by Claire Askew
Inside, the hotel was ideally temperate. In the lobby, piano music played at the perfect volume to ignore. Solomon breezed through, and I glanced around to see if any of the concierges looked afraid. Apparently not.
In the dining room, Solomon was met by an effusive maître d’, who stepped between Ez and Fitz as though they simply weren’t there.
‘Welcome back, Mr Carradice,’ the man simpered. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve come to join us again.’
Solomon gestured at Ez, and Ez made two fifty-pound notes appear. The maître d’s attention seemed to sharpen.
‘I’d like to be served only by you today,’ Solomon said. ‘This meeting is highly confidential.’
The maître d’ practically folded himself in two as Ez handed him the hundred pounds. ‘Absolutely, Mr Carradice,’ he said. ‘May I prepare your usual beverage?’
Solomon nodded.
And four tap waters, I thought – though of course, we four didn’t get anything at all.
Solomon approached a table that had clearly been cordoned off at the far end of the dining room. The three tables around it all had reserved cards on them, which the maître d’ began plucking up and taking away as we approached. Malkie gestured to me that I ought to sit down at the table nearest the door. I did, while Fitz and Malkie took the other two, and Ez stayed beside Solomon. Sitting at the cordoned-off table was a short, stocky man with the most Scottish-looking face I had ever seen. He was flushed, stuffed into a suit that looked dated. He stood, with some difficulty, as Solomon approached.
‘James,’ Solomon said, placing his slimy hand into the man’s large, well-worn one. The dude looked afraid.
‘Jimmy,’ the man said. Solomon gave him a look of distaste, but said nothing. He gestured to the man’s chair, and they both sat. Ez took his place beside Solomon, and folded his arms onto the table in front of him.
There were some pleasantries, some how’s business, some oh you know, the bigger man clearly trying to move things on to the main event so he could get it over with and escape. The maître d’ brought Solomon a short, amber drink with ice and a twist of orange. Jimmy/James had ordered a beer and flushed when the two drinks were put in front of them. I felt sorry for the guy. But I was also trying not to watch too closely: trying to emulate Malkie, who seemed able to stare into the middle distance, barely blinking, for an indefinite period of time.
I hated everything about Solomon. Now that I was in his presence but not the focus of his attention, I was able to observe him, and I couldn’t help but detest his every move. His affected voice: the shadow of a Glaswegian accent painted over as though it were bad plaster. The salmon-coloured button-down he wore under his bespoke suit: though of obvious quality, the colour looked old-fashioned and old-mannish. The fact that the upholstery in the Range Rover had SC stitched through it. Solomon was loaded, without a doubt, and wanted the best; but in spite of his efforts he just came across as what Maw would have called flash. And most of all, of course, I hated that he didn’t remember me.
In my pocket I felt my phone buzz: Toad, I guessed.
I zoned back in, aware that Solomon had lowered his voice.
‘I must have your assurances,’ he said, ‘that the crew you’re bringing in are all known to you, and are all completely trustworthy. The skippers especially. I will expect them to keep things on an even keel – if you’ll pardon the pun – no one getting overexcited. Do you understand? Business as usual.’
‘I do, sir.’
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Had Jimmy been wearing a cap, he’d have doffed it: he was talking to Solomon as though he were some Dickensian lord of the manor. But then, of course, I reminded myself of that night in the sauna. I’d thought Solomon looked like someone’s well-kept granda . . . but I quickly ended up on my knees. By comparison, Jimmy was doing pretty well.
‘Excellent,’ Solomon said. ‘Forgive me. I do just like to be reassured.’
Jesus, Jimmy, I was thinking, run away as fast as you can. But Solomon was still speaking.
‘My people will be on the dockside at Granton, to ensure a swift transfer into the vans,’ he was saying. ‘Many hands, as they say. As soon as every crate is accounted for, you and your crew will be compensated as agreed.’
Jimmy looked as though he wanted to say something.
‘In cash,’ Solomon added. ‘Without strings. My man Toad has seen to it.’
Jimmy nodded. I could tell Solomon was irritated by him not talking.
