Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  As much as he despised his wife, he’d adored his daughter Jude from the day she was born. It was a strange feeling – being that emotionally involved with another human being – and it only happened with her. One of the reasons he’d been so successful as a criminal and businessman was that he never let emotion cloud his judgement. Jude had turned on him for the problems with his wife, but he wished he could have explained that it was complicated and that his wife had deserved every blow – or at least that was how he justified it in his own head.

  When Mason arrived, Hamilton was dreaming that he had reconciled with Jude and they were spending every hour together. Mason took a seat opposite the desk, admiring the bookcase and array of leather-bound volumes that the big man would never even open but were part of the image he liked to portray.

  ‘Wee dram, Frankie?’ There was a collection of the best malts on a table in the corner and crystal glasses to go with them. Mason nodded and Hamilton poured him a treble Speyside, then the same for himself.

  ‘That do ye, son?’

  Mason nodded again; he was glad to get the booze. He was nervous and didn’t know why, because he’d worked for the man a few times over the years and it had all been good. He’d handed the problem over to Jacquie Bell and was about to tell him what he wanted to hear and a bit more about his son-in-law.

  Some cases though just had the words ‘best avoided’ written all over them, and he still had the feeling that with the ingredients he’d seen, this was all going to end badly. He’d always followed these cases up to see what he could find for himself, but why had he walked away this time? He couldn’t put it into words but it was there – deep in his instinctive defence mechanisms, he sensed something that would burn people when this puzzle came into the light.

  ‘Right, Frankie, tell me what’s what.’

  Apart from the Belfast connection, he told Hamilton everything, including what he knew about Janet Hadden and Davy McGill. He’d swallowed half the whisky by the time he’d finished, but he was still nervous and struggling to contain it, though apart from keeping quiet on a single Belfast number, he’d done a good job. The problem was that as he spoke, he’d watched Hamilton’s face darken and twist, and that was enough to put the wind up the hardest men.

  ‘So he’s a fuckin’ grass?’ Hamilton banged his glass on the desk and some of the gold drink flipped over the edge onto the precious wood.

  ‘I’m no’ sayin’ that, Arthur, only that she meets the guy on his own and then wi’ another bizzie.’

  ‘I know exactly what it means, Frankie. Think I’m fuckin’ stupid or somethin’?’ Hamilton was angry and needed to put it somewhere, and Mason was all that was available.

  ‘Sorry, Arthur. Didnae mean to offend.’

  Mason looked at the floor like a beaten child and the big man cooled down because it was all an act. He didn’t really do that level of emotion. He knew exactly what the meetings meant because Hamilton had been a grass himself since he was a much younger man climbing the ladder. Mick Harkins had handled him for years, until he’d retired and beyond.

  ‘Anythin’ else, Frankie?’

  ‘Hate tae say this, Arthur, but think the lassie’s been playin’ away as well. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she? Married tae that bastard.’

  Mason left the house with an envelope full of clean fifties and twice what he’d expected. The last thing the big man had asked him was if there was anything else and Frankie had told him the lie. He wasn’t sure if Hamilton had seen it or not, but he’d patted Mason on the back and told him he’d keep in touch.

  Once Mason was gone, Hamilton sat back in his seat and wondered what his next move was. Nothing for the moment because what could he do? But he knew what the bastard was up to now and that a creep like Grainger would give him an excuse at some stage because he had to. Going to Jude was a waste of time because she would spit in his eye if he told her about the other women, and it looked like she knew anyway. He was armed though, and when Grainger made a wrong move he’d be ready.

  40

  Two nights later Tonto wiped the palms of his hands; they were damp with sweat, and the tension was getting to him. He was checking everything before he left his flat.

