How a Gunman Says Goodbye (12 page)

Calum has his laptop out. Sitting at the kitchen table, mindlessly browsing a few sites before he goes to the one he really wants. Local newspaper website. Looking for any mention of last night’s work. People must know by now. He uses the
Evening Times
website every day; there’ll be nothing unusual about it being in his browser history. It’s the third story on the main page. Just a headline with a link to the story. Two men found dead in flat, police not looking for anyone else. He’d love to click on the article, see what detail they go into. He won’t, though. He’s clicking on the sports tab instead. His browser history will tell them nothing. The headline says enough. People know, they’re not looking for anyone else. So they believe it. Looks like they bought the little trick he played. But you don’t take it for granted. The police play tricks, too.

They want him to be complacent. They’ll be desperate for him to do something stupid because of that headline. Not that they know it’s him. The killer. They want the killer to do something stupid, whoever he may be. Break routine. Come out into the open. Make their job easy for them. They want him to help them avoid a long and difficult investigation. It’s a paranoid instinct. Has to be. You have to believe that they’re all out to get you, because they are. Be paranoid about everything and everyone. See a story in the papers that says the police aren’t looking for anyone. Assume it’s a lie. Assume that the story was written with you in mind. Takes a little bit of egomania to believe that you’re the centrepiece of other people’s thoughts. How else to avoid detection? Paranoia works.

A quiet afternoon, lounging around. Nothing to do, no one to talk to. It’s comfortable. It’s the life he’s used to, the one he created for himself, and which recent changes washed away. Ten years of building an isolated life, and then it’s gone. Working full-time for Jamieson. More work than before, tied to one organization. That alone is enough change. No longer in control of your own path. Throw in Emma, and a life of simplicity has been replaced by more complications than any gunman should carry. It’s not just having her there. It’s having to create an entire back-story to lie to her with. The life story of a life he didn’t lead. When she asks about meeting his friends, what does he say? He doesn’t have any. He’s spent ten years hiding from the world for the sake of work. There is no circle of friends, just a few acquaintances through work. He has no intention of introducing her to them. It’s embarrassing, and it’s hard to explain. It’s also the reason he slipped up and let her into his life. The loneliness of the gunman.

There’s a knock on his door at about half two. Calum’s reading a book,
Red Harvest
by Dashiell Hammett, if you care. He’s taking his bookmark – one he got free at Waterstones with a book about ten years ago – and he’s marking his place to the line. Calm and quiet, but questioning. The day after a job, and there’s a knock on your door. A knock you don’t expect. That’s worth being worried about. When you build a life with nobody else in it, you don’t get unexpected knocks at the door. He’s walking across to look out through the peephole. A recognizable face staring back at him. George Daly. The closest thing he has to a friend. That doesn’t mean he trusts him. George is a nice guy, but people who tempt you to let your guard down are the ones you must be most careful with. The day after a job and George turns up on his doorstep. This is odd.

Calum’s slowly opening the front door, looking out at George. No visible weapons, but then there wouldn’t be. George is no gunman. He’s spent years avoiding that end of the business. Chances are he’d be good at it, if he was willing, but he’s not. He’s never come straight out and said it, but he’s not willing to cross the line. He’ll beat people, intimidate them into paying their debts to Jamieson, but no more. He’s the best muscle Jamieson has, although he’s not particularly muscular. He’s shorter than Calum, not much broader. That’s really not the point. Good muscle is someone who knows how to fight, how much punishment to dish out, how to treat each job. You don’t just wade in. Each person has to get only what they deserve. They must know that there’s worse to come if they defy Jamieson again. Good muscle is someone who always understands where to draw the line in the sand, and never be tempted beyond it.

‘Hey, man, what’s up?’ George is smiling, waiting for an invite to come inside.

‘Uh, not a lot. Yourself?’

‘Bugger all. I was bored out of my skull. Thought we might fire up your PS3, kill a few hours, and you can tell me how terrible it is being in a meaningful relationship.’

Calum’s smiling despite himself. No meaningful relationship has ever caught up with George. It might not be such a bad idea. Why wouldn’t a friend come and visit? Makes it look like normality, which is what you strive for in the wake of a job. Let any witness see the things they would consider unremarkable.

‘Come in,’ he’s saying, holding the door open.

