His next stop was to a double-glazing outlet he spotted on the way over to Dimitri’s. Just in the front door was a stand with a display of brochures. He flicked through them deciding which was going to be best for his cover. He spotted one that was about alarm systems. Picked up half a dozen and placed them in his folder. As he was leaving, a young salesman approached him. He was wearing a white shirt and blue and red striped tie. The knot on his tie was smaller than the Adam’s apple thrusting from the boy’s throat like a mini-alp.
‘You swallow a chunk of Toblerone, buddy?’ Kenny asked.
The boy looked puzzled, decided it might be best to ignore the question and waded in. ‘We have some special offers this week, sir. Four windows for the price of three and we’ll throw in a door for only two hundred quid.’
‘Nah, no thanks, buddy,’ said Kenny. ‘I live in caravan.’ He walked away, chuckling at the salesman’s confused expression.
When he arrived back at Tommy Hunt’s house, instead of parking out front again, he swooped into the drive and took the space that Hunt had vacated earlier. Nothing attracts attention more than someone with body language that suggests they want to be invisible. Send out the message that you really don’t care who sees you – that you belong – and you become as good as invisible.
Kenny carried the blue folder in front of him, making sure it was evident. He walked to the door and knocked on it. He waited. Then he knocked again. He stepped back and scratched his head, hoping this performance was enough for anybody who might be watching.
Scrunching over the gravel, he walked over to a window and peered in. Again he scratched his head.
Back to the door. He twisted the handle and pushed. It was locked and solid. Worth a try, he thought. You never knew when people might be careless.
He stepped back from the door and opened up his folder. He wrote on his paper, Big fucking door. Grinned at his wit and moved over to the window. He stared up at the alarm box and pretended to take more notes. Wrote, Yeah right.
Walking round the house, the rear presented him with some good news. The garden was fully enclosed and bordered with large trees. Nobody could see him.
He tried the back door. Just in case. It was locked, but on the ground beside it was a group of stones and a flowerpot bursting with blooms.
No, thought Kenny, it couldn’t be that easy. He picked up the stones one by one, judging their weight. The third one was much lighter. He held it up to the light, twisted and turned it until a secret compartment opened. Inside was a nice shiny key.
What a stupid arse, thought Kenny. All that money and a security system a child could get through. He unlocked the door and stepped into a large kitchen. Cupboards washed in mint green lined the walls, flanking the usual white goods and in the middle of the floor sat a large pine table and six matching chairs.
For a single guy, the place was spotless. Rounding that piece of information up, Kenny was certain Hunt had a cleaner. Or even a pair of cleaners for a place as large as this. He sent a prayer to the god of house-breakers that today wasn’t their day for a visit.
The kitchen led into a large wood-panelled hall with four doors leading off it. Two of the doors were closed. He peeked into the open room. It was a lounge, carpeted in a thick dark covering and bearing two giant, white leather sofas. A bay window looked out onto the street and he held back from entering in case he was visible to anyone passing. From this vantage point it didn’t look like there was anything worth seeing anyway.
Another door led to a room at the back of the house. This room was smaller and large drapes minimised the light from the window. A bookcase sat against the far wall. Another wall was filled with a giant TV screen and in the middle of the floor, facing the screen sat a pair of leather lazy-boys.
So this was where Hunt would spend his spare time, Kenny reckoned. He sat on the nearest chair. Nice. Deeply comfortable. The arm held a cluster of remote controls. He switched on the TV first. Then he judged which one might be for the DVD player and pressed play. A blonde woman with unfeasibly large, naked breasts filled the screen. She moaned and held one of her breasts to her mouth and licked at her nipple. Kenny clicked on to the next scene. The same blonde had a man between her legs. He was shirtless but wearing a pair of jeans, and Kenny could see that she was wearing a pair of panties. The man arched his back as if he was in the throes of some deep and wonderful passion. Through three layers of clothing? This guy must have been locked in a cell for the last twenty years. For fuck’s sake, thought Kenny. Even the man’s porn stash was boring.
He stepped over to the bookcase to see if it gave him any other clues to the man who owned this house. There was a set of leather-bound encyclopaedias, which looked like they’d never been opened. Another row of spines displayed the names of sporting greats like Ali, Best and Schumacher.
On top rested the only two books that looked as if they might have actually been read. One was Dreams of My Father by Barack Obama. The other was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. There’s a surprise, thought Kenny. Who hasn’t read those two books? Not very original is our man Hunt.
Up a wide and easy oak staircase, Kenny arrived at landing with five doors leading off it. The first three doors were bedrooms, all well appointed, but looking as lived in as they might have done the minute the decorators tidied up after themselves.
Kenny looked behind paintings, opened drawers and looked under beds. He worked through Hunt’s sock drawer and looked in the pockets of all his suits, hanging in a row in his wardrobe. Everything had its place and looked like it was rarely moved from it. He was struck by the thought that this wasn’t a home. It was a beautifully set up waiting room. Kenny couldn’t help but feel that if you were to find a way to remove Tommy Hunt from his work, the man would simply curl up into a ball and die.
