by Claire Askew
As her brother turned, and began to reach for the door handle, she lurched towards him, fingers clawing at the fabric of his clothes.
‘Don’t go, honey, please. Please. It might just be a year or two, if you get a deal, then you could—’
‘Nella.’ He put a hand on her arm, stilled her. ‘I wouldn’t live a year or two. It’s better this way. This way I stand a chance.’
Birch couldn’t help it. She threw her arms around him, and tried to cling on. ‘Please, Charlie. Please don’t. Please don’t leave me alone again.’
Charlie hooked his arms out from her grip, and took hold of her shoulders. Without hurting her, he tensed the powerful muscles he’d built and gently manoeuvred her off him.
‘It’s a cliché,’ he said, ‘but you’re better off without me, Nella.’
He let her go, then turned and opened the front door. The garden outside was dark now, and pushed its cold breath into the space with them.
‘I love you,’ Charlie said. Closing the door on her stricken face, he became Charlie Birch: Missing Person all over again.
Years, I worked for Solomon without ever meeting him, speaking to him, or even really seeing much evidence of his existence. He got talked about a lot. He got talked about the way I assume fundamentalist Christians talk about God, or how kids talk about Father Christmas. It was like, Solomon is watching you. He knows if you’ve been good or not, so be good for goodness’ sake. I didn’t even know much about him, just that he was a notorious fucking radge, and everyone was frightened of him. He was also about a hundred years old by all accounts, so I wondered how scary he could really be. I found out the hard way.
I’d been going with Hanna about two years or so by then. I saw the guys, the johns. I understood that there was no chance of her falling for any of those cunts, and getting stolen away from me. But even if she had been . . . you know, it was casual. I’d have been sore over it, but it would have been fine. And whenever any of them got heavy with her – or with any of the girls – I was the guy who got to straighten that scumbag out. Like Vyshnya said, it didn’t happen all that often, but when it did, I’ll admit, I got that wee bit extra thrill out of it, knowing I was defending my girl’s honour. Some sort of fucked-up chivalry, I dunno. And Hanna was a good girl, with . . . protection, and that. She was careful. We did all right.
So there was this one night that I wasn’t there, at the sauna. I was out doing a driving job for Toad. In the HR structure, as it were, Toad was sort of my line manager slash mentor. I did the stuff he asked me to do – translating, driving, kicking crap out of someone, standing quietly in the background and watching someone else kick crap out of someone. Then he’d hand me an envelope of cash, or sometimes I’d get promised something in kind – nice watch, good shoes, the thousand-pound briefcase of the guy I’d just beaten up. Very occasionally, I’d get a favour. But mostly, cash. As far as I was concerned, I worked for Toad, and Toad was an all right guy. I didn’t ask where the jobs had come from, I didn’t ask who or why. I just did it . . . whatever it was.
That night was a wash-out. One of those I’ll owe you one rarities. It was a weeknight, a Wednesday. Quiet at the sauna, so Vyshnya was waiting out the place on her own. She had me on speed dial. I wasn’t far away.
I’d been told to sit in the van – Vic’s old van – and watch this flat. Eventually, Toad said, some guy would come out and I’d follow him to wherever he went and give him a message. Not the knuckleduster kind: Toad had given me an envelope that I was supposed to literally put into this guy’s hand.
‘This is a good message?’ I’d asked in Russian. ‘He’s going to like what he reads?’
Toad laughed. ‘Very much no,’ he’d said. ‘Deliver without words.’
I’d been sitting there fucking hours. It must have been winter, because I got there as everyone was heading home from work, and it was already dark. I saw the guy go in, and texted Toad to say so.
Just wait, he texted back. Then follow. You’re a good friend.
Hours went by. I watched the lights come on and go off in different rooms in the flat. I watched the guy’s silhouette move around behind the blinds. At one point he came out in the close to smoke.
He’s outside smoking, I texted. Can I deliver?
Toad seemed annoyed. Follow instructions, he wrote back. Wait till he goes.
I obeyed, but I was bored shitless. The van’s radio was broken, and I had to keep my phone usage down to save the battery for later, when I’d need to check in that the job was done. I had to watch, too, of course. But there was sweet fuck all to watch.
