For Those Who Know the Ending

by Mackay, Malcolm

  They went through their early morning routine. Sleepy sex and a long shower followed by a rushed breakfast. Joanne was going to be second to the bookshop, her sister there before her. Hated when that happened. Always felt that she had to be seen to work harder than Sophie to prove that her status as an unmarried single mother didn’t make her some sort of failure. She turned up for work on time and she put the hours in. Some mornings Martin slowed her down.

  ‘I’m off. Will you be home when I get back?’

  ‘Should be,’ he said to her with a nod. Waited for her to ask a little more.

  She nodded and kissed him, left without another word. Didn’t give any outward sign that she cared about what he was doing. Left the house and drove into work. Thought about him constantly through the day. Wondered what he was doing and hoped that he was safe. She didn’t want to know, because that felt right for the relationship. She didn’t want to have to explain this to him, because explaining was almost as big a commitment as finding out. So she worked and pretended it was no big deal. Her, always trying to be respectable and law-abiding, fallen for a career criminal. Knowing he was pursuing that career even as she thought about him.

  Her lack of interest, if we’re being honest, hurt him. Just a little bit, but enough. The thought that maybe she didn’t care, that maybe she only ever saw this as a short-term thing, a bit of fun. As soon as he disappointed her, got himself arrested, she would ditch him. But her lack of interest was limited only to his work; it wasn’t representative of their relationship. He was worrying about nothing. He kept telling himself that as he left the house.

  Joanne had taken the car, so he was back on the bus. The city still didn’t seem familiar to him, but it wasn’t the concrete mystery he had first encountered. There were bits of it that he recognized when he looked out the window, others that he was sure he had seen but couldn’t convince himself were in the same place as before. Others still seemed entirely new to him. He had moved around a lot since he arrived in Glasgow, tried to learn the place. You can get the basics, major landmarks, shopping areas, those sorts of things, but not the detail. You don’t gain the knowledge a man in the business needs by looking out a bus window. Takes longer and it takes more effort. You have to be working in the city, day in, day out. You have to scout the place with all the professionalism you can muster. Even then, you won’t learn every street; you won’t learn every little hole that any city offers to hide in. He couldn’t, after thirty years, tell you every part of Brno, just the bits that mattered. That was the problem with Glasgow; it was only just starting to matter to him.

  He went north of the Clyde, then got another bus that took him east. He was going to Alexandra Park for the first time. Found it and then followed the directions he’d been given to find the fountain where he was supposed to wait. There were way more people there than he had expected and he grimaced to see them. He thought it would be some small fountain hidden among the trees where the deal could take place without anyone else seeing. Instead there must have been a dozen people sitting round the black edge of the grand fountain, chatting and killing a sunny lunch hour.

  Straight away, Martin understood. The person he was meeting didn’t trust him, wasn’t sure that this Eastern European newcomer was reliable. Wasn’t willing to accept that any new customer had honest intentions for their first meeting, that’s why he wanted plenty of witnesses around. Made sense. Annoying, but it made sense. So Martin walked halfway round the fountain until he saw the man he thought he was looking for.

  Dale Duggan was middle-aged and it didn’t look like it had been an easy fifty years. He was overweight but still dressed in a thin, tight jumper. Maybe it had fitted at one time and maybe he just hadn’t noticed how much weight he had put on. He couldn’t have thought it was a good look, if he’d taken the time to notice what he was pouring himself into. The fact that his thick dark hair didn’t look like it had battled a brush for some time suggested he didn’t concern himself much with appearance. He was sitting on the curved edge of the fountain by himself, a blue plastic bag at his feet. Martin went over and sat near him. Not right beside him, not so close that a passer-by would realize they were there to meet. A few feet apart, a safe zone in between. Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. He placed it on the safe zone, resting his hand on top of it for a few seconds, making sure that Dale had seen what was happening here. He took his hand away, glancing off in the opposite direction. Took two seconds for Dale to reach across and put his fat little hand on the envelope. Had to be quick, if it fell back into the water, that would be his wad of cash soaked. Once he had the envelope Duggan got up, slipped it into his trouser pocket and walked away.

