‘You played the game and lost. It happens.’ Grainger said it almost like a child getting the last word in a playground fight. He tried to grin as if he didn’t give a fuck, but his lips were tight and he was still trying to control the rage firing just under the surface. He hated it when he couldn’t control a woman – any woman – and the look of contempt on Macallan’s face bothered him.
Macallan had turned to leave then glanced back when she decided there was one last message to deliver. ‘You’re going to die, Dominic, not an old man in your jammies. It’ll be somewhere cold and lonely, and you’ll be terrified when they hood you because that’ll be your last view of the world. Then you’ll be left there till someone finds what’s left by accident and they pick you up like just another piece of roadside crap.’
She smiled almost warmly. ‘Remember what I’ve told you when the time comes.’
She left Grainger staring at the door. He felt chilled despite the heat in his office. He looked down at his hands and saw they were trembling. What he hadn’t realised was that Macallan was far from finished with him – her next and final move would be against him.
Macallan called Mick Harkins and had a drink with him. Told him she was retiring early, though he didn’t seem too surprised or convinced as he watched a tear wobble its way down her cheek.
‘Right thing, Grace – get on with it and don’t look back.’
She kissed his cheek and headed back to Fettes while Harkins sat in the bar, lost in his thoughts about Macallan. He knew what she obviously didn’t and shook his head several times. He’d said the right things to his friend, but he knew what walking away from the job meant when you were an addict.
We’ll see, Grace, he thought and slugged back half his drink before nodding to the barman. He was tired but he needed a few more.
It stunned Macallan that after all years she’d been on the force, all it took was signing a small form and being told what she’d get for a pay-off. There were no bells and fanfares, just a small white fucking form that ended so many years in the game. She hadn’t done enough years for a full pension, but it didn’t matter and was the least of her worries. They were financially sound and had more than she could ever have wished for.
When she walked into the small admin office where she could sign the form, she felt sure about what she had to do. She thought she needed to be outside the job to commit the sin that was coming and was prepared to carry the burden in secret. Hopefully only she would ever know, though she knew it might haunt her. She wanted the paper signed as quickly as possible so she could make the phone call.
It was straightforward up to the point the girl on the other side of the desk pushed the form over the table that would end her career. She bit her lip and blinked several times at the reality of the exit door. She needed this bit to make what she’d planned okay, but she froze, and there was a cold knot in the base of her stomach. The job had been her life, and on occasions could have been the cause of her death. So much was tied up in it, and it felt like she was on the edge of a cliff. She tried to focus on Jack and the children until she heard the girl speak.
‘Superintendent – are you alright?’
Macallan blinked again and her shoulders sagged as she realised she just couldn’t scribble her name on the form. There it was again – she was a junkie – controlled by a job that in the end forgot the dinosaurs five minutes after they’d picked up their cheques. That was her truth: she was afraid of not counting, and she’d seen it time and time again – the old detectives who appeared at piss-ups where hardly anyone could remember who they were. The final humiliation of imagining you were indispensable and the gradual acceptance of the truth that you were flesh and blood – old flesh and blood.
‘I’m sorry, but I think I’ll leave this for the time being.’
She was embarrassed and got to her feet, just wanting to escape from the office and the look on the girl’s face.
Macallan almost jogged out of the building and ignored greetings from a couple of detectives who passed her in the corridors. When she was outside, she found a corner behind some parked cars and felt sick, heaving in the cool air. It only took a few minutes till she was steady again and pulled herself upright. Her face was a frozen mask. She’d wanted to be outside the job to give her cover for what she was about to do, but she was just going to have to live with her actions. She knew it was horse shit to think that there was some moral cover when she would be the only holder of the truth. She would always know what she was about to do and that she’d be damned by it.
She searched her pockets for her car keys – there was no turning back. ‘Fuck it,’ she growled, walking off towards the street. Forget retirement. It had to come, but she was done worrying about it.
She called the number in Northern Ireland. They hadn’t spoken for years but had been close during the Troubles and worked through dark times.
‘Good to hear you but sure this isn’t a social call.’ The voice was even; he was the coolest man she’d ever known, even when PIRA had decided killing him was a priority.
‘I need someone’s number and then I want you to forget this ever happened.’
‘Who?’
She told him and the line went quiet for a moment. ‘Bad man, Grace. I’ll call you back in an hour. Be careful.’
She headed back to her office to wait.
The call came back in exactly an hour and Macallan stared at the number she’d been given for minutes, wondering if what she was doing was the right thing.
‘What’s the right thing then, Grace?’ She muttered the question to herself and felt the nerves in her gut rattle a warning at her conscience.
