by Anna Smith
Al looked at him and folded his arms. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
Frank could feel the damp on the palms of his hands. ‘I’m just worried, Al. It’s not that I don’t want to work with you. Not that at all. But this business … this refugee business … I just don’t think it can go on indefinitely.’ Frank shifted in his seat. ‘What if something comes out.’
Al looked impatient. ‘How the fuck is it going to come out, Frank? Tell me. How? Nobody gives a toss about these bastards. It’s not as if they’re doing a head count every day, making sure they’re all there.’ He snorted. ‘It’s working for the boys down south and they’re not having a problem with it – London, Liverpool, Manchester – they’re doing it and making big money. That’s why we’re in it. We’re all getting a share of it, but we’ve got to provide our share, Frank. That’s the deal. This is the future.’
Al took a wrap of cocaine out of his drawer and opened it. ‘You knew that from the start, Frank. You knew the deal. You can’t back out now.’ He emptied the contents onto to the polished tabletop and chopped it into two lines. He looked up at Frank and raised his eyebrows.
‘Want a wee toot, Frank? It’ll make you feel better.’
Frank shook his head and swallowed as he watched Al roll up a twenty-pound note and snort a line, then sit back.
‘Good stuff that. The fucking business.’ He sniffed, studying Frank.
‘That bloke,’ Frank said. ‘The one last week, from the two guys I gave you. One got away, your boys said. Did you get him yet?’
‘It’s under control, Frank,’ Al said. ‘You don’t need to know shit like that.’
‘But that’s what I mean, Al. It’s not under control if suddenly there’s some guy out there who can talk about what happened.’
Al said nothing. He lit a cigarette.
Frank sat forward. ‘And what about that body in the Clyde? That torso? I read in the Post it was a torso. There’s all sorts of speculation about it – ritual killing, drug murder. Then I heard something about organs being removed or something. Might even be a refugee, the paper said.’ Frank was trying to keep calm. ‘That was one of your guys wasn’t it, Al? How the fuck did it end up in the Clyde?’
Al burst out laughing. But it was more the manic laughter that unnerves you than the kind you want to join in with.
‘I know. I asked the same question myself. Fucking hell. Try explaining that one away – a fucking headless torso with no lungs or heart. No baws either.’
‘What happened, Al? How did it get there?’
Suddenly the door opened and Clock, along with the other sidekick came in, both of them dragging along a skinny guy with a badly bruised face. He was filthy and smelling.
Al got up from his desk.
‘You want to know how it got there, Frank? Ask this cunt.’
The skinny guy could barely stand up. His face was puffy and bloodstained, but Frank recognised him as Tam Logan, a small-time hood who worked for Big Jake.
Frank looked at Tam, who winced in pain as his arms were being pinned behind his back.
‘He got greedy, Frank. Wee Tam got greedy. Simple as that,’ Al said.
Frank looked from Al to Tam. His stomach was in knots. He was afraid to speak.
‘He didn’t just get greedy, he got brave.’ Al’s mouth curled a little. ‘This wee fuckwit even thought he could blackmail us. Can you imagine that? Fucker was going to blackmail me. Me!’ He shook his head and his voice went up an octave.
‘What do you mean?’ Frank ventured.
‘He stole the fucking torso.’ Al said.
‘Stole it?’
‘Aye, stole it.’ He sniffed. ‘You know something, Frank? I gave Tam a break from the run-of-the mill jobs. Paid him big money to drive the van up and down to Manchester with the containers. You’d think he’d be grateful wouldn’t you?’ Al looked at Frank, who said nothing.
‘Aye,’ Al went on. ‘He should have been grateful. He wasn’t getting asked to shoot or slash anyone, or steal fuck all. No drugs involved, just drive the van and drop the stuff off. But no. Tam had to get nosy. He went on a wee spying mission like James fucking Bond and saw what was going on. Then he gets brave and decides he can make big money by blackmailing me.’
Frank could see the beads of sweat beginning to appear on Al’s top lip, the more he was winding himself up.
