How To Kill Friends And Implicate People
Read How To Kill Friends And Implicate People Online
Authors: Jay Stringer
ALSO BY JAY STRINGER
Old Gold
Runaway Town
Lost City
Ways To Die In Glasgow
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Jay Stringer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503939714
ISBN-10: 1503939715
Cover design by Lisa Horton
Contents
PART ONE
June 6th
‘The first time you kill someone, you realise you don’t need to suffer fools gladly.’
—Fergus
ONE
CAL
11:00
Fuckin’ bawbags.
This is not cool. Not cool at-fucking-all. You think you can trust someone, then they go and screw you over.
‘What’s this?’ I say.
Being all polite, like. Not threatening to stove their heads in with a fuckin’ spoon. I’d specifically said to them, get me a wire, like in the movies. Something subtle. Something we could hide in a lassie’s clothing, or fit into her bag. Maybe one of they transmitters that sends out the signal to some dude waiting in the next room with the recorder and a swat team.
So, aye, I sent Baz and Nazi Steve out to get me a wire. And the bampots have come back with a Walkman.
‘That’s all they had,’ Nazi Steve says. ‘We walked all around the Barras, and that’s the closest thing. But look—’ He takes the Walkman from me and points to a red button. ‘It’s got a
record
button.’
‘Doesn’t need a microphone neither,’ Baz says. ‘It’s got one built in.’
‘So yer lassie won’t have to worry about all those wires,’ Nazi Steve says.
They’re nodding at what each of them says, encouraging each other, like a couple fucking special cases on medication day.
‘What are yis on?’ I say. ‘This is boggin. Might as well have bought some fucking Fisher fucking Price kiddies’ toy. Look at this, man.’ I open the lid and look inside. It’s proper old-school. ‘You didn’t even get a cassette tape to go in the cunting ’hing. Where am I going to get a cassette fae?’
They look at each other. I know what’s coming next, but neither of them wants to be the first to go.
It’s Baz who fronts up with a shrug. ‘Probably get a good deal on one at the Barras,’ he says.
The whole thing is going to pot. It had been such a good idea. I just needed this one thing to go right, and then I could pull off my big job.
My masterwork.
Classy and smooth.
My Babycham.
I find the conspiracy of a lifetime, enough information to blackmail half of Glesga. I could be living in gravy for the rest of my days. King of the swingers.
Now I’ve got to go and meet Paula, send her in without a decent wire. How the fuck is she going to get what we need without it?
I wish Joe was here. Joe Pepper. He’d know what to do. He used to work for my old da, practically one of the family, like. We supported him while he was at uni, started him on the road to being a hot-shit lawyer, friend to the stars. He used to sort shit like this out all the time. Saved my ass loads. Even from my da. Joe stopped me getting a skelping many times fer all the daft shit that I pull.
But now he’s got a good job in the city. Wants nothing to do with us.
Fuck it.
Fuck him.
I don’t need anyone’s help. And deffo not these pure tossers, neither. I mean, who the fuck goes around with a name like ‘Nazi Steve’? At least ‘Baz’ is a wee bit more understandable, since his uncle was called Barry. Steve’s not even a Nazi.
I put the Walkman in my pocket. No point chucking it. Right now, it’s the best thing I have, and maybe I can find a way to make this whole thing work. I stand up to leave, say, ‘See you cunts later,’ then head out to the pub.
Aff to see a lassie about some crime.
TWO
CAL
12:00
Paula’s nervous. Which is understandable, like. I’m blackmailing her into pretending to be a hooker.
Other than being a total dirty liar, she’s probably a nice lass. Cute as fuck, if you like the
rock chick
thing. I do. Well, I like the whole
woman
thing, so she fits the bill.
She’s fae Belfast. Or somewhere around there, anyway. A proper tough lass. She makes the people fae Bridgeton look like pussies. I met her about a year ago. She was fresh off the boat.
(Literally. She came over on the ferry. I’m not a fucking moron.)
Paula made on like she was looking fer some fun, join in the scene over here. Played up her connections with the old boys back in Belfast, made herself sound all cool an’ shite.
And for a long time, she was.
She got in tight with Gilbert Neil and that lot, doing the property jobs, burning down buildings. She was good at it. Didnae mind getting her hands dirty, and always managed to get away before the polis turned up.
Paula didnae touch drugs at first, and she wasn’t always asking annoying questions. She just drank, partied, fucked and crimed it up with the rest of us.
But it’s all been a lie.
I know her secret.
Made the mistake of getting stoned and starting to talk too much, didn’t she? Told me every’hin’. Told the lads, too, but they didnae believe her. But I do. I’ve got her.
She’s not quite so tough now, and she’s going to do this wee job for me, so that I’ll keep quiet about what I know. Or, that’s what she thinks, anyway. It’s just this wee job for now. Then whatever the next thing is. At some point, it’ll be worth my while to tell people what she’s hiding, but I can get some benefit for myself for a while first.
Paula’s waiting for me when I get to the pub. The Pit in Cessnock. It’s an old shitey place, full of idiots and piss stains, but it’s a cop-free zone, and anything goes.
She’s tarted up in a small black dress, but she’s got her knee-high boots on and I can see her leather jacket on the chair next to her. It’s not quite the look we’d agreed on, but it’ll do. Between that and the Walkman, it’s time I just get on with things and see how the cookie crumbles.
Paula already has a drink in front of her, so I head to the bar and get a pint of T for myself. I sit down opposite her and give my nicest, least creepy smile.
‘How ya doin, ya daft cunt?’ I say.
She flinches a little. I know she’s fighting back the urge to call me out for saying that to her. I like to needle people like that. Find buttons and then push them regular, like, see how long before someone snaps.
Except, she cannae snap. Not while I’m keeping her secret. So I’m just being a dick, I suppose.
‘Did you get a wire?’ she says.
I slide the Walkman out of my pocket and on the table between us.
She leans back and rolls her eyes. If there’s a way she can put any more distance between her and the Walkman without leaving the room, I’d like to see it.
‘No way,’ she says. ‘Are you nuts?’
‘You probably won’t need it anyway,’ I say, all calm and soothing. ‘The guys are going to have the stuff there for you to steal. The recording was just going to be a backup. Dumbo’s feather, kinda like, just so’s you felt you were doing something more.’
‘Something
more
?’ She leans forward. ‘Listen here, you daft prick. I’m doing this thing because I have to, not because I like being around you. I’m the one going in there. I’m the one who’s about to fuck a guy and rob him. You can keep kidding on like you’re some kind of criminal fucking genius here, but all you are is a twat blackmailing someone.’
She stands up and pulls on her coat. Stares at me for a second.
‘And when this is done,’ she says, ‘don’t think I won’t be finding a way to get back at yis.’
She storms out.
Takes the Walkman, though, doesn’t she?
Win.