Where the Dead Men Go (22 page)

And then, in the snap of a handcuff, it’s over. Maitland inside, Neil in the big chair. Regime change. Suddenly the sons are vulnerable: the near in blood, the nearer bloody. The kid brother in England, the college student, stays put. Walter Jr shits himself, packs a holdall, jumps a midnight Seacat to Ireland. I pictured the shifty eyes, the white face sucking down a whisky in the forward lounge, the holdall at his feet. But the guy who sat on my sofa, lean, honed, self-contained, with the glitter of winter beading his hair; this guy had changed.

He’d been in Belfast four years. I learned later from John Rose, the
Trib
’s Belfast stringer, that Walter Jr had hooked up with a Shankill Road team, friends of his father, ex-UVF. There was no special treatment. They gave him a job. He did it well. Worked his way up. First time in his life he was pulling his weight, his own man. Once a month he flew to Aberdeen to visit his father in Peterhead. He got in touch with some of the old guard, Maitland’s lieutenants, men who’d gone over to Neil but still held a flame for the old regime. One of them must have mentioned me. Now he wanted to know what I had on Neil, what my angle was.

‘You knew Martin Moir?’ he asked me.

I shrugged. ‘I did. Worked with him. Mates with him. Knew him well.’

‘And Billy Swan, you’ve been looking at that, digging around.’

‘Aye.’

The slim hands rested on his knees. The gaze didn’t waver. ‘It was Neil, wasn’t it? Both of them.’

I shrugged. ‘Looks that way.’

‘They’d been talking,’ he said. ‘Is that right? The polis had turned them?’

‘That’s the theory,’ I said.

I looked away. I could feel Maitland’s gaze on the side of my face, the eyes drawing mine back to his.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

Outside the window a seagull lighted on the rim of a satellite dish. It cocked its head and fixed me with an orange eye before launching itself into space.

‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

I looked at the man on my sofa. He didn’t need to know what I knew. If Moir and Swan had been grassing on Neil it wouldn’t have troubled Maitland. He was only concerned about how it would play. If Swan was a grass, then Neil was right to kill him. But if Swan was clean, if Neil had killed him out of spite or after some petty squabble, then the rest of Neil’s crew might see things differently. They might agree with Walter Maitland Jr that Hamish Neil should be stopped.

But that wasn’t the way to stop Neil and I couldn’t give him the answer he wanted.

‘So you can’t help me. No matter. Thanks anyway.’ He gathered the strap of his bag in a fist and hauled to his feet. I shook the proffered hand. He was nearly at the living-room door when I spoke, blurted it out like a nervous kid.

‘I could meet him,’ I said. ‘I could set up a meeting.’

‘With Hamish Neil?’ He held the door open. ‘What good would that do?’

‘Somewhere public. Somewhere he feels safe. Just him on his own.’

I let it sink in.

‘You got somewhere in mind?’ 

Startpoint Street. Newhaven Road. The same names flashed past. I’d been touring the scheme for ten minutes, driving in circles. At every turn the high flats striped the windscreen, white against the inky sky. Gantock Crescent. Sumburgh Street. The plan was to find a pub and ask directions from there. The plan had a flaw. There were no pubs in Cranhill. No pubs, no shops, no bookies. Just the blank white faces of the maisonettes.

Cranhill. Hamish Neil’s kingdom was a Fifties scheme, squeezed between the motorway and the old Edinburgh Road. Cottage-style four-in-a-blocks, for the most part, but up towards the motorway stood the high flats, triple towers lapped by seas of grass.

Bellrock Crescent. Skerryvore Road. I swung through the tight streets, slowing for the speed bumps, scouting for shops or a café, anything that looked like a main drag. A big off-stage burble of thunder rolled over the car, and then it started: with a noise like a great tearing of paper a wall of water toppled onto Cranhill. The rain crashed on the Forester’s roof, slopped across the windscreen, overwhelmed the wipers. I pulled over. Water fizzed on the bonnet, sparked and boiled in the roadway. Sodden roses bloomed on the maisonette walls.