‘I wouldn’t have done it, Al,’ Tam squeaked. ‘Honest, big man. I just went a bit crazy. I’d never have done it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, big man.’
‘A bit late to be sorry, Tam.’ Al turned to Frank, his eyes glassy. ‘You see what I’m up against Frank. You were saying what if things get out. Well, as long as you have wee arseholes like Tam among us – people who might open their trap – there’s always that chance.’
He went back to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a gun. Frank felt his head swim. He thought he was going to pass out. Al walked across the room towards Tam.
‘So, you have to get rid of the traitors.’
By the time the last word was out, he had fired the gun into Tam Logan’s chest at point-blank range. Tam slumped, his mouth open in a protest he didn’t get the chance to make.
‘Oh, fuck, Al.’ Frank put his hands to his face. ‘Jesus Christ man. You’ve killed him.’
‘That was the idea, Frank. Christ, you’re good.’ Al walked back to his desk and put the gun in the drawer. He snorted the other line of coke and sat back, looking at Frank, his pale-grey eyes narrowed. ‘Anyway,’ he half smiled. ‘You’re a bit pale. Don’t worry, Frank, did you think you were next?’ He chuckled.
Frank felt sick. He watched in silence as Clock and the sidekick dragged Tam out of the door, the blood bubbling out of his chest and onto the floor. Al sat staring, his face cold and expressionless. He’s completely fucking mad, Frank thought. Insane.
‘Right,’ Al said, eventually. ‘You might as well go now, Frank. I just brought you along so you could witness that wee situation there.’ He looked him in the eye. ‘Know what I mean, pal? Just in case you get some kind of crisis of conscience and feel like turning us all in.’ He sniggered. ‘Not that any fucker would believe you anyway.’
Frank stood up and felt his legs weak under him.
‘Just keep up the good work, Frank,’ Al said. ‘And stop worrying.’
Frank said nothing. He nodded his head slightly, then turned and left the room.
CHAPTER 8
Tanya glanced back at the wall clock in the hallway as she pushed open the door of Frank Paton’s office. At the most she had half an hour to see what she could find. She had no real idea what she was looking for, but she hoped there would be something, some tiny bit of information that would give her an idea what it was that was making Frank Paton so edgy these days. Ever since that day she’d overheard the men seeming to threaten him in his office, Tanya had been watching him closely. She could have put his mood down to grief over the suicide of his best friend, but the dark shadows under his eyes and the redness of his face from booze had got worse since those men told him he couldn’t back out of whatever it was he was involved in. And now, since the visit from the police over the suicide note, he looked even more wrecked.
Last night, as Tanya had sat in her tiny flat planning her next move, she’d asked herself why she was even bothering to find out what Frank was involved in. What was it to her? It should mean nothing. Because even though whatever it was probably involved Tony, it had been made crystal clear to her from the suicide letter and what she saw at Tony’s funeral, that she’d played no real part in his life. She was nothing. But still, she couldn’t let it go.
She had surprised herself at how calm she’d been when the detectives arrived at the office to go back over again exactly what she saw when she discovered Tony’s body. Tanya had been expecting them after she’d sent the letter to Millie, and she was prepared. She’d looked suitably bewildered when they asked if there was any note on his desk. She’d shrugged. She would nev
er look on Mr Murphy’s desk she told them. He had always told her to leave his desk as it was and never touch it, because he had his own system where he knew where everything was. So she didn’t even pay any attention to his desk. She’d been so shocked when she saw him hanging from the ceiling, that was all she could see. Tanya had filled up as she spoke about her ordeal that morning. It had been a convincing performance, and she’d found herself feeling quite proud later as she walked back to her flat.
*
Now she sat in Frank’s chair and cast her eyes over the various letters and papers scattered across his desk. They meant nothing to her. Letters from the Scottish Refugee Council, the Department of Immigration, Social Services and other government bodies, as well as forms and case histories. There was no way she could plough through all this when she didn’t know what she was looking for. She glanced at the safe in the corner, and before she could stop herself she went across, crouched down and turned the handle. To her surprise it was open. Her heart skipped a little.