  He nipped into the toilet again because he’d overdosed on coffee and his bladder was annoyed. When he was done, he sat back on the sofa and lit another cigarette, trying to calm himself. It had been a while since he’d been involved in a break-in. It had never really bothered him too much in the past, but given everything that had happened in his life, including prison, he’d lost a lot of bottle along the way, and the romance of being a young hood had passed with the years. Once the job was done, he’d feed Janet Hadden info about Grainger, but only when this one was in the bag. The job had to remain a secret between him and Grainger and no one else.

  ‘Calm, Davy.’ He’d said it a dozen times, trying hard to avoid swallowing some dope to take the edge off. He needed a clear head – he could not fuck up a job for Dominic Grainger.

  He took a few deep breaths and told himself it couldn’t go wrong because Grainger had gone over it again and again. In fact, Tonto thought that was a bit overkill because the job itself was straightforward enough. The alarm was going to be switched off, and Grainger said that wouldn’t be a problem because even if the insurance company kicked off about it, he was still getting what he wanted. A small fortune in sparklers.

  Tonto looked at his watch, stood up, pulled the rucksack over his shoulder and headed for the door.

  An hour later, he’d parked the stolen wheels and was in the garden at the back of Grainger’s home, pretty well concealed in the darkness and cover of some bushes. He waited; the good housebreakers always did it properly and watched for a while. See what moved, pick up the smells – especially anything that hinted of pork.

  The garden was a beauty, and even though Tonto had no interest in the subject, he thought it was minted. He knew Grainger had a smart pad, but it was even better than expected, in the heart of Inverleith on the north edge of the city and double posh as far as he was concerned.

  The place was dead and, apart from a couple of cars passing somewhere in front of the house, he heard almost nothing apart from the occasional puff of a light south-west wind against his cheeks. His bladder was still complaining about the caffeine OD and he had to go twice in the bushes, though he couldn’t produce much more than a dribble. Sitting waiting had taken him back to the days when this was his main source of income, and he gradually relaxed, because doing an empty home, a guaranteed empty home where the owner was involved, was a dawdle.

  Okay, Davy, let’s get this show on the road, he thought and grinned nervously for a moment because this was going to pay big and the cash would sort a load of problems. Maybe a wee holiday down in Spain, where he could stay pissed for a fortnight and forget all his worries.

  The windows were a piece of pish, wooden sash and case just to make it even easier than he’d thought, and there wasn’t a sound from the house. Grainger had told him that his wife was away for a couple of nights so he was in the clear.

  Somewhere in the distance he heard a dog barking, but whatever it was, it was small and too far away to have been spooked by him. It was just the night, and he was almost calm now the job had started because there was too much to think about.

  Tonto wasn’t a smash-and grab-man; he went through the steps he’d learned over the years and especially from the old boys in the pokey. Take it easy, don’t rush. There were four windows to choose from and Grainger had suggested a downstairs spare bedroom. It was on a corner of the garden near a high stone wall and overhung by a couple of old trees. Even during the day it was almost in permanent shadow, and at night he could work with the trees covering him and absorbing some of the sounds.

  He peered into the window and switched on a small penlight. The room was sparsely furnished with nothing more than a single bed, a small double wardrobe and a picture of a horse.

  Tonto
felt his nose run and drew his sleeve across his top lip. The adrenalin was pumping him into gear; he felt the high and a burst of energy.

  The window was a pushover and he had it open in under thirty seconds. He checked everything again, put his head just inside and waited for a few seconds. He remembered the lessons: ‘Take your time, son. Listen, sniff the air. One step at a time.’

  The house was dead although he could hear ticking and it sounded heavy, like an old-fashioned clock of some kind. That was okay.

  He pulled himself over the windowsill and stepped inside, waiting again. Nothing stirred. He checked the window to make sure it would stay open in case he had to make a quick exit. Grainger had told him he was staying out that night so the job wouldn’t be discovered till the next day, meaning he had all the time he needed. He’d change as soon as he got back to the flat and dump the gear he was wearing first chance.