George is on the couch now, wrestling with a controller. He’s done his usual routine, complained that there’s no beer in, complained about Calum’s lack of first-person shooters for the PS3, and then complained that he’s having to complain about these things yet again. Calum’s watching him lean left and right as he tries to steer a car round corners. He doesn’t look like he’s come to deliver a warning. The suspicion that Jamieson had sent a friendly face round to deliver some message has fallen away now. Too much time has passed. George wouldn’t hang around. He’s made no mention of last night. Maybe he really doesn’t know. Maybe he came round of his own accord, and would have stayed at home if he’d realized. Either Young sent him to check up on Calum, or Young will be furious with him for going round. It’s beginning to look like the latter.

George is gossiping about people in the business. Not the sort of thing Calum’s interested in, but you do need to know what’s going on. A good gunman listens, and learns all he can about potential future targets. Apparently Jamie Stamford owes the Allen brothers, who are actually cousins (if that matters to you), eighty grand in gambling debts. He’s refusing to pay because he reckons they cheated him. Which is bullshit; he just doesn’t have the cash. It’s a big enough debt to cause friction between the Allens and Stamford’s boss, Alex MacArthur. MacArthur’s a big player; the Allens are no small fry themselves, so that could lead to trouble. Apparently, one supplier who worked with both has already abandoned the Allens. Profitable trouble, for people like Jamieson.

Also, there’s a story that one of Shug Francis’s best dealers got himself shot dead by his own best mate last night, which is a stroke of luck. Apparently, the mate shot himself as well, so double your pleasure. Tommy Scott, his name was. George thinks he remembers running into him once, when Scott was working for someone else, but he’s not sure. And some idiots smashed up Bobby Peterson’s printing shop. He’s blaming Marty Jones because they fell out over some deal or other, but Marty denies it. He denies it even more since he found out that Jamieson owns a share of Peterson’s business.

And so it goes on. The usual tales – just change some of the names around every week or so. Other people’s problems, except for Tommy Scott. George obviously doesn’t know. He too believes that McClure shot Scott. Seems like that little story has traction, which is ideal. It gets to a point where people won’t even consider an alternative truth.

‘Any word from our dear friends in the plod yet?’ George is asking. He knows that Glen Davidson called Calum before the stabbing. The police must have found that in Davidson’s phone records, hard to believe that they didn’t even check. Yet there’s been nothing.

‘Haven’t heard anything from them,’ Calum’s shrugging, ‘but I must be on their radar.’ It’s a horrible thought. Years spent avoiding any detection. Once they spot you, that’s it. They could be watching him, waiting for him to do another job. Like last night’s.

It’s nearly five when George’s phone rings. He’s glancing at the screen. ‘Nuts, it’s Young. Hold on.’ He’s moving to the kitchen, almost out of earshot. Calum can hear snatches of a conversation. Young’s doing most of the talking; George seems to be voicing occasional, if unenthusiastic, agreement. It takes about thirty seconds. George is walking back in, stuffing his phone into his pocket. ‘Well,’ he’s saying, ‘seems like someone finally had the good sense to stick a knife in Neil Fraser. Did a piss-poor job of it, though – nothing much wrong with him. He’s in the Western General, not talking to anyone. He’s so dumb he couldn’t even come up with a lie. I got to go down there and find out who did it. Young’s worried it might have been one of Shug’s boys.’

Calum’s puffing out his cheeks. ‘You think so?’

‘Nah, not their style. There’s better targets than that moron. Probably some trouble he started for himself. Anyway, I better go. I’ll see you around.’

Fraser is more traditional muscle working for Jamieson. Muscular, for a start. Intimidating to look at, but as bright as a black hole. Looks like George is going to be under a little pressure himself, having to work out what’s happened. That’s of no interest to Calum.

Afternoon’s disappearing into evening. George has gone, off to tidy up someone else’s mess. How often does he have to do that? Every week, probably. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing for a gunman. Calum will probably never have to do it again. Thank God for that. It’s not pleasant work. You can only react to what other people have done. That’s no way to do a clean job. Sort of job where you’re bound to be caught out eventually. Hard not to worry for George. He’s smart, but that might not be enough. If they keep putting him in tough spots, then no amount of smart will save him. He’s the best muscle they have, so they’re bound to keep putting him in these positions. Calum’s suddenly smiling. Things must be changing; he’s worried about a friend.