She had to be careful. She opened the safe slowly and peered in. The buff folder that had been marked Asylum Cases, which she’d seen Frank take from Tony’s desk that fateful morning, was piled on top of other papers and folders. She carefully removed it, making sure she knew the exact place she had to put it back, then knelt on the floor and opened it. She flicked through the papers. It seemed to be individual cases, with translations of their accounts of where they came from. She began to read them, quickly scanning them, the words jumping out at her … brutality … rape … murder … beatings … death threats. All told the same story of fear. She sat back and sighed. Horror stories. Pictures flooded her mind from television news reports of wars and conflicts all over the world. She had never really seen much of the refugees who came and went at the lawyers’ office. Mostly by the time she’d finished cleaning in the morning, the waiting room was beginning to get busy with them arriving, some men or women on their own, others with children – all of them, she noticed, with that look of apprehension, of being out of place, the way she had been when she came here The way she still was and probably always would be.
Tanya shook her head. It was hopeless. She didn’t even know where to start. She gathered the papers together and was about to put them back in the file, when a sheet of paper dropped out of the back of the folder onto the floor. On it was a printed list of names of refugees and addresses in Glasgow. At the side of each name were the words printed in capitals – ALONE, NO FAMILY. Next to that was a date of interview and then a tick. The names had been gone through with a pencil, as if they were being scrubbed out. Tanya reread the dozen or so names, and the places they were from: Kosovo, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, Iraq. The lines through them didn’t make sense. She thought of the words of the men in Frank’s office, telling him he was in it up to his neck and that he had made money. Had he sold these people to work for someone, she wondered? It was all she had to go on. She had read in the newspapers about the people-trafficking and how some refugees ended up working as slaves, being run by gangmasters. She glanced up at the photocopier. She had about five minutes left if she hurried.
She was getting her jacket and bag together to leave the office by the time Frank came in the front door. It was after 9.30 and he was late. He was tired and dishevelled, and she couldn’t hide her surprise at how shattered he looked.
‘Hello Tanya.’ Frank attempted a smile. ‘You off then? I’m a bit late this morning.’ He ran his hand across his stubbly chin. ‘Late night. Didn’t even get a chance to shave.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Better get myself sorted before I get any clients.’
‘Can I get you something, Mr Frank?’ Tanya put her bag down. ‘Will I make some coffee? You want I go out and get you some breakfast?’
Frank hesitated and looked at her. ‘Maybe you could make a quick coffee Tanya, if you don’t mind.’ He walked towards his office, then turned back. ‘And, Tanya. I think you should call me Frank.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘I mean, well, the “mister” that you always call me? It makes me feel very old-fashioned and old!’ He smiled. ‘Been meaning to say that to you for a while. Frank will do.’
Tanya nodded as she went into the kitchen.
*
It was getting close to nine in the evening when Tanya took the call from the escort agency telling her she had a client. She protested at the short notice, but was told the original girl had called off and they couldn’t afford to let the client down as he was a regular when he was in town. It was easy, they told her. He was an older guy, it would be fairly straightforward. She didn’t want to turn it down since she had only just started back with the agency and didn’t want to rock the boat.
She knew that at this time of night she wasn’t getting invited for dinner. She’d be lucky if she got a drink at the hotel bar, but most likely it would be a glass of wine in the client’s bedroom. She had walked from her flat in the Merchant City to the Holiday Inn at the end of Argyle Street, partly to save on the taxi fare and partly to clear her head. This was only the second client she’d had since she’d called the escort agency to say she wanted to work again. They’d told her they’d be glad to take her back, and that some of their clients had asked for her since she left. She stressed it was only for a few weeks until she got herself sorted. Sure, they’d told her. But that’s what she said when she first started with them, and she had continued working for eighteen months. That’s how it was when you were running out of options.