The fourth door he opened led to a study. A wide desk with a small column of three drawers at the side. The first one Kenny tried was locked. So was the next. One by one he tried them all. Every one was locked. Old school, thought Kenny.
The drawers called to him. They must be hiding something worth checking out. Jimmying them open would be the work of seconds, but might be easily discovered.
Deciding the risk was worth it, Kenny ran back downstairs for something that might be useful. In a kitchen drawer he found a set of screwdrivers. He chose the longest, thinnest one and ran back up to the study.
An old mate had given him a lesson years ago and as he sat on the leather seat at the desk, he hoped that the lesson had stuck. His friend’s words sounded in his ears.
‘Actually all that needs to happen is if you put something thin enough in the lock and strike upward against the tumblers then when the tumblers go up and stay up it’s much easier to open the lock then you think. The only thing that makes it tricky is applying torque to the hole right where the key usually enters. Torquing the outer hole allows the tumblers to stay up, and once the tumblers are jabbed up with your object they will stay in place and the inner lock mechanism will give way. That’s basically…’ his mate sniffed ‘…the secret.’
The top drawer on the right held a pile of business cards, a ruler, some small coins and an empty wallet. Next, he tried the top drawer on the left. Pulled out a black, leatherbound A4 notepad and black pen. Flicking through the pages, he stopped when he spotted his own name. Written beside it, in it has to be said a very neat script, was Liam Devlin’s name and mobile number. Under that some bullet-points.
Streetwise.
Self-made.
Trains in mixed martial arts.
No wife or kids.
Mother dead. Suicide? Father disappeared. Wider family – Colin, Violet and cousin Ian.
Kenny read the list several times. The man had been doing his research in advance of his meeting with him. Why was Liam involved? Did Hunt get the information from him?
Something niggled. He read it again. The ques
tion mark after the word ‘suicide’. What the hell was that about?
Not sure if he’d learned anything of importance, Kenny left the house, locked the back door and returned the key to its hiding place.
As he walked back to the front of the house, he heard someone walking across the gravel from the direction he was heading. He stopped. Looked back at the house. Did he have time to pluck out the key, get back in and hide? Not a chance.
He surveyed the garden. Was there a tree close enough for him to hide behind?
The footsteps were getting closer. He could hear a tune. The person was relaxed, humming a song. It’s Raining Men. Sounded female. She rounded the corner. Brassy blonde hair piled on top of her head, dead-on five feet tall, blue pinny, black leggings. Her torso was solid and chunky like a postbox, her legs spindly like a heron’s.
She stopped as soon as she saw him, hand over her heart. Kenny decided to brass it out. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Mr Hunt’s housekeeper.’ She recovered quickly. ‘Who the hell are you?’
He held his blue folder in front of him, by way of explanation. ‘Excellent,’ he said and smiled like she was his favourite ever customer. He strode towards her. ‘Keep Safe Alarms Ltd. I had an appointment with Mr Hunt.’ He stood beside her. Opened his folder to let her see his scribbles, but not long enough for her to read them. ‘But he didn’t show, so I thought I’d take a look around, measure up the place. Look for weak points in his security system.’
‘Weak points?’ she asked incredulously. ‘It’s a pure wonder there’s no a line of junkies like them army ants, punting every last piece of gear out his house.’
‘Well, here’s a leaflet, honey.’ Kenny handed her one that he’d picked up from the double glazing shop earlier. ‘I’ll get my preliminary report to Mr Hunt by the end of the week.’ He studied her face for a moment. She glowed under his scrutiny, like she rarely had men this interested.
‘Are you ever in The Academy?’
‘Me? No.’ She pushed at her hair.
‘I’ve not seen you on the dancefloor, shaking your stuff?’
‘Well, I have been known to...’
‘All woman,’ said Kenny, walking past her towards his car. ‘You have a good day, sweetheart.’ Better not overdo it, he thought and dimmed his smile a little.
Last he saw her, she was standing at the corner of the house, her hip stuck out to the side like an invitation and her hand waving him away like he was a visiting dignitary.
• • •
As he drove back to Dimitri’s, he reviewed the evidence. What had he learned? Next to nothing. What did he expect? A big sign somewhere saying that Tommy Hunt was a Bad Man and Not to Be Trusted?
Not going to happen.
He expected to find some clues though, not an absence of anything that most people would call a life. The whole building was beautifully sterile. What manner of man lives like that?
Then it occurred to him that something else was missing from the house. Photographs. He hadn’t spotted one throughout the whole house. Hunt was supposedly a grieving husband and father yet there wasn’t any visual reminders of those he had lost.
Was he so controlling of his feelings that he wouldn’t allow himself a moment to reflect? Whatever the reason, it intrigued Kenny. It all pointed to a man who was emotionally bereft. Could a man like that run a business empire that included a stable of prostitutes?
Kenny drove back to his flat deep in thought. Managed to find a parking space about a hundred yards from his door and still working his thoughts for clues as to the machinations of Tommy Hunt.
