The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

  There’s nobody to stop him unlocking the front door. Nobody inside the flat. He’s standing inside the door, looking at the spot on the floor where she was lying. Last time he came in this door, he found her lying there. Panicked. Didn’t know what to do. Maybe if he’d acted faster . . . No. Don’t start thinking like that. You know what you’re here for. Get it and get out.

  Through the living room, down the corridor and into the bedroom. Their bedroom. Turning to the wardrobe. There’s something on the door. Markings that weren’t there. Some police thing, he figures. Why on the wardrobe, he doesn’t know. Then he’s stopping. Damn it all. They’ll have gone through the wardrobe and taken the money. The little money Ella had set aside. She kept that money to cover emergencies. The ones she knew about, anyway. They’ll have taken it when they searched the wardrobe.

  But they haven’t. They found it. The two shoeboxes on the floor have been opened and emptied. The shoes put back in both. The little bundle of money taken out of one. Placed back on top of the shoebox. Obviously not enough that they would consider it significant. It’s not suspicious. There isn’t enough of it to be evidence.

  Glass is picking it up. Looking through it. There isn’t much there. He never counted it before. Knew it was there, but it was hers and not his. He respected that. She didn’t talk about it to him. Didn’t hide it from him, as such. He saw her putting money in there, she let him see. It was for a rainy day. Pay bills that crept up on them, maybe. Or maybe it was for a treat. Saving up to get something nice, something she could be proud of.

  One hundred and eighty quid. He thought there would be more. Seemed like the bundle was bigger in the past. Enough for them to live off for a little while. Maybe there was more. Maybe someone took it. One of the cops? No. If there was ever more, Ella spent it. Something came along and she had to dip into her savings.

  So it’s a hundred and eighty quid. There’s another twenty in the biscuit tin in the kitchen. Two hundred quid. Not enough. Not even halfway to being enough. But he has to try. His instinct has been trying to tell him for hours now. He’s come to realize it eventually. No matter how much or how little money he has, he has to try this. Won’t ever forgive himself if he doesn’t. Won’t ever stop regretting it. He’s stuffing the money into his pocket and making his way out of the flat.

  9

  Marty told him to bring a couple of his men with him. Patterson’s taking him at his word. Called up Conn Griffiths and Mikey Summers. His two best. Griffiths has become his senior man since Bavidge’s death. Not as sharp as Bavidge, and there isn’t the same bond there, but it’s a good relationship. A man he trusts. Smart, tough and always willing to put the business first. Summers is tough. Properly tough. One of the best muscle in the city. You could have a conversation about who stands as the best muscle in this city. Nate Colgan would get a lot of mentions. Jamie Stamford has profile. Patterson rates Summers as high as either of them.

  He feels he needs them both. Would be more comfortable with more than just these two. It’s late afternoon and he’s meeting Griffiths and Summers. They’ll travel to the pub together. Ex-pub. Future pub. At the moment it’s just a convenient empty location, in a quiet area. Businesses around it, all of which will be closing right about now. They’ll be perfectly silent by the time the meeting starts. A good choice of location by Marty.

  And that’s what makes Patterson nervous. This has all been organized by Marty. Patterson’s been tied to Marty for months now, but it takes more than that to erase years of mistrust. He would feel better if he’d seen the location beforehand. Would feel better if he’d sat in on Marty’s conversation with Potty. All Patterson knows is that the conversation happened, and Potty is going to be there.

  They’re in the car together. Griffiths driving, Patterson in the passenger seat, Summers in the back. The usual silence that comes before a big job. They’re all familiar with it. They’ve all done big jobs in their lives. They’ve all learned that the time to ask questions has passed. If there was something you wanted to say, you’ve missed your chance. Summers wanted to suggest taking guns, even though he knew it would be refused by the other two. Griffiths wanted to know more about who Potty would take with him. He always has someone with him, even if it’s only his driver. Doesn’t want to walk into an ambush. This could be a good chance for Potty to decapitate Patterson’s business. But they didn’t ask before the journey began, and now they never will.

  Griffiths knows the area, says he knows where the pub is. These moments, you start to doubt everyone. The last couple of minutes before you reach the destination. Can you trust Marty? Can you even trust Griffiths and Summers? People who have given you no reason not to trust them. That’s the nature of the business. People give you no reason to doubt them, and then promptly let you down. It’s what a good set-up looks like.

