Screams in the Dark (20 page)

He swallowed his queasiness, one hand firmly on the hold-all he was about to part with, and looked at his watch. It was 7.30 in the morning. Any minute now … The park was deserted, except for the occasional gluttonfor-punishment jogger who didn’t even look in his direction as he sat reading the
Post
. The story on the front page about refugees disappearing, coming on top of everything else had put the wind up the already unnerved Frank. At least the article wasn’t suggesting any of the stuff he was involved in. It was merely floating the line that many refugees were unaccounted for, hinting that they could have disappeared into the black economy. One
line suggested that vigilantes may be behind their disappearance. None of it should have troubled him too much, if he hadn’t been such a jumpy wreck. The paranoia made him wonder if the newspaper had any more, or if they were just flying a kite with the story to see what reaction it would get.

In the distance, Frank saw the stocky figure of Josef walking briskly towards him. He had only met him a couple of times when he’d come to collect Tanya at the office after work. He was a torn-faced little bastard, Tony had remarked, as Josef had barely grunted when they tried to make conversation with him. Both Frank and Tony couldn’t figure out what a beauty like Tanya was doing with a knuckle-trailer like him. Tony was always talking about how sexy their cleaner was – he’d obviously been giving her one, Frank thought. Perhaps that’s why Josef was so mean-looking. Maybe he’d suspected.

As he approached, Frank shifted on the bench, and clutched the hold-all a little tighter. He’d had to pull in some markers to get five grand cash out of the firm’s business account at such short notice. But his bank manager owed him a favour since he’d managed to get a case buried for him a few years ago, when he’d been caught naked in a sauna, a teenage hooker sitting astride him administering the ‘extras’ that were always on the menu.

‘You got the money?’ Josef said, standing over him.

‘Sit down, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want to look suspicious.’

Josef sat down and turned his body towards him. ‘You got it?’

‘Yes, I have it.’ Frank looked at him with contempt. ‘Let me see the letter first.’

Josef went into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. Frank recognised it as their company headed notepaper. Nice one Tony. Why not leave a trail of incriminating fucking evidence? He felt sweat on his back.

‘You can look at it, but you cannot hold it until you give me the money in my hand.’ Josef unfolded the paper.

Inside the note was a business card for the
Post
, with the name Rosie Gilmour. Frank knew Gilmour by reputation more than acquaintance. It was her name that was on this morning’s story in the paper about missing refugees. Now she’d been sniffing around and had perhaps talked to Tanya. That fucking bitch Tanya …

Josef held the letter with both hands, and leaned in towards Frank. ‘Read,’ he said.

Frank read the words slowly, then again, then one more time just to make sure. His lawyer’s intuition told him there wasn’t anything specific to incriminate him or Tony, but there was no doubt that in the wrong hands – cops’ hands – it would cause all sorts of problems. Some of it Frank may have been able to explain away, saying Tony had never felt good about some of the high-profile gangsters they’d been defending. But he couldn’t afford to take the chance that the plods might decide to weigh in, especially after that refugee story in the paper. The last thing he needed was any close attention being paid to
the lawyers who were handling most of the asylum cases in the city.

‘You see enough?’ Josef’s mouth was a snarl.

Frank didn’t answer.

‘You want the letter, you give me the money now.’ Josef eyed the hold-all.

Frank looked around him, then handed Josef the holdall. Josef unzipped the bag, and his eyes lit up as he looked inside.

‘Bundles of twenty,’ Frank said looking straight ahead. ‘The way you wanted it.’

He put out his hand and Josef gave him the letter and the business card. Frank put them in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Josef reached inside the bag and pulled out two wedges of twenty-pound notes. A little triumphant smile spread across his booze-addled face, then he said, ‘Your partner, Tony, was fucking my woman.’ He spat on the ground.

‘Can’t say I blame him,’ Frank said, without looking at him.

Josef put the money back in the bag and rummaged around, peering inside, as though he was making sure there was plenty more.

‘It’s all there,’ Frank said. ‘Most money you’ve ever seen, I suppose.’

‘This my compensation,’ Josef grinned, looking at Frank. ‘For my woman being such a whore.’

‘I hope it fucking chokes you.’

