27
He’s never rehearsed a meeting before. Never run through in his head what he planned to say to someone. Never been in a meeting where that seemed like a good idea. Most conversations need to be spontaneous to get the best out of them. Even business conversations. Sure, Jamieson’s had meetings where he knew pretty much what he was going to say. Meetings where there was little to say. This is different. This means something to him. More than money. It’s not that he’s scared of retiring Frank. He’s more scared of losing his friendship. Only Frank and John Young matter that much in his life. Only they would be worth a rehearsal. Never thought the day would come when he would have to have this conversation with either of them. Frank’s made the most difficult part of this business so easy for so long. Can anyone replace that?
There’s a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
Kenny’s sticking his head in the door, nodding to both Young and Jamieson. ‘Thought you might want to know that Frank’s here.’
Jamieson’s looking at his watch. He’s early. It’s the first sign that this isn’t going to be easy. Turning up early feels almost confrontational. ‘Okay,’ Jamieson’s saying, ‘ask him to come through.’
Never delay. Handle him gently. Whatever happens, make sure this meeting ends on good terms. There’s a danger that goes way beyond losing a friend. There’s a danger that Frank might cross over to another employer, take all his dangerous knowledge with him. One of the big operators in the city would be happy to have him. Might never use him as a gunman, but they’ll want what he knows, along with his reputation.
A knock on the door, and it’s opening without waiting for a response. Frank’s walking in, smiling and looking relaxed. He looks like his usual self. Well turned-out as always, not a hint of a limp in the way he walks across the room towards the desk. He looks the picture of health, which is probably the point. Jamieson doesn’t notice, too concerned with other thoughts, but Young can recognize that the swagger is forced. Frank’s trying to present himself as at the very height of his vigour and he’s overdoing it. He doesn’t usually walk with that stride, Young knows. Young’s sitting off to the side on his couch, watching and saying nothing. He’ll be the impartial observer. He needs to play that role now more than ever. Jamieson won’t be able to judge Frank’s tone, his reactions. He likes Frank too much to spot anything they ought to be concerned about. As much as he respects Frank, Young won’t allow the blindness of friendship to strike.
Jamieson’s sticking out a hand, Frank’s shaking it. There are smiles, as though they’re not about to have an awkward conversation. Trying to convince themselves that it’s just business as usual, Young can see. Both these men are struggling with their emotions.
‘How are you, Frank?’ Jamieson’s asking with the usual bounce in his voice.
‘Feeling better than I have for a few years,’ Frank is saying, but his tone tells another story. Jamieson asked him that question almost a week ago; Frank had the same answer then, but more confidence that he meant it. Frank isn’t saying anything else; leave it for Jamieson to bring up the Scott incident. Jamieson isn’t saying anything right now, tapping the table lightly with his forefinger. Trying to think of a way to bring it up that sounds friendly. There’s no chummy-sounding way of telling someone they’ve blown it.
‘We both know what we need to talk about,’ Jamieson’s saying, ignoring the fact that there’s a third man in the room. This is what they always do. Young sits off to the side and stays silent, observing. Encourage the guest to forget that he’s there, and see if he gives something away. A worthwhile strategy, even with a friend.
‘We do.’ Frank’s nodding.
Jamieson taps the desk again. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he’s saying. It’s a way into the conversation that doesn’t sound like an accusation.
Start at the beginning, Frank knows. Jamieson will want detail. ‘After you gave me the job, I scouted the boy. Checked the flat, checked his movements and worked out who was likely to be with him. I knew his mate would probably be there. Siamese twins, those two. I found out who else was in the building, what other flats were occupied. I was as careful scouting them as I ever was on any other job. Must have been a fluke. Either someone saw me, or someone leaked that this was happening.’
He’s left that hanging in the air for a few moments of silence. Giving Jamieson the chance to dispel any notion of a leak. A leak would turn everyone’s ire towards another target; give Frank a better chance of escaping his failures. It’s what Frank hopes happened, but he knows it’s unlikely. Most likely, someone saw him.
‘We don’t think there was a leak,’ Jamieson’s saying quietly.
‘Then someone must have spotted me. I took every precaution, as I always do. Some bastard must have lucked out, saw me, reported it to Scott. Anyway, I assumed I was clear when I went into the building on the night. Left it until late. Saw his mate McClure leave about eleven-ish, which should have raised an alarm. He stayed over with Scott a lot. Had the previous night as well. Lives with his parents, though, so not a huge shock to see him leave. Must have gone out the front and round the back. Makes me look stupid now, I know, but I couldn’t watch front and back at the same time. If I had seen him go back in, I would have known something was up. Would have called the job off. I went in thinking it was just Scott in there.’
He went in thinking wrong. Nobody will say it – you don’t embarrass a man like Frank – but all three men in the room are thinking it. Frank was sloppy. He saw McClure leave and didn’t bother following him to see where he went. You don’t have to follow him all the way home; just for a couple of minutes to make sure he’s going for good. One of the skills of the job, knowing who to follow and when.
‘I went up, found the flat. There was nobody else about. Quiet building, a lot of empty flats. I was standing at the door, making sure I had a grip on my piece. I gave the door a knock. Couple of knocks. Not too quiet, make it seem like someone with nothing to hide. I was waiting for him to answer. Give him twenty seconds, and then kick the door in. I didn’t want to have to do that. I wanted him to open it, make it less of a drama. I suppose he or his mate must have been in the flat opposite. I don’t know, but it must be how they did it.’