Solomon eyeballed him. ‘You look nervous, James,’ he said. ‘Do you have any concerns?’
Jimmy looked like a candidate who hadn’t prepped for his interview and got the do you have any questions for us? bombshell.
‘Well, um . . .’ Jimmy’s face got a little redder. ‘My only worry is . . . ken, the Russians? If we cannae communicate, and there’s any—’
Solomon held up a disdainful hand. ‘Taken care of,’ he said. ‘I will have two men in attendance who can provide interpretation, where required. One of them is sitting at the next table, in fact.’
I froze, realising Solomon was looking at me.
‘Smith, here,’ he said, ‘is a fluent Russian speaker.’
I wasn’t sure what to do, but I didn’t feel like I could pretend I hadn’t heard. I turned my head slightly and nodded at Jimmy, then tried to readjust my gaze without meeting Solomon’s cold eyes. He did remember me, then, and better than he’d suggested earlier. He was playing with me. A blood vessel in the side of my head began to twitch, and I hoped Solomon couldn’t see it.
‘Anyway.’ He’d swept the conversation away from me again. ‘It will be straightforward, and everyone will be well briefed, so there shouldn’t be much need for chitchat. The salts will be loaded in Baltiysk, and each shipment will be accompanied by an employee of our Russian associate, in order to ensure safe passage.’
Solomon looked hard at Jimmy. ‘By that I mean, no skimming off the top.’
Jimmy looked as though he’d been kicked. ‘My boys widnae dae that.’
Solomon nodded. ‘It is understood, James. But our Russian friend would prefer to have the safeguard.’
Jimmy lowered his eyes: a whatever you say gesture.
‘Be not mistaken,’ Solomon added. ‘These salts are premium grade. Strong. We’re all trusting you with a considerable asset.’
‘It’ll be safe wi’ me,’ Jimmy said, ‘an’ the boys.’
Solomon smiled his slippery smile then. ‘And thereafter, it is all quite straightforward. You will follow the standard route, and then all boats will hold their agreed positions in the North Sea. It’s vital that the skippers come in one by one, and the boat traffic on the approach to Granton does not look hurried or unusual.’
‘We’ll aw be on the radio channel,’ Jimmy said. ‘Each skipper’ll come in when he’s called.’
‘Good,’ Solomon said. ‘The vans will be waiting. It will be an all-night job, but a fine start to what I hope can become a regular arrangement . . .’
My head flicked up then, and I stopped listening. Malkie was clicking his fingers. I looked over.
‘Car,’ he mouthed at me. Time to go.
I nodded, and tried to rise from the table as quietly as I could. I imagined Abdul – huge, clunky Abdul – trying to do the same. The information I’d just heard rattled about in my head. The fact that Solomon remembered me. The fact that I was about to get roped into something bigger than I’d ever even heard about. But I’m a small-time guy, I remember thinking – absurd, but I did. I just run a sauna. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.
I wandered out into the lobby, and found the valet. I waited for him to bring the Range Rover round, my thoughts churning.
Have you had contact? Toad had texted me.
Contact with who? I wrote back.
No reply.
When Solomon emerged eight minutes later, the car was parked at the front door, and I was in the driver’s seat, revving that V8 as much as I dared, and
watching faces flick round to look all along the block.
The entire station gathered in the bullpen to watch the TV bolted to the wall above the coffee machine. They stood in rows, quiet but for a few consoling words whispered in pairs or threes. It felt like a funeral, or, rather, like the awkward fifteen minutes the funeral congregation spend milling around in the lobby of the crem, waiting for the previous set of mourners to file out. That collective sadness, collective frustration. The feeling of small comfort.