Two days now since it happened. Nothing. Not a word. After any other job, he would have thought that was a good thing. Usually you only get contact if something’s gone wrong after the event. Something went very wrong during this event. He’s been expecting a call from Young. Friendly chat, invite him along to the club. Young would make it sound so casual, no big deal. That’s his style. Frank would go along, have a chat with Jamieson and discuss what happened. Talk about the future. What future? They should have called by now. It’s only polite. Okay, not professional, but they must know that he’s waiting for them. After what happened, Peter must know that Frank’s sitting in his house, waiting for that phone to ring.

He’s not naive. Been around too long for that. Seen too many good people fall by the wayside to think it couldn’t happen to him. They’ll have been talking about him. All day yesterday he would have been the subject on their lips. How would you do it? How would Frank investigate a botched hit? Find out all the detail before you talk to the man at the centre of it. That’s the smart way. Peter Jamieson, whatever else he is, is a smart man. So they’ll have spoken to Calum. A hard boy to second-guess. Another smart one. He doesn’t want to work for Jamieson. That plays well for Frank. Calum won’t want to be the lone gunman in the organization. Frank’s thinking that he should have made more effort to make friends with Calum. He saw the boy’s potential a long time ago. It was Frank who recommended him to Jamieson. Told him he was the best young gunman in the city. Told him he was the best freelancer of any age. Get him on board. Frank likes Calum, respects him enough to give him his space. The boy wanted to be left alone, so he left him alone. Now he doesn’t feel like he can pick up the phone to him.

It’s into the afternoon. Still no call. It’s wet out there, but he’s bored and he has to stick to normal behaviour. Walk to the pub, have a pint on your own, then stop off at the corner shop for a bag of groceries on your way back. It’s a way to kill an hour or two. Long, boring days where nothing happens. If you don’t like daytime TV, and you really shouldn’t, then boredom will begin to rankle. Seems to be easier for the kids. They have their computers and whatnot. Harder if you grew up in a different era. Harder to stay professional. Frank grew up in an era where you went to the pub. That’s what you did. If you wanted to blend in, seem like you were just another average guy, then you went to the pub.

He has his jacket on. He was almost tempted to buy a flat cap the other day, but he drew the line. He’s never felt his age. He’s always felt as though he was in his thirties or forties. His life, and his lifestyle, hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years. Made him feel like he’d hardly aged. It was an easy fallacy to believe in. Much harder now. Twenty years have raced past in two days. He’s an old man with a plastic hip and a short future. He can feel it. One last glance at the phone. Nope. They’re not going to call this afternoon. Out the door and into the rain. Exercise the hip. Stop yourself from seizing up; don’t let the muscles get lazy. The sort of thing that only an old man needs to think about.

Walking to the pub, he passes three young men. Doesn’t look at them, doesn’t make eye contact. Three kids in tracksuits who’ve never run round a track in their lives. One of them has a dog on a lead. Not the usual vicious-looking creature that kids have these days; a wet and sad-looking collie. Still, Frank knows their type. Kids who think they’re big men. They’d see an old man like him and think he was an easy target. Soft touch. It would never occur to them that he’s killed so many. They’d never imagine how dangerous he could be. He doesn’t blame them. There was a day when he was the same. He started as muscle. Thought he was a big tough guy. You start to believe yourself. You believe that the little old men you pass in the street are weak and you are strong. Then he met Dennis Dunbar.

A skinny little guy in his fifties. Bald on top, thin little moustache. He looked like a joke figure. Used to wear coats that were too big for him. Frank had seen him around a couple of times, didn’t think anything of him. Knew he was in the business. Thought he was probably a bookie or a counterfeiter, or something of the sort. Then someone told him Dunbar wanted to meet him. He went round to his house, nice middle-class area in the days when there were very few of those about. This little guy invited him in. Told Frank he had a job for him. He wanted him to shoot a man dead. Don’t worry, though; Dunbar would be going with him. Dunbar taught him many things he needed to know. The little routines. The ability to disappear. How to get rid of a gun. The more he found out about Dunbar, the more remarkable he seemed. Dunbar had killed a couple of dozen, which seemed unbelievable. Now Frank’s killed more than that in the forty years since.

