by Anna Smith
‘Did you know that cunt’s a nonce? A fucking kiddy-fiddler?’
Larry kept his expression impassive, but it wasn’t easy. He sipped his drink and put the glass on the table, feeling the whisky burn all the way down his gut. Of all the people he despised in the whole world, it was anyone who could look at or touch a kid in any kind of sexual way. They deserved to die, was Larry’s view – and not in a quick way. If he had his way, he would round up all the fucking child abusers and take a flame-thrower to the lot of them. He’d be doing the world a favour – no doubt about it. With every pervy bastard who died, it would be justice and payback for the memory of his best mate, Spider Willard, who’d taken his own life four years ago because he couldn’t escape the nightmare of what those monsters had done to him as a skinny little kid. Larry had met Spider in Borstal when they were doing their first detention at fifteen, and even then he could see there was something not right about him. There was a rage inside him, a real fucked-up rage that he couldn’t control. His temper was on such a short fuse that the slightest insult could send him into a frenzy of violence. Yet beneath it all was this really solid, lovable bloke, who would die rather than betray you. They’d become the best of mates and that had continued right through jail till they were eighteen. Later, when they were released, they were the young thrusters pushing their way round London, winning turf and getting respect.
One night when Spider had been blind drunk he’d broken down in tears and told him what had happened. He’d been serially abused from the age of ten by people in charge of his children’s home and others they’d passed him around to. He’d said he couldn’t get over it and that for years he’d wanted to die each morning when he woke up. By the time he was around sixteen, he’d decided to get on with his life, or what was left of it. Spider was heavily into uppers and downers. He needed them to sleep, he’d said, and then to wake up. Only Larry knew his secret. Then, one day, he didn’t wake up.
When Larry had broken into his flat late that afternoon, he’d found his best pal in a pool of blood, a handgun in his mouth. He’d shot himself and left a note. To say Larry was heartbroken couldn’t cover it. Spider was all he had and he loved him like a brother. Of course, life had to go on, but he never really got over it. With every deal Larry made, he used to go to Spider’s graveside and tell him how well they were doing. So he was always happy to take a hit on a pervert, and every time one got sent to prison, he’d get word to his mates inside, and justice was dealt out in the cells or the canteen. He instigated most of the brutal attacks on sex offenders in the Scrubs. It was one of the things he’d have put on his CV if he could. Mervyn fucking Bates.
‘Who told you this, Marty?’ Larry asked calmly.
‘Somebody very much in the know, Larry,’ Marty replied. ‘Listen, mate, you know I wouldn’t come to you with this if I didn’t know it was true. I’m only telling you because I know you deal with the cunt.’
‘You know fuck-all, Marty.’ Larry leaned across the table. ‘And you’d be wise to keep your fucking mouth shut about what you think you know.’
Marty put his hands up defensively and his face went suddenly pale. ‘Larry, man. For fuck sake! Do you think I’m going to be shouting about anything I been told about anybody? I only got told about it yesterday and my first thought was to let you know. Give you the chance to cut the fucker loose. Everyone knows how much you hate nonces.’
‘Who told you?’
‘It was a bird I’ve been shagging for a couple of weeks. Her cousin is in the showbiz side of things. Public relations or whatever crap they call it, but she knows Merv. She told him she’d heard things about him. That he was a pervert who used young girls, and has done for years. Pays for it all the time, and no cunt’s ever exposed it. Not even the papers.’
Larry said nothing, but inside he was shaking with rage. He’d only ever done one hit for Bates, and that was Bella Mason. He’d done it because the money was great, and plus the fact she was a wasted junkie, who would be dead before she was twenty-five anyway. If he hadn’t done it, someone else would have taken the job, knowing he’d knocked it back, and he couldn’t afford to have that kind of thing getting out. But the bigger problem was that he’d been supplying Mervyn Bates with coke for years. So much money had changed hands. Bates used to invite him to dinner and for nights out, but Larry had always kept his distance as he didn’t want to be going around with the pricks who surrounded showbiz. But this changed everything. He swallowed his whisky and put his hand over the glass when Marty offered a refill. Then he stood up.