The phone buzzed. It was around nine. I picked it up, hoping Toad had texted back to let me off the job. But it was Hanna.
Solomon’s here. You need to come.
I remember feeling a little shiver of something: electricity, fear, guilt. But also a weird nervy excitement. It finally happens. I finally get to meet the infamous Solomon.
Babygirl, I texted back. I’m on a job for Toad.
She was online, wrote back straight away. You have to come. He’s mad.
I dithered, but not for long. I wasn’t sad to be ditching out on this fucking boring job that Toad wasn’t paying me for anyway. I turned the key, and Vic’s old engine coughed awake.
You okay?
It took her a minute to reply, and I sat there looking at the phone screen, and listening to the engine.
I’m scared, she wrote back. Drive fast.
Thursday
Birch woke coughing, a dry cough that felt like it might never stop. Her heart beat its fists against the closed door of her chest. She felt as if she had something inside her that she needed to get out, but as she coughed and coughed, she realised there was nothing. She pushed herself back into the pillows, and forced herself to lie still.
It was fine. It was all fine. You’re at home, in your bed, and everything is fine. Birch squinted at the bedside clock: it was just after five. She’d slept okay, considering. Considering what?
Oh yes, she remembered. Everything is not fine.
Today was the last day. Twenty-four hours, and then they’d have to let Solomon go. She’d have to walk back into the station, which would – unless some miracle had happened while she’d been away – be a hive of panicked, last-ditch activity. She’d have to look her colleagues in the eye, knowing that she’d bungled their case. She’d found the missing informant in the biggest organised crime bust her force had ever known . . . and then she’d let him run. She’d told no one. She could tell no one, unless she wanted to lose her job. Besides, even if she called for a manhunt and sent the boys out to look for Charlie, she’d only succeed in letting Solomon and his gang know, once and for all, that Charlie was indeed their man. Gangsters didn’t follow due process. They’d find him first, and this time he really would be dead.
She’d spooled through this train of thought over and over in her head as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling – aloud. Okay: say nothing, you keep your job. Charlie might get away clean. It might all be fine. But then, the terrible flip-side: How will you live with yourself, Helen? You should have cuffed him as soon as you saw him. You’ve shattered this case into bits. You.The worst thought had come as the bedside clock read 00:00. Suddenly: Every one of Solomon’s victims after this moment is on your conscience. Anyone he hurts, anyone who dies. Your fault.
Birch was glad to make it to Elcho Terrace, where she’d parked the car. She hadn’t quite realised until she began walking how tired she was of the four walls of her house, how cage-like they felt. In a fit of what she knew was extreme paranoia, she patrolled around the car, checking the tyres, wheel-arches, bending double to peer underneath. Remembering a spy movie she’d seen once, she walked as far away from the car as she thought the signal would reach before hitting the button on the key and unlocking the doors. When nothing happened she felt sheepish, but, nevertheless, she opened the driver’s door to check the footwell, and patted down the underside of the steering console with a sha
ky hand. She peered into the back seats, and opened the boot. Finally, glancing around to see if anyone was watching, she popped the bonnet and poked around underneath – not knowing what she was looking for, but looking all the same. There was nothing. The car appeared untouched.
It’s all fine, she thought. Still, as she turned the key in the ignition, she held her breath.
Well, that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? She sat at the traffic lights on the corner of Brighton Place, letting her pulse settle.
Once she got onto the wide stretch of Seafield Road East, Birch pushed the hands-free phone button on her steering wheel, and used her formal interview voice on the empty car.
‘Dial,’ she said, ‘Amy Kato, mobile.’
Dialling Amy Kato, mobile, the car’s robotic phone lady replied. She said cat-oh, not Kato.
‘Morning, marm!’ Amy sounded as cheery as ever, though it was before eight. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear from you today!’
Birch smiled. It felt like a long time since she’d heard her friend’s voice. ‘Morning,’ she said. ‘McLeod been spreading the word that I’m a plague victim?’
Amy laughed. ‘Not DCI McLeod,’ she said. ‘DI Robson.’
