The Good Provider (24 page)

‘Your wife didn’t have to tell me,’ said Mr Affleck. ‘Good God, son, I’m a policeman. I know a lot about a lot of things.’

‘Why are ye askin’ me then?’

‘Just how well do you know Danny Malone?’

‘He’s the boss o’ the yard where I work.’

‘Does he ride with you?’

‘Nah.’

‘Who is your regular driver, Craig?’

Craig hesitated. ‘Mostly it’s Bob McAndrew.’

‘Does McAndrew take the reins on late-night jobs too?’

‘Sometimes. Sometimes I do the drivin’.’

‘Who else?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Craig.

‘Peter Gilfillan?’

‘Nah.’

‘Jock Middleton?’

‘Nah.’

‘Have you ever met a man – not a carter – named Skirving?’

‘I have not.’

‘All right, Craig, now tell me what you carry on these night jobs.’

Craig drew in a deep breath. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Craig—’ said Kirsty.

He rounded on her furiously. ‘It’s the bloody truth; I
don’t
know. All I do is collect the cart or the van at the gate o’ the yard an’ drive it to – well, to some place.’

‘What sort of “some place”?’ said Mr Affleck.

‘A corner, or outside a shop.’

‘What happens then?’ said Mr Affleck quietly.

‘Somebody comes out an’ loads it.’

‘“Somebody”?’

‘Mr Malone; or Bob.’

‘Bob McAndrew?’

‘Aye.’

‘And then?’ said Mr Affleck.

‘I drive the cart to where I’m told.’

‘Who rides with you?’

‘Sometimes it’s Bob. Sometimes it’s Mr Malone.’

Mr Affleck paused before he put the question. ‘Where do you go with the cart?’

‘Different places.’

‘
Different
places; not to the carriers’ yard?’

Craig said, ‘Sometimes we stop outside a close an’ the stuff is off-loaded.’

‘Do you help with the loading?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘Never. I’m no’ allowed.’

‘All right; where are these places?’

‘All over.’

‘In Hillhead, say, or Partick, or—’

‘In the Greenfield,’ Craig answered.

‘Could you tell me where they are?’

‘Streets. I don’t know rightly.’

‘All right. Now what’s carried?’ said Mr Affleck. ‘You must have had a glimpse of cargo at some point.’

Craig shook his head emphatically. He had not removed his duffel and sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. He was, however, talking more freely now, as if he could not check the need to unburden himself.

‘I haven’t,’ Craig said. ‘Look, it’s always in boxes or wrapped in tarpaulin.’

‘How much of it?’

‘Usually no’ much at all.’

‘How large?’

‘All shapes an’ sizes,’ Craig said.

‘Are you never stopped by the police?’

‘Aye, quite often.’

‘Really!’ said Mr Affleck. ‘In the Greenfield?’

‘On the Dumbarton Road, in Partick.’

‘And what happens?’

‘The copper looks in the back o’ the van, shines his lamp an’ that’s it. He signals us on. Bob an’ me.’

‘He signals you on. Lets you leave?’

‘Aye.’

‘Where is Danny Malone?’

‘He goes away, walks away. He hardly ever rides on the cart or the van.’

‘Craig, why do the police constables let you go?’

Craig said, ‘Because there’s nothin’ to see in the bed o’ the van.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Mr Affleck.

‘When you lift the back canvas, the van’s empty.’

Hugh Affleck opened his mouth and raised his eyebrows and, slumping back in the wooden chair, slapped his fist down lightly on the table. ‘Good God, of course! It’s got a false bottom.’

‘I think so,’ Craig confirmed. ‘On the small van an’ on the deep cart. Neither vehicle’s used durin’ the day.’

‘Good God!’ said Mr Affleck again. ‘I wonder who dreamed up that ruse?’

‘Mr Malone, I expect,’ said Craig.

‘What payment do you get for night work?’

‘Five bob, usually.’

‘Didn’t it strike you as strange that Malone pays that much for – what – three hours’ work?’

‘I never thought about it.’

The quiet manner was gone immediately. The transformation startled Kirsty. Mr Affleck’s hand shot out and gripped Craig’s wrist and he was drawn forward, unresistingly, until his elbows were braced on the table and Mr Affleck’s face was only inches from his own.

‘You
did
think about it, Craig. You thought about it all the time. What you did
not
do was face up to the fact that you were abetting criminals. Am I not right?’

Craig swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He did not try to free himself from the superintendent’s grasp.

‘Five bob’s a lot o’ money,’ he said.

Mr Affleck said, ‘Five bob could land you ten years in jail.’

‘All I did was drive a van.’

‘All you did was pretend to be ignorant.’

‘I’m not bloody ignorant.’

‘You’re doing a fair imitation of it, I can tell you,’ said Mr Affleck. ‘Now this is your lucky day, Craig. This is your one and only chance to extricate yourself from what might well turn out to be a right old mess.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I want your co-operation.’

‘Co-operation?’

‘You know damned fine what I mean,’ said Mr Affleck.

‘You want me to nark.’

‘More than that.’

‘More?’

‘I want you to help us catch your pal Malone.’

‘Catch him yourself,’ Craig said, defiantly but without conviction.

‘Oh, don’t think I can’t,’ said Superintendent Affleck. ‘Don’t think for one minute that because your pal Malone has evaded the law until now he’ll evade it much longer. Next time one of the Moss vans gets stopped it’ll not be some daft copper. Oh, no, no! It’ll be a very smart inspector and a couple of detectives that’ll be there. Believe me, they won’t be fooled by false bottoms. They’ll have that cart stripped and in pieces – and then where’ll you be?’

‘What,’ said Craig, ‘if I tell Mr Malone?’

‘God, you’re more ignorant than I took you for,’ said Mr Affleck. ‘I come here to give you a chance to save your neck and all you do is side with this brutal villain. Do you know
anything
about Danny Malone?’

‘Not much,’ Craig admitted. ‘The men like him, though.’

‘Don’t be such a damned fool, Craig. The men are
afraid
of him. And they have cause, believe me.’

‘It’s your lot, the polis, that folk are scared of.’

‘No, no,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘The police may not be popular but it’s not fear that makes it so.’

‘What is it then?’ said Craig.

Hugh Affleck considered his reply. ‘A kind of power, I suppose. It’s the strength of the society that we impose, the discipline that people don’t even know they need.’

Craig gave no sign that the man’s words had impressed him or even that he had grasped their significance. ‘Listen, you’re not goin’ to tell Malone we’ve talked like this, are you?’

‘Do you see; you
are
frightened of Malone. Why don’t you rid yourself of that fear?’

‘Christ, are you jokin’?’ said Craig ruefully.

‘You can help. Help me, the police force, and yourself into the bargain.’

‘I can’t see how it would help me one wee bit.’

‘As it is you’re one step from becoming a real criminal.’

‘Get away wi’ you,’ said Craig. ‘I’m not fallin’ for that one.’

‘Would you not rather be on the right side of the law?’