  Martin watched him go; made sure he was safely out of view before he moved. Duggan didn’t trust Martin, but Martin wasn’t dumb enough to trust Duggan either. Some guy he’d heard being mentioned by others in the business, that was hardly a glowing recommendation. Certainly no guarantee of professionalism and no guarantee that this was what it seemed to be. Duggan could have been setting him up.

  He took a look around him and shuffled a few feet sideways until he was sitting in the spot Dale had vacated. Still warm. Martin sat and stared at the world around him for nearly ten minutes, taking in the park and the mostly happy workers on their lunch break. He took longer than he needed to, but careful was a valuable currency. There was nothing alarming, nothing to make him nervous. No police, nobody standing watching him. When he was as sure as he could be that it was safe, he picked up the plastic bag and strode out of the park.

  Sitting on the bus with the bag on his knee, a shoebox inside the bag. Stupid thing to do. The kind of stupid you only do because you don’t have a better option. He should be in a car; they shouldn’t have met in public. Martin was clutching the bag, trying not to look like he was desperate for everyone to ignore him, which he absolutely was. There were two young men on the bus behind him, talking fast to each other. Their accents and the noise of the engine were killing the meaning of their words in Martin’s ears, but it sounded like they were engaging in a game of one-upmanship. Women’s names were being used as a means of scoring points, and each was questioning the other’s honesty. Not far in front of him there was an old woman talking loudly. She was all on her own, and each sentence seemed to have very little connection to its predecessor. None of them were paying attention to the skinhead with the plastic bag.

  It was a relief to get back into the house. Relief was soon swamped by guilt as he walked upstairs and into their bedroom. He took the shoebox out of the bag and looked inside. A small handgun, although not as small as he would have liked. Ammo, but not much because he shouldn’t need any. Usman had said he would provide the gun but Martin had refused, insisted on getting one of his own. A gunman always should. Could never trust a weapon provided by someone else. Martin needed to make a connection with a seller in the city if he was going to be working here, and now seemed like the time to start. It meant storing it in the house before use though. Bringing a gun into Joanne’s home.

  If she didn’t know it was there then she was innocent, that was what he kept telling himself. He pulled open the wardrobe and pushed the box in against the back beside the two other shoeboxes that belonged to him, both of which did at least contain shoes. It didn’t look out of place and there was no reason why she would check inside it. And he hoped, prayed, that it wouldn’t be there long.

  It was weird being in the house without Joanne there. It still felt like he didn’t belong. It was her house, and everything in it was hers, bought either by her or her parents. But slowly, very slowly, that was changing. He was starting to create his own little spaces inside it. Chairs that he always sat on, the cup that he always used, routines that belonged to him, and made tiny little fragments of their home his. Things that Joanne silently encouraged, making him a growing fixture in her life. She would only do that if she wanted him to stick around. That thought made him smile a little.

  5


  Donny Gregor’s days were filled with the same, soul-crushing routine. Out of bed early, into the bookmakers he ran, watch people throw good money after bad, go home in the evening. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he owned the place, but he didn’t even have that dubious honour. He ran it for others, so others picked up almost all the rewards. Now and again something interesting would happen, but interesting usually meant criminal and the criminal activity that floated round his business just made him more nervous. It was a little thrill, sometimes, and it might have been worth it if he was profiting, but usually it just meant Gregor was getting a taste of the risk with none of the reward.

  His bookies in Coatbridge was part-owned by Peter Jamieson, although Gregor was only partly sure of that. He had dealt directly with John Young, Jamieson’s right-hand man, which was why he figured Jamieson owned some or all of the place, but Jamieson’s name wasn’t on the books. A few different people had their names on the books and it was likely some of them worked for Jamieson. Maybe some of them didn’t even exist, but that didn’t matter. Whoever they were, they never showed up or got in contact, and Jamieson had control.