  ‘That’s it, up there on the left,’ Griffiths is saying. Slowing down the car before he needs to. Buying Patterson a few seconds to take in the scene.

  Not much to look at. A lot of small buildings seemingly scattered at random. Less a street than an accident of bad planning with a road through it. The pub is a small, flat, single-storey building. Even by the standards of this street, its architect was one lazy, talentless bastard. Patterson’s shaking his head. What a terrible place to build a pub. Who the hell would drink there? Nobody, and it doesn’t matter a jot. Currie’s bought it to pretend that people are drinking there. Helps him explain his earnings.

  There are three cars parked out on the street. One will belong to Marty. One will belong to Potty. The plan was that Potty should get there first. Get him into the building before he knows Patterson’s going to be there. Stop him getting spooked. That’s what Marty said. The third car? Marty said he was going to bring some people of his own, but surely not two carfuls of them.

  ‘Pull up behind them,’ Patterson’s saying. They’ve come this far. Spent months cultivating the relationship with Marty. He’s put his eggs in this basket. Has to go for it now.

  They’re getting out of the car. Griffiths making a little noise and then nodding to the car in front when Patterson looks across. There’s someone inside. Patterson’s on the pavement now, ducking slightly to look into the car. Summers is doing the same thing, neither of them acting with the kind of subtlety they ought to pride themselves on. The driver is sitting in the car. Looking straight ahead. Looking bored. Making every effort not to look at the people who have just turned up. He knows better than that. Potty’s driver. Has to be. A man experienced enough to know that you don’t stare back at men like Billy Patterson and Mikey Summers.

  The three of them are stopping outside the front door of the pub. No reason. Just seems like a smart idea to stop for a second, gather breath, and prepare yourself. Patterson’s turning and nodding to the two men behind him, and pulling open the door. The three of them disappearing inside.

  It’s not a big place. And it’s not glamorous. Dingy, cold and unwelcoming. To be fair, it’s been shut for six months, although it doesn’t look much worse than it did when it was open. The bar directly in front of you. Tables to the left of the room. Stained benches under the stained window opposite the bar and beside the door. The kind of benches a hygienic person steers clear of.

  Not that the layout or the decor matters to Patterson. It’s the people. Two large men sitting on stools at the bar. Both staring at the door, obviously waiting for the new arrivals. Another large man standing in front of the benches. Patterson doesn’t recognize any of them. Sitting at a table, off to the left, are the two men he does recognize. Marty Jones and Potty Cruickshank. Sitting side by side behind a table, their chairs facing the door. Both waiting for Patterson. Both looking rather pleased with themselves.

  ‘Billy,’ Marty is saying loudly, ‘come over and join the conversation.’

  The invitation was to Patterson alone. Implied, an order for Griffiths and Summers to stay where they are. Show no hesitation. This was always supposed to be part of the plan. There’s
nothing here he ought to be concerned about. Unless some of these men belong to Potty. Then he has a lot to be worried about. That smile on Potty’s flushed face is worthy of concern.

  Patterson’s across and pulling up a chair at the table. Sitting facing both men. Potty looks smug, as per usual. The biggest man in the collection business, pun intended, who didn’t have to earn any of it. Was handed to him on a plate by his uncle. He looks comfortable where he is right now. Sitting next to Marty and opposite Patterson. Marty, he looks a little different. He has the ebullient, playful look of the young playboy. The look he used to have a lot. The look of a man playing a game he wrote the rules to. The look that had disappeared these last few months.

  ‘Well, this is a good opportunity, wouldn’t you both say?’ Marty’s saying. All the enthusiasm he can muster. ‘Let’s talk business. Billy, why don’t you start?’

  That got a glance from Potty. Wasn’t expecting Patterson to get the first go at this, but that’s okay. Marty’s been the perfect host since Potty arrived. Made it very clear that tonight they will wipe Patterson and his best boys from the equation. Let him have his little moment first.

  ‘You killed Alan Bavidge,’ Patterson’s saying to Potty. Got caught on the hop by Marty. Wasn’t expecting to be thrown in quite like this. Should have had something smarter to say.