  It was only a break-in for fuck’s sake, but he’d read about Locard’s principle in prison and always remembered the lesson that everyone brings something into a crime scene and takes something away. In the past, when he was still a teenager screwing upper-class properties with a team from Drylaw, he’d been locked up twice on forensics and he swore he wouldn’t be caught out like that again.

  The hall area was half-lit from the street, but only through a small glass pane above a heavy old front door so no one was going to see him from outside. He was flying now and he caught sight of himself in a mirror and nearly panicked.

  ‘Jesus!’ he whispered at the sight of the man in a balaclava.

  He grinned as his heart slowed again. The ornate staircase was on his left and he looked up, checking again. There were twenty-two steps to a mezzanine landing where he stopped again and waited.

  Grainger had told him exactly where his wife’s bedroom was and that he’d have to force a heavy wooden door in the room to get to the jewellery. There was no way he could just do the cupboard though; he’d have to rummage the whole place so it didn’t look like he’d headed straight for the cupboard, which would flag it up as an inside job. First things first though – he wanted to get the jewellery into his rucksack, then he’d do the rest of the house.

  He stopped below the landing. He could see the closed door that should have been her room if Grainger’s information was on the money, and why wouldn’t it be?

  He climbed the last few steps and wished he could enjoy this much energy all the time. Most days he felt like shit, but this was like being young and back with the Drylaw boys again. All action and never a dull moment till the Gestapo had come along and thrown him in a cell. Arrogant fuckers, those crime squad guys – loved themselves right down to their Ralph Slater suits. If they were chocolate they’d have fucking eaten themselves.

  He put the memories away, stood at the door gripping the handle and waited again. Something hit the back of his nose and tongue. It was almost nothing, but it was there. He couldn’t place it, but it made him stop for a moment longer. It was familiar, but not enough for an ID. It was a signal though, and the first since he’d gone into the house.

  He remembered the lessons: ‘Remember, son, if it smells or feels wrong then it probably is just that. Get tae fuck!’

  For the first time, he was aware that he was sweating, but he was confused because almost everything else was hunky-dory. Almost – was that enough? This job was for Dominic Grainger, after all, and he needed to get a result, so he had no choice.

  What the fuck is that? he thought again, trying to identify the faint signals on his olfactory nerves, but there wasn’t enough even in his heightened state. He was between a rock and a hard place. ‘Fuck it,’ he whispered then pushed the door open a few inches and waited. Nothing but that little signal that was firing messages to his brain to come up with an answer.

  The room was huge, probably bigger than his flat, and tidy. He put the niggling signals to the back of his mind and concentrated on the job. There was decent half-light from a near-full moon coming through the window and he left the blinds as they were. There was more than enough cover that it would have been impossible for anyone to see movement unless they were in the garden to the rear of the house.

  He stood in the doorway and studied the room for a moment. Straight ahead of him he could see what he took to be the locked cupboard where Grainger told him the box would be. To his right was a king-size bed with the window the other side of it. He noticed that the top cover seemed to have almost been pulled off to the other side of the bed. It was out of place because the room was immaculate, another signal he saw and ignored.

  He spotted two three-drawer cabinets to his left and was tempted for a moment to go through her stuff to see what she wore. She was supposed to be a bit tidy, but that was going way outside the task, and even though there was a domestic war involved, Grainger would take it as a gross insult if he found out that Tonto had been anywhere near his wife’s knicker collection.

  He walked straight across the room to the cupboard and ran his hand over it. It was just too easy and his jemmy forced open the door in less than a minute. He was buzzing – it was a walk in the park for the money that was being offered.

  He shone his torch across the shelves. They were packed mostly with shoes and handbags, which must have cost a small fortune as they were end-to-end designer labels.

  Grainger had described the metal security box where she kept the gear. It had unusual decorative markings, and there it was on the top shelf between two handbags worth more than he earned in a good month.

  He took it down and laid it on the floor. He tried the lid but it was locked, exactly as Grainger had told him it would be. He’d said just to leave it closed. As long as Tonto got the box, it was job done.

