And as he’d gone on to explain it, Ian had felt his life ebb away. He’d run to the lock-up, finding Tony there. Tony already knew: it was written on his face. He knew they had to get rid of the machines, dump them somewhere. But that meant getting another lorry from somewhere.
‘Hang on though,’ Tony had said, his brain slipping into gear. ‘Eddie Hart isn’t after the machines, is he? He only wants what’s his.’
Eddie Hart: at mention of the name, Ian could feel his knees buckling. ‘Steady Eddie’ was the Dundee Godfather, a man with an almost mythical status as mover and shaker, entrepreneur, and hammer-wielding maniac. If you crossed Steady Eddie, he got out his carpentry nails. And according to the local word, Eddie was absolutely furious.
He’d probably put a lot of thought into the scheme. He needed to move drugs around, and had hit on the idea of hiding them inside white goods. After all, a lorryload of washer-dryers or fridge-freezers – they could saunter up and down every motorway in the country. All you needed were some fake dockets listing origin and destination. It just so happened that Tony had hit on one of Eddie’s drivers. And now Eddie was out for blood.
But Tony was right: if they handed back the dope, got it back to Eddie somehow, maybe they’d be allowed to live. Maybe it would be all right. So they started tearing the packing from the machines, unscrewing the back of each to search behind the drum for hidden packages. And when that failed, they emptied out each machine’s complimentary packet of washing powder. They went through both lock-ups, they checked and double-checked every machine. And found nothing.
Ian thought maybe the stuff had been hidden in one of the machines they’d left behind.
‘Use your loaf,’ his brother told him. ‘If that were true, why would he be after us? Wait a minute though…’
And he went back, counting the machines. There was one missing. The brothers looked at one another, headed for Tony’s car. At Malc’s mother’s house, Malc had just plumbed the machine in. The old twin-tub was out on the front path, waiting to be junked. Malc’s mother was rubbing her hands over the front of her new washer-dryer, telling the neighbours who’d gathered in the kitchen what a good laddie her son was.
‘Saved up and bought it as a surprise.’
Even Ian knew that they were in real trouble now. Everyone in town would get to hear about the new washing machine… and word would most definitely travel.
They took Malc outside, explained the situation to him. He went back indoors and manoeuvred the machine out of its cubby-hole, explaining that he’d forgotten to remove the transit bolts. His hands were trembling so much, he kept dropping the screwdriver. But at last he had the back of the machine off, and started handing brown-paper packages to Tony and Ian. Tony explained to the neighbours that they were weights, to stop the machine slipping and sliding when it was in the back of the lorry.
‘Like bricks?’ one neighbour asked, and when he agreed with her, sweat pouring down his face, she added a further question. ‘Why cover bricks in brown paper?’
Tony, beyond explanations, put his head in his hands and wept.
The detective brings back two beakers of coffee, one for himself, one for Ian. He’s been checking up, using the computer, making a couple of phone calls. Ian sits ready to tell him the last of it.
‘We couldn’t just hand the stuff back, had to think of a way to do it. So we drove up to Dundee, night before last. Steady Eddie has a nightclub. We put the stuff in one of the skips at the back of the club, then phoned the club and told them where they could find it. Thing is, the club gets its rubbish collected privately, and the company works at night. So that night, the skip got emptied. Well, that wouldn’t have mattered, only… only it was me made the call… and there were two numbers in the phone-book. Instead of the office, I’d got through to the public phone on the wall beside the bar. It must have been some punter who answered. I just said my piece then hung up. I don’t know… maybe they nipped outside and got the stuff for themselves. Maybe they didn’t hear me, or thought I was drunk or something…’ His voice is choking; he’s close to tears.
‘Mr Hart didn’t get the stuff?’ the detective guesses. Ian nods agreement. ‘And now your brother and Malc have gone missing?’
‘Eddie got them. He must have done.’
‘And you want us to protect you?’
‘Witness relocation: you can do that, can’t you? I mean, there’s a price on my head now. You’ve got to!’
The detective nods. ‘We can do it,’ he says. ‘But what exactly is it you’re a witness to? There’s no record of a lorry being hijacked. Nobody’s reported such a loss. You don’t seem to have any evidence linking Mr Hart to anything illegal – much as I’d love it if you did.’ The detective draws his chair closer. ‘It wasn’t a slump that led to you losing your job, Ian. It was threatening your foreman. He didn’t like your attitude, and you started spinning him some story about having a brother who’s a terrorist, and who’d stick a bomb under his car. You scared the poor man half to death, until he found out the truth. See, I’ve got all of that in the files, Ian. What I don’t have is anything about washing machines, drugs wrapped in brown paper, or missing persons.’
Ian leaps from his seat, begins pacing the room. ‘You could send a team out to the dump. If the drugs are there, they’ll find them. Or… or go to the lock-ups, the washing machines will still be there… unless Steady Eddie’s taken them. I wouldn’t put it past him. Don’t you see? I’m the only one left who can testify against him!’
The detective is on his feet now, too. ‘I think it’s time you were off, son. I’ll see you as far as the door.’
‘I need protection!’
The detective comes up to him again. Their faces are inches apart.
‘Get your brother the terrorist to protect you. His name’s… Billy, isn’t it? Only you can’t do that, can you? Because you haven’t got a brother called Billy. Or a brother called Tony, if it comes to that.’ The detective pauses. ‘You haven’t got anybody, Ian. You’re a nobody. These stories of yours… that’s all they are, stories. Come on now, it’s time you were home. Your mum will be worrying.’
‘She got a new washing machine last week,’ Ian says softly. ‘The man who delivered it, he said sorry for being so late. He’d been stopped at a checkpoint.’
It is quiet in the interview room. Quiet for a long time, until Ian begins weeping, weeping for the brother he’s just lost again.
The Hanged Man
The killer wandered through the fairground.
It was a travelling fair, and this was its first night in Kirkcaldy. It was a Thursday evening in April. The fair wouldn’t get really busy until the weekend, by which time it would be missing one of its minor, if well-established, attractions.
He’d already made one recce past the small white caravan with its chalkboard outside. Pinned to the board were a couple of faded letters from satisfied customers. A double-step led to the bead curtain. The door was tied open with baling twine. He didn’t think there was anyone in there with her. If there was, she’d have closed the door. But all the same, he wanted to be careful. ‘Care’ was his by-word.
He called himself a killer. Which was to say that if anyone had asked him what he did for a living, he wouldn’t have used any other term. He knew some in the profession thought ‘assassin’ had a more glamorous ring to it. He’d looked it up in a dictionary, found it was to do with some old religious sect and derived from an old Arabic word meaning ‘eater of hashish’. He didn’t believe in drugs himself; not so much as a half of lager before the job.
Some people preferred to call it a ‘hit’, which made them ‘hit men’. But he didn’t hit people; he killed them stone dead. And there were other, more obscure euphemisms, but the bottom line was, he was a killer.