‘I told you, we had it flattened.’
‘Bollocks, it’s a four-year-old car, it’s probably out there already, new plates, new history and you’re a couple of grand to the good.’ Paddy shifted uncomfortably. ‘Anyway, this isn’t about the car. Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘What? Yeah, sure.’
‘Get us one while you’re up, then.’
He almost spat something back, I could see it in his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but he held himself in check. He headed for the counter.
‘Paddy,’ I said. He stopped, turned. ‘I take it black. Like my men.’
I gave him a wink. It confused him. He wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box. He came back with two teas and two buns.
‘I didn’t ask for buns,’ I said.
‘They were part of a deal,’ he said. He stirred plenty of sugar into his cup. ‘So. Where’d you get the photo?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Good, isn’t it? And you’ll note there’s also the last four digits of a number plate in the corner. Amazing if it turned out to be your car. Though I’m sure you wouldn’t be that stupid.’
‘It proves nothing.’
‘Really? So why’re you here?’
He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What do you want? I don’t have any money, I’m barely scraping by as it is.’
‘I’m not interested in money, Paddy. I want information.’
‘I don’t know anything about anything. I just do my job, keep my head down.’
‘Jobs like Jean Murray?’ He shrugged. ‘How do you know the Millers?’
‘What Millers?’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Paddy. The Shankill Road UVF Millers.’
‘I don’t know them.’
‘So who told you to burn Jean Murray’s house?’
‘I got a call.’
‘From?’
‘Just a call.’
‘Paddy, do yourself a favour. The cops are being hounded. When they get hold of this, they’ll throw everything at you. It’s murder; you’re on twenty, minimum. You think the Millers are going to ride in with a high-powered barrister and rescue you? Catch yourself on. You’ll be on legal aid; some kid who looks about twelve years old and came last in his class will try and fail to defend you. The Millers know you won’t squeal, because if you open your mouth they’ll rip it right round till it meets the other side and your head flops back.’
‘And what if they don’t get hold of it?’
‘Then you carry on doing what you’re doing, nobody needs to see the picture or know we had a chat.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because it’s not you I’m after.’
‘Who then? The Millers?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Are you mental?’
‘Probably. But that’s neither here nor there. Who called you about Jean Murray?’
Paddy stirred his coffee. ‘The boss.’
‘Which one of them is boss? Windy or Rab?’
‘Not them. The boss. Of Malone.’
‘Derek Beattie?’
‘Aye. He phones me and tells me what he wants done.’
‘Don’t you ask why?’
‘I don’t care why. I just do what I’m told.’
‘Is this a regular thing?’
‘Once in a while. Not burning people out. Kneecaps and stuff. They’re just extras. Like overtime.’
‘Did you do Jean Murray’s son?’
‘No, that wasn’t me. One of the other crews.’
‘From Malone?’ Paddy nodded. ‘You’re all at it?’
‘Nah. It’s not like that. It’s . . . there are some who do . . . and some who don’t. I mean, like, ninety per cent of what we do is . . . you know . . . just security, like it says on the tin, but there’s some other stuff too . . . that only some of us do, you know what I mean?’
‘And this all comes from Beattie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the Millers employ him to do their dirty work?’ He rubbed his hand across his jaw. There was sweat on his brow.
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘What do you mean, something like that?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘It’s probably not.’
He picked up one of the buns and bit into it. He chewed. And he chewed. He seemed to be having trouble swallowing. He took a swill of his tea.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve been with Derek Beattie since I quit the boxing. You can be the best in Europe, but there’s no money at bantam, and I wasn’t even the best in Ireland. I was in prison for a while, but Derek took me on, took a chance. He’s okay, Derek. He was in the army years back. Far as I know, he ran the company fine, we were just guarding building sites, shopping centres, you know the form. But then the last few years, the work wasn’t there. I don’t know all the facts, I just heard he was in debt, and then one day he’s suddenly all smiles again, someone came in and invested in the company. I think the smile lasted about one day, till he found out who it was.’
‘The Millers.’
‘Aye. It’s supposed to be this big secret, but everyone knows. They brought their own boys in. Those of us who stayed, well, you get sucked in to doing stuff. Times are hard and the money’s good.’
‘So good you were prepared to murder someone for it?’
Paddy leaned forward, over his cup, his eyes small and cold, his voice lower, conspiratorial: ‘What d’you think I was in prison for in the first place?’
39
Paddy said, ‘What do I do now?’
‘Now you go back to work, you keep your head down, your mouth shut and you try and keep it legal. If I need your help, I may ask for it, or you may never hear from me again. Depends.’
‘What about the photo?’
‘It remains in play until this is done. But you’ve cooperated, and I’m a man of my word.’
‘And what about when the Millers kill you, what happens to the photo then?’
‘Then I’m afraid it gets released, so you better keep your fingers crossed.’
‘That’s not really fair. I’m helping you and—’
‘Paddy. Fair doesn’t come into it. You’re a murderer. Consider yourself lucky I don’t send this off the minute you walk out of here.’
