He listened to the reply and then said, "I'll see you there. Don't let me down."
The Fisherman's Bar dated from the days when there were fishermen and the harbour at Strathbane had been crammed with trawlers. But overfishing and European Union quotas had crippled the fishing industry and the harbour lay deserted apart from a few rusting hulks of boats. The Fisherman's Bar consisted of little more than one small smelly room. Nicotine from millions of cigarettes had stained the once-white walls yellow. There was an ancient jukebox in the corner, still containing a stack of sixties records. No one could quite remember the last time it had worked. A television set over the bar was relaying the latest horse racing from Ayr and Cheltenham. No one ever came to the bar for any good purpose. It was a haunt of small-time villains. Callum, the snout, was one of those dwarf-sized men who still inhabit inner cities. His sparse hair was combed carefully over his bald spot. He had a deeply wrinkled face, no teeth, not even false ones, to lend shape to his sour and wrinkled mouth. He wore glasses and chain-smoked.
His information was usually as small-time as the villains who used the bar-petty theft, people who grew and sold cannabis, the odd ram raid, burglary and some warehouse break-ins. He passed these tidbits on to Blair, who would pay him the occasional tenner for the information.
Blair came in and sat down at the battered table in the corner which Callum had chosen. "I'm surprised you chose this place," said Callum.
"Nobody knows me down here," said Blair.
"Aye but you stink of copper," said Callum, watching a couple of men swallow their drinks quickly and make for the door.
"Okay, we'll take a walk." Callum looked disappointed. He craved a drink but had not ordered anything, expecting Blair to pay for one.
Both men walked out. The day was cold and clear. Mournful seagulls swooped overhead. Plastic cups, condoms, burger wrappers and other detritus bobbed on the filthy water.
"So what brings you?" asked Callum.
"This is big money," said Blair.
"How big?"
"Very big. I'm giving you information to sell."
CHAPTER EIGHT
O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
O Grave, thy victoree?
The hells of Hell go ting~a~ling~a-ling
For you hut not for me.
– British army song
Callum's heart beat hard as he went into the noise of Lachie's disco that night. How much should he ask for such information? A thousand?
He went up to the bar. The bartender eyed him with disfavour. "What d'ye want, old man?"
"Not so much o' the old man, laddie," said Callum. "I'm here to see Lachie."
"Oh, aye? And what's your business?"
"I've got information for him."
"Awa' wi' ye. He's busy."
"Okay, tell him I'll see him in prison." Callum had shouted the last words to be heard above the disco beat. "Wait here," said the bartender.
Callum turned round and watched the gyrating couples. How could folks get enjoyment out of dancing like that? The stabbing strobes hurt his eyes and the music hurt his ears. No damn tune, either.
The bartender came back. "Come with me."
He led Callum through to Lachie's office.
Lachie was alone. Callum threw a longing glance at the bar in the corner.
Lachie was sitting behind his desk. He did not ask Callum to sit down.
"So what's this information?" he asked.
"I'm not saying anything until I see Jimmy White and get paid for it."
Lachie leaned forward. "I don't know anything about anyone called Jimmy White. Get out o' here."
"He's caught in the middle o' a police scam," said Callum sulkily.
Lachie looked at him long and hard, and then he smiled. "Have a seat. What's your name?"
"Callum."
"Callum what?"
"Just Callum."
"Drink?"
"Aye, a whisky would be fine."
Lachie picked up the phone and, turning away from Callum, whispered into it. After he had replaced the receiver, he went to the bar and poured a generous glass of whisky for Callum.
"Cheers!" said Callum.
Lachie nodded. Then he said, "How much are you asking for this information?"
"A thousand pounds," said Callum.
"Well, we'll see." The door opened and the Undertaker came in. "On his way," he said briefly. He sat down on a chair against the wall. He took out a nasty-looking knife and began to clean his nails.
"I thought they only did that on the fillums," said Callum nervously. Both men said nothing, just looked steadily and unnervingly at Callum.
"It's been fine weather," said Callum.
Nothing. They just continued to stare at him. Callum could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. He began to curse Blair in his mind. He was beginning to feel all this was too deep and dangerous for a small-time villain like himself.
The door opened and Jimmy White came in. Callum immediately knew this must be Jimmy White from the expensive clothes and the two brutal-looking henchmen who came in behind him.
Jimmy White drew up a chair next to Callum and said, "Speak."
"It's important information," said Callum. "I want a thousand pounds for it."
"You'll get it. Now, speak."
"I'd like to see the money first," said Callum, frightened but determined.
"You have the word of Jimmy White. Isn't that good enough for you?"
Callum caved in. Now all he wanted was to get out of this dreadful place. The office was soundproofed but the disco beat filtered through like the beating of his heart.
"It's like this," he said. "You're dealing with a man who says he's Hamish George and his wife."
"So?"
"He's Hamish Macbeth, a copper from Lochdubh, and his so-called wife is a detective chief inspector from Glasgow. The heroin you're getting is from that haul the police grabbed in Glasgow. At the next drop, all the police will be waiting for you."
"Who told you this?"
"I got it from top level in the police but I cannae be revealing my source. Now, what about that money?"
Jimmy White turned to one of his henchmen. He made a twisting motion with his hands. "Pay him."
Callum relaxed and picked up his whisky. One of the henchmen stepped forward and deftly slipped a wire around Callum's scrawny neck and pulled tight. The rest watched with interest as Callum writhed and fought and then was still. His lifeless body slumped to the floor.
"Dump that in the harbour," said Jimmy.
"You'd best clear off," said Lachie.
"Not before I take out Hamish Macbeth," said Jimmy. "That bastard's going to pay for this with his life."
Hamish went through to their little hotel sitting room the following morning. Olivia looked up at him, her face shiny bright as if lacquered. He thought, She's going to say, "I hope you are not going to take what happened between us last night seriously."
"Sit down, Hamish. Coffee? There's something we need to discuss."
"You're going to say that last night is to be forgotten," said Hamish.
"Well, yes. We've got a job on and we cannot have any emotional involvement."
"Very well, ma'am."
There was an awkward silence. Hamish switched on the television. It was the local news. "A body was recovered from the harbour at Strathbane this morning," said the announcer. "Police are not revealing the identity of the dead man until relatives have been informed. Foul play is suspected."
"Find out who that was," said Hamish.
"Why?"
"We're involved in a drug scam and suddenly there's a dead body. I'd like to know who it is."
Olivia phoned Daviot, who said he would phone back. "I think we're both worrying too much, Hamish."