  That was where the little bit of excitement came stumbling into Gregor’s life. Sometimes they would use the safe in the shop to store things. Money, he assumed, although he never saw inside the envelopes and didn’t want to think about what else they might be putting in there. Didn’t want to, but couldn’t stop himself thinking about drugs or guns or worse. As long as he didn’t see it, he could plead ignorance. They were very careful when it came to keeping their secrets, much more so now that Jamieson was in jail. People were paranoid and even the trustworthy were looked upon with suspicion. The new guy who delivered the cash, a scary big fellow, had asked a few questions the first time he showed up. Asked about people approaching Gregor, trying to use the place for their own ends, or trying to lean on him. There had been no one, thank God.

  ‘And if anyone does come round here looking for anything, you’ll be the first person I call, Mr . . .’

  ‘Colgan.’

  ‘Colgan, right. I’ll remember that.’

  Colgan was coming in through the front door of the bookies now, a sports bag over his shoulder. He looked routinely intimidating, the sort of guy that couldn’t turn it off no matter the situation. He ignored the customers, mostly men, watching the racing on the TVs and walked across to the counter. Gregor had seen him come in and had noticeably positioned himself at the counter so that Nate wouldn’t have to talk to any other member of staff.

  ‘Mr Colgan,’ he said with a smile, ‘would you like to come through to the back?’ Asked quietly. A little too obvious, perhaps.

  ‘Yes please.’

  Donny Gregor, Nate knew straight away, was one of those people who revelled in being around criminals. You could see the nerves in him, but you could also see the desperate effort to make himself useful. Try and strike up a friendship, then tell his equally pathetic wee friends about it afterwards. Tell people that he had met Nate Colgan, spoken to the man on equal terms. Hint that he’s important to Peter Jamieson, try and make himself seem like he’s some sort of big gangster. There were always plenty of people like that around; the kind who wanted to seem dangerous by association. Nate, and others like him, did a good job of avoiding the kind of people who were thrilled by their proximity to criminals, but Gregor was one of the few useful idiots.

  The bookie led Nate through the side door to the offices at the back of the building. A couple of people might have turned to glance at the new arrival who was going straight through with the manager, but nobody let their look linger. You didn’t need to know the business to know that Nate Colgan wasn’t the sort of guy you got caught leaving your eye on. Gregor and Nate disappeared through the back of the shop, along a short corridor, and through to the little office Gregor used.

  There was nobody else there. The routine was, or should have been, Donny Gregor waiting out in the corridor to make sure they weren’t interrupted while Nate put a particularly well-sealed package into the safe. This time Gregor had broken the routine. He had closed the door behind them, standing inside the room, self-consciously clearing his throat to make sure Nate knew he had something to say. Nate, with the bag still slung over his shoulder, stopped and looked down at the shorter man with a firm look. Inquisitive, yes, to start with, but more than that. Just a tiny little bit threatening. The sort of look that told Gregor he better have a damn good reason for breaching the reassuring set-up they always used.

  ‘Listen, Nate, I was thinking of phoning you anyway, even if you hadn’t turned up. I don’t know, maybe calling you isn’t the right way to do these things.’

  ‘Why?’ Nate asked. Gregor had the whiff of a man who was set to ramble.

  ‘Well, I don’t like to make a fuss. I mean, I’m not that sort, am I? I get on with my work here and I try to be useful, and I don’t like raising alarms about every wee thing. Plenty of things round here that I can take care of without calling for help. But I think, the last, I don’t know, week, maybe longer, this place has been watched.’

  Now he had Nate’s interest. ‘Watched? How sure are you?’

  Gregor puffed out his cheeks. This was his moment in the spotlight and he wanted to play it right. He wanted to sound like the sort of gangster that Nate Colgan spent his days hanging around. He wanted, as everyone did, to make a good impression on the people who seemed to matter.