  ‘Perhaps I did,’ Potty’s saying. The fat man’s sweating, but he still looks relaxed. ‘You understand the nature of this business, Billy. Sometimes these things have to be.’ Smiling, like he knows the words coming out of his mouth are bullshit. Like he knows it doesn’t matter.

  ‘The only thing that will pay for that is a 100-per-cent cut of your business,’ Patterson’s saying. No idea if he’s on solid ground here or not. Glanced briefly at Marty before he said it, but Marty was looking happily at Potty. Marty might be about to chuck him under a bus. Cut a better deal with Potty. That’s what it feels like. If those guys behind him belong to Potty. Jesus, this could be it. His last words could be idiot bluster.

  Potty’s laughing. ‘A 100-per-cent cut, is it? That is terrific. Is that all you’re looking for? Well, you should have asked sooner. Ha, that’s terrific. Why don’t I give you my firstborn as well, eh? Young man, you are in for one nasty surprise.’

  Potty’s turning to look at Marty. Looking into the smiling face of Marty Jones. Marty raising his eyebrows slightly as he realizes both men are looking at him. Marty turning his head and looking at Patterson, still smiling happily.

  ‘Surprises. Yeah. Thing is, Potty . . . You don’t mind if I call you Potty, do you? Thing is, you did have his man killed. A good man, by all accounts. Did you no harm. That’s what I heard, anyway.’

  Potty’s laughing again, but he can’t hide the nerves this time. The mood with Marty was so positive when he arrived. They chatted, they joked around. Marty still has that smile on his face. But there’s something more sinister there now. He isn’t laughing with Potty. He’s laughing at him.

  ‘Well, now, hold on,’ Potty’s saying, trying to meet Marty’s smile with one of his own. This might be some sort of game of Marty’s. Lulling Patterson in. ‘The business is the business. These things have to be done.’ Turning now to face Patterson. ‘I apologize for your loss.’ Said with such sarcasm. Then looking back to Marty, who isn’t smiling now at all.

  Marty’s shaking his head. A quick glance over Patterson’s shoulder at the men there, then looking back at Potty. ‘I don’t think sorry is going to be enough,’ Marty’s saying. ‘See, we have a problem here. Three people. That’s one too many. We need to reduce the numbers. Better for the industry as a whole if we do. I need someone who can take over my books while I focus on other things. Someone I can trust.’ Trailing off and looking back and forth between Patterson and Potty.

  Now Marty’s laughing. Laughing enough to unsettle both Potty and Patterson. Both are looking at him, waiting for some explanation. Marty’s getting serious now. This is fun for him. This position of power. He worked so long and so hard to get here. These two will never appreciate that. They both think he played his way to power. They’ll never appreciate the shit he had to wade through. The bodies he had to climb over. Done a lot of things he’s working hard to forget, and they’ll never respect that. Oh well.

  ‘There’s a problem, Potty. A serious one. A lot of people don’t like you. See, it’s not just Billy here. He has every reason not to like you. Getting someone to kill his mate like that. That was too much. But other people don’t like you either. Other people see you as part of the old guard. They don’t like the old guard. Complacent old men who held everyone else back. Our organization has to show that it’s still fresh. We got to make people see that we’re the future. Sorry, big man, but you don’t belong in the future.’

  Marty’s getting up from his seat. Nodding to Patterson to follow him. They’re both walking across the floor of the pub towards the door. Neither man looking back at Potty. The large man sitting on the small chair at the table. Not moving an inch. Watching them go. Watching as the two men who had been sitting at the bar move to block the exit. Potty watching them. Knowing this is the end for him.

  Marty’s politely holding the door open for Patterson, Griffiths, Summers and the guy who had been standing at the benches. Out onto the pavement. The guy from the benches is getting into the passenger seat of Potty’s car.

  ‘Don’t worry about the driver,’ Marty’s saying to Patterson. ‘He’s bought and paid for.’

  Two men are getting out of a car that wasn’t here when Patterson went in. One he doesn’t immediately recognize. Late thirties, maybe early forties. That’s a guess. That fellow’s looking at the ground as he walks silently past them and into the pub. That’s when the penny drops. Russell Conrad, freelance gunman. The bigger one behind him Patterson recognized instantly. That was Nate Colgan. Patterson’s watching him go in. A few seconds after the door closes behind them, it opens again. The two men from the bar make their way out and over to the extra car. Colgan and Conrad must be the kill squad. No one else required.

