Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Lucky we caught ye then, Frankie, eh?’ He grinned again at his mate who nodded in appreciation. ‘Come on, the car’s illegally parked.’

  His partner grinned again and they helped Mason down the stair.

  Before he shut the door behind him, they took his bag and threw it back inside.

  ‘Ye’ll no’ be needin’ that, Frankie.’

  50

  When Dominic Grainger answered the door to his flat, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world until he told Hadden to come in. He was either drinking for his breakfast or still half-pissed from the night before. When she stepped past him, she noticed the stale smell of the night’s booze on his breath. It was mixed with peppermint, and he’d obviously tried in vain to cover it with a mouthwash.

  ‘You stink, Dominic. Not the best time to fuck your brain up.’

  She walked past him into the lounge and sat down, crossing her legs. She felt in control and didn’t want anger to boil up, though she knew she was somewhere in the middle of a swamp and wasn’t quite sure if she’d get out. But there was nothing she could do till she saw Grainger’s cards on the table and found out what he had in mind. The bastard had obviously planned well ahead, but she’d promised herself that if he left an opening, she would sink her teeth into him and watch him bleed to death.

  Grainger was a vain bastard and she guessed he would expect fear, panic and maybe some pleading from her, but she was fucked if she would give him any of that.

  He waited, expecting her to say something as he poured them both coffee, but she just stared at him, unflinching till he was forced to speak.

  ‘Not talking, Janet? Thought you’d have a million questions.’

  His head throbbed and he wondered how much booze he’d put away into the early hours. It had been the wrong move, and he was surprised at himself for losing control, but he’d needed something to take the edge off.

  ‘What do you want me to say, Dominic? How pleased I am to see you, God you look so well? I’m a fucking adult, so talk to me. Why don’t you share your little fucking scheme and what part I’m supposed to be playing?’

  The superior little grin that had been plastered across his face when she came in dropped like a stone, and he realised this was another small miscalculation on his part. Even small miscalculations could get him killed when it was a big stakes game.

  It was a gradual process, but he realised she was a cold one – nothing really made sense about her and that was dangerous. He would make sure not to assume anything about her in future. The woman was a fucking reptile and she could be venomous if she decided to strike.

  His brain was mud, but he knew he had to pick his words carefully to make sure she got the message and understood there was no exits available for her.

  ‘It was just needs must, Janet, sorry an’ all that. Thing is, I was in too much trouble. Wife, debt, gambling and a half-mad brother who really wants to see me on my arse. Had to make a move or string myself up. Just too many problems.’

  He sat back in his seat. ‘So now you know what happened and that we’re locked in.’ He picked up his cup and took a sip, but the bitter coffee did nothing but foul his tongue.

  Hadden filled in the rest of his script for him. ‘So Davy gets to be a dead killer, you live happily ever after on the proceeds of the marriage and we’re best pals . . . nice, Dominic, very fucking nice.’ She picked up her cup, sipped the coffee and kept her eyes locked on him.

  ‘Everyone’s a winner, Janet.’

  ‘Well, not your wife or Davy fucking McGill,’ Hadden said, talking right over him.

  ‘True, but that aside, once the dust settles down, I’ll give you my brothers and the Belfast job. I really need them out of the way and then I can settle all debts.’

  ‘You really are a piece of work, Dominic. I always thought I was the most devious person I’d ever met, but you run me close.’ She grinned, but it was just the reptile baring its teeth again. ‘So what now?’ she asked.

  ‘Now we wait. Let your boys do the business with Davy. No doubt at some point they’ll talk to me again, but they’ll not find a thing on me unless I’ve been very unlucky, but then you’ll be able to warn me if I have.’

  Hadden knew there was no point in debating. It was what it was, but she wanted to at least drop the seed of doubt in his mind.

  ‘Dominic, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my career it’s that there isn’t a perfect crime. There’s always a mistake, a trace, some tiny fucking detail that you never even realised was there. Just remember that.’