And Frank didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear the door open behind him, didn’t hear McClure creep up on him. Didn’t even think it could happen. Another black mark against him. They’re beginning to stack up. Jamieson knows what it’s like to be in a nervous situation. Sometimes all you can hear is your own blood pump. People like Frank need to be above that. Need to hear and see everything. No excuses. It hasn’t yet occurred to any of them that Scott and McClure handled the situation very well up to this point. This isn’t a meeting about the successes of others. This is a meeting about Frank’s failures.
‘I got a whack on the back of the head,’ Frank’s saying with a miserable smile. ‘Next thing I come to on the floor in Scott’s flat. They didn’t know what to do with me. Not a clue. They wanted me dead, that was obvious, but Scott was looking for excuses not to have to do it himself. So he called someone up.’
Ask this next question with care. Make it a friendly enquiry, not an accusation. ‘Did they say anything when you were in there?’ Jamieson’s asking. ‘Anything interesting? Ask you anything?’
Now they’re getting to it. He doesn’t want to know if they asked Frank anything; he wants to know if Frank told them anything interesting in return. ‘They were a couple of kids,’ Frank’s shrugging. ‘All they said was nervous nonsense. Bullshit. McClure did most of the talking. Making fun of me, trying to provoke a reaction. Showing off. He was hyper, but Scott was keeping it together. He was telling the other one to shut up. I think he had it about him, I really do. He could have been very useful, the boy Scott. Shame he didn’t work for us.’ The tone isn’t sharp, but the words are. Scott could have worked for them; Young didn’t spot the talent. A subtle barb.
‘They didn’t say anything that might be useful,’ Frank’s going on. ‘When Scott made the call, he took it into the other room. Spoke quiet. They should’ve killed me themselves,’ he’s saying, nodding as he does. That was their failure – not killing him straight away. ‘They didn’t have the bottle for it. They called up their contact with Shug, asked for a gunman to be sent round.’ Frank sees a flicker of reaction from Jamieson. He’s stopping, looking across at him.
‘I’m just thinking,’ Jamieson says. ‘They made a phone call to someone connected with Shug. Just interesting, is all. They ain’t learning lessons. Go on.’
Frank’s nodding. ‘I was sitting there, I don’t know, half an hour, three-quarters maybe. They wouldn’t let me move, so I just sat there and kept my mouth shut. Would have been suicide to go for the gun. Two of them, one of me. The other one, McClure, he was nearly climbing the walls by the time there was a knock on the door. Scott was nervous, but he was keeping it in check. Telling the other one to quieten it down. The knock comes: gentle, like it’s their gunman arrived for his work. Scott opens the door, lets him in. I saw it was Calum, saw right away. Jesus, that was a shock.’
Frank and Jamieson are both smiling. Both laughing. It’s the kind of industry where you have to be shockproof. People do things that logic simply can’t explain. You shouldn’t be shocked any more, certainly not at Frank’s age and after the career he’s had. They’re both smiling at the idea of Calum managing to shock him.
‘I’ll be honest: when I saw him, I thought he was there for Shug. I thought he was there to do the job. Good job I didn’t say anything, call him a traitor or anything. As soon as the door shut, he pulled out the gun and shot Scott in the head. Even then, I was thinking he was double-crossing Shug. Triple-crossing, whatever. He got rid of the other boy straight away, didn’t dawdle. I always think of Calum as someone who takes too much time with things. It was only when they were dead that he started wasting time.’
‘Wasting time?’
‘Yeah, setting the whole thing to look like murder-suicide. Pointless, I think,’ Frank’s saying, and he’s looking to Jamieson for agreement that isn’t going to come.
Maybe it’s a generational thing. Jamieson can’t escape the feeling that he’s suddenly talking to an old man, complaining about the new generation. Yes, Calum took a little extra time, but it was worth it. These days you need to take every chance that comes your way. In the old days, sure, you could gun and run. Not now. In a world of forensics and blood patterns and CCTV, you need to grab every little advantage. God knows, there aren’t many. Harder and harder to get rid of a person cleanly – Frank should know that. He should know that anything that diverts police attention is a good thing. Anything that delays them is good. Even if it’s just for a short while. Delays mean something else comes along and steals their attention. It means the case loses officers before they start investigating what matters. It gives you a chance. In the old days, you didn’t need it. This isn’t the old days.
‘He shot the boy McClure in the side of the head to make it look like suicide, so I guess he had to follow up on that,’ Frank’s saying. Making a concession, grudgingly. ‘He put both their prints on the gun, more of Scott’s than McClure’s. He put the gun in McClure’s hand, then let the hand drop to the floor. Then he announces that Shug has a fellow coming round to kill me. I wasn’t too happy with that news. Wasn’t expecting anyone else to come along. We got down unseen, into the car. I drove him on to my car, then back to the club. I went home; lay low, acted as normal. The usual.’
Jamieson’s nodding along to all this, taking it all in. Frank standing in the flat, itching to leave, wanting Calum to hurry up. Calum carrying out a textbook job in nightmare circumstances, again. Before he sent Calum, Jamieson knew that he wouldn’t send Frank to rescue the boy. Now he believes that Frank wouldn’t have been capable, even if he’d tried. It’s crushing.