  ‘You could have warned me about the performance,’ Patterson’s saying quietly.

  Griffiths and Summers are making their way back to the car, mumbling to each other. If you listen carefully, you can just hear Griffiths use the words ‘fucking heart attack’, but you’d have to be listening carefully. Doesn’t want Marty to hear him complain.

  ‘Yeah,’ Marty’s saying. ‘I guess. But you didn’t really think I would ditch you for him, did you? That reptile? The one who just went to Alex MacArthur for support?’

  Patterson’s shrugging. ‘It’s an unpredictable business.’

  Marty’s laughing. ‘It is that. We need to get together and discuss you taking control of my books. Not like they’re all that huge, but still, best to be prepared. You might want to take one or two staff of mine on board as well. Although there’s a few you can ditch. Good opportunity to clear out the shit. Have to move fast to grab some of Potty’s business as well.’

  He’s about to say more when his phone starts to ring. Taking it out of his pocket and looking at it. Frowning as he sees the name on the screen. ‘I better take this. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, set a time for the meeting.’ Taking a few steps the other way up the street and answering the phone. A private conversation.

  Patterson’s made his way back to the car. Dropping into the passenger seat. Griffiths is starting the car, pulling out. Potty’s car has gone, Marty’s muscle are pulling away. Three men exhale at once, and then laugh a little. Tension making its happy departure.

  ‘That was a bit more drama than it needed to be,’ Griffiths is saying.

  ‘It was,’ Patterson’s agreeing. But they got what they wanted. A deal with Marty that makes them the only collection business in the Jamieson organization. With Potty gone, they’re very close to being the biggest in the city. But it’s more than that. It’s revenge for Alan. ‘It was worth it though,’ Patterson’s saying quietly.

  10
>
  Instinct has carried Glass this far. No reason to rely on anything else now. There are a few places he could go, but he’s settled on Mark Garvey. Nobody likes Garvey. A complete bastard and an absolute show-off, but he’s the one Glass is going to. Not sure why, but instinct tells him that Garvey will take two hundred quid. Can’t think of anyone else who would sell to him at low price.

  It’s not as though Glass knows a lot of places he could go for help. Spikey Tokely for one. But Spikey wouldn’t help him for two hundred quid. Might not help him at all. You go to the person you’re sure is willing to give you a hand. Someone who won’t apply any standards to their sales, so long as the money is paid.

  He’s been walking for longer than he thought. Feels like hours, but it probably isn’t. Lost track of time ages ago. Sitting in that pub. It’s getting dark now. Must be early evening, he figures. Time doesn’t matter. Just distance that matters. He’s got a lot more walking to do, and the backs of his legs are already beginning to hurt. He’s not used to this much effort. He’d rather be back at the flat, warm under the covers in bed. But that’s not an option now.

  That life, it’s gone. All of it. You can’t just take Ella out of his life and expect him to keep living the rest of it as normal. Doesn’t work that way. In Glass’s mind, all of it was tied together. One part of it falls, it all falls. Ella, the flat, the life. He’ll never go back to any of it. Couldn’t bring himself to. It’s all gone now, and he has to move on. Has to move on by cutting all those ties to that life.

  That’s what he’s doing now. Yeah, he’s a bit drunk, so it sounds much nobler to him. But he knows it has to happen. What he’s going to do tonight has to be done. Otherwise this follows him for the rest of his life, however long that happens to be.

  He’s nearly there now, which is a relief. He’s feeling the tiredness of too little sleep and too much effort. He won’t rest though. If he stops to rest, he won’t start again. He knows that. Knows he’s too much of a coward to motivate himself a second time. Now or never, as they say. So he’s pushing on. Onto the right street. Knowing which house it is. Everyone knows where Mark Garvey lives, and what he sells from that house. As long as Garvey hasn’t moved, he’ll be okay. Now he remembers who pointed out Garvey’s house to him. Told him it might be useful one day. Oliver Peterkinney. One of the last times they hung out together. That wasn’t long after Peterkinney started working for Roy Bowles. Man, that feels like a long time ago now.