That said, the minute he walked out of there, I did send it off. It went to DS Hood by SMS, identifying who Paddy was and what it showed and who took it and what their address was. I couldn’t see the benefit of holding on to it, and if Hood and his boss took it seriously, they would hopefully stop hassling me over Bobby’s whereabouts. Plus, I didn’t trust Paddy. I was pretty sure he’d think I was bluffing about having the photo primed for release in the event of anything happening to me. He’d take his chance when he could, so the sooner he was off the streets, the better.
Paddy was a killer, but he was still just a low-level thug following orders. Satisfied that he’d given up everything he could, I told him to go and he sloped off. I sat on, finishing my tea and the other bun. I did two tours of the House of Fraser, up and down the escalators, to make sure he wasn’t following me. I didn’t spot him, though I did spy a couple of rather nice jerseys. Then I checked myself in the mirror and discovered that I’d turned sixty-five overnight. I returned to Victoria Square’s vast and well-lit underground car park. Nevertheless, things tend to happen in car parks. Mostly in the movies, admittedly, but it feeds into your being. I was jumpy. Any movement, any noise, and my heart went off like a car alarm. I couldn’t find my car. I was searching for it for fifteen minutes before I remembered I wasn’t in my own, but Patricia’s. By the time I located it, the only person following me about was a security guard with suspicions. Luckily, he wasn’t from Malone.
Underneath the wipers: a piece of paper.
Face down, something written underneath.
I looked around me again. The security guard had vanished as soon as I beeped the alarm, but with floodlights there are still shadows; there are still pillars to
shield the presence of an assassin, cars to duck down behind. I lay flat, checking for a car bomb, and under the surrounding vehicles for evidence of feet or knees.
All clear.
I thought: it’ll be a swastika.
I carefully removed the paper, using the tip of my thumb and forefinger; thinking about prints.
The paper said: Hollister – Spring Sale Now On. I said out loud: Tit.
I phoned Malone Security and asked for Derek Beattie. I was told I was being put through. I hung up. My plan was to follow him home and use the Xbox gun to force my way in for a chat over a cup of tea and HobNobs. I even had the HobNobs, though if I sat for much longer outside his office, I might not. As time wore on and the staff left in dribs and drabs, and the company cars with their nifty logos went too, it became clear that he wasn’t going anywhere soon. The security business is necessarily around the clock; someone is always on call to deal with emergencies. They probably didn’t have to stay in the office to do it, and it didn’t need to be anyone as senior as Derek Beattie, but whatever way it was working, pretty soon there was only one car in the car park, and one light on in the whole building. The car was a black Jaguar of 2011 vintage. I deduced that it was his. The solitary light was on upstairs in a corner office.
I listened to the seven p.m. news on Cityscape FM. There was no fresh violence to report. It might be the calm before the storm, or there might be no storm. I started the car and drove the few hundred metres to the Malone HQ. There were no security gates to stop me entering their car park. There was, however, a security grille and a camera over the front door, which was locked. There was no reason to think that Derek would know what I looked like, or even who I was, but I didn’t want to take the chance of him coming to the door and recognising me before he opened up. Instead I crossed to his car, stood by the driver’s window and cracked it once with the butt of the gun. Immediately the alarm began to sound. I stepped back into the shadow of the building. After about thirty seconds the alarm stopped. I had not thought about the possibility that he could stand at his office window and click it off without having to leave the building.
I gave it another minute, then ventured out into the car park and looked up at his window. No sign of him. I returned to his car and this time put the butt through the glass; I moved sharply back under cover as the alarm erupted anew. Again it was switched off from above, but this time a light came on behind the front door, and a few moments later it opened and Derek Beattie emerged, slightly breathless, in an open-neck shirt and with his sleeves rolled up. His eyes were fixed on the car, at least until I held out the gun and said, ‘Mr Beattie?’
He saw the gun, he saw me. He said, ‘Don’t kill me.’
‘Back inside, then.’
He went into reverse. I followed. I pushed the door closed behind me and locked it. He turned and led the way upstairs into a dark outer office and then continued through it to his own.
He stood, awkwardly. I said, ‘Take a seat.’
He looked at his own chair, and then at me, for approval. Not many people ever looked at me for approval for anything. It might have been the intense look in my eyes or the grim set of my jaw. But it was probably the gun. I nodded. He sat.
There was a chair opposite, for clients; smaller, less comfortable. I didn’t mind. It still felt like I had the upper hand.
‘So,’ I said, ‘how’s it hangin’?’
‘It . . . Fine . . .’
‘Good. It’s looking a bit like rain,’ I said.
‘Just take what you want and go. Shoot me in the leg. Or arm. I was in the military, so I know a little about first aid, I can deal with an arm or a leg until the ambulance gets here, but there’s no need to kill me.’
If he’d been in the army, he’d once been fit. This was no longer the case. He was badly overweight. His chin had disappeared in a sea of fat, making it look as if he had swallowed his own neck.
He said, ‘I knew this day would come, I warned them, and they said, who ever robbed a security company?’
‘This isn’t a robbery,’ I said. ‘What is there to take, apart from stationery?’