I turned on Radio Scotland and waited for the rain to stop. The weather came on, then the news, Haining still in the headlines.

‘
. . .
Deputy First Minister Noreen Telfer today announced an enquiry into the sale of public assets by Glasgow City Council. The move comes as fresh allegations emerge concerning the conduct of disgraced former city council leader Gavin
Haining. Our political editor Derek Urquhart has more.’

‘Yes, Mhairi, the latest revelation concerns the sale of council land during Gavin Haining’s tenure. It’s been alleged that vacant lots in the East End of Glasgow, sold at knock-down prices to developers, were then bought back at inflated sums as part of the city’s preparation for the Commonwealth Games.’

‘What sort of sums are we talking about, Derek?’

‘Significant, Mhairi. In one instance alone, a block of land sold for the nominal sum of one pound sterling was bought back by the Kentigern Consortium – the city’s arm’s-length construction company – for six hundred thousand pounds. The Commonwealth Games athletics complex will be built on the site.’

‘That’s a tidy profit. Do we know who the vendor was?’

I remembered Haining at his press conference, standing in the rubble, selling off the gap sites.
Sell them the land? We’ll bloody give them the land.

I punched the button, killed the news. Do we know who the vendor was? It might not be the name on the invoice, but the vendor was Hamish Neil.

The rain had stopped. Everything looked stunned and fresh, like the first day of creation. The railings sang in the sparkling light, the tarmac threw up a molten glare. I sat in the car and smoked a Café Crème and watched a ginger cat high-stepping through the sparkling grass. I flicked the cigar end at its hind quarters and watched the cat clear a garden wall in a single fastidious spasm, its little bell tinkling. Then I turned the key and pulled away slowly, tyres hissing on the slick tarmac, turned another corner.

An old guy was walking a Westie. I slowed the car and bumped the horn with the heel of my hand. The old boy tugged on the red leash and crossed the grass verge. He stuck his head into the car.

‘You’re far from home, son, a motor like this. Lost your way?’

‘Something like that. This a dry district or what? Youse all signed the pledge?’

The old guy laughed. ‘You’re looking for a pub? Good luck. Social amenities arnae the strong point round here.’ He grinned, a dainty row of dentures. ‘Don’t get me wrong. You can buy drugs, son. That’s no problem. Anything you want. Try buying a loaf of bread. A can of beer. Apart from that thieving bastard up on the Crescent there’s nothing. You have to go out to Easterhouse or back into Parkhead. Either way it’s a three-mile trip, an hour on the bus to get there and back. Fucking liberty, son, it’s—’

‘The Crescent?’

He pointed back the way I’d come.

‘There’s a Paki shop up the road there. Straight on and first left, across from the high flats. I’m no a racist, son, but the guy’s at it. Fucking comedy prices, no kidding ye.’

‘Yeah?’ I keep a pack of B & H in the glove compartment; I took it out now and offered him one, lit it with the dashboard lighter.

‘Very civil, son. A white man.’

‘I’m actually looking for a friend of mine. Guy I used to know. Lives around here.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Aye. Name’s Hamish Neil.’

The old guy straightened up, yanked the Westie’s leash. He spat on the grass verge. ‘Cannae help you there, son.’ He set off down the hill.

I three-pointed and headed back the way I’d come. Up the street and round the corner was a short parade of shops. A hair salon, a post office, a superstore. The electronic beep when I crossed the superstore’s threshold brought the owner’s bald head up from the
Evening Times
. I knew the answer before I asked.

‘Sorry, pal. Never heard of him.’

The rain was back on. Some boys were messing about in the bus shelter outside the shops.

One of them stuck his head out of the entrance.

‘You OK there, big man? Got what you need?’

He bobbed his head a little and chafed his fists together. ‘Step into the office, sir. We’ll fix you up.’ Laughter from inside the shelter.

