him feel even more unworthy. At least she had to be impressed with his triumph in the pissing competition with the boy at the bar.

  He straightened up a bit. Why not? He’d just taken the piss out of a fifteen-stone gorilla and it wasn’t every day you got away with that in Scotland without a daud in the pus.

  ‘You know me, Jacquie. Just trying to spread a little sunshine along the way.’ She definitely brought out the best in him, and it was one of the rare occasions when he could be arsed to engage in banter.

  They grabbed a table away from the bar and the odd glare from the bar staff, who were trying to work out how a bit of class like Jacquie Bell could be in the company of the smart-arse who looked far too down on his heels for their establishment.

  She ordered a bottle of red for herself and a refill for Mason, and they chewed the fat for ten minutes, as she knew this was always a worthwhile investment in her sources. Soon Mason was flying from a couple of drinks and that magical feeling of attraction, even hope, and he wished they could just stay there all night then go home together.

  ‘So what’s doing in the sewers, Frankie?’

  Bell’s question quickly brought him back to the earth and he remembered that their relationship was always going to be just business. She was a real pro and the best in her trade.

  He swallowed the remains of his beer and paused again, trying to work out whether to throw her a couple of bits of scandal or give her the Dominic Grainger thing, because that would really get her taste buds going. He wanted her company so much he made the mistake of going for the Grainger thing. It might not be a complete story, but there were enough tasters to get someone like her joining the dots.

  ‘Listen, Jacquie, there’s a job I’m involved in, might no’ seem the scoop of the century but there’s somethin’ there. I’m leavin’ it where it is, but see what you think.’

  Bell poured her second glass of red and leaned back in her seat. Mason always came up with the goods, and she saw he was struggling with what to tell her. That didn’t happen normally – he usually just gave her the package. But if he was worried then that was a good sign, because Mason normally didn’t give a fuck.

  Within the first three sentences of the story he’d mentioned Dominic Grainger and Arthur Hamilton, which meant she was really interested. She drank the second glass too quickly and went for a third.

  When he got to the story about the woman in the bar, her gut told her she was right down there in the sewer, exactly where she liked to find her best stories.

  She’d nearly finished the bottle when he said, ‘That’s it,’ then picked up his beer and slugged it back, waiting for judgement.

  ‘Jesus, Frankie. What do you think it all means?’ It was rare for her to ask a source for their opinion because it was her job to pull the pieces together.

  ‘Fucked if I know. I wanted to follow this through but tell the truth there’s a bad smell from this one and I’ve got a feeling some poor bastard’s gonnae be damaged in the end. Bent law, Big Arthur, the Graingers and fuck knows what Dominic was up to with that numpty Davy McGill. Bad mix.’ He looked at his empty glass and half-stood up to get a round.

  She pushed some notes across the table. ‘Get another bottle for me and whatever you want. This is on the firm.’

  ‘Yer on. Think I need a goldie wi’ the beer this time.’

  As he headed for the bar she pulled out the small notepad from her bag and scribbled a few reminders.

  ‘Jesus Christ, who is this fucking detective?’ she muttered. She had the tingles, the buzz she felt when a good one fell in her lap.

  When Mason came back to the table, he looked more relaxed, but she’d noticed him having a fly one at the bar while he was waiting. He’d unloaded the problem but that was fine with her.

  ‘Can I get those numbers from you, Frankie? The Belfast number and anything else you’ve dug up?’

  ‘It’s all yours, Jacquie. I’m seeing Arthur in the mornin’ an’ I’ll just tell him what he wants tae hear about Dominic. I’ll leave the Belfast thing out, but I have tae tell him about Hadden and this boy McGill.’ He tossed his whisky back and his face reddened with the effect of speed drinking. ‘That’s where my bonus comes in.’

  ‘Fair enough, Frankie. Cheers.’ She was feeling the effects of the booze as well, but it was worth it – this was what she lived for.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she added. ‘I’ll have a look at this but keep me informed and let me know what the big man’s reaction is.’

  ‘You know him?’ It hadn’t occurred to Mason that she would know Big Arthur, but it should have because the reporter had more intelligence than the police when it came to who was who and what they were up to. Then it dawned on him who he was speaking to. It made him a bit nervous, because the big man had a rep in his younger days as a puller of exceptional talent. Jacquie Bell was exceptional talent and fed on people like the big man. Mason didn’t know and couldn’t know that her taste was for her own gender, but she kept that one dark for professional reasons. That would have shattered the fantasies of a few men in public and criminal life.

  ‘Met him a few times,’ she replied. ‘Man thinks he’s chocolate but an interesting career.’ She grinned and her phone interrupted the moment.

  Mason’s heart sank when she took the call. Even though she should have been half or three quarters pissed she snapped back to life because it was obviously work related and his little fantasy died again.

  She swore when she put the phone down. ‘Need to go to the office, Frankie. No rest for the wicked and all that.’

  She stuffed the phone and notebook into her bag, pulling on her coat. ‘Call you tomorrow, and let me know about the big man.’

  For the first time ever she leaned over, threw an arm round his neck and pecked him on the side of his face.

  Mason watched her back disappear through the doors and felt lost. It was a strange feeling and it only happened with her.

  He glanced over at the barmaid who looked like she had a pain in her arse and decided he wasn’t paying over the odds for the next drink while she gave him the evil eye. It was time to move to a proper boozer with no frills and definitely no twats behind the bar, just good old Edinburgh piss-takers with a nice line in sarcasm.

  He had no idea why he did it but he turned at the door and, because he knew the cow was watching, Mason grabbed a handful of his balls as if he was Michael Jackson in his heyday and gave them a shake in her direction. She looked like she’d seen the ghost of Jimmy Savile and turned to the hulk again for support. But by the time he looked round, Mason was back on the street and pissing himself laughing, though he had no idea why because he didn’t do much laughin
g.

  Jacquie Bell was already in a taxi, and that was when fate took a hand and shit just happened again. She was pleased with what Mason had told her, but investigating it would require a good bit of work and might not come to much. The majority of times what seemed like gold turned to shit and a lot of wasted time. But then the names were all good, so it had the makings of a classic if it didn’t end up being one of those monumental misunderstandings with fuck all at the end of it.

  That’s when her phone went off in her bag and what might have been possible with Mason’s story changed again. Another source was calling her about a historical child-abuse story involving an MEP and it was a beauty. It needed immediate attention, so she decided that Frankie Mason’s saga could wait a couple of days and what difference would it make? It would, and lives would be lost and shattered, but she couldn’t know that.

  Shit just keeps on happening.

  39

  Big Arthur had told Frankie Mason to come to the house. He liked to show off his study, which was a monument to the wealth the man had accrued over the years.

  The house stood on its own ground in the posher east end of Portobello, though he was originally from the other end of that part of town. He always liked to tell people he ‘didnae have an’ erse in ma breeks back then’.

  The study was all dark wood and a desk that cost more than a small family car. The window to the side of the desk looked out onto the garden, and Hamilton loved to sit there and work on his family and local history. It had become almost an obsession, and it was where he was happiest when he was at home.

  He’d never been a domestic type; the only reason he’d married his wife was because he’d put her in the club and her old man had threatened to throw him in the sea if he didn’t do the right thing. His future father-in-law had principles. Hamilton had never forgiven his wife for that turn of events.