He’s past the kids. They didn’t glance at him twice. Learn to hide away. Don’t limp along like some old man and let them see you’re weak. Don’t stand bolt upright and look defiant. Hide in the middle ground. Into the pub, asking for a pint. Don’t take it at the bar; the barman might want to talk to him, and Frank doesn’t want conversation. It’s a grubby place, plenty of grubby people around. The kind of people who always have something to say for themselves. Take the pint to a little table in the corner, sit facing away from the rest of them. Be the tragic old man who comes in for a pint and says nothing. If the barman even knows his name, then he’s heard it second-hand. Frank’s across at his table, sitting with his back to the few people who are in at that hour. There’s always a few, who ought to be somewhere better. They’ll think he’s an old man, drinking his pension. He never thought he looked his age. He always thought other people would see him as he saw himself. That’s changing, too. Been changing for a while. That’ll be a good thing, he learned that from Dunbar. Let people see you the way they want, don’t force your own self-image on them. Let them see you through their eyes, not yours.

People come and go behind him; he doesn’t turn to look. He could do this at home. He could sit there with a bottle or can of beer and drink in private. He would prefer it, these days. It’s just not what people expect of a man of his generation. His job forces him to do what other people expect of him. It kills time. Enough dead time for today. He’s losing the will to bother with these things. Losing the discipline. That’s a bad thing. Getting up and walking out of the bar, not making eye contact with anyone on the way. There’s always that temptation to turn round and tell them what you really are. It might be best for his job, but it’s infuriating to have the world think of you as pathetic. An old man living on his own. Never married. No kids. Few friends to speak of. They might be right.

Walking into the corner shop. Only a few things to get. Shopping for one. No need for a basket. He’s always lived simply. One of the difficulties everyone in the business has, how to account for your money. The dumb ones just throw cash around and expect the world not to care. They think people won’t wonder and then start digging around. If you can’t justify the money you spend, then you can’t spend. So you need a fake job. Frank’s always got that from his employers, one of the perks of working for big organizations. Jamieson’s got him down as a security adviser to his club and a couple of pubs that he owns. Security adviser doesn’t mean anything. Nobody can prove that you haven’t given advice. Can’t prove the advice wasn’t worth the thirty-four grand a year that the accounts say Jamieson’s paying him. There’s as much as another twenty to thirty grand being paid in bonuses, depending on how much work he does in the year. That’s legitimized through Jamieson’s various accounts too. People can ask, but they won’t find anything interesting.

He’s paying for the bag of groceries. Doesn’t come to much. Living frugally. He’s always done that. Even with the cover story, he worries about it. Money’s a trap. It’s the thing people in the business tend to trip over. Things like women and pride are dangerous, but neither is universal. Money is. Some people hanker after every pretty girl they see and it gets them into bother. Some are obsessed with their own self-importance, can’t keep the ego under control. All need money. You need it to survive. You try to hide money, but eventually you need to spend it. Someone finds it. Money is the cop’s best friend. Frank’s always worried about it. Seen too many good men fall over piles of cash. Cops couldn’t get them from real evidence, but the criminal couldn’t explain where he got the money. So he’s always lived well within his means. Now he has plenty of money in the bank, and nothing to spend it on.

Back in the house now, putting away the little shopping he bought. He’s checked the phone – nobody called while he was out. If they were looking for him they would have called his mobile after the house. He wouldn’t have answered it in the pub, but he’d have come straight home. They’re not looking for him. He’s sitting in the living room now. The TV’s off, but he’s staring at it anyway. Wondering if he should switch it on. Wondering what the point would be. Switch it on. Flick through the channels. Switch it off. Ten more minutes of his life thrown away. Every minute is a waste. Just accept what you already know. They’re going to push him into retirement. They can’t keep him on after this. Maybe, just maybe, Peter Jamieson will be sympathetic; he’ll give him one last chance. Nah, no second chances. Nobody gets a second chance. Jamieson would be stupid to give him one. Everyone gets one chance, and that’s all. His chance has lasted a hell of a lot longer than most.

Most gunmen say goodbye to the world with a bang. Frank’s still here. He’s lasted longer than he should have. Retirement, old age, they aren’t things men in his line of work usually have to deal with. It’s okay for the likes of Young and Jamieson; they expect to live to a ripe old age. There are plenty of men at the top who have waddled into the sunset in their seventies or eighties. Not a lot of gunmen. Most peak in their thirties or forties. Most are gone by the time sixty gets here. There are so few pros anyway. Sometimes a handful, sometimes a dozen or so. Sometimes there’s a spike, and there’ll be more than usual in the city. That happens when there’s trouble. Sometimes it happens organically, and someone has to make way. Right now, there are maybe a dozen pros working for seven or eight organizations. There might be another seven or eight freelancers who choose to work more rarely, but have pro standards. A few months ago Frank thought he was better than any of them. Now, he feels beaten.

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