She was startled by a knock at the door. It was Elaine Tenant. Macallan knew what was behind the visit before Tenant sat down – she would know that Macallan was looking at retiring, but she let Tenant speak as she wanted to be sure of her answer.
‘I want you to stay on, Grace. There are two good reasons. One is I don’t think the force can afford to lose people like you – we’re losing enough as it is. The second is I just want you to stay. This is a friend speaking, and I know you’ll miss the job. Last point is that I shouldn’t tell you this, equal opportunities and all that, but there’s a chief super job going in one of the major-crime teams.’
Macallan felt the urge to grab the promotion, but she knew she would have good reason to fight such urges.
‘I’m not going, Elaine. Thanks for the support though. I got as far as the pen in my hand and the exit ticket in front of me and I just couldn’t do it. Weak or what?’ She tried a grin but it was forced and obvious. She tried again.
‘I just can’t do it, Elaine. I want to but I can’t.’ Macallan choked back the emotion that was threatening to spill over. Tenant saw it and understood what she meant.
‘Well, you’re far too young to bake cakes and warm Jack’s slippers. Please don’t blub or you’ll set me off.’
‘Got time off due so I’m going to our place in Northern Ireland to spoil myself, Jack, the children and the dog.’
Tenant threw a few compliments at Macallan but knew she was just filling the air with unnecessary noise – her friend needed room, so she headed for the door.
‘By the way, you going to the retirement do in the Bailie?’ Tenant fired the question over her shoulder on the way out. One of Macallan’s best DOs had his ticket in and was heading for the door she’d been afraid to pass through. It had the making of a major piss-up and all the legends were turning up for the pay-off.
‘Done.’ Macallan decided it was exactly what she would need. Tenant looked pleased and closed the door behind her.
Macallan looked at the Belfast number again and tapped the desktop. She picked up her car keys, drove across the Forth Road Bridge and pulled into a lay-by, dialled the Belfast number and put a cloth across the phone. She knew the accent that answered too well, rough east Belfast and not amused when she refused to say who she was. She did her own version of the accent and it
came easy. She was sure he was going to cut the call, but she had his attention.
‘You want to know why your boys were lifted and the gear lost?’
‘Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What boys and what gear?’
‘Cairnryan.’ It was all she needed to say.
‘Why you calling me? I don’t know fuck all about this, but say for the sake of argument I did. What’s it to you?’
‘The same man did the same thing to people I know.’ It was nearly the truth. ‘You can leave it alone or check it out.’
‘Talk.’
Macallan talked and told him just enough about Dominic Grainger, but not everything. She knew how these boys worked – when they got on someone’s case they were thorough if nothing else.
‘You trying to say he grassed his own brothers.’
‘That’s it. Please yourself.’
She finished the call and closed her eyes. It was all wrong and she knew she would have moments of regret. The chances were that the Belfast man would see it as some sort of dark arts and leave it alone, but she knew what they were like if they got a sniff of treachery.
She broke the phone and tossed the SIM card into a bin.
65
When Macallan arrived at the Bailie it was packed and she shook her head self-consciously when the roar went up as she walked into the pub. News of the retirement then non-retirement had already circulated. They were all there: Mick Harkins, Felicity Young, Lesley Thompson, Elaine Tenant and her fiancé. The party was already in full swing, and she knew she was going to be stung at the bar. It was traditional, and Harkins reminded her she was on the bell for everyone because she had nearly retired, so it still meant her buying a drink. Ronnie Slade walked in just behind her, looking like he’d been dragged through a hedge. She smiled – it was the look of a stressed SIO. She ordered him a drink
‘Where’s Jacquie Bell?’
‘No sign yet, Grace. Let’s get wasted,’ Harkins slurred, and they did.
After a couple of hours, Macallan realised she was more pissed than she’d been in a long time. It felt fine, and it was a load off her mind to call it a day. She stepped outside and called Jack, who was in their place in Northern Ireland; she was going to join him the next day. He asked her again if she was sure about the decision she’d made and didn’t seem in the least surprised by what she’d done.
‘Well, this do is costing a fortune, Jack, given I’ve not thrown in the towel, so I better stick to it now.’ She said goodnight to the children who asked her why she was speaking funny. Jack took over and explained that Mummy was tired. She blew a kiss down the phone and headed back into the pub.
‘Grace.’
It was Jacquie Bell, who was right behind her as she held the door open.
‘Where have you been?’ Macallan asked. ‘You’ve missed umpteen rounds!’
‘Covering a story that’s just broken – they just fished Dominic Grainger’s body out of the Clyde. Two in the back of the head, very professional.’
