The Storm Without (17 page)

He opened up, but kept the chain on. He checked out the stookie on my arm. 'What the hell do you want?'

I kept my voice low, but definite. 'A shooter.'

'Jesus!' He slammed the door. The chain rattled and then the wood was jerked back again. Broonie grabbed me, pulled me inside. 'What are you playing at?'

I looked him up and down. He was wearing an ancient Frankie Says T-shirt and chewing-gum coloured Y-fronts; the backside was falling out of them. 'Come on, don't mess me about. Are you holding or not? If you're not, I want to know who is.' I reached inside my jacket, removed a bundle of notes I'd tied tightly with an elastic band. 'I'm paying cash for a quick sale. Today, Broonie.'

The bedsit was tiny, beyond cramped. I checked out the pile of dishes sitting in the far corner. A boxy television, so old it had a wood-veneer, fizzed beside it. The place stank of puff and fortified wine that clung to the air making for a sticky, heady miasma.

Broonie picked at his elbow and shivered. 'What you on about, man … I don't hold shooters.'

I looked down at his bare feet. I was tempted to stamp on his toes, hard, just to remind him who he was talking to. That kind of thing once came as second nature to me but the older I got I found using my mind, and words, was a little more effective.

'I'm not polis anymore … you know that?'

'Aye, I heard … heard quite a bit about you lately.' Broonie backed up, started to move upended Buckfast bottles from the coffee table as he hunted for a fag. I watched his search prove fruitless then I removed my pack, sparked him up. He took the cig and tucked his free hand under his armpit. 'Okay, now just suppose I did know somebody with a shooter, and I'm only saying, suppose … what's in it for me?'

I had his number; started to peel off a crisp twenty from the roll, said, 'Well, I'd obviously be grateful.'

Broonie watched my hands, the sound of the notes — crisp and new — attracted his full attention. He lunged forward and took the bait.

'Wait here.' He pointed at me with the cig, moved towards a manky curtain that separated his living quarters from his sleeping area. I heard him rummaging about, then speaking into a phone briefly before returning in a jollier mood. In his hand was a small ASDA carrier, weighted down with something.

'Right, let's see the colour of yer money, Michie.'

I shook my head. 'I don't think that's the way it works, mate.'

A twitch in his eyebrow started to spread to the rest of his forehead. 'Right. Right … 'sake, man.' He delved into the carrier, removed a small newspaper-covered package and handed it to me. I took the package — a fair weight — and unwrapped the newspaper. Inside was a dirty oil-cloth; beneath that, a gun that looked like a museum piece.

'What's this?' I said.

'Five hundred.'

I laughed. 'If I take it on the Antiques Roadshow maybe.'

Broonie pinched his nose. 'That's Army-issue … a Webley.'

I shook my head. I opened the chamber; it was empty.

Broonie spoke, 'Do you slugs for a pound a throw.'

I handed it back. 'I'll give you a ton and you can chuck in the ammo.'

'Two-fifty.'

'A ton-fifty.'

'Done.'

Felt like I had been.

I tucked the loaded weapon in my waistband and headed back to the car. I was in dangerous proximity to the John Street nick. Carrying a concealed weapon was a serious offence but I figured that if the local constabulary caught me with a shooter, I wouldn't be going to trial. It would be me or them.

In the car I removed the Webley and placed it inside the glove box. I turned over the ignition and found first gear. The car purred to life as I accelerated and headed back to the shore front. I had my next move mapped out. It involved a visit to the Port of Ayr, to another meet with Councillor Crawford. I knew he would put up fierce opposition to what I had to say, but I'd come prepared for that. This time I'd get the answers I wanted. Or else.

Day was tipping into night. The dark waters lapping the port
'
s edge reflected the street lamps; little iridescent pinpricks in a wriggling, slithering shoreline. I sat in the car and watched the colours — from heliotrope to hazy blackness — moving in hypnotic patches. I felt calmed, at ease. I was comfortable, but I knew I had no right to be. I was here for a reason and sitting in my car was merely prolonging the inevitable.

I closed my eyes, laid my head on the rim of the steering wheel. There were thoughts swirling about in my mind but not the ones I wanted. I wanted to find the words to bring Crawford down; to rattle him, have him calling for mercy. But I wasn
'
t there yet. If this was a poker game I
'
d be holding jack; jack-high if I was lucky.

I tried to line up what I'd learned: the Port had seen some dodgy goings on; Crawford was being protected by the Craft; he had a connection to Gilmour; and there was my gut instinct that the lot of them where in cahoots for profit.

I
'
d seen the press reports with the endless busts at the port. The longstanding problem with smuggling there was so prevalent it was next-door to impossible to get my own brand of smokes in the Auld Toun. But what did I have on them? Nothing but suspicions. They knew I was onto them, but somehow, I wondered if I really worried them. There were the threats, the beating and the broken hand but that was small-time to them. A girl had been murdered: that
'
s what they were really capable of.

I let out a sigh.

'
Jesus, Doug, think, man
…'
I was talking to myself. Who was rattled: them or me? I knew the answer and it scared the daylights out of me.

I was shook from my stupor by a knock on the car
'
s window. I looked up and saw a young girl bent into the wind, long scarf trailing behind her like a pennant in the wind.