As Frank said it, Josef’s head was jerked back as a leather strap was looped over it from behind. Frank watched the
disbelief in Josef’s face as the strap was pulled tighter and tighter. Josef made desperate grasps at the ligature, clawing the flesh at his neck, but Clock Buchanan stood behind him, yanking it tighter as Josef’s whole body struggled and fought for the last few seconds of his life. Frank stood up as Josef’s face turned blue and his bulging eyes stared wildly at him for a time before he finally stopped struggling. Clock pulled the strap away, leaving him to keel over on the bench, then slip onto the ground.

‘Now you know what it feels like, you little cunt.’ Frank said, stepping over him. He lifted the hold-all.

‘You’ve to come and see Al,’ Clock said. ‘He wants a word.’

Frank’s legs felt weak as they walked towards his car.

*

Big Al Howie was far too buoyant for this time of the morning as he greeted Frank and Clock. He was at least two lines ahead of the game, and was buzzing around his office and bawling someone out on the phone as they came in the door.

‘Just get it fucking sorted,’ Al barked. ‘Or you’ll get sorted. Now, do you get my fucking drift, wee man?’ He put the phone down, and threw himself onto his chair. ‘Fucking numpties I’ve got to work with. No wonder I lose my patience.’

Frank stood awkwardly, as Clock took off his jacket and sat down.

‘Sit down, Frank, for fuck sake,’ Al said, lighting a cigarette. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Anyone would
think it was you who got choked to death.’ He chuckled. ‘By the way, I thought that wee method of getting rid of that fucker was a bit of genius on my part. Nice wee touch. I mean, after the way Tony killed himself, it felt like the right thing to do. Thought you’d like that. And you did the right thing, Frank, letting us take care of it.’

Frank sat down. His arms felt heavy with stress. He looked at Al. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew he was expected to say something.

‘Yeah. Little bastard got what he deserved.’ Frank tried to look nonchalant.

‘Exactly,’ Al said. ‘Who the fuck did he think he was? Some wee Russian farmer, coming over here and trying to blackmail the likes of us? He must have thought he was a gangster. Well, at least he saw how real gangsters do business before he popped his clogs.’

‘Yeah,’ Frank said, wondering what else to say.

‘So, let me see the letter then.’ Al stretched his hand across the desk.

Frank took the letter out and handed it to him, along with the card.

‘By the way, Al, that business card. Rosie Gilmour from the
Post
. Looks like she’s talked to Tanya, or at least has made an approach. Josef stole the letter out of Tanya’s bag, and the card was there too.’

Al nodded slowly. ‘Gilmour. She’s fucking dangerous, that bitch. Big Jake should have dealt with her right the first time, but the boys fucked up.’ He narrowed his eyes.
‘And
she was all over that stuff in Spain as well, when
Jake got shot last year.’ He licked his lips. ‘She needs sorting big time, she does.’

Al read the letter aloud:
‘We were the wide-eyed law students who were going to change the world
 …’ He made a sarcastic face at Frank.

‘Was that you and Tony one time, Frankie? All high-minded with dreams of changing the world?’ He shook his head. ‘Fuck me! The only people who change the world and make things happen are people like me. Crooks. It’s crooks who run the world, Frank. My da used to say that to me, and by the way, he was a man who read a paper every day. He knew his stuff. He said the real crooks were the politicians and the bankers, but they were legit crooks, and got away with it. Fucking stealing from the rest of us. The gangsters – people like me and big Jake – just punched and slashed their way through because we couldn’t be bankers or politicians. Well, they call us gangsters, and that’s fine by me, but we’re no different from them. Only difference is if we want something we go out and take it. Make it happen. We don’t put it to a fucking vote.’

Christ almighty, Frank thought. Social studies, Al Howie-style. If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny. He felt the urge to make a joke, but he didn’t dare. Howie was a paranoid nutter with a coke habit who was making a speech, and who had a gun in his desk drawer. The last time Frank saw him take it out, he’d shot Tam Logan in the chest with it. You don’t interrupt a man like that when he’s on a wired-to-the-moon rant.

‘Yeah,’ Frank said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘You’re right.’

‘I know I am.’

Frank flinched as Al went into his drawer. To his relief he only took out a wrap of coke, emptied it onto his desk and snorted a line.

