Savage Night (5 page)

Tommy took up a position between them, and they all stared into their drinks, ignoring one another.

After a few sips, Tommy slid off his stool and went to the gents. It was exactly as Smith had described. Tommy lifted the cistern lid. It was heavy and very cold. He dropped the key into the water inside.

He replaced the lid and sat down for a bit. He'd just put fifty grand in a locker and was giving away the key. To some imbecile called Smith.

Then he remembered Eric McCracken.

And wondered if he was doing the right thing in trying to outsmart Smith. Maybe he should call Phil, tell him to get out of there. But, shit, what harm could come of Phil watching the locker? And Phil could handle himself. Unless he'd drunk himself into a stupor.

Tommy dug out his mobile. Couple of rings, then Phil picked up. "Anything happening?" Tommy said.

Phil burped. "Sitting here freezing my balls off. Wouldn't think it was almost April."

"Maybe you shouldn't be drinking."

"It's cold, Tommy. Whether I'm knocking back a few or not."

"Move away from the door, then."

"Can't. Everywhere you go, there are doors."

"Only on one side, though."

"Yeah. Where the seats are."

"So stand up."

"Thought I was supposed to be inconspicuous."

"Well, you would be."

"Nope. I need to sit down. Even if it's colder than Granny's baps."

"Granny's dead."

"Exactly."

"I'll call you later."

Tommy went back to the bar to wait for the next phone call from Smith. The two customers from earlier were still there. The barman busied himself washing glasses, running a cloth over the counter, dusting the telephone. Quiet night. Probably always a quiet night here. Tommy took long swallows of cheap lager, tasting the bitterness of the hops on the back of his tongue, thinking how much he'd have loved to be where Phil was right now.

After ten minutes or so Tommy's phone rang.

"Done?" Smith asked.

"Done."

"Order a taxi and clear off."

Tommy said, "I'll walk."

"You'll get a taxi."

"What's the harm in walking?" Tommy felt his fellow drinkers' eyes on him and lowered his voice. "The rain's off. I could use some fresh air."

"Do what you're told. Get a taxi. And get the fuck out of there. Go home. Put your feet up. Watch some TV with your mum and Jordan."

Tommy clenched his teeth.

"You've a fine pair of sons," Smith said. "Don't do anything to endanger them. Okay?"

Tommy grunted.

"I asked you a question."

"Okay. O-fucking-kay."

"And don't even think about going back to the bus station."

"Why would I do that?"

"Exactly. Just behave and everything'll be fine."

The taxi arrived within minutes. Older driver than last time, bald guy, slightly camp, not American, didn't appear to be an ex-porn star or to have a stash under his seat and he wasn't listening to Michael Bolton.

Tommy gave him directions. Then called Phil again. "Smith's on his way to pick up the key."

"Cool." Phil belched. "Looking forward to it."

***

FORTY MINUTES LATER, Tommy was in his own car again, trying to talk into his phone whilst changing gears. An earpiece would have been helpful, but he couldn't bring himself to use one. When he was nine, a build up of fluid led to him going deaf in his left ear. Had to have an operation where they inserted a plastic tube into his ear drum. Cured the problem, but since then he'd always hated the idea of sticking anything in his ears.

He said to his brother, "Where the hell did you find an empty flat at such short notice?"

"You don't need to know."

"Is it one of mine?" Tommy owned quite a few suitable properties, but the last thing he'd have wanted was to use one of his own for something like this.

"Don't be dense."

"Okay. Good."

Phil was right. Tommy didn't need to know, and he
was
dense, and he was annoyed with himself for asking. Phil had his own life now, they both did, and it was bad enough that Tommy had dragged him into this without making it worse by behaving like an arsehole.

Phil had done okay. He could be a twat a lot of the time, but he came through in a crisis.

Tommy wasn't sure why he was so surprised. Maybe he'd forgotten how much he used to rely on his big brother.

Until five years ago, Tommy operated much of the UK distribution channels for a ring of rogue tobacco company employees. Only they weren't that rogue, from what Tommy could gather.

He was never in direct contact, handling only the return side of things, but he knew enough to suspect that the tobacco companies were aware of what was going on. They wanted to keep the prices down, keep taxes to a minimum, keep people smoking. Smuggling helped.

Container fraud accounted for around a third of the cigarettes smoked in Britain.

What happens: you export the cigarettes to business partners in Andorra or Montenegro, for, say £100K for a container of 10 million cigarettes. Because they're exported, no duty is paid on them. Perfectly legal, so the tobacco companies aren't losing out.

Then you smuggle them back into the country and sell them for a million. Everybody gets a cut of the money the government otherwise would have had, and it's still cheaper for the customer.

Tommy was good at the job, made a lot of money and didn't get caught. Phil used to help. He was customer-facing. Straight-talking, no frills. Particularly good at getting debts settled.

Anyway, Tommy had invested most of his money in the property market and some success there had enabled him to steer away from the tobacco business. No point being a criminal if you could make more money being straight. Apart from which, customs were cracking down harder all the time, making the job tougher, the risk greater and the reward less certain.