Macallan stopped at the door and stared at the reporter.
‘Problem, Grace? You didn’t fancy him, did you? Come on, for fuck’s sake or Mick’ll drink the kitty.’
Bell saw something in Macallan’s eyes but decided her priority was a good piss-up – whatever it was could wait.
Macallan knew she would question what she’d done for the rest of her life, but it was what it was and the case was closed. The singing had started and she joined in.
EPILOGUE
When Grace Macallan travelled to Belfast the morning after the leaving do, she glanced through the paper on the short flight from Edinburgh but couldn’t concentrate. The details about Dominic Grainger’s death were sparse, but it didn’t matter – he was dead. She walked through the exit gates at George Best Airport and watched the children running towards her. Jack was behind them, and she noted the ever-increasing grey strands in his hair, but it looked good – and at least he had hair. He grinned as he held her.
When he was released from hospital, Arthur Hamilton was put in a care home where he spent his days staring at nothing in particular and trapped in his own version of Hell. The only visitor he had was his friend from Glasgow, who saw it as a duty. When he whispered in the big man’s ear that Dominic had been taken out, Hamilton had tried to make a sound, but it was nothing anyone would have understood. His mind was still active and he knew Dominic Grainger was the lucky one compared with his tormented existence.
Mick Harkins sipped his lunchtime beer and glanced between the TV above the bar and the newspaper he read every day at the same time. Big Tam the barman noticed him muttering at something that had clearly caught his attention. Something in the news pissed off Mick every day.
‘Listen tae this, Tam. The two PCs who ran away from their post at Tynecastle and failed to help Tonto McGill being threatened with an axe have made a claim against the force for post-traumatic stress and failing to protect them with adequate backup.’ He looked up at Big Tam. ‘I’m tellin’ you, Tam, the job’s fucked.’
The barman wiped the top of the bar and agreed with the ex-detective.
Harkins wasn’t finished. ‘Listen to this! PC Denholm was quoted as saying that his life had been ruined by PTS and he is unable to lead a normal life. For fuck’s sake.’ Harkins had lost it. ‘That fuckin’ man never did a decent stroke in his puff.’
Big Tam grinned and kept wiping the bar, deep in his own thoughts.
Janet Hadden never fully recovered: her mind was shattered beyond repair and the police were never able to find out what happened to her.
GLOSSARY
Bar L - HMP Barlinnie
Baws - balls
Bizzies - detectives
Burd - Scots version of ‘bird’ – female
Close - narrow alley to a courtyard or to the stairwell in a tenement
Deafie - in this context intentionally not hearing or pretending not to hear
Dubbed up - locked up in police cell or prison
Duster - knuckleduster
CHIS - cover human intelligent source (informant)
Chored - stole
Clarty - Old Scots – filthy
Co-pilot - cell mate
Cowp - Old Scots for fall over or a tip; in this context used to describe having sex
Fast black - taxi
FLO - family liaison officer
Footman - surveillance officer out on foot eyeballing the target
Game’s a bogey - a phrase meaning ‘it’s all over’
Goldie - whisky
Hampden - Hampden roar, rhyming slang for score
Hee-haw - nothing; fuck all
Henry Halls - rhyming song for balls
Hibee - Hibernian supporter
HMP - Her Majesty’s Prison(s)
Jaggy suit - police uniform
Jakey - a down-and-out
Jambo - Heart of Midlothian supporter
Lie down - remand in prison
Malky - to seriously assault or murder
MEP - Member of the European Parliament
Midden - Old Scots for a rubbish dump
Moody - false or imitation
Napper - head
Ned - non-educated delinquent (chav)
Numpty - Scottish urban term for someone who’s not that bright
ODCs - ordinary decent criminals
Oxter - Scots for armpit
Peelers - slang for police in Northern Ireland
PIRA - the Provisional Irish Republican Army
Polis - Scots version of police
Pokey - prison
Pre Cons - previous convictions
Radge - nutter
Saughton - HMP prison, Edinburgh
Scooby - Scooby Doo, rhyming slang for clue
Scuddie - Scots slang for nude
Snash - aggravation
SOCO - scenes of crime officer
Stookie - Rigid plaster cast that immobilises a limb in the event of an injury, usually a fracture; ca
n also be used to describe people perhaps not the brightest
Tin pail - rhyming slang for jail
UC - undercover agent
Uniforms - uniformed police officers
Wan - the way some Weegies pronounce ‘one’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to the friends and believers who convinced me to keep Grace sleuthing. I’m glad I listened to you. To the brilliant people at Black & White who make it all happen.
Our Little Secrets Page 34