‘By the way, Frank, I’ll tell you this. Guys like you? You’re crooks the same as me. Don’t get me wrong, I like you, and I liked Tony. But I don’t think you’re any better than me, for all your university high ideals. When it comes down to it, you’re just a fucking gangster.’

Frank didn’t like where this was going. Al was winding himself up. He wanted to get out of the office, but he knew better than to say anything that might put him over the edge.

‘I think some people get the breaks in life, Al. And some don’t. I was quite lucky.’ Frank said. He wanted to tell Al that he was a piece of shit, and that he and Tony both grew up in a council housing scheme alongside guys like him. But they had studied and educated themselves out of the mire, while others robbed and went to jail. But what the fuck was it with all this philosophy? Frank looked at his watch.

‘Al,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘I’ve got a client to meet in about twenty minutes. I need to get a move on.’

‘Aye, right.’ Al sat back and stroked his chin, looking again at the letter. He lifted it, flicked his lighter under it and held it as it burned. ‘That gets rid of that then.’ Then he held up the business card. ‘This one might take a bit longer to destroy.’ He set it alight. ‘But as you see, Frank. It does burn.’

Frank stood up.

‘I’ll give you a call later, Al.’

‘Frank?’ Al said, looking up at him. ‘I need at least two more bodies in the next couple of days. They’re running low up there. It’s like a fucking factory.’ He chuckled.

‘Okay, Al. I’ll get it arranged and let you know.’

‘Oh, and Frank?’ Al said as Frank opened the door, ‘say hello to your family for me.’

Frank didn’t turn around. He had to get out of the room before he suffocated.

*

When the door closed, Al gave Clock a perplexed look.

‘He can’t handle this much longer, Clock.’

‘I know, boss.’

‘And that makes him dangerous to the rest of us. I can just imagine how quick his bottle would crash if he got his arse felt by the cops.’ He sighed. ‘He’s getting to be a bit of a fucking liability.’

CHAPTER 21

PD Pharmaceuticals was one of the largest drug companies in the world, with various smaller subsidiary arms mostly based in Germany and Holland, some of which were involved in ground-breaking research into genetics. But the main thrust of PD’s work involved the manufacture of medication for heart disease and hypertension, and they supplied the generic drugs, under various different brand names, across Europe and the UK.

Rosie had spent most of the afternoon in front of her computer screen in an office off the main editorial floor. She didn’t want anyone looking over her shoulder as she ploughed through reams of newspaper cuttings. After nearly two hours’ trawling, she finally came across a piece from five years ago by a German reporter, which kickstarted her radar. It was an exposé across two pages, claiming to have uncovered links from one of PD’s smaller companies based in Belgrade to the illegal trade in body tissue. She skimmed through it, sat back, then reread it slowly and carefully.

‘You beauty!’ Rosie said, taking a note of the reporter’s name. She went to the newspaper’s website and dug out the direct telephone number of the newsroom.

‘Sorry,’ Rosie began when the German voice barked “Schmidt!” down the phone. ‘I’m afraid I don’t speak German. Do you speak a little English, please?’

‘Yes. I do.’ The male voice said. The Germans weren’t big on small talk.

‘May I speak with Gerhard Hoffman, please?’

Silence. ‘Hello?’ Rosie said.

‘Hello,’ the same male voice replied. ‘Who is this please?’

Rosie told him who she was.

‘Gerhard Hoffman no longer works here.’

‘Oh,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s left then?’

‘He has.’

‘Do you have a telephone number where I can contact him?’

‘Hold on.’

Rosie couldn’t make up her mind if the voice was just being cagey or it was simply that brusque, no-nonsense manner that didn’t endear Germans to a lot of people across Europe. Especially the Brits.

‘Hello?’ This time it was a woman’s voice. ‘My name is Eva Muller. I am the deputy news editor. I understand you are looking for Gerhard Hoffman.’

‘Yes, I am, Eva. Do you think I could have a contact telephone number for him?’

‘Can you tell me what this is about?’

Rosie was irritated at the question.

‘No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.’ Rosie said as politely as she could manage.

‘Well, I’m afraid I cannot help you.’

‘Sorry?’ Rosie said, trying to sound more confused than angry.

‘I cannot pass Gerhard’s number if you do not tell me why you want him.’

Christ almighty, Rosie thought.