  He put it in his rucksack and then all he had left to do was make a bit of a mess in a few other rooms so the job would look genuine.

  He stood up and looked towards the window and saw what he took as a black smudge on the wall. It was another thing out of place. He stared at it, trying to make sense of the signals that were making his heart speed up. His mind was trying to avoid what he was seeing. It wasn’t just a smudge, it was a heavy stain, and there was a trail running down the wall just where the top cover of the bed was pulled down. There was an explanation that he tried to accept and his breathing shortened. His instincts told him to run, but he couldn’t – he knew that the mark on the wall only looked black because it was dark. Tonto swallowed several times and his mouth had gone bone dry as he stepped slowly round the bed.

  ‘No. Please no.’ He said it out loud even though he knew he was supposed to avoid unnecessary noise.

  Jude Hamilton was on the floor on the other side of the bed and there was a halo of blood around her crushed skull. A hammer was on the carpet a few inches from her head. Tonto knelt beside her and shook her arm as if that would make any difference.

  ‘Please.’ He was pleading out loud to a woman who he knew was dead and he started to gasp for air as panic set in. The bed cover was pulled down and her right hand still gripped the edge of the sheet. There was blood splattered everywhere and the left side of her head was mush.

  Tonto threw up but was still wearing the balaclava. Pulling it off, he turned away from the body and retched again and again into the corner of the room. He fell to his knees, spat a mouthful of rancid spit onto the carpet and sobbed like a child.

  Time seemed to hold still; he had no idea how long he was there, but gradually his mind cleared and he knew he had to get out. He also knew enough about crime and punishment to realise that he’d gobbed up and spat enough DNA to put him in the pokey, but at that moment his flight instinct was overwhelming.

  Mixed up with what he saw with his own eyes was unfathomable confusion. There was only one thing he could be certain of and that was that he was in a serious pond-sized pool of shit. A potent mix that made logical behaviour impossible. This was worse than the mad Pole; at least he’d known why he was chasing him that day.

  He needed to get time a
nd space to think this one out so he got to his feet, stuffing the reeking balaclava into the rucksack, when he remembered that he was supposed to do the rest of the house. That wasn’t happening now, and he realised why Dominic Grainger had told him over and over again to trash the downstairs first.

  He bolted and forgot all his training, right down to the spots of blood he was leaving every time his right boot hit the floor. When he got behind the wheel of the car he’d stolen, he lit up a smoke and stalled as he tried to drive away. The panic had settled, but he was still shaking, and all he wanted to do was get away from what he’d seen in the house.

  41

  Tonto dumped the car just off Slateford Road. Normally he would have taken it outside the city and torched it, but that was too much of a risk in a built-up area.

  Climbing the stairs to his flat two at a time, his breath rattled in his lungs, and he stopped outside his door for a moment, listening as if someone might be behind him. It was quiet apart from the sound of his heaving breath.

  He closed the door behind him and dropped his rucksack on the floor, squeezing his eyes closed and trying to make sense of it all. He pulled off his shoes and padded through to the kitchen but left the lights off. He let the cold tap run and he drank the water as if his life depended on it. The need for a drink or some dope was overwhelming.

  He turned and froze solid when he saw the dark shape of a man sitting on the chair on the other side of the coffee table.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Sit down, Davy. We need to have a talk.’ Dominic Grainger’s voice was calm.

  ‘How’d ye get in?’ It was all he could think of as a reply.

  ‘Keys, Davy. Think I climbed up the drainpipe? Put the light on and draw those scabby fucking curtains while you’re on your feet.’

  Tonto blinked when he flicked the switch and reality hit him right in his gut. He’d presumed he’d just lost a set of keys and was using a spare – he wasn’t savvy enough to have realised they’d gone missing after Grainger had called the first time. He lost keys all the time and never saw it as a problem.