  ‘I thought of that already. Truth is, Davy didn’t stick to the script and ransack the place. Looks kind of obvious so I expect your Mr Slade to worry about that one if he’s a good detective. But like I say, the main suspect is dead and you’re my insurance policy. Come to think about it, that rule applies to you as well. Looks like you’ve crossed the line a few times before we met, so what mistakes have you made, Janet?’

  Hadden grinned again. The words told her what she’d always thought – Grainger just didn’t get her. That suited her just fine. ‘I expect to fall someday, Dominic; that’s the thrill for me. I’m just not like other people.’

  She stood up and looked down at him, wondering which one of them would die first.

  ‘I’m off. Going to see Ronnie Slade and find out what mistakes you’ve made. By the way, your first bit of bad luck is that Slade is a fucking Rottweiler, and if there’s a problem he’ll smell it. Trust me. I’ll be in touch.’ She headed for the door and didn’t bother speaking again.

  Grainger tried to make sense of what had just happened. He should have been in control, yet Hadden had taken his best shot and barely reacted. That wasn’t what he’d expected, and he wondered who he should worry about most, Ronnie Slade or the woman who’d just walked out of the room.

  His head thumped and he decided that the coffee was doing more harm than good.

  The phone on the table started to buzz and he saw that he’d missed a couple of calls. One from his father-in-law and one from an unknown number, but there were no voicemails. His skin chilled at the sight of the big man’s number, but the call had to come at some stage.

  Grainger headed for the kitchen and swallowed a couple of aspirin before calling back.

  ‘Arthur.’ He left it at just the name. There was no way of knowing what the man was thinking.

  ‘Dominic, how you doin’, son? Guess it’s a hard time for you and thought we could meet up.’

  Grainger knew the bastard despised him, but that was okay – they could play this game as long as he didn’t leave himself exposed, and there was no way they would meet anywhere other than neutral ground.

  ‘It’s hard, Arthur, but what about you? Know how close you were.’ The words almost made him gag, but this was the fucking nonsense that had to be played as they circled each other, looking for a sense of what was in the other man’s head or concealed in his hand.

  ‘Let’s meet up. There’s a lot to discuss, son. The polis will wrap this up soon enough now they know it was that fucker that worked for your brothers.’

  There it was – mention of his brothers was exactly what he wanted. He wanted the police and, if possible, Arthur Hamilton all over them.

  ‘Where do you want to meet?’

  Grainger looked in the mirror above his fireplace and saw someone else looking back. The man in the mirror looked years older than the face that should have been there. He was pale, his eyes muddy and dark, the skin beneath them almost bruised. For a man who cared so much about his looks, it unsettled him. It was as if the changes were a sign to everyone who saw him, a declaration of his guilt without words.

  They arranged to meet in the High Street later in the day.

  Grainger pressed the ‘end call’ button and said, ‘Fuck you.’

  He sat down and felt nothing but exhaustion. The overdose on drink hadn’t helped. He stretched his neck and, leaning back on the soft cushions, stared at the ceiling, his eyes stin
ging and his lips paper dry.

  51

  Arthur Hamilton put the phone down and left the small office. He was in an old industrial site he owned and the boys had been working on Frankie Mason. Not too hard, because it wasn’t necessary. The man couldn’t take a lot of pain, and Hamilton knew that you applied only what was necessary. Mason was sobbing, with his head in his hands, as the Glasgow boys stood over him. He was more or less unhurt, apart from a few slaps to soften up any resistance. But there was none – Mason had already decided he’d do anything just to get away from his tormentors.

  Hamilton walked over to the chair Mason was sitting in and pulled his face up so he could look straight into his eyes. Mason recoiled and sat back, trying to put space between him and the man who’d been his employer, but it was hopeless, and it felt like two spotlights were burying into his eyes and right into the back of his brain. All the little corners were illuminated and Hamilton just had to look to see them.

  ‘Don’t lie, Frankie. Right?’ His face was no more than a foot from Mason’s.