‘Well, cheers for that, mate. It’s good to know who to watch your back for. I never liked that Merv anyway.’ He shook Marty’s hand, pulled on his Crombie and walked away, feeling Marty’s eyes burning his back all the way out of the bar.
*
Now Larry sat staring out of the window of his office three floors up, overlooking Brick Lane market. He had to get this into perspective. He didn’t have to like the people who hired him for a contract. Business was business. He couldn’t afford to get personal on every job. But this gave him the creeps. He had to do something.
He got up and left his office, coming down the stairs and out of the fire door into the side street where his driver had parked the Jag. As he got into the back, he punched in a phone number on his mobile.
*
Mitch had told Dan it’d take him an hour tops to nip across to Shettleston and pick up some more kit from the dealer. He knew Dan wasn’t happy about being left on his own, especially as Rosie had told them not to go out. But they were running low on smack and it was best to have some hash back-up. Sitting about, watching television, he and Dan had been in and out of a drug-induced stupor, feeling out of sorts at the loss of their usual routine: foraging to make enough cash. Dan hadn’t taken very much heroin, and said he was trying to to cut things back a bit. But Mitch knew that was easier said than done, and they didn’t want to wake in the morning, then have to go searching for gear. He made his way along the Shettleston Road and headed for the tenement block where his dealer was on the top floor.
There was a queue of the usual suspects in various stages of desperation. A couple of them were fighting on the stairway, and one skinny, grey-faced girl sat shivering on a step. Most of them would be pushing heroin themselves to pay their debts, so it was impossible for them to get out of the vicious circle. Mitch wanted to be in and out of the place quickly before it got dark. He had money in his pocket, so he pushed past everyone to the top of the stairs and eased his way in.
His dealer was busy in the kitchen sorting one of the junkies out with some tenner bags, and Mitch stood in the hallway. He saw Tam, the wee junkie from Govan, glance at him from across the kitchen, but he didn’t speak. It was Tam who’d told him some blokes were looking for Dan, but that was two days ago. Mitch nodded to him, but Tam turned away, then disappeared. He might have been on first-name terms with every smackhead in this place, but none of them were friends. That wasn’t how it worked.
Eventually Mitch caught his dealer’s eye and he motioned him over. The dealer sorted him out with three tenner bags and some hash and he handed over the money.
‘What’s this? Money? You not been on the rob this morning, Mitch?’ the dealer said, a fag dangling from between his lips as he spoke.
‘Nah, man. Did a wee bit of work for someone and made a couple of quid.’
His dealer gave him a sly look, then turned away. Their business was done.
Mitch went downstairs, past the two who were still brawling, and wove his way to the front door. Outside, it was already getting grey and he would have to step on it to get back to the flat quickly. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t noticed the big black jeep as he was going into the tenement and it wasn’t the kind of motor you saw in these parts. He spotted Tam, leaning in the window, then looking furtively over his shoulder and walking briskly away. Mitch felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.
The driver’s door opened. It was the
bleached-blond hair he saw first, and a chill ran through him. The passenger door opened and another guy, built like a bull, got out and looked straight at Mitch as he moved quickly around the car towards him. The blond bloke opened the back door of the car.
‘C’mere, son! In you get!’ He took a step towards Mitch and the other bloke closed in from his left. ‘Don’t even think about trying to run on your junkie legs. Get in!’
‘What for?’ Mitch felt jittery.
‘Just get in, before I fucking snap you in half to make you fit.’
‘But I haven’t done anything. Listen, man. I need to go. I’m in a hurry.’
The blond guy’s lips curled into a snarl. In one seamless movement he took a step, reached out an arm and grabbed Mitch by the hair. He dragged him the two feet to the car and threw him into the back. Then he and his mate got in, the blond on the driver’s side, and they drove off, wheels screeching, as he closed the passenger door.
