His ginger hair dyed blonde and his tango tan did nothing to detract from the effect. It was no wonder he’d felt the need to wear a mask. He might have glowed in the dark otherwise. Burke got the sense he hadn’t been forgiven for the blow to the side of the head. He was an authority figure, one in a long line this kid had undoubtedly come up against in his nineteen years, starting with the drunken waster father who had beaten him and his mother black and blue on a regular basis before buggering off and leaving them to fend for themselves in Sighthill. Sure, there were decent members of society everywhere but there were forgotten people out there too, people that didn’t play by the same rules as the general population, and it was hard to know right from wrong when you’d been beaten regardless of what you did from a young age.
Jones had a way of softening up witnesses. He had to hand it to her. She worked them like some kind of prize fighter, softening them up with a few body blows before continuing with the full on cranial assault just to finish the job. Timing was everything. She had him talking now, about how he’d left home at a young age, wasn’t much worse than the flat in Sighthill anyway freedom to be who you really were, that was the thing.
“It isn’t you we’re after, is it? That’s what you’ve got to remember,” she said.
He nodded his head.
“I mean you didn’t kill Oleg Karpov did you?”
He shook his head.
“For the benefit of the tape please Stuart.”
The boy grunted in the negative, before looking like he was going to cry.
“You were there though. And my guess is, you know who did.”
His head dropped onto the table and he cradled it in his arms, letting out a sigh that seemed to go on for longer than lung capacity should have allowed. “I was there,” he said, an air of desperation in his voice, “but I really don’t know who did it.”
“What did you see?”
“Everything, but nothing that can help,” he said rubbing his hair nervously before covering his face with his elbows. “They were wearing masks.”
“Like the kind of masks you were wearing tonight?”
“Yes. No. It wasn’t us, I swear.” He looked pleadingly into her eyes.
“Who is us Stuart?”
“Me and a friend. It’s not important. He knows nothing I don’t.”
“Why don’t you tell us and we can interview him? Then at least we can find out for ourselves. It’s important we find out what happened.” She paused for a second. “Why did you go back for the laptop?”
“I don’t know.”
“But your friend did? Does that tell us something about how much more he knew than you? Or maybe you thought the CCTV footage on a laptop shows more than you can have out there in the big wide world. Maybe there’s something there to incriminate you.”
“No!” he shouted. “Neither of us knows more than the other did. We were in this together. We just wanted the laptop.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“I don’t even know right. That’s the thing. He didn’t say. We just knew he was working for the Russian.”
“The Russian?” Both the detectives’ ears pricked up at this.
Burke who had begun to daydream a little along with the soundtrack was now fully focussed on the ginger youth. “What Russian Stuart?”
“I don’t know that. I just know the lawyer said it would be bad for us if we didn’t get it.”
“What lawyer?” Jones asked, watching Jamieson who had been on the verge of sleeping come back to life.
“Posh wanker, expensive suit, called himself John Smith or Joe Bloggs or something stupid like that.”
Giles was not a man accustomed to being taken or indeed held hostage. Was that what he was? They’d knocked him around a bit. He’d complained, told them to watch the suit, given them as good as he got, verbally if not physically. The smack on the side of the head had put a stop to that. Fucking barbarians, they should be in a salt mine somewhere east of the back end of snow covered fucking nowhere, or better still in a shallow grave, anywhere.
He was also quite unaccustomed to losing control of his bowels, not that it seemed to matter now that he was in a distinctly agricultural looking building. Was this how long it took to reduce everyone to their lowest ebb? Were they all animals not so very deep down after all? This must be what the inevitable decline was like, sitting in the dark with shitty trousers and the urge to cry, full circle right back to where you started.
Oh how the mighty had fallen. Now all he was concerned with was basic survival, never mind which Rolex to wear to which event or which tie to wear on any given day. Social niceties were out the window. Could he bargain his way out of this one, grovel maybe? He doubted his client would care much for that. He seemed a man of principle, fucked up and misguided principle, but principle nonetheless. His moral compass was pointing south or something.
What did it matter? He would try anything. He should be angry. Who the hell had the right to put him in a position like this anyway?
The kid was there he was sure, behind him in the dark somewhere. Now the boot was on the other foot. He didn’t feel guilty. You paid your money, you took your chance. That was what his father always said. You couldn’t be expected to look out for everyone else. It was a jungle out there, more so than he’d ever imagined after all.
There must be a way out of this was the thought that kept bouncing round his head like some desperate mantra he couldn’t or wouldn’t shift. It was a survival instinct but also one born of habit. He’d never been in this situation, never felt close to the end and so he wasn’t equipped to deal with it. His brain could not recognise or process it.
He talked himself up. He could do this. He could hustle his way out, like he’d seen his father do all his life. Though he’d denied it many times, he was sure the apple never fell that far from the tree. He must have it in him.
The kid behind him snuffled, presumably snoring in some way. Just as well considering what was in store for him. He heard the footsteps outside, felt the grumbling roar of the great steel door.
The client stood amongst his mercenaries. His face was empty. The bolt cutters in his left hand said more than any facial expression, body language or words ever could. Giles felt his confidence drain. He was no longer a hustler, probably never was. He knew that now.
They were assembled at the rugby ground as usual, for the twice weekly training version of kicking the shit out of each other.
Davie hadn’t been there in months. He was usually in some kind of pride related dilemma he realised. It did seem to be his Achilles heel. He watched from a distance at first, not that that made him seem any less stupid. The car park was up on the hill above the pitch and could be seen by anyone with functioning eyes and it wasn’t like he could be here for any other reason than wanting to talk to his former team mates.
He waited some more though, inspecting his feet, like he was a kid again and his parents had ordered him to apologise to someone for some perceived misdemeanour, which seemed to happen a lot.
Eventually he realised the training session was finishing up and made his approach. Graeme and big Al were the first ones to spot him.
“Training must be over lads. There’s the fat lady and I think she’s about to sing,” Graeme shouted.
“I know for a fact you’ve woken up with worse,” Davie replied.
“He has that,” Al agreed. “What brings you here anyway?”
“Oh nothing much. Just wondered if anyone fancied a beer.”
“Sounds good to me,” Al replied, some of the others nodding their approval along with him. “I take it you’re buying?”