  ‘No, Arthur. Christ, I’ve done the business for you for years. Just tell me what you want?’

  ‘The fuckin’ lassie’s lying in the mortuary, Frankie boy. My fuckin’ lassie, an’ I want justice. Davy McGill’s toast an’ no problem there. Thing is, you told me that fuck of a son-in-law gave him a house call – right? Good job, Frankie, but in the search for justice, I want the truth an’ exactly what happened. So first of all, is there anythin’ you left out? See, I’ve known for years you like goin’ a bit above an’ beyond the call of duty. Think I’m a fuckin’ idiot? Never really bothered before because it made no difference, but this is in a different league. I heard from all my wee spies that you tend to dig a lot deeper than I ever ask for, but I thought someday that might just come in handy.’

  ‘I never used anythin’ against you, Arthur. Honest.’ Mason’s tears mixed with the slavers that ran down his chin as he looked round the room for something, anything that could help him, but it was hopeless, and the two leather jackets were too much for him to handle.

  He felt weak and tired; there was no resistance, but there wasn’t much to give Hamilton. He’d already given him everything apart from the Belfast connection, but he couldn’t stand the man’s eyes looking into his mind. He told him about Belfast and what he had learned, for all it was worth.

  Hamilton never moved, still staring into his eyes, searching. Even when Mason had said it all, the man still held his face between his hands, watching for evidence of a lie.

  Finally, he stepped back and took a deep breath then worked his neck and shoulders to relieve the tension.

  ‘Belfast, Frankie? There’s a turn-up. Those Loyalist boys play a hard game, son. Fuckin’ radges. Done a wee bit wi’ them as well.’

  He looked at the two leather jackets and nodded for them to step outside. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite Mason, picked up his cigarette and lighter and offered them to him.

  ‘Smoke, Frankie? No harm done. Right?’ He smiled as if they’d just finished a nice game of dominoes.

  ‘Aye, right, Arthur.’ Mason was shaking and struggled to get the smoke into his mouth before lighting it. He managed to return a kind of a smile and started to believe that it was over.

  ‘Honest, Arthur, there’s nothin’ else.’ He heaved in the smoke and coughed out the result.

  ‘These things’ll kill you, Frankie boy.’ Hamilton stood and picked up Mason’s jacket, which was slung over a chair a few feet away. The contents had been emptied onto the seat before the leather jackets had done the business on him. The big man picked up Mason’s phone and smiled at him again.

  ‘Last numbers dialled. Show me, Frankie.’ He stretched out his hand and waited. Mason cursed inside. His discipline was to clear the numbers every day, but sometimes he just forgot, depending how knackered or pissed he’d been, and he hadn’t cleared the numbers for a few days. He took the phone, opened the dialled numbers and saw the name he didn’t want to see screaming from the list.

  ‘Have you told anyone else this stuff, Frankie?’

  Hamilton stared down at the screen and his eyes narrowed when he saw Jacquie Bell’s number. ‘Jacquie fuckin’ Bell! Jesus, that girl knows more secrets than God Almighty. Well, Frankie, I’m waitin’.’

  ‘She knows it all. I slip her the odd story, Arthur. Just a bit of give an’ take. Know what I mean?’ He tried another smile, but Hamilton wasn’t playing.

  ‘Think I know what you’d like tae slip her, Frankie boy. So I pay you for a certain piece of work an’ you go above an’ beyond, give me part back an’ toss the full bhoona to a reporter? Is that the story, Frankie? Last chance – is there anythin’ else left out, because I’m sendin’ the boys round tae your place, an’ if they find somethin’ you’ve left out, well, guess what happens?’

  Mason’s brain started to overheat, trying to think if he’d missed anything that would cost him at least his teeth. He was about to say there wasn’t when he remembered the recording of Janet Hadden panelling the guy in the boozer.

  Hamilton looked at him and could see the fear all over Mason’s wasted coupon. There was no way he was holding out and he told Arthur Hamilton what it was.