Birch hovered at the edge of the group. She didn’t want to make her presence known to anyone: she couldn’t stop the endless spiral of guilt. This gathering was her fault. Solomon walking free was her fault. A part of her hated the fact that she was getting away with it: the guilt might have been easier to handle were someone punishing her, yelling at her – were someone else, other than herself, pointing the finger and saying, This was all your doing. But no one knew of her lie, not even Rab. She’d got away with her crime, just as Solomon got away with his, and the very idea made her feel sick. So she hovered, making eye contact with no one, but – she realised – also looking for someone. Charlie: she was looking for Charlie in this, the last crowd on earth where he’d ever appear. She was still trying to spirit him up, produce him from somewhere the way a magician would produce their white rabbit in the nick of time. But the nick of time was gone. Instead her gaze lighted on Amy, stoic; on DS Scott, frowning; on Big Rab, hanging back the way she was at the opposite flank of the gathering, pink-faced and enraged, and yes, guilty-looking, too.
The familiar jingle came, and the small murmurs in the room fell quiet.
‘This is STV daytime news,’ the newsreader announced. ‘I’m Geraldine Hazel. Today’s headlines . . .’
Immediately, a shot of Solomon appeared on the screen. First, his mugshot, and then footage of him walking out of the front door of the very building they were all standing in, Anjan at his side.
‘Alleged gangland boss Solomon Carradice is released today’ – under Geraldine Hazel’s voiceover, the picture switched to footage of McLeod, speaking at a podium, the sound muted – ‘cleared of wrongdoing after four days in police custody in Edinburgh.’
A disgruntled rumble ran through the room. Geraldine Hazel skipped through the day’s other headlines at full pelt. Birch’s stomach churned.
‘Our top story this morning,’ the newsreader said, and the picture cut back to that same footage of Solomon walking out onto the steps of the station, a little over an hour ago. Paparazzi had formed a small gaggle outside, and the flashes of their cameras seemed to exaggerate Solomon’s age. Birch imagined people watching at home, thinking to themselves, How could that sweet-looking old man possibly have done the things they’re saying? Anjan walked slightly behind Solomon, his mouth a straight line, and his face impossible to read.
Solomon had, it seemed, done a short smile-and-wave session for the press before getting straight into a car – Birch noted with some annoyance that it was a black Range Rover, and not a Mercedes saloon – and being driven away. Cut to Anjan, standing at a temporary Police Scotland podium someone had thought to prop up on the steps.
‘My client has been released,’ Anjan said, ‘following a period of ninety-six hours in police custody: the maximum amount of time that a person may be held without charge.’
He spoke as elegantly as ever, looking around at the assembled lenses, microphones, faces.
‘Monday’s raid,’ he went on, ‘which has been dubbed Operation Citrine, produced no hard evidence to implicate my client, and nor has any credible witness come forward.’
Charlie, Birch thought. Credible, credible Charlie.
‘I am satisfied,’ Anjan was saying, ‘that this matter is resolved, and I am pleased at this result for my client and his family. Mr Carradice asks for privacy for him and his loved ones as he returns to his day-to-day activities.’
‘Yeah,’ said someone from across the bullpen, ‘I fucking bet he does.’
The camera cut back to the news studio, and Geraldine Hazel in her nice Hobbs suit.
‘Detective Chief Inspector James McLeod,’ she said, ‘also appeared at this morning’s press conference, and gave this statement on behalf of Police Scotland.’
McLeod appeared on the screen, standing at that same podium. Over his left shoulder, DI Crosbie stood, gazing off at something above the camera. Both of them looked more flushed in the face than Birch thought she’d ever seen.
‘In the early hours of Monday morning,’ McLeod said, ‘Police Scotland raided a convoy of branded vehicles and several fishing boats at Granton Harbour and in the surrounding area. We recovered over five hundred kilograms of the banned substance Alpha-PVP, more commonly known as flakka. We believe this illegal shipment originated in Russia. We are in contact with Russian authorities and have detained several individuals on charges relating to the transport and possession of this substance. It is our belief that this smuggling operation was masterminded by one high-profile individual or organised crime group, and our investigation will continue until the perpetrators behind these illegal shipments are brought to justice.’ McLeod brought his hand down on the podium, which wobbled.
Birch remembered that cursed thing well: she’d stood at it herself several times over the course of the Three Rivers investigation.
‘No questions,’ McLeod said, and the camera cut away as he and Crosbie turned their backs on the press.