‘Oh Christ,’ he said. There was sweat cascading down his face. Given his weight, he was probably always pretty damp. ‘Please. There’s no need. I know it’s all about sending messages, but I have a wife and three young kids. What’s to gain? I won’t say a word. Swear to God. Look, I’ll show you where it is, you won’t have to mess around with taking the safe or torturing me for the combination, just let me show you where it is, take what you want.’
‘This isn’t a robbery,’ I said again. ‘I just—’
‘No, look, please . . . Christ . . . just come with me.’
He got up. He took it as a positive sign when I didn’t immediately shoot him. He came out from behind his desk and moved crab-like to a door on his left. He paused with his hand on the knob and looked to me for approval. I nodded. It opened outwards. I stood so that I could see round the door. Inside there was a small room with a large safe. It probably weighed more than a ton. Like something you would get in a bank. A small bank. Smaller than the Allied Irish, but larger than the Piggy.
He said, ‘It looks impressive, but most of its functions we don’t utilise. There’s a timer, but there’s no need for it, we’re a twenty-four-hour operation, you can’t be having to hang around for seven hours when there’s a customer waiting. Look – it’s easy to open . . .’
He flicked switches and turned dials. He began to open the door.
I said, ‘Easy there,’ in case he reached inside and produced something that could Top Trump my revolver.
His hand was shaking. He said, ‘Of course, of course . . .’ He stood back a little, so that he was fully behind the door, and then slowly drew it back towards him.
The first thing I noticed was a little light coming on, like in a fridge. I’d never thought about that before. But it made sense.
It was good to throw some light on the subject.
Some light on the cash, which sat on shelves in the upper half, neatly stacked in a dozen columns.
‘How much is there?’ I asked.
‘One million, two hundred and twenty-three thousand, two hundred and forty-five pounds, plus change.’
I nodded.
‘And what about that?’
On the floor of the safe there were three uneven columns of six flat whitish bricks, kind of in the shape of the floats I used to use in the local pool. Each was sealed in tight transparent plastic; on the top ‘floater’ in each column there was something akin to an identifying logo or seal: in this case, the image of a scorpion.
‘How much is the coke worth?’ I asked.
‘About the same.’
I said, ‘Now it’s a robbery.’
40
It was just paper with a little artwork, and plant extract with a touch of refinement, but the world turned on it. We carried it all out to my car in a black bin bag. It only took the one trip, and it fitted easily in the boot. I had the gun in my jacket pocket. I signalled for him to get in.
‘The boot?’
‘Passenger seat.’
He was relieved. It’s amazing what difference a gun and the lack of knowledge about a person’s abilities and intentions can make. I liked it. I thought that maybe I should carry a gun more often. Maybe get a holster. And a tin star. So that I could chuck it in the dirt one day and say, ‘This time all bets are off.’ It could be a catch-phrase. I could use it maybe three times in one adventure, and bring it back for the sequel. ‘This time all bets are off,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Enigmatic, too.
He reached for his seat belt.
I said, ‘What are you doing? We’re not going on a picnic.’
He let go of it and it snapped back. ‘Sorry.’
‘So you sold out to the Millers.’
He nodded ruefully. ‘Worst mistake I ever made.’
‘And you can’t just walk
away.’
‘They had me from the moment the cash hit the table. I should have known. I was just trying to save the company, my home, my family. And now it comes to this, shot dead in a car park.’
I did not correct him. Even though I had a gun, and he was up to his neck in the coke and cash business, I suspected he was a glass-half-empty kind of a guy anyway. Probably it went with the security territory. He didn’t trawl for new custom by saying, sure, it’ll never happen. He sowed fear and reaped the dividend.
I said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ He shook his head. There was perhaps a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘I don’t mean in the sense of you promise not to tell anyone if I let you live, I mean really, literally, do you know who I am or why I’m here?’
‘Does it matter? I knew one of you would come for it.’
‘One of who?’
‘I don’t know. One of whoever supplies this stuff. One of whoever wants it back or wants to muscle in. What is it they say? It’s just business?’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘You gangsters, no disrespect intended, but you kill each other, tit for tat, tit for tat, but you never seem to disappear. Well you have it now, and you can deal with the consequences. If you’re going to do me, do me now.’
I said, ‘Hold your horses. I want to know how it works. The system. Do you deal direct with the Millers?’
Derek Beattie shook his head. ‘Once a week they send two guys into the back office, they cut and seal, deliver to our clients.’
‘And bring the money back?’
‘Most pay by direct debit.’
‘Direct . . .?’
‘Sure. Look, these people, they’re middle class, respectable, they don’t want to be standing on street corners looking for their entertainment. They don’t want hoods coming to their homes dealing either. So what we do is provide security for their home, their business, that’s what they pay for, they just happen to pay a bit above the going rate so that they can get their coke delivered by a nice man in a uniform. Goes into the bank by direct debit, we take it out in cash and keep it here for the Millers to collect. No cash changes hands with the clients. It’s a perfect business model.’
‘With the exception of Abagail Pike. I hear she’s handing out envelopes of cash to your people.’
Nine Inches Page 21
