by Jay Stringer
Gilbert turned and walked towards the brick wall at the base of the bridge, further out of sight from passers-by. Lambert followed.
‘So, who the hell ordered the hit?’ Lambert asked.
Gilbert stayed silent. No point answering if he didn’t know. They both stayed quiet while a couple of joggers moved by. One was in good shape, pumping away at a steady pace; the other was slow and fat, wobbling from side to side and breathing like a heart attack on legs. Then a cyclist came in the other direction, coasting along the path while checking something on his phone. Lambert almost flagged him down on principle. There was a junkie-looking guy further up the path, heading their way, but he had no real speed to his walk and exhibited the lazy shakes of a guy who got too high once and never came down again.
‘I’m not really sure we should care,’ said Gilbert. ‘We’ve got bigger issues to worry about, and if someone wants to take out Mackie, they’re helping us. All we need to figure out is how to deal with the mess. I’ve not told the washer lady about it yet, trying to keep it locked down. I’ve got Nick ready to go in and clean it up as soon as we know which way you want to play it.’
‘It brought Mackie into play. He’s asking around now because of that, and I’m guessing he knows his uncle has gone, maybe went to the flat and saw the mess we made of the dog?’
‘Yup.’
‘Great. There’s someone else too. The PI. Sam Ireland. Yeah, Jim’s girl. She’s been hired by some law firm to deliver papers to Rab, so between Mackie and Sam we now have to get the loose ends tied up a lot quicker.’
‘Here, you, big man.’ The junkie had drawn level with them. He stepped in close to Gilbert. Lambert could feel his bad breath. ‘Giz yer fuckin’ wallet or I’ll fuckin’ chib ye.’
Lambert and Gilbert both turned to give the guy the stink eye and said in unison, ‘Fuck off.’
Junkie hadn’t factored this into his plan. In truth, he didn’t look like he’d factored much of anything into his plan. He nodded and looked down at his feet, but didn’t move. After a few seconds, Lambert and Gilbert both decided to ignore that he was still there, and fell back into conversation.
‘It would be good for business if we could clean all this up with no further damage,’ said Gilbert. ‘But to be honest, I have a bad feeling.’
Before Lambert could answer, the junkie started again.
‘I’m fuckin’ serious, by the way. See this?’ He hand was in the front pocket of his tracksuit jacket. He raised it, with his finger pointed through the material, trying to make it look like a gun. ‘Stand and deliver, pal.’
‘Is that finger loaded?’ Gilbert said. Then, with more venom, ‘Look, we said no. Fuck off.’
Lambert pulled his wallet out of his inside pocket. The junkie’s eyes lit up for a second until Lambert opened it and showed his warrant card. Lambert then waved the guy away and turned back to Gilbert.
The junkie started to walk off, then stopped.
‘ ’Scuse me, pal.’ He was all polite. Like he hadn’t tried to hold them up with a finger. ‘Could I borrow a pound for the bus home?’
Lambert rolled his eyes and fished some change out of his pocket, throwing it at the guy. The money hit the ground and rolled off in different directions, sending the junkie crawling after each coin.
When Lambert turned back to start the conversation again, Gilbert was staring into his eyes. ‘You don’t look right. What’re you on—speed? Coke? Are we going to have a problem here?’
Lambert stepped in close, getting in Gilbert’s face.
‘You putting this mess onto me, making out I’m the liability? Whole reason we had to move on Rab so fast was because—’
‘I know. I know.’ Gilbert put his hands out in a peacekeeping gesture. ‘I started it. Let’s not get each other wound up over this. We’ve made a mess, but we can get it fixed. What do you want to do about the Copland Road house? I’ve been sitting on it in case you wanted to use it. Maybe we let the cops find it, and you can use that as a way to get Mackie, arrest him for the crime.’
‘Too messy, too reliant on chance.’ Lambert shook his head. He was playing it cool but wanted to smile—he’d found a way to push the dirty work onto someone else. ‘Last thing we want is to bring the law anywhere near a member of Rab’s family right now. We just want Mackie dead, no fuss. You got someone can do that?’
‘Sure. Easy. Once we find him. Won’t take long, he’s making so much noise. What about you, what you doing?’
‘I need to keep watch of Sam, make sure she stays out of trouble. We can honour the thing with her dad as long as she stays away. I took a peek at the legal papers too. I might go see the law firm and find out what their angle is.’
Lambert started walking away.
‘Get some sleep,’ Gilbert called after him.
‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’
Nineteen
Sam
I took a quick shower and changed into my running gear. I was all about the branding for most of my running kit. Black Adidas Sequencials shorts and a Supernova racer bra from the same company, usually in purple. It was really too hot for a top, but I’d never been comfortable running without one—I felt exposed. I wore a light zip hoodie over the bra. The only break in my style was my trainers. I’d tried all manner of expensive running shoes, even the fashionable natural ones that everyone raved about, but I kept coming back to the same broken-down old pair that I’d first started running in when I went to university.
