Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  He walked into the lounge, which was quiet, almost silent, and a barman with a hairless skull stared at him as he walked in, leaving the night outside. The barman was drying a glass with a stained white towel and nodded when Grainger walked past him towards the tables that were mostly empty. The light was dim, almost gloomy, and the punters looked subdued when they glanced in his direction as he pulled out a seat and sat at a corner table. The barman appeared and didn’t smile when he ordered a double vodka and tonic.

  ‘You want anything to eat?’ The barman’s teeth were brown and discoloured, and Grainger decided he had to be addicted to red wine, tobacco and coffee to get them so heavily stained.

  Grainger shook his head and wondered where the management had dragged this one up. The staff were usually female, east European and worth the effort. Grainger had pulled a couple of them in his time, and it was part of the reason he liked the place. It had to be the weather, or just his mood, but the place felt miserable, and even the music was fucking awful. It was some classical shite, and he couldn’t name it, but it sounded like it was better suited to a funeral.

  He saw a paper on the seat next to him and scanned the headlines, something about Brexit, but he couldn’t concentrate and he pushed the red top aside as Arthur Hamilton walked through the doors. The barman smiled as though he’d just won the lottery.

  ‘What can I get you, Mr Hamilton?’

  Grainger had never seen Hamilton in this boozer and wondered why the fuck he was getting the VIP treatment. It worried him. He felt threatened for some reason, but it was vague and he was confused. His skull felt like it was being squeezed. The few punters that were there were looking over at him, and he wondered if they were all big fans of his father-in-law as well.

  Hamilton stood at the table and stared for a moment, unsmiling. He was a big man in every respect, and Grainger looked at his arms, which even under his jacket looked pumped up – his fitness regime over the years had certainly paid dividends. He sat down and didn’t offer his hand.

  ‘Well, Dominic?’ That was all he said and he held Grainger with his gaze.

  The pain behind his forehead was almost intolerable, and then he saw something in the older man’s eyes. The bastard knew, there was no doubt about it – the man just fucking knew. He felt light-headed and afraid.

  ‘I’m sorry, Arthur. I know what she meant to you.’ He wondered if Hamilton had noticed the red-rimmed eyes, the black smudges underneath, the tremor in the hands.

  ‘You know what she meant to me? That a fuckin’ joke, Dominic?’ Hamilton shoved his face forward a few inches. ‘You killed her, son. Davy McGill was a numpty and you put the laddie right in the frame.’

  Hamilton looked round at the barman. ‘Hear that, pal? This fucker killed ma wee lassie.’

  The barman nodded. ‘I hear you, Mr Hamilton, fuckin’ disgrace.’

  Grainger felt the room spin. The other punters in the bar were all staring at him as he wondered how the fuck his father-in-law had set this all up, but there was more to worry about. Hamilton stood up and seemed to grow forever. Grainger was rooted to the seat as his father-in-law pulled out a handgun and pointed it right at his head.

  ‘Fuckin’ rat bastard, talkin’ to the polis, betraying your brothers and puttin’ Davy McGill an’ ma lassie in the ground.’ He walked round the table and pressed the muzzle against Grainger’s temple.

  ‘Please, Arthur. You’ve got it all wrong. Please.’

  ‘Hear that, pal?’ Big Arthur shouted across to the barman, who was smiling and showing all those brown teeth.

  ‘Hear it, Mr Hamilton. Boy’s got a fuckin’ cheek if you ask me.’

  ‘Think I agree, son. Anybody disagree?’ He looked around the punters in the bar, who didn’t move and said nothing. He shrugged at Grainger who was staring up at him.

  ‘Looks like everybody agrees wi’ me, Dominic.’ He grinned, but there was no humour in it.

  Dominic watched a slow-motion movie as Hamilton’s finger started to squeeze the trigger. He tried to scream, but his throat was frozen and nothing came as the trigger reached its critical point.

  There was a dull boom as the gun exploded, and a multi-coloured flash, and it was as if Grainger had left his own body. He watched his head disintegrate, covering Hamilton in blood, bone and tissue. All he heard was people laughing as if it was all a comedy.