Birch raised an eyebrow. ‘Big Rab?’
There was a pause.
‘Well. You didn’t look too great after . . . the flowers incident.’
Birch eased her speed down to make the sharp bend by the Seafield sewage plant. In the early light, the seagulls hung over the outlet pipes like flakes in a big, ugly snowglobe.
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Mainly just been pacing around my house, going nuts.’ It was true, but it sounded weird, so she added, ‘You know I hate being sick.’
‘Oh,’ Amy replied, ‘I’m the same.’
Birch almost snorted. She couldn’t remember a time Amy had had even so much as a bad hair day, let alone taken time off sick.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m glad I got you. I know you won’t be in yet, so it’s good of you to answer.’
Amy laughed. ‘If you think that, then with the greatest of respect, you’re mad. I’ve been in nearly an hour.’
Of course. The last day left to make something stick. Tomorrow morning, Solomon walked free. Because of you.
‘Oh God, yes,’ she said. ‘Time flies when you’re having no fun at all. Sorry.’
On the other end, Amy just laughed.
‘I was actually calling,’ Birch said, ‘to get an update on that. Solomon. Any movement happen while I was gone yesterday?’
She pulled up at the lights beside the industrial estate. The flags on the Fiat garage pattered in the wind. She could smell the grease and singe of the McDonald’s Drive-Thru. Her mouth watered. She prayed Amy would say something good.
‘It’s getting desperate, marm.’ Amy’s voice had turned grave. ‘I mean, I’m not being told everything, but it’s like Crosbie’s made no headway at all. They’ve been in the interview room pretty much solidly with Solomon . . . and Anjan of course.’
Of course, Birch thought. That elastic-band pull in her chest again.
‘And nothing. Between you and me, DCI McLeod is about up to ninety.’
I bet he is. Birch almost said it aloud, but then thought better of it.
‘We’ve got twenty-four hours left,’ Amy said. ‘And it’s not looking good. If we only had a witness – that’s what Crosbie keeps saying. If only someone would talk, anyone. It would be a start, at least.’
‘The informant,’ she said, a little too sharply, and before she could help herself.
Amy didn’t seem to notice. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘But they’re looking all over. Crosbie’s had the team out shaking up any known associates they can find. They’ve been in Low Moss and Barlinnie and Shotts, even the Young Offenders at Polmont, trying to get some perps on board, to tell them something. Like I say, it’s getting desperate.’
Birch was cringing. ‘And no one will sing.’
‘Nope,’ Amy said. ‘A wall of silence. Solomon’s got them all well trained.’
‘Or shit scared,’ Birch replied, ‘which I guess is about the same thing, when it comes down to it.’
She slid past the Polish supermarket, the tyre garage, the scrapyard. The car’s brakes squeaked as she misjudged the amber light outside the Pond pub and had to come up short. Amy was quiet.
‘We need the informant,’ she said at last. ‘That’s what I can’t stop thinking. That informant must know everything, because otherwise . . .’
‘Otherwise how could Operation Citrine have gone ahead.’
‘Yeah,’ Amy said. ‘I know it’s way above my pay grade, but how did we lose him? If DI Crosbie knows, he’s playing his cards close to his chest. DCI McLeod, too.’
Birch felt struck dumb. But underneath the endless chant of blame, another thought struck her. She hadn’t been the first person to let Charlie run. Amy had a point.
‘What about Big Rab?’ she asked. ‘DI Robson, I mean. How does he seem?’
She listened while Amy thought for a moment.
‘Calm,’ she said. ‘Now you mention it.’
Something prickled on the back of Birch’s neck. She remembered Big Rab’s kindness – his interest in her. The business card on her mantelpiece with his personal mobile number scrawled on the back.
‘The informant came to us via Glasgow,’ she said, musing aloud. ‘Via Big Rab’s team. So that’s why McLeod doesn’t know anything. But if Rab knows more, then . . . why isn’t he letting on?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Amy said.
‘I’m on my way in. I assume DI Robson is around?’
‘Of course,’ Amy said. ‘You need to talk to him?’
‘Yeah,’ Birch said. ‘I think I do.’