Running hadn’t been part of my life until then. I caught the bug in my first semester and bought the cheapest and ugliest pair of trainers I could find, so that I wouldn’t feel like I’d lost anything if I only ever went for the one run. Even now, almost four years later, these were the only pair I felt comfortable in. And they were almost falling apart. I’d decided it was insurance. There was no way any harm could come to me while I was out running, because it would be just too embarrassing to be found dead in them.
I was going to need a shower again once I was done, so the first one wasn’t really necessary, but it was better than running around with the smell of sex all over me. I crossed the road to Glasgow Green and then started running. Jogging at first, taking a slow pace, easing into it alongside the river. I’d not been running often enough lately, and I could feel it. My thighs were tight and I was very aware of what my arms were doing, that self-consciousness that dropped away when you ran often. First I tried to ignore my arms. Then I tried pumping them in time with my stride, but then what did you do with your hands?
Open fist? Closed fist? Tom Cruise-style karate chop?
I got impatient and stepped up the pace, heading into a full run, and pushed myself more than I should have. I lasted half a mile before my lungs were screaming for me to stop. I leant against the railing beside the river and coughed, letting my body take its revenge on me before I sucked in some air and started calming down.
Why was I angry?
Was it because of Andy?
I knew he was married and also that he was trouble.
But I’d been hung over, and then high from what had happened at the Pit, all those juices pumping around my body. There are two ways to work all of that out of my system: sex or running. I’d decided on both. Andy was okay at it. He was selfish and a bit repetitive, but he liked to go slow. He was one of those guys who must have watched a lot of porn before ever having sex, so he talked all the way through like a porno star. While you were with him you were his baby, and everything needed to be oh yeah, just like that. Fortunately, given his age, it must have been porn from the late eighties and early nineties, so his expectations weren’t as way off as younger guys. He wasn’t expecting silicone and bits that didn’t move. He wasn’t expecting a million and one different positions on the way to getting the job done. But I’d been with Andy before, so that wouldn’t be enough to get me pissed at myself. Plus, I’
d left the flat without my keys, and if you wanted someone to break and enter for you, a cop was usually the best option.
It was because of amateur hour at the Pit.
I couldn’t imagine my father had ever pulled such a stupid stunt. But then, maybe he hadn’t needed backup. When he walked into a room, people took notice.
With my head cleared, I started running again. I did it the right way this time, keeping my pace even, pushing myself just enough to feel it. I ran around the opposite edge of the Green, turning back towards my flat and passing by Doulton Fountain as a busload of tourists piled out to take pictures.
Back at the flat I stripped down and took another quick shower. My third of the day. Maybe I was going for a record. I got dressed in a shirt and jeans and started planning what to do next. Enough of the amateur crap. I was going to do this one right.
I still had Rab’s address on the folded piece of paper Andy had given me. First I needed to put in the research. I knew of Rab by reputation, but that wasn’t good enough. My dad always said a reputation is only enough to get you a beating. I booted up the computer and typed Rab Anderson into the search engine. The hits threatened to overload my tired old machine. I flicked through news stories and book reviews, a few video features on local websites and a whole lot of grainy videos on YouTube: people meeting him in bars and at book signings; or Rab drunk in bars, singing football songs. Then I saw the most recent news hits. Rab had signed a new book deal. The book was to be called Firestarter and was going out through a national publisher, not one of the smaller local ones he’d been with before. This seemed to be major news, and there were a lot of blogs arguing that his books shouldn’t be published and that criminals shouldn’t be allowed to profit from their past, through film and book deals. I checked the news report again, and it gave the book’s publication date as being this month, but when I checked Amazon I saw the pre-order option for the book had no date listed.
Interesting.
Had Rab missed the deadline?
I fished in my bag for the legal paperwork that Fiona Hunter had given me. I wouldn’t have opened it myself, but since the asshole at the Pit had already done it, I felt entitled to read through the documents. The language was very dry, very prim and proper. Very legal. But I’d seen enough overdue payment demands in my life to know what this was. Rab hadn’t delivered on the contract, and the publisher wanted the advance back.
And if Rab no longer had the money, it was no surprise he was playing hard to get.
I dialled Phil’s number. It went through to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message and dialled again. Same result. On the third attempt he answered with a sound like a bear being pulled out of a coal mine.
‘You went back to bed, didn’t you?’
‘Well, I was up late last night.’ There was defensiveness in his voice. ‘There was a wrestling pay-per-view.’
‘Who won?’
‘Nobody good.’
I was going to ask if it was anyone I’d heard of, but I hadn’t watched wrestling since I was in my teens. And even then, I only knew the names of about three of them. I got straight to the point. ‘Suit up, Robin. I need a ride.’
‘You know, I don’t think Robin gets to drive the Batmobile. He’s a kid—it’s against the law even in America.’
‘I’m not well versed in this, but I’m pretty sure Batman is a vigilante, not known for obeying the law in his giant bat costume. He throws a boy into the middle of fights with psychopaths and killers—I’m sure he’ll let him behind the wheel of a car.’
‘True, okay. But even still. It’s Batman who drives the car. And Robin’s a girl right now, I think, so you know what that means?’
‘Not happening.’
‘Come on. You want this ride or not?’