  He sat bolt upright in his chair and groaned with fear, looking round for the man who’d killed him. But he was in his flat; it had all been a dream.

  He shook his head and looked at the clock. He’d only been sleeping for an hour and his brain pounded with the pressure of his guilt, which seemed to be growing inside him like cancer. He hadn’t expected this and wondered where these demons were coming from as he headed for the shower. Guilt was a new emotion for him, and he’d never factored it into his calculations before.

  An hour later Grainger stepped out of a taxi and headed into the George Street boozer where he bought his drink and grabbed a seat from which he could view the whole bar area, and a paper. There was just a scattering of drinkers, and it had started to piss cold rain, which had kept a few at home rather than heading for the boozers to watch the big game or the latest from Syria. Irrationally, he checked the paper a couple of times, as if he might still be in a dream, then wondered what the fuck was going on in his mind. The news did nothing but piss him off – whatever the story was these days, it was all bad.

  Arthur Hamilton walked through the door. Old habits die hard and he scanned the whole place for problems, looking for anyone who was out of place or waiting for him when they shouldn’t be. He spotted his son-in-law right away but finished checking before walking towards the table to join him. It had been a long time since he’d been in a city-centre boozer and he felt a twinge of sadness. The old Edinburgh he knew was gone or nearly gone; the place was a land of posh boozers where punters who’d lived in the city for five minutes talked shite – and then there was the streams of tourists.

  Grainger was in the seat he would have picked for himself, but he wasn’t going to sit with his back to the door, so he took the seat beside him, which stressed Grainger a bit, but then that was the idea. They didn’t shake hands.

  ‘Want a drink, Arthur?’

  ‘Naw, it’s okay, son. Never drink an’ drive.’ He held up his keys and shook them. ‘I’ll maybe go for a coffee. Hate the stuff but it keeps me goin’.’

  He waved his hand to a waitress who came over and took his order. Hamilton settled back in his chair and gave his son-in-law the eyes.

  ‘How you doin’ then, Dominic? Polis been puttin’ you through it, I suppose?’ The question was loaded, but it was supposed to be. Both men were sparring and this was just an opening round.

  ‘No, they’ve been okay, Arthur, just doing what they have to do, I suppose. The bastards!’ It was meant as a bit of banter and what gangsters would have said in normal times.

  Hamilton still didn’t move a muscle and just kept his face expressionless as he watched his son-in-law like he was prey waiting to be dispatched if it twitched the wrong signal.

  ‘You?’ Grainger asked as if he cared.

  ‘Fine, but that Ronnie Slade’s the business. Wouldn’t like to have come across that boy too much when I was in the game. Know what I mean? Anyway, we need to make arrangements, son. They’ve got the boy that killed Jude. Well, they’ve got the body o’ the boy that killed Jude.’

  Grainger knew that Hamilton adored his daughter, was almost obsessed by her in fact, but he seemed too chilled. He knew enough about the man to worry about that. He should have been distraught, but Hamilton was a control freak, and when he had to, he would put a lid on all the emotion boiling inside him, though it would need a release at some point. That control was for a reason and he would feel cheated that the main suspect was dead. Hamilton was using the word ‘son’ for the first time in their relationship and it was a sign of contempt. They both knew that, so there was no problem. But they had to keep pla
ying the game till someone made the wrong move.

  ‘Thing is, Dominic, they’ve solved the case – well, as far as the bizzies are concerned – so there shouldn’t be much of a hold-up on the funeral. Take it you’ve been thinkin’ about it?’

  ‘Well, of course, Arthur, but need to get the nod from Ronnie Slade then I’ll sort it.’ In truth, he hadn’t really thought much about a funeral and he should have. That was obvious to a blind man. He could have sworn there was a tiny red flicker in Hamilton’s eyes. They talked over what would happen with the funeral and the arrangements.

  ‘I’ll pay of course, son.’ Hamilton said it as if it was a given, and not up for discussion.