Birch hit her left-hand indicator. She’d right her course at the lights.
‘That’s funny . . .’ Amy said.
There was quiet on the line.
Birch shuddered. ‘Amy?’ She could practically hear her colleague’s mental gears whirring.
‘It’s just . . . DI Robson,’ Amy said. ‘I mean, it’s just a funny coincidence, but he mentioned he wants to talk to you, too.’
Birch shuddered again, and this time it reached her arms, twitching the car slightly in its path. A strange new unease settled in her already uneasy mind. ‘Did he say why?’
Amy’s voice brightened. ‘Not to me,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry, I don’t think you’re in trouble.’
You have no idea, Birch thought, how much trouble I am in. ‘Thanks, Kato,’ she said, and hung up.
Big Rab’s face hung in her mind: sitting across from her in the Kay’s Bar snug.
Your fault, said the voice in her head. You let him run.
I drove about as fast as Vic’s van would allow: not fast enough. It felt like I got stuck behind every Glasgow city bus out that night. At one point I got stuck behind a fucking gritter. I didn’t bother trying to park: I dumped the van on the pavement outside the sauna’s front door, passenger-side wheels up on the kerb. I stuck the hazards on, locked up and ran inside.
At the top of the stairs, Izz was standing, keeping guard.
‘You came with Solomon?’ I didn’t bother with niceties.
Izz shook his head. ‘He called me,’ he said.
I looked around the lounge – Vyshnya’s fancy word for the waiting space. No one there: not one single punter. Not unusual, for a Wednesday night, but there were no girls there either. The TV – the TV that I’d never seen not switched on – had been turned off. No sign of Vyshnya. The lounge was deserted.
‘I’ve been instructed,’ Izz said, ‘to turn guys away. Solomon wants the run of the place tonight.’
I sensed an irritation in his voice that wasn’t aimed at me. When I looked at Izz, I saw that he wasn’t in his usual finery. He still looked sharper than a goon like me could ever hope for, but he was in jeans, a dark-coloured shirt with a subtle pattern. Loafers and no socks. I realised he had been off duty.
> ‘Why’d he call you, man?’ I asked.
Izz gestured at the hatch, behind which I usually sat. ‘You weren’t here. I was nearby.’ He raised one well-groomed eyebrow. ‘In the pub.’ When I said nothing, he added, ‘And he just loves to bring someone running. I’m amazed he’s never done it to you.’
This didn’t really compute, but I didn’t want to get off topic. ‘Okay, okay. Can you tell me what happened?’
Izz shrugged. ‘I got here. Solomon was there –’ He gestured at the long, low sofa on one side of the lounge. ‘He’s got four guys with him. Malkie, Abdul and a couple I don’t know. They were kicking a couple punters out when I arrived. Telling them the shop was closed for tonight. Solomon wasn’t best pleased that there was no muscle here.’
I closed my eyes. I remembered what had happened to Tsezar.
‘Fucksake,’ I said. ‘I mean.’
Izz studied his nails. ‘It wasn’t like Vyshnya couldn’t handle shit. It was pretty quiet from what I could see. She was on it.’
‘She said that?’
‘Yeah.’
Izz came by sometimes, used the place. He knew what was up.
‘I don’t think it was a good idea,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘For Vyshnya to talk back to Solomon. She wasn’t exactly polite.’
‘Izz,’ I said. ‘Solomon got Toad to disappear the last guy that worked here.’
He blinked. ‘And?’
‘That guy was her boyfriend. I can see why she’d be less than friendly.’
‘That was years ago.’ Izz shrugged. ‘And whatever . . . it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that you don’t get insolent with the big man. Vyshnya’s been round the block. She knows better.’
I cast around the room again. I was shitting myself, to be honest. Yeah, it was years ago, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Tsezar. Seeing him in the back of Vic’s van, his hands held up like white flags.
‘What did she say?’
Izz looked me up and down, and sniffed. ‘She defended you, Puppy boy,’ he said. ‘He asked where the muscle was and she said she’d given you the night off. He wasn’t happy with you, like, at all. But she insisted it was her decision, she didn’t need you tonight. She told him to keep his nose out of her business.’