I hissed at him down the phone. Then gave in. ‘Okay, Batman, come pick me up.’
Click.
Twenty
Phil pulled up outside my flat in his Ford Fiesta. He looked like he’d dressed in a hurry, with tracksuit bottoms and a large grey hoodie that was too heavy for the summer heat, but that’s how he always dressed. His face was creased with tiredness and a few days’ worth of stubble, and I could smell pot in the car.
Rab’s flat was in Cessnock, only a few minutes away from the Pit. After giving Phil the address, I leant back in the seat and waited for the snark, but it didn’t come. He sat in silence as he drove across the bridge and along Ballater Street.
‘Are you awake?’ I asked after a long pause.
‘I’m being silent and moody, like Batman.’
‘Right.’
‘Also I’m very tired, did I mention that?’
‘Okay.’
‘So what’s going on? Is this the job you took from the hotshot lawyers?’
‘Right. I’m looking for Rab Anderson. Yes, that one. Seems like he took a large advance from a publisher for a true crime book and never delivered the work, so they want him to stump up the book or the cash.’
‘Shit. I hope they’re paying good, because Anderson isn’t someone I’d really want to find.’
‘They are. Anyway. Andy gave me a lead, Rab’s address, so that’s where we’re going now.’
He thought this over for a moment. ‘So we turn up, ring the doorbell, say, “Hiya, Rab,” deliver the papers, then fuck off?’
There was no way it’d be that easy.
‘Hopefully, yes.’
We turned off Paisley Road West and onto Clifford Street, which looked like it ran to both cheap and expensive. Some of the red-brick tenement buildings were worn and faded, with overgrown yards and water-damaged doors. Others looked well kept, with newly fitted windows and clean curtains. The address on the slip of paper took me to a building that looked halfway between the two extremes. It was lived in but tidy. We parked directly outside, pulling in at a space at the kerb, and Phil led the way to the front door.
None of the names on the buzzer said ‘Anderson’, but the second one down was listed simply as ‘R.A.’. I guess you had to know what you were looking for. Phil pressed it, and we both waited. There was no reply.
‘Ach, well,’ Phil called out in a fake cheery voice, ‘he’s not in. Let’s go.’
My dad used to say that being a cop was great for learning how to break into a building, but then he’d start telling stories about the past, and I’d stop listening. I wished I’d let him teach me a few tricks. Instead, I pressed the buzzer again, then started pressing all the other buttons in turn.
On the third attempt I got a reply, someone who sounded bored and tired, like they didn’t give a shit who I was as long as I wasn’t looking for them. Tenement flats are great that way. So easy to get into as long as you present no hassle to the person you’re asking to let you in. I told the bored voice that I had a book delivery for Rab, and the door opened with an electronic buzz.
I climbed the stairs slowly, trying not to make enough noise to entice anyone out to check on me, and trod quietly past the door of the person who had let me in. Phil was less discreet, carrying the weight that he did. On the top floor we found Anderson’s flat, again with the simple initials on the sign next to the bell. The storm doors were open, showing just the main front door inside, a dark wooden job with a large pane of frosted glass in the top half.
The key was in the lock.
I rang the doorbell and waited for a moment as a precaution. Then I took a grip on the key and turned it slowly, trying to ease the mechanism open. The door swung inwards on a squeaky hinge.
The hall was simple and mostly bare. Dull green walls and laminate floor, with a radiator on the far wall, a telephone stand and four doors. The smell of bleach and soap covered male sweat and the unmistakable aroma of dog. The four doors led to a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. The rooms were all pretty sparse. In the kitchen I found an open tin of dog food, half of
the contents still inside, on the countertop next to the sink. The sink had a few traces of recent use. There was a pre-cooked curry defrosting in the fridge, alongside a six-pack of Tennent’s.
On the wall in the living room was a picture I assumed showed Anderson’s dog, a dopey-looking black and tan boxer with his knob hanging out. The dog was nowhere to be found. I noticed the mail piled up on the kitchen counter. Everyone dumps their letters somewhere, usually in the same spot each day. Over time a pile builds up that glares at you until you throw it all out, unread. But this pile was all addressed somewhere else, to a property nearby in Ibrox. Most of the letters had Anderson’s name on them, but a few were addressed to a woman, Neda Tenac.
There was a pile of loose change and another set of keys next to the mail. If Anderson was anything like me, then this was the spot he would empty his pockets out when he got home. So did he go out for the night without his keys and cash? I rattled the keys in my hand.
‘Why would he leave his keys in the door?’ Phil sounded nervous.
‘I went out without my keys today. Shit happens.’ I said. ‘But that’s not the question.’
‘What is?’
‘You ever read the Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that didn’t bark in the night-time? Rab has a dog. You can smell it, though someone has been doing a lot of cleaning in here with bleach.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
I nodded. ‘Someone’s trying hard to make-believe like everything’s normal, but all they’re doing is reminding us about the dog that isn’t barking. No dog, Rab’s keys, even this loose change. Something’s not right here.’ I felt a hunch building and decided to let myself follow through on it, be a real detective. ‘I don’t think Rab is going to turn up.’