Geraldine Hazel appeared in the studio once again. ‘We’ll have more on that story,’ she said, ‘at six o’clock . . .’
Her words dropped out. Someone had switched the TV to mute. Birch looked round, and saw Big Rab on the other side of the room, holding the remote aloft.
‘That’s it then, lads,’ he said to the assembled gathering. ‘Don’t let the bastards get ye down, and aw that. Back tae work, aye?’
There was a general rumble of agreement, and the group began to scatter. Birch took the opportunity to turn her eyes downward and march as purposefully as she dared in the direction of her office. Something was boiling inside her. She realised it was anger – at Charlie, as well as at herself – and it joined the erratic flutter of worry and guilt she’d been swimming in for . . . well, basically the entire week. You did this, Helen. You let this operation fail.
Birch closed the office door behind her and leaned back against it. The phone on her desk rang. She’d forgotten she didn’t currently have a mobile, and she’d been out in the bullpen for a while now, uncontactable. Idiot, she thought again, as she sprang towards the sound. The little screen above the keypad showed it was a direct dial, not the switchboard – but beyond that, it displayed no number.
Birch fumbled to pick up the call.
‘DI Birch?’
A sound on the other end, something like static. ‘Charlie?’
She just said it. His name had been in her mouth all morning.
There was a long silence, and then Birch realised she could hear breathing.
Shit. Oh shit.
‘No.’ It was a man’s voice that eventually spoke. A voice with a heavy accent. ‘This is not your brother.’
Birch veered, and put out one hand to steady herself. It skidded over the desk, sending papers flying.
‘But it’s good to know you’re reunited at last,’ the voice said.
Birch tried to concentrate. The voice sounded familiar. Was this the same caller she’d spoken to, however briefly, after the flowers were delivered? Or was it one of the men whose interviews she’d sat in on, with DS Scott? It was only four days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
‘We know,’ the voice said, ‘that your brother Charlie Birch is the rat that you are hiding. We know you have him somewhere near you, now.’
Birch swallowed, tried to keep it together. ‘Who is this?’ she asked, then felt stupid. Like he was going to tell her.
‘We are going to find him,’ the man went on, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘We are very good at finding people.’
&nb
sp; Something clicked, then. Something about the inflection, the pattern. She remembered: I speak good English.
‘Mr Toad,’ she said. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’
There was a pause, and then the line went dead. That meant yes.
Birch closed her eyes for a moment, still leaning hard on the desk. She was afraid if she straightened up too fast she might fall over, as the blood rocketed back and forth between her heart and her head. She tried to picture the man who’d called himself Toad. They’d had to let him go on the grounds that he’d been arrested just hanging around, had nothing illegal about his person, and refused to comment in response to questioning. He’d been older than most of the suspects she’d seen: heavy-set, grey hair, imposing, but no prizefighter. Birch imagined she could take him.
‘Scumbag,’ Birch spat. She straightened her back slowly, found that she wasn’t as dizzy as she’d anticipated. She skirted the desk, and fell into her chair.
She sat for a moment, thinking, her forehead screwed down into a kind of scowl. The call had rattled her, but the soup of worry inside her had simmered down a little. She’d fucked up, saying Charlie’s name into the phone – she no longer had the plausible deniability she’d used when accosted by the Fenton guy. They knew now that she knew Charlie had come back: great fucking job. But they also thought that Charlie was still with her, that she was still hiding him. That meant that they hadn’t yet found him. Wherever he was, he was still safe, and once again Birch felt just a little bit more able to breathe.
The longer she sat there, the longer she thought, Fine. Let them think he’s with me. Let them follow me around to their heart’s content. Let them stake me out. The longer they did that, the longer Charlie had to get as far away as he could. She really, really hoped he was doing that. If she couldn’t have him back, if she couldn’t protect him, then she at least hoped he’d been smart enough to start putting miles between himself and every single one of his contacts as soon as he’d stepped out of her door. The thought of it hurt . . . but Charlie was safe. For now. And if she did things right, she might be able to stall the bloodhounds on his trail.