  ‘Good stuff, Frankie boy, an’ I’ll get the two fuckin’ ninjas to pick it up. Where is it exactly?’

  Mason told him and hoped he hadn’t left anything out. For some reason, he said, ‘Cheers,’ as if the man who was scaring the life out him had just bought him a drink.

  Hamilton stopped him with a single finger to his lips. Mason started shaking again because he saw what was in the man’s face. He was in full revenge mode and needed to hurt people – that meant anyone involved in the story and definitely if they’d fucked him around. There was no major sin on Mason’s part, and any other time he might have got off with a yellow card, but not this time.

  Hamilton whistled and the leather jackets stepped back into the old building. Hamilton straightened his jacket and walked past them.

  ‘I’m off home for a shower then a meet in George Street.’ He stopped and half-turned. ‘I want him hurt but no’ the full malky. Need him again in a few days, right?’

  The leather jackets shrugged. It was all gravy for them – pain or the malky, it was all in a day’s work.

  Hamilton looked back at Mason. ‘You let me down, Frankie boy, but once ye’ve had a light pastin’ I want you back on the case, right?’

  Mason nodded like there was an alternative. Hamilton headed for the door and spoke with his back to them. ‘When you’re done, text me.’

  He walked out of the building and headed for his wheels.

  Mason wasn’t restrained. He had no option but to try a runner, but the attempt was a joke, and he heard the leather jackets pissing themselves as he ran around the old workshop like a cartoon character. His chest was burning with the effort, but he dodged around till he stopped and faced the Weegies, heaving with exhaustion. One of them was putting on a pair of fighting gloves while the other one combed his hair for some reason.

  ‘You ready, Frankie?’

  Mason had been a soldier, a handful in his days and he knew it wouldn’t make any difference so there was no point in pleading. He ran at them and managed to shout, ‘Fuck you,’ before he was caught with a beautiful right cross to the chin.

  There was about thirty seconds of pain but none were killing blows. They were professionals; Hamilton had said a bit of pain but no malky and that’s exactly what they were delivering.

  Mason drifted into something almost pleasant, where there were just dull heavy sounds somewhere in the distance, and then he passed out.

  Police Scotland got a call later in the evening that a man was lying on a grass verge not far from the Gogar Bank area of Edinburgh. It was quiet and isolated, though only a few minutes from the link to the bypass.

  The uniforms thought at first that Mason was the victim of a hit-and-run, and when they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive he came to. His
vision was blurred, but he could see it was the law and that he was alive – hurt but alive. He tried to say ‘thank fuck’ but it came out as ‘hank huck’, which was all he could manage through his swollen lips.

  The older uniform was kneeling beside him and said, ‘What’s that, pal?’

  ‘Hank huck am awight.’

  The uniform looked up at his partner. ‘Talkin’ shite – maybe brain damage or somethin’ like that?’

  There was no brain damage, and for all his pain, Mason just wanted to live. The ambulance took him to the hospital where they cleaned him up then stuck a high dose of painkiller into his system, which did the trick. There was nothing too serious, nothing broken or burst inside. He was okay and the injuries would heal. Hamilton wasn’t cutting ties with him so his life wasn’t over. He fell asleep and didn’t wake for fourteen hours.

  When he was eventually released, he went home and groaned when he saw the mess that Hamilton’s muscle had left for him. The bastards hadn’t been content with the recording of Hadden and Grainger – they’d taken all his favourite horror films.

  ‘Thievin’ bastards.’

  He was pissed off but there was no way he was making a complaint. He was alive and that was all that mattered.

  He went to the fridge for a cold beer.

  ‘Thievin’ bastards,’ he said again. They’d even taken his supply of cold ones.

  He sat down on his chair, closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.

  52

  Dominic Grainger stood at the door of the George Street boozer and for some reason the bar he’d been to so many times looked different, but he couldn’t understand why. It was dark outside, and a freezing wind that had chilled the North Sea coast of Scotland for days was driving the rain sideways onto the Edinburgh streets. Summer seemed to be gone for the time being.