  ‘I can’t say a hundred per cent. It seems like it to me though, so I’m fairly sure. I’ve seen the same car with someone in it. I thought it was suspicious the second or third time I saw it. The one time I went out and went over to the car though, there was nobody there. So, I don’t know, I can’t be a hundred per cent, but sometimes, you know, you just get that feeling. You know what I mean? The feeling that you’re being watched? I got that.’

  Nate doubted very much that Gregor was familiar with that feeling because he doubted Gregor spent very much of his life under other people’s microscopes. He also doubted that someone watching the place would make a point of parking the car in the same place every day. It sounded false.

  ‘So you went over and there was nobody in the car. But every other time you’ve seen the car there was someone else inside?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about every time. I can’t vouch for that. Look, Mr Colgan, Nate, I only want to give you the best information so you can take educated steps. I only want to tell you what you can use, what matters. I can’t honestly stand here and say that every single time I’ve seen the car there’s been someone in it. I wish I could, but I can’t. Sometimes there was a person sitting in the driver’s seat, on their own. Maybe, I don’t know, sometimes there wasn’t.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Yes or no would do.’

  Gregor did well to keep the scowl off his face. Wasn’t easy, this big ape had no right speaking to him that way in his own office. Okay, fine, he didn’t have much practice speaking to people like Nate Colgan, but he knew what manners looked like. Gregor had met Jamieson’s right-hand man, John Young, had spoken to him personally, and Young had been far more polite than this. Just because Gregor was sitting in a bookmakers all day, that didn’t mean he wasn’t important. How would the Jamieson organization function without people working down the chain like him? Men like Colgan ought to have a little more respect.

  Nate was silent for a minute or so. Put the bag down on the floor and gave this suspicious car a little thought.

  ‘It’s been parked in the same place every time?’

  ‘Just about, yes. Yes.’

  The same car in the same place almost every day. That just didn’t seem likely. It didn’t sound like the sort of thing any decent scout for a job would do, if indeed it was a scout and he was any good at his job. You use different cars, you park in different places, and you use a couple of different people if you have the numbers.

  ‘You sure it was the same person you saw each time?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ Making a real
effort to keep his answers brief now. A petulant effort that Nate didn’t care about.

  The same person in the same car in the same place. It was either the world’s dumbest scout or not a scout at all. One last question.

  ‘This car. Was it there over the weekend?’

  Gregor paused. ‘I don’t think I noticed it over the weekend, no, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there, does it? I’m off Sundays, and there have been days I didn’t notice it through the week as well.’ That answer was a little longer, trying to be persuasive. The drama was rolling slowly away from him.

  ‘And is it out there now?’

  ‘Not now, no.’

  Nate nodded. ‘I’ll think on what you said; see about confronting the person if they show up again. For now, I need to use the safe.’

  Gregor was standing guard out in the corridor while Nate opened the safe. He had two packages this time, larger than usual. Money had come in that wasn’t budgeted for, although Nate wasn’t entirely sure where from. It was his job to protect it, not earn it. Could have come from anywhere in the organization. After Angus Lafferty ‘disappeared’ they were left with all sorts of business problems. He had been their importer and they needed a new one, one who knew his place, but Lafferty also had a good collection of legit businesses that filtered money smoothly. The organization wasn’t able to keep a hold on all of them, so it was getting harder to clean money, getting harder to deal with the unexpected windfalls any well-run organization should expect to get.

  He placed the two packages in the safe. There had to be thousands in each. He was no expert on the weight of money, but if it was in large bills to reduce the size of the package then there could be a good twenty-five or thirty thousand in each. Even in mixed bills you were still looking at a lot of money for someone to walk away with. The packages were very carefully sealed, if anyone tried to open them, it would show. The anyone they feared being Gregor. Nobody, Nate included, was willing to entirely trust some random bookie with their cash.