‘What the fuck, man? What’s this about? I promise you, I’ve no idea what this is about. I don’t want any trouble.’
‘Shut your fucking mouth and listen, you prick.’
Mitch could hear himself whimpering. He felt sick with terror. As they drove out of Shettleston Road and towards the city centre, the blond guy spoke, and Mitch met his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
‘Dan Mason,’ the blond guy said. ‘Where is he?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And don’t even think about trying to ask, who he is, because we know he’s your junkie mate and we know you’ve been with him for the past few days. What are you, a couple of bent shots?’
‘Naw,’ Mitch said.
‘Shut it. Where’s Mason?’
‘I don’t know, man. I haven’t seen him for a week.’
The car braked quickly and Mitch was almost thrown against the back of driver’s seat.
‘Listen, you wee prick, have I got to drag you out of here and beat the shit out of you? Because that’s no problem.’
‘I don’t know. I hardly know him at all. What’s he done? He’s just a wee smackhead and, yeah, I helped him a couple of times, but I haven’t seen him for ages. Honest.’
He could hear the big man sigh as he gave a sideways glance to the gorilla sitting next to him. They said nothing and kept driving, Mitch looking out of the window as they drove across the bridge towards Kinning Park. He wanted to ask where they were going and his stomach churned as they drove under the arches below the bridge and into a used-car parts workshop. The blond parked and both men got out quickly.
The door back opened and Mitch was yanked out by the hair, the gorilla punching his face three or four times until he could feel himself passing out. Then he came to as they stood him up beside the car, punching him in the ribs.
‘Don’t make this hard for yourself, son. All you have to do is tell us where to find him, and we’ll stick a few quid in your pocket and that’s it all forgotten about. How hard can that be? It’s not as if you junkies are all best mates. Who gives a fuck about each other? Come on!’
Mitch felt his eye swell shut and he could barely make out the blond man’s face swimming in front of him. He tasted blood and suddenly sick rose up, and he vomited.
‘Fuck me!’ the blond man jumped back quickly. ‘Mind the fucking shoes, you cunt.’
‘Please, big man. Let me go.’
‘Where’s fucking Dan Mason?’
‘I don’t know. Honest. I don’t know.’
‘Tell us or you’re going to die. Where is he?’
Mitch felt another blow to the side of his cheek and something cracked, then a knee hit him between his legs and he buckled. ‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘You fucking liar. You’re a lying junkie bastard. Where is he?’
As Mitch slumped to the ground he was barely aware of them kicking him any longer. After the first couple on his stomach and the final boot on his chin, he thought his head would come off. He opened one of his eyes briefly and could see the sky turning from grey to black.
*
Dan sat flicking through the TV channels, checking his phone constantly. Nothing from Mitch. It crossed his mind that his pal had decided it was getting too dodgy to be around him and maybe done a runner. He hoped not. He liked Mitch a lot, and he was all he had right now. But even though Dan was spaced out for much of the time, he knew how these things worked. Junkies came and went with each other, depending on who was the best chance to work with and score some smack. But Mitch had seemed different, like he really wanted to help him. He looked at his phone again. Nothing. He checked the time. It was gone nine and dark outside. He was shit-scared. Mitch wasn’t coming back. Dan was on his own. He punched in Rosie’s number.
Chapter Seventeen
Rosie’s phone was blinking with two missed calls and a message from Dan by the time she got off the plane in Glasgow and into Matt’s car. There was also a text message from her Strathclyde Police detective contact, Don, asking to call. She’d ring him later.
‘Dan. It’s me,’ she said. ‘You okay?’
There were a couple of beats of silence, then his voice, weak. ‘I’m scared, Rosie. I don’t know where Mitch is. He went out this afternoon and hasn’t come back. I’ve heard nothing from him. I can’t believe he would run out on me. Something’s happened, I know it.’
‘He went out? I thought the two of you were supposed to be staying in the flat, Dan. What happened?’
‘He wanted to get some more kit.’