Phil should have made money too. Tommy paid him well enough. But he'd pissed it all away. Didn't do much these days—the odd bit of strongarm work, but even then he was too out of shape to be much good at it—but he did mix with the kind of people who might know where there was an empty flat in a dodgy area where you could hold some poor bastard hostage while you extracted information out of him with a cheese grater and a bottle of bleach.

Tommy didn't want to think about that. He spoke into the phone: "You haven't hurt the lad, have you?"

"Just get here," Phil said and gave him directions.

Apparently at the bus station things hadn't gone according to plan.

Smith hadn't shown up. Some short, spotty teenager had appeared in his place instead. Tommy and Phil hadn't anticipated this. Smith was seemingly pretty cautious for a madman. But whether Smith turned up or not, the plan had to be the same. Follow whoever, wherever. This lad was their only link to Smith. Apart from which, he now had the money. And if he got away with it, Tommy would never see it again.

So Phil had followed the kid. Then seen an opportunity and seized it.

If you believed Phil, he didn't have any choice. The lad was about to get into a car, drive off, leave Phil stranded with no Smith and no courier and no money. He'd had to make a move. A move that ended up with the lad forced to hand over his car keys and then trussed up in the boot.

No witnesses. The car was parked on a quiet sidestreet. And Phil said he'd only had to hit him once to get his attention.

Tommy hoped he hadn't hit him hard. The longer Phil had this kid in his custody, the more likely something was to go wrong. But Tommy did feel a buzz in his temples. For the first time, he had the edge over Smith. He put his foot to the floor.

Residential parking was round the back of the towerblock. Tommy pulled into a free space, killed the engine. His was the only German car alongside a bunch of Nissans and Ford Fiestas. He wasn't so much concerned about not having a permit as he was that the car would be gone when he returned. Or if not the whole car, then at least the wheels.

There was no sign of life. Not even a couple of neds hanging around who could watch his car for cash. It wasn't as if it was that late. Must be a big football match tonight, or something. Only about a third of the lights in the towerblock were on, though. Maybe all watching the game at the pub. Missed opportunity, in any case. Kids these days had no entrepreneurial skills. Too fixed on trying to get Asbos.

Tommy walked over to the entrance. No security system. He swung the door open, stepped inside. A couple of guys sitting on the stairs turned their backs to hide something. Not difficult to guess what. One of them had a needle sticking out of the crook of his arm.

If you didn't know better, you'd think Edinburgh had a bit of a drugs problem.

Tommy took the lift up to the seventh floor. Got to the door. Knocked.

***

PHIL LET HIM in. Led him down the corridor by torchlight. Just like Phil. Always prepared. The real last boy scout. Even wearing a pair of gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. And for once he didn't have a can of beer in his hand.

There was a slight smell of damp and something unusual. Sweet but hard to place. A bit like popcorn but, more likely, dead mice.

At the end of the corridor, Phil opened the door. Handed Tommy the torch.

The door creaked open and Tommy shone the light around the room. Bare floorboards. Wallpaper hanging off the walls. Not good for soundproofing. Minimal furniture. A two-seater settee. And a dining chair. A plate-glass door led into another room, probably the kitchen.

Smith's teenage courier was sitting in the chair, straining against the packing tape that was holding him there. He looked far closer to Jordan's age than to Fraser's. Too young to be involved with someone like Smith.

His shoulders rocked and a faint buzzing sound came from him as his moans vibrated against the tape over his mouth. There was a lot of tape. Between attaching him to the chair, and stopping him making a noise, Phil must have used most of a roll.

Tommy shone the light into the courier's eyes, making him blink, screw up his face. "Find out where Smith is yet?" Tommy asked Phil.

"Being polite. Waiting on you before we start."

"Okay," Tommy said. "You want to remove the tape from his mouth?"

"You think that's wise?"

"How else is he going to answer?"

Phil shrugged, walked over to the lad, who stopped rocking as the heels of Phil's boots clicked on the floorboards. "You going to be quiet?" Phil said.

The boy nodded, wide-eyed.

"Speak when you're spoken to," Phil said. "And not any other time. Okay?"

Another nod. He seemed keen to get on with it, which was promising.

"We just want you to answer a few questions," Tommy said. "Then you can go." He was struggling playing the tough guy. Must be pretty scary to be hit, stuffed in a boot, taken to an empty dark flat in a highrise and interrogated by a couple of blokes who didn't appear to be messing around.

Tommy jumped as an electric guitar started to play. Loud chords.

Phil put his hand into the boy's jacket. Slid out his phone. Moved it into the light. "Says 'Dad'," Phil said. "Ain't that sweet? Want me to tell him what's going to happen to his little boy?"

"I don't think so," Tommy said.

"Okay." Phil dropped the phone onto the floor and thumped his heel down on it half a dozen times till the phone was in pieces. "Fucking racket."

"Shit," Tommy said.

"What?"

"Never mind." There had been the chance that Smith had called the boy, or vice versa, and there would have been a record of his number in the phone's call log. Nothing they could do about it now, though.

Phil took his glove off, teased the end of the tape away from the boy's chin. Then ripped it off in a sudden jerk.