Later, on her way home, Tanya stopped for a coffee in the all-night cafe close to her house. It was warm and comfortable, with fat leather sofas you could sink into while watching the world go by from the window. Here she could be like anyone else – a student, a late-shift worker, any ordinary woman on her way home – instead of the woman she’d just been in the third-floor hotel room. She sipped her steaming mug of coffee and tried to blot out the images of the man in his sixties, grunting and heaving on top of her while she lay there with tears in her eyes for what her life had become.
She picked up a copy of the Post, and a headline on a story at the foot of page one caught her eye: Cops probe refugee link to grisly torso find … She flicked to page five to read more. It said detectives investigating the mystery of the torso found in the River Clyde were not ruling out that it could have been the body of an asylum seeker. They still had no identification, but police said the body had a tiny tattoo above the groin and appealed for witnesses who might know of someone who had gone missing. The story said they were also cracking down on the vigilante attacks on refugees in Balornock, but would not comment on whether this was linked to the torso. Tanya looked at the name of the reporter on the story – Rosie Gilmour. She slipped the newspaper into her bag and finished her coffee.
CHAPTER 9
Rosie looked at her watch as she waited outside the baker’s shop for Jan Logan to finish her shift. She’d been here for nearly half an hour, and it wasn’t the kind of place you sat in your car too long without the jungle drums beating. The only people who sat longer than ten minutes in a hole like Saracen were the drug dealers who waited at the edge of the scheme, like some kind of warped Mr Whippy ice cream man, supplying the stream of junkies who bounced towards them in search of their next fix. Even the snoops from the social had the good sense not to hang around. But Rosie didn’t want to miss her woman. Of course, it was a long shot that Tam Logan’s wife could shed any light on her man’s disappearance, and Rosie wasn’t even sure if there was any point in pursuing her. But the call from Don had been cryptic enough to spark her curiosity. She wondered if perhaps Howie was involved in refugee-trafficking. Don told her the word was that Logan had been doing some top secret driving job for Big Al Howie, but had opened his trap and stepped out of line. It didn’t look like Tam was coming home for dinner – ever.
Eventually, she saw Jan come out of the shop and light up a fag before walking up Saracen Street in the direction of Springburn. Rosie started her engine and followed her at a distance. She didn�
�t want to go knocking on the door of Jan’s council flat in case it was being watched. After a few hundred yards, Rosie went ahead of her, then pulled into the kerb and waited. As she approached, Rosie got out of the car.
‘Jan?’ Rosie said, walking towards her. ‘Jan Logan?’
The woman looked at her suspiciously. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the Post.’ Rosie stood in front of her.
‘Aye. Well you can fuck off.’ Jan side-stepped her then walked ahead.
Rosie pursued her. ‘Look Jan, It’s about Tam. Your man. I want to talk to you, Maybe try to help you. Can you just give me a minute?’
Jan stopped in her tracks and turned around to face Rosie. ‘And how the fuck you going to help? Eh? Tell me that.’ Her eyes blazed.
‘We can write about it, Jan. Maybe he’s out there … somewhere.’ Rosie was on the backfoot.
‘Aye. Somewhere over the fucking rainbow.’ Jan looked Rosie in the eye and drew on her cigarette. ‘You think my Tam’s a missing person and maybe if I say in the paper how much we want him back, he’s going to come running up Springburn Road in slow motion?’ She snorted.
Rosie had to think on her feet.
‘No. I don’t, Jan. But I’ve got a feeling maybe he’s being held somewhere against his will. Perhaps he’s got himself involved in something and he’s in trouble. If we can highlight the story, it might put pressure on people to let him go … if that’s the situation. Listen, Tam’s not the worst guy in the world.’
Rosie could see that Jan was processing what she’d said.
‘Listen, can we go and have a cup of tea somewhere?’ She pointed to her car. ‘Come on, Jan. I’ve got my car. We can get out of here for ten minutes while I talk to you.’
Rosie knew she was winning. Jan looked at her and her lip twitched a little. She put her hand to her mouth and to Rosie’s surprise her eyes filled with tears.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she began to break down. ‘I’ve got three weans.’