Rosie bit her tongue. Junkies didn’t work inside the same parameters as everyone else. She’d assumed they had enough gear to keep them going, but she didn’t even want to enter into the discussion. She took a breath. ‘Okay. Don’t worry, Dan. We’ll see what we can do. I’ll be there shortly, just sit tight.’
‘I’ve no kit left. I’m rattling.’
Shit. This was not good. Rose had worked with heroin addicts often enough to know that withdrawals were not pretty and not something to do without professional help. The middle of an investigation was not the time to go cold turkey.
‘Try not to worry. I’ll see you shortly.’
Her next call was to her detective friend, Don. ‘Hey, Don. How’re you, pal? I’ve a message here to call you.’
‘Rosie! Long time no see? You’re obviously up to something.’
‘You really don’t want to know right now, Don. That I can promise you. So, what’s new?’
Silence. Rosie waited.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Sure.’
‘Listen. We’ve got a situation here where your phone number has come up on a victim’s mobile.’
Rosie’s stomach dropped. She said nothing. It could be one of various drug addicts, small-time crooks or random punters she’d dealt with over the years, but right at this moment she knew it could be only one person: Mitch.
‘A victim?’ Rosie asked. ‘Of what?’
‘Really brutal assault. Somebody beat the shit out of this guy and it looks like they left him for dead. Down under the arches by the Clyde.’ He paused. ‘It seems you were one of the last people he talked to on his mobile. His name is Mitch Gilland.’
She heard the disappointment in Don’s voice that she hadn’t come clean with him straightaway. She cleared her throat. ‘Don. I’m working on something really big, and I know you understand that I can’t talk about what’s going on. But you know I’ll always mark your card or pass anything on to you when I can.’
‘You don’t have to apologize, Rosie,’ Don said. ‘I know the score. But the scrapes you get yourself into, I’m more worried about you than this junkie who’s fighting for his life right now up at the Royal.’
‘Is he really that bad?’
‘Pretty much. Internal bleeding. And these guys . . . I mean, their system is so low anyway, from all the drugs, that they have nothing to fight back with.’
Rosie swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Poor Mitch. This was obviously someone looking for Dan. She felt awful. But the hard-bitten journalist i
n her wondered if he’d told his attackers anything. Sometimes she hated herself for that side of her.
‘Don, I can meet you a bit later at O’Brien’s, or for a coffee somewhere and tell you some things about this. You’re right. Mitch is someone who was helping me. He tracked somebody down for me who I needed to talk to and right now we’re protecting him. I thought we had the two of them protected. But Mitch went out of the place they were staying.’
‘Yeah. Well, you can’t expect anything but chaos around junkies. And, right now, he’s part of a police investigation. It’s not my case. I overheard the boys talking in the office, and someone said it was your phone number. So you’ll be getting a call from the cops, no doubt. This is your friendly early-warning system kicking in.’
Rosie was relieved that he was so calm about it. ‘Thanks, pal, but I won’t be able to tell them anything. Honestly. Not a single thing.’ She looked at her watch as Matt pulled up outside the flat. ‘Look, I have to go but why don’t we meet later? I’ll call you.’
‘Sure.’ Don hung up.
Rosie’s mobile rang. It was McGuire.
‘Mick,’ Rosie said, ‘I’m back, but on my way up to see Dan.’
‘What’s going on, Gilmour? I’m choking to get my hands on this letter.’
‘I know. But there’s been a problem.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Mitch, Dan’s mate. He’s been beaten up really bad. He’s in the Royal.’
‘Christ almighty! What about Dan? I thought you had this pair under house arrest.’
‘Dan’s all right. He’s in the flat. But Mitch must have gone out for some reason.’
‘Aye. For fucking drugs, most likely. Look at the bastard now. Honest to Christ. Bloody junkies. Rosie, go and talk to Dan and settle him down, then get right down here. I need to see the letter. Is it good? How was the woman? She’s not a loony, is she?’
‘No. Far from it. I’ll tell you when I see you. I have to go.’ She hung up.