  ‘It’s fine, Arthur, I’ll take care of it. She was my wife, so it’s my place.’ He watched the tiny spots of heat flicker again behind the big man’s eyes.

  ‘Thing is, son, there’s only one of us loved the lassie. Know what I mean? So I’m payin’.’ He stressed the last word, put his forearms on the table and, without another word, dared his son-in-law to argue. Grainger nodded and felt the edge of his eye tic.

  ‘By the way, I meant to ask. Did you know that horrible wee bastard McGill?’

  ‘Knew the boy by sight, Arthur. That’s it.’

  He felt his eye tic rhythmically, like it was sending out a message in Morse code . . . I did it in big fuck-off non-verbals. He tried to sound matter-of-fact but those same non-verbals were leaking stress and guilt.

  ‘He did a bit of work for my brothers, but God knows where the break-in came from. He was in that game years ago, but just a message laddie for their team. My brothers are raging – just as well he’s gone before they got a hold of him. Heard some story he was short of dough so maybe this is how he was balancing the books.’

  He’d said too much – too pleading, too fucking mealy-mouthed.

  ‘Aye, that’s what happens.’ Hamilton put the tips of his fingers together in an arch just in front of his face. ‘Never trust anyone, son. When I was in the game, the ones I watched closest were the men closest to me.’

  He picked up his coffee for the first time and screwed his face up at the taste. He stared over the rim of the cup at Grainger. He’d just watched the lie pour from his lips like vomit. Tonto was dead and beyond a torture session with Arthur Hamilton, but his son-in-law was here on earth. He put the cup down and smiled.

  ‘Need to go, son. Places to go an’ people tae see, right? You get in touch wi’ Ronnie Slade an’ find out what the Hampden is. Right?’

  Hamilton stood up and threw a tenner on the table. ‘That’ll cover the coffee an’ whatever you’re havin’, son.’ He looked at his watch and said, ‘Take care,’ before turning his back and heading for the door.

  Grainger leaned back, tilted his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to relieve the knots in the muscles of his shoulders and neck. The barman came to his table and he asked him for a double vodka and Coke to try to stop the pounding in his head.

  ‘Gimme a beer with that as well, pal.’ His palms felt wet and he could smell the dull, heavy odour of sweat, even though he’d showered before the meeting. His body was hot, stressed with the effort of coping with the toxins he was putting into it. He’d gone from a fitness regime and careful diet to the eating and drinking habits of a piss-head.

  ‘Fuck it.’ He tilted his head back and downed the vodka in one go.

  He stared at a corner of the bar and tried to see where the holes in his plan were, but apart from Tonto not following the script, there was no clear evidence. But Arthur Hamilton saw inside him – he knew it despite the man’s even behaviour. What would he do next? That was the problem.

  If it was him, he’d suspect but wait for evidence. Hamilton wouldn’t fly off the handle when there was so much police activity, but he’d be digging in the background, and if he could build a case, then he’d come for him. There was nothing to do but sit still, ride it out and hope the police settled for Tonto, then he guessed Hamilton would stay his hand. He knew he only acted where there was a good case – that’s why he’d been a success both as a businessman and as a gangster.

  Grainger had another round and the booze started to settle him, though it was new booze on top of what he’d had the previous night – it would only take the pain away for a few hours then the morning would bring a fresh dose of reality. He called Janet Hadden.

  ‘We might have another problem, Janet.’ He didn’t wait for her to say anything first.

  ‘What fuckin’ problem do we have now, Dominic?’

  Her voice was cold and any thoughts he’d ever had of a relationship, physical or otherwise, were over. That was obvious, but the images of his hands round her throat flashed though his mind again as he listened to her voice. He imagined his face close to hers, squeezing slowly and watching every little tremor as she died, the wide staring eyes pleading for life to someone who just wanted to take it away.

  ‘What fuckin’ problem, Dominic?’

  He snapped back to reality with the repeated question and squeezed his eyes tight. He told her that he thought Arthur Hamilton knew.

