Nance glanced at Watt as if to make sure he was out of earshot. “It doesn’t matter.”
Gilchrist could tell from the glitter in her eyes that she no longer trusted him. Is that how it begins? A little bit of distrust? A bit more, until all of a sudden the ground opens up and Hell swallows you whole?
Trust? Who knew what the fuck trust was any more?
He stood, the move so sudden that Nance gaped up at him.
He gave a twisted smirk. “I’m having a drink.”
“Getting drunk’s not the answer, Andy.”
“D’you know what, Nance?” He saw uncertainty flicker in her eyes. She had never seen him this unhinged before. He was scaring her. If he wasn’t so fucked up he would be scaring himself. “I’m not looking for any more answers,” he said. “I’ve had it up to here with answers. I’m through with being lied to every minute of every day. So do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get drunk. That’s what I’m going to do. If it’s all right with you, that is.”
Nance lowered her eyes as he brushed past.
He reached the bar and opened his wallet. He fingered a twenty, was about to remove it when it struck him what Nance had said. Had he misheard?
He returned to the table and leaned down to her, so close his lips were almost kissing her right ear. “Bootsie doesn’t trust Watt?” he said.
Without looking at him, Nance smiled.
“What’s Bootsie holding back?”
“Topley’s mother.”
“What about her?”
“And Wee Kenny’s mother.”
“Yes?”
“Were sisters.”
Gilchrist slumped back into the bench seat. For the life of him he could not figure it out. “And?”
“Which makes Topley and Wee Kenny cousins.”
Maybe Nance was right. Maybe he really was dead on his feet. “I’m listening.”
“And family,” Nance added.
Gilchrist narrowed his eyes. Family. Now he thought he understood. “And Topley knows Wee Kenny’s dead, but doesn’t know how or who?”
“He knows how. He suspects who.”
Now he had it. “Jimmy Reid.”
Nance tilted her beer to him.
“Which means…?”
“Any allegiance Topley had to Jimmy and Bully,” she said, “has just gone out the window.”
“A new turf war?”
“And then some.”
Gilchrist smiled, but only for a moment. Something was missing. “When did Topley find out it was Jimmy?” he asked.
“Oh…” Nance glanced at her watch. “… I’d say about ten minutes ago.”
DESPITE THE TIREDNESS and the alcohol Gilchrist felt wide awake. As he gunned his Merc through the night, his mind sparked questions like a fired crackerjack.
Who would launder a coffin-load of drugs?
Chris Topley. Cleaner of all things dirty, with his legit Topley Company, shuffling money through offshore banks, business ventures, not to mention his own personal cut.
Why bury the drugs in Topley’s grave? Why not hide them in Bully’s father’s grave?
Because if the drug cache were ever found, it would be a simple case for Bully to deny it. Topley would be blamed. Was that not the first person Dainty pointed to when the coffin was uncovered?
Will Bully be free in two years?
Maybe earlier. With his shite-hot solicitor, Bully could be walking the beaches of Spain next year.
Had Jimmy killed on Bully’s orders? Would he do that?
You bet he would.
Why would Jimmy kill Wee Kenny?
Because Wee Kenny knew about Jimmy’s involvement in Chloe’s and Maureen’s murders. Maybe even knew he had grassed to Bootsie. And Jimmy trusted no one. Alive, that is.
Why risk killing three people in the space of a month?
Because Jimmy’s dying, with six months to live. That’s why he’s buying property in Spain now, why he’s closing shop, why he’s clearing the decks.
But Bully and Jimmy had made a fatal mistake. They had not known, or had not cared, that Wee Kenny and Chris Topley were cousins, that they were family.
And family changes everything.
They reached Glasgow city centre before midnight. Gilchrist slipped off the M8 at Charing Cross, and powered down Sauchiehall Street. The one-way systems had him swearing under his breath, but Nance shouted directions.
They walked into Babbity Bowster at five to midnight.
The barman told them Topley had been in earlier, but had left with several others.
“Where to?”
The barman looked at them, dumb with confusion.
“Ask someone,” snapped Gilchrist. “Hey. You.”
A young girl with dirty-blonde hair in a loose ponytail almost jumped. The barman said something to her, but she shook her head. Without prompting, the barman stepped from the bar and returned a few minutes later. “They were heading for Truffles.”
“What’s that?”
“The Truffle Club. In Drury Street.”
The street name tripped Gilchrist up. But Nance beat him to it. “Opposite the Horseshoe,” she said.
It cost ten pounds each to enter.
Gilchrist stepped up a carpeted stairway to an upper level that glowed blue and red from the strip club’s disco lighting. He thought of walking through the place and looking for Topley, but the aroma of the bar was too much for him, and he ordered a half for himself and a gin and tonic for Nance. He passed over a twenty then eyed the open floor.
Men in dull suits and sharp ties sat at tables in small groups. Some eyed the dancer on the stage, others drooled at bare breasts presented to them table-side. Notes were palmed with the legerdemain of men trained in marital deceit, and by the time their drinks came up Gilchrist had counted eighty pounds being disposed of at the table closest to him.
“He’s over there,” Nance said, nodding to a table near the stage.
Topley looked drunk, not happy, and proffered money into girls’ hands with the disinterest of a financial glutton. A glass of something clear was tossed back and the empty tumbler returned to the table with a smack that Gilchrist heard above the ambient din. They did not have long before Topley would be beyond talking. If he was not there already.
Gilchrist threw back his whisky. “Let’s go.”
Topley did not notice them until Gilchrist squeezed his shoulder. A muscled man seated opposite slid a hand inside his suit jacket. Nance whispered in his ear, and the man’s hand slipped to his knee.
Topley let out a guffaw then threw a pile of twenties onto the table. “A hundred quid for you, darling, if you pop them out for us. Go on. Let’s have a goggle at those lovely tits of yours. What d’you say, Ray?” He nodded to the man opposite. “Fancy pushing your fat cock into that little lot?”
Topley struggled to pull himself upright then flopped back as if the act was beyond him. He laughed again. “Here,” he said to Nance, and unfolded his wallet. He frowned as he rummaged inside it. “I thought I had a fifty in here.” Then he looked up with a dazed smile. “Only hundreds.” A single note flew from his hand and fluttered to the floor. “Tell you what, darling. I’ll make it two hundred. How’s that?” He raised his hands as if a gun had been placed to his skull. “I won’t even try to touch them. House rules. How fair can a man get?”
Nance picked up the money, and for one confusing moment Gilchrist thought she was going to strip off her blouse. But she leaned forward, money held out, and said to Topley’s spinning eyes, “Should you not be giving this to Wee Kenny’s mother?”
Topley’s face flattened. His eyes died. He lowered his hands, placed them on the table as if to prove he was unarmed.
Gilchrist readied himself to step in.
“Or do I get to keep it,” Nance pressed on, “if I tell you where Jimmy Reid’s at?”
Gilchrist knew she was bluffing. But it was lovely to watch the rationale of her words worm through the drunken fuzz of Topley’s mind. Then Topley raised a hand, and Gilchrist realised with a spurt of surprise that four bouncers stood behind them.