I rolled down the window.
'
Jennifer
…'

She smiled.
'
I was hoping to catch you again.
'

Her conscience had returned then.
'
You were?
'

She looked back at the building she had just come from, then leaned in closer.
'
Could we maybe go somewhere
…
to talk?
'

I nodded to the seat beside me.
'
Jump in.
'

As Jennifer slinked round the front of the Audi, I started the engine. She climbed in and fastened her seatbelt.
'
How about the Horizon Hotel? It
'
s about the nearest.
'

She pinched her 'brows, turned down her eyelids.
'
Could we maybe go a little further? I
'
d sooner not bump into anyone from, y
'
know, work.
'

I got the message.
'
Sure.
'

I turned around, made for the top of the town. The traffic was heavy, lots of rush-hour commuters returning home to firesides and car-crash television. I glanced towards my passenger periodically. She was silent, but I caught her nibbling on her nails once or twice. She was on edge and I doubted that would play to my advantage. On the upside, she had chosen her moment. Seemed resolved to reveal something to me; I hoped she wouldn
'
t bottle out.

'
There
'
s a place, a newish place I think, but I can
'
t remember what it
'
s called.
'
I tried to keep to small chat, to put her at ease.
'
If I park up at Matalan, there
'
s a wee lane we can take there. It
'
s a nice place, lots of pictures on the walls, original art work.
'

'I presume you're not talking about the wee lane …' She pasted on a thin smile. She didn't seem to be thawing any. '
It
'
s called The Beresford.
'

'
That
'
ll be it. It
'
s on Beresford Terrace.
'

When we reached our destination I picked a secluded spot at the far corner of the bar and ordered some coffee. Jennifer removed her scarf and opened her coat. She seemed uncomfortable, her legs crossed at an awkward angle, her shoulders tensed and board-stiff.

I waited for the coffees, then made my opening gambit.
'
How have things been at the office?
'

She huffed; her torso seemed to deflate.
'
Since your last visit, you mean
…
How do you think?
'

I tried not to think. I would do that afterwards. After she
'
d revealed what it was she wanted to tell me.
'
Are you comfortable there, Jennifer? Would you not like to take off your coat? It
'
s warm in here.
'

She shook her head.
'
I don
'
t want to stay long.
'

I nodded.
'
That
'
s fine. We can make this as brief as you like.
'

She clanked down her coffee cup. Some grey liquid spilled over the edge of the saucer.
'
Look, you know I spoke to Kirsty Donald. You know she came to the Port Authority with those complaints.
'

I felt my eyes widen.
'
Complaints?
'

Jennifer was looking out the window.
'
God, yes. Every other day, they got worse. Her dad was a builder, put up the flats. I think she was, y
'
know, worried about his investment
…
about what was going on.
'

'
And what was that, Jennifer?
'

She seemed to clam up.

I reached out a hand, placed it on her arm.
'
Kirsty paid a dear price for a few complaints to the Port Authority, don
'
t you think?
'

She drew deep breath. Her lips trembled over her words.
'
I
'
m scared.
'

I gripped her arm.
'
It
'
s the guilty who should be scared, Jennifer.
'

Her eyes moistened as she started to speak again.
'
Kirsty was on the site at all hours. She had a flat there, saw things. At first I jotted down all her concerns. Stuff like noise, y
'
know, the cranes they unload with and so on.
'

'
Go on
…'

'
No-one really seemed bothered but and then she complained about not being taken seriously. She
'
d jotted down times of late-night unloading, when they
'
re not supposed to, and there were pictures.
'

'
You mean photographs?
'

'
Yes. It was like she was on a mission by then. That
'
s when Councillor Crawford started to get
…
upset.
'

'
Upset
?
'

'
I mean angry. There
'
d been the drugs seizures, the stuff that got in the papers about the illegal immigrants and he just lost it then. He didn
'
t want any more bad press.
'

'
But Kirsty made official complaints, I take it?
'

Jennifer stared deep into my eyes and then turned away.
'
Well yes
…
and no.
'

'
I don
'
t understand.
'

Her voice was a low drawl; she seemed to be choking back tears, or the truth. Perhaps both.
'
I got rid of the complaints.
'

'
What
…
how?
'

She folded over, started to grip at her sides.
'
Councillor Crawford told me to remove them from the files.
'
Her voice jumped.
'
I
'
m only admin, I have to do what I
'
m told!
'

'
Oh, no
…'
I slumped back in my seat.

Jennifer sat silently for a moment. She seemed to be weighing up something behind her teary gaze.
'
I know I shouldn
'
t have, it could cost me my job, but
…
I took them home anyway.
'

I was lost.
'
Took what home?
'

'
The copies. I was scared
…
so I made copies of all her complaints.
'

There was something about driving at night; it lured you into an altered sense of reality. I planted the foot, shot up the '77. The car felt like a capsule rocketing into space. The road ahead was an illusion of light-trails. Twisting, bending beams that stretched out like fireworks then suddenly sheared off with a tilt of the wheel. I followed the arc of lights through the Whitletts Roundabout and dropped down through the gears. The Auld Toun, fully lit, appeared anew to me, like this was the first time I'd really seen it. I was on a high, a natural high brought about by the pumping adrenalin surging through me.