Having already been attacked in the last few days, he was on high alert for any danger so when a man barred his path he automatically adopted a pose that would give him the greatest range of possible movement.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Kenny relaxed a little at the apology and looked at the man in front of him. He was a trim, weather-beaten five ten or eleven. His hair was down to his shoulders and woven with grey stripes. He had a row of white, even teeth winking out from behind a full beard. The smile may have been full but the eyes were hesitant.
‘Hello, Kenny,’ the man said, hands buried deep in his pockets, displaying more than a hint of nerves. ‘It’s me. Dad.’
46
Mason watched O’Neill as he strode out for his morning jog and thought to himself, what a colossal waste of fucking time. Wouldn’t catch him running unless his dick was tied to a galloping horse. He waited until the man returned and left again just ten minutes later, all showered and changed, bless him. Away he drove, searching for the proverbial needle.
Budge knew that O’Neill was hunting for him; he also knew that no one was about to spill. They knew better. He waited. Budge was good at waiting. One hour. Two hours.
It was approaching noon when he dialled a number on his mobile phone.
A voice answered fearfully. ‘Hello?’
‘Report,’ he said.
‘I have nothing for you,’ Alexis said. She was controlling herself well but he could taste the fear in her voice.
‘C’mon, sweetheart. Two minutes and I could be at your front door.’
‘I have a friend with me,’ she said. ‘Now is not a good time.’
‘It never is, babycakes. Nonetheless, I’m sure I could persuade you otherwise.’
‘Please, Mason. You already know everything.’
‘I very much doubt it. Where has your fella driven off to today?’
‘He has a business meeting.’
‘With whom?’
‘I dunno. He doesn’t spill out the entire contents of his life and diary to me,’ Alexis whispered into her phone.
‘Why not? I thought that was your fucking job, lady.’
Silence.
‘Give me something else, no matter how trivial it might seem, Alexis, or I’ll be up in that flat and showing you and your bouncer boy what a good time Budge-style looks like.’
‘He had a phone call the other night. A woman. She asked if he looked like his father.’
‘Mmmm, that’s a great big so-fucking-what. I’m on my...’
‘He was also talking about his family last night. His Aunt Vi. Said she had an affair with his father years ago...’
‘On my way.’
‘No. He also said that his aunt is seriously ill and she confessed that her son, Ian, might be his half-brother.’
‘Interesting,’ said Budge. ‘Not sure what I can do with it, but yes... interesting.’ He could work with that. He needed to keep O’Neill continuously on edge. Never letting him settle. One nightmare situation after the other. He’d need to pay little Aunt Vi another visit. The little typed note he left for her just after O’Neill’s birthday set the whole thing off perfectly.
He paused in his thoughts as a familiar car drove by and parked further down the street. Without notice, he closed his phone and his conversation with Alexis.
He watched as the driver climbed out of his car and walked towards the entrance of his flat. A man approached the driver. An older man. There was something familiar about him. The two men spoke. The older man held out a hand. O’Neill refused it.
The clues all clanged together like a peal of church bells and Budge could only think of one word that appealed in this particular situation.
Bingo.
47
They were in a pub. The older man baulked at the idea of going for a coffee.
‘What, are you a fucking poof?’ was his reply when Kenny suggested it.
‘This is twenty-first century Glasgow. Coffee is the new booze.’ Kenny almost finished his sentence with the word ‘Dad’ but it froze on his tongue like a lump of phlegm.
‘You’re talking pish, son. Coffee will never replace booze in this city.
Never.’
Kenny thought about it some and decided his father was correct. He was talking pish. They walked in silence towards the nearest bar, which took up a corner position at the end of the street. Kenny walked beside his father, his gaze fixed ahead of him, but from time to time he would turn and examine the older man and measure him against the memories he had stored. His mind was also racing, wondering what had eventually forced his father out of hiding. It must have been his advert, surely?
Peter O’Neill hadn’t changed much. Apart from the woodsman look he was sporting, and a few lines, he looked pretty much the same man. Each time he looked up, his father was waiting for his glance and met it with a small smile. A smile that said, I can take whatever you throw at me – I deserve it.
When they reached the outside of the bar, Peter pushed the door open and, walking in first, he held it open for Kenny to follow.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ll have a bottle of Stella Artois,’ Kenny replied.
‘Christ, one of those wanky designer beers...’
‘If you’re here looking to mend bridges, let me give you a few hints...’
‘Sorry,’ Peter said. ‘Please. Take a seat and I’ll bring the drinks over.’
By habit, Kenny took a seat with a central position in the bar. He could see down each side of the room and he could see everyone who came in the door.
‘Good seat,’ said Peter when he returned with two bottles of Stella. Kenny raised an eyebrow.
‘If you cannae beat them,’ Peter said and raised his bottle in greeting. Kenny resisted the social urge to clink bottles and offer the universal ‘Cheers’. It was going to take more of an effort than the simple purchase of the same beer to get Kenny on side.
They faced each other across the table. Neither man spoke for long moments, as if questions were coin and the recession was a long way from over.
Kenny looked around the pub. It was busy. Groups of young men, young women, couples clustered around the room. Each one of them appearing certain of their place in the world. The noise of the chatter was a brightness in the room. It held the humour that Glasgow was famous for.
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