  ‘You need to stay focused and, by the sounds of it, leave off the fuckin’ bottle. You stay pissed an’ we’ll both end up dead. You hear me? Now calm down an’ I’ll see what’s happening on the investigation. You’re starting to act like a fuckin’ street ned. Man up, for fuck’s sake.’

  He heard the call click off. She was right and he knew it. Hadden was pissed off at him, but the call had steadied him and he just needed someone to pull him back. It was going to be okay – the big man was fishing and Tonto was still the man in the frame. Sit tight, that was the answer.

  He waved to the barman for a refill and he grinned lopsidedly when a stunning young east European girl brought the drink to him. He said something that he thought might impress her. If she was up for a laugh and a joke then he might get her back to the flat. But her face couldn’t hide her contempt, and she turned her back and left him.

  ‘Fucking cow.’ He grinned at a couple who’d taken a table near to him and had watched his attempt with the girl who’d served his drinks. ‘Must be a lesbian. Right?’

  He grinned again and watched the couple ignore him before they moved to another table. The barman appeared and Grainger held up his glass and asked for a refill.

  ‘Think you’ve had enough, sir. Time to go home and sleep it off.’

  He tried to argue, but it was just too much effort. He told the guy who he was, but it didn’t cut any ice and he said he wouldn’t be back.

  ‘Probably wise, sir.’ The barman didn’t seem too impressed. He was new and the name Grainger meant fuck all as far as he was concerned.

  Waking up at 3 a.m. was a painful experience, and Grainger couldn’t work out what had happened for a couple of minutes. Then his mind downloaded his situation and he groaned as he felt his head start to thump all over again. He still had his suit on, and when he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he realised he was wet and saw the dark stain at the crotch of his trousers.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He pulled everything off, filled up on cold water and lay on the sofa as the early-morning hours filled his mind with nothing but waking terrors. He was moving between periods of supreme confidence and terrible fear of the unknown. It was wrecking him, but he had no option but to stay the course and observe every move of the predators who watched and waited.

  53

  Grace Macallan had waited in her flat for Jacquie Bell. The call had been short, but there was enough in her friend’s tone to suggest something was up, and she knew the reporter didn’t do drama unless it was just that. Jack and the children were at their cottage in Northern Ireland and had gone ahead of her by a couple of days so she could wind up a case she was involved in. They’d planned the short holiday weeks ago, and she had the old nagging worry that something might interfere with their time together. The corruption case she’d been investigating had been an unpleasant one, and it look
ed like a young cop with what had been a promising career was going to end up in Saughton.

  She saw so much of it now, and the world had definitely changed. In her early days in the RUC, drink had been the curse that had put as many men in their graves as PIRA, but now it was dope and debt. Everybody seemed to want it all before they had the means to pay for their dreams.

  The young cop had started to take the occasional hit of coke and it had run out of control before he could work out that he was a serving officer and a dealer all at the same time. The gangsters had sniffed him out like rotting carrion and within weeks he was selling his soul and beyond saving.

  Macallan had felt sick watching him disintegrate in front of her when he broke down during the interview and admitted it all. She knew there was a place for counter-corruption but hated it and wanted to move on or out of the job, which had become a preoccupation. She talked it over endlessly with Jack, who knew enough to be supportive, but it had to be her choice. She did have options though, and her background in counter-terrorism meant she was qualified to move into the hothouse created by the turmoil in the Middle East.

  The doorbell broke her train of thought and she glanced in the mirror before answering. The years were there but she looked healthy, and if anything, time was adding to the character of her face. Jack told her he liked the changes that married life, motherhood and the love of a man had given her. She was happy in her private life, and the dark days of the Troubles and her early days in Scotland were like an old film where actors had played out the parts of the detectives and villains. She pulled open the door and grinned at Jacquie Bell, who held up a bottle of very expensive Amarone.

  ‘This is sixteen per cent proof, Grace. Fucking grape juice laced with rocket fuel. Get the glasses.’ She put the bottle on the hall table, hugged her friend and pulled back to take in the face she just didn’t see often enough. They were both workaholics, always sacrificing something for the job, and in another life, they would have spent so much more time with each other than they did.