‘Yeah, thanks mate, no. What it is, I’m looking for Hamish Neil.’

The boy’s hands dropped to his sides. He reared back as if a bad smell hit him. He swung back into the shelter.

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

I had a folded tenner between my fingers. I jiggled it like a cigarette. I was in the shelter now, and the boys looked at each other and back at me. Four of them. Early teens.

‘Anyone know where he is? Hamish Neil?’

They were standing with their backs to the blurry Perspex walls. One of them was propping himself up with a blue Adidas training shoe. He was kicking the shelter in a steady rhythm. The whole frame juddered with his kicks.

They didn’t answer. Four blank faces, four sour stares.

‘Where’s your back-up?’ one of them asked.

‘I’m not a cop.’ I shrugged. I reached inside my jacket and the nearest boy gripped my forearm. He held it tight as I brought my hand out with a business card between my fingers. The tallest boy reached for it. ‘I write for the
Tribune
. I’m a journalist.’

‘A
journalist
?’ The boy spun the card at my face and stepped up close. ‘Are you fucking thick or something?’

‘It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘It’s not a story. I need to speak to him. I did him a favour a while back and I need to see him again. He knows who I am.’ I stooped for the card, held it out again. ‘He knows who I am.’

‘Hey.’

An older guy was crossing the road, bulky, built, a short leather jacket and cropped black hair. He pointed a key over his shoulder and a black SUV squealed and blinked. A Lexus RX. The man’s frame blocked the doorway of the shelter. I knew him from before: Neil’s driver. He looked at me but spoke to the boy. ‘What’s the score here?’

The boy jerked his head at me. ‘Guy wants to see Mr Neil. Says he knows him.’

‘You know Hamish?’

I nodded. The man took the card from my fingers. He turned it over and frowned.

‘So what?’

‘So I need to see him.’

‘What about?’

‘I’d rather tell him.’

He looked neutrally at me, breathed through his nose, fingered the card.

‘Stay here,’ he told me. His index finger tracked along the line of boys and then jabbed at me. The boys shuffled closer, formed a loose circle around me.

‘What happens if I run for it?’

The tall boy poked my paunch, lost his finger to the first knuckle.

‘We’ll catch you up when you get to the kerb.’

Smart cunt.
The others laughing.

In five minutes the Lexus driver was back.

‘Know the Water Tower? Down Bellrock Street?’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘He’ll meet you there in half an hour.’

He crossed to the Lexus. The sun had come out above the high flats. The day was turning out fine. In my rear-view as I pulled away the bus shelter pulsed like a heartbeat.

On the corner of Bellrock Street and Skerryvore Road is a great stone slab on slender concrete pillars: Cranhill Water Tower. Monumental and futuristic, it looks like a memorial for a war that hasn’t happened yet. There are spiky railings all around the base. I was leaning against them when the black RX drew up across the street. Neil got out alone, wrapping his overcoat around him, picking his way through the puddles.

‘Come on.’ He strode past me up the hill. ‘We’ll go for a walk.’

I looked doubtfully at the Forester.

‘Safe as houses, Gerry. Come on.’

We climbed up the hill towards the high flats, Neil moving at pace, his overcoat flapping.

‘So you’re back in the game.’

I shrugged. ‘So to speak.’

‘That’s good news. I want to tell you, Gerry, I don’t share the current despondency surrounding newspapers. A good newspaper will always be wanted. The public needs to be kept informed.’

A smile nipped at the corners of his mouth. I didn’t say anything.

‘You know what Jefferson said? About papers?’

I sighed. ‘Surprise me.’

‘Thomas Jefferson. He said if it was up to him, if he had to choose between a government without newspapers or newspapers without a government, he would choose the latter.’

The sodden grass was darkening my trouser-ends, water was seeping into my shoes.

‘Yeah? And who’d benefit from that equation?’

‘I think we all would, Gerry.’

‘Well, if you feel that way, Mr Neil, maybe you could help us out, take out some ad space in the
Trib
.’

He smiled. ‘Mine’s more of a word-of-mouth business, Gerry. But a nice thought. Anyway, what can I do for you? You here to give me right of reply? Am I your splash on Sunday?’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not my splash any Sunday. Not any more. You know why I’m here. I’m over my head. I want to end it. I want it over. My girlfriend, the boy. I can’t have them hurt.’

He was nodding. We had come to a stop at the foot of a slope, a green bank of turf. Up there were the high flats, the three big towers at the heart of the scheme. Neil jerked his chin at them.

‘Used to play up there. On the Suggies. Heard of the Suggies?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘The Sugarolly Mountains. That’s where it was. The motorway over there was the canal, and where the high flats are was the Sugarolly Mountains. Great days. I used to play here with my brother. Used to steal our mammy’s tea tray and slide down the hills. Chemical tailings it was. Hazardous waste, basically. Whenever it rained this brown stuff came oozing out but nobody bothered. No one told us it was dangerous.’

He turned to face me. ‘That’s all it takes sometimes. Someone to point out the danger. Tell you to stop.’

‘I have stopped,’ I said. ‘That’s what I’m saying. I have stopped. I’m back on Politics, as of now, this week. I’m finished.’

‘That’s good, Gerry.’ He was prodding at the sopping grass with the toe of his shoe, clear water bubbling up like a spring, cresting the glossy black. ‘Thing is, you’ll appreciate, I’m going to need some assurance. A little token of your change of heart. Goodwill gesture, you might call it.’

He turned and started back down the hill. I caught him up.

‘And this would involve what?’

‘Nothing much. Write a couple of stories. Man in my position, I get to hear things. People tell me stuff. I could set you up with a couple of stories. Help you out. That’s all. Do you a favour.’

We were almost back at the cars. I looked up at the water tower, the columns black against the green sky, the great stone slab like some megalithic tomb.

‘Didn’t work too well for Martin Moir,’ I said. ‘That arrangement.’

‘You’re not Martin Moir.’

He pointed his key and the car shrugged into life with a yellow blink, an electric yelp, like a dog rousing itself.

‘By the way, what makes you think I would hurt you?’

‘What?’

‘You said it just now, you can’t have them hurt. Who’s hurting anyone?’

I remembered the panic on the towpath, the chase from the nursery, the hollow hour when I thought my son had been taken.

‘Yeah, you’ve never had a cross word, Hamish, not with anyone. Those guys in the tanning salon must have firebombed themselves.’

‘You know what happened there?’ Neil was shaking his head, disappointed, the tight mouth. ‘I tried to do it the smart way. Take the old man out of the picture with a minimum of fuss. But fuss is what people look for. If there’s no fuss they think you’re milky. You’re not for real. They take liberties. So you have to do it anyway, what you should have done at the start. You’re only putting it off.’ He opened the car door, shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it onto the passenger seat. ‘I took that lesson to heart, Gerry.’

‘You mean you’ll be making a fuss over me?’

He smiled. ‘No. I don’t mean that at all. I mean I’ll do what it takes to protect what I have. Like anyone would. You got a card?’

I gave him one. He took out a pen and wrote a number on the back. ‘Get me on that. Once you’ve made up your mind.’

‘I’ll give it some thought.’

‘You do that, Gerry.’ He grinned, settling himself into the padded leather, reaching for the seatbelt. ‘Weigh up your options.’

I phoned him next day from the box on Queen Margaret. I wanted a meet, just the two of us, sort out the details, get this thing settled. Someone would be in touch, he told me. No, I said. Here’s how it is. I deal with you, not with your underlings. I don’t come east. We meet in public, in the daytime, at a place of my choosing. You give me the details and I leave first.

‘That’s very organised of you,’ he said. ‘Did you have a venue in mind?’

‘There’s a place out west,’ I said. ‘They’re big on music?’

‘I know it,’ he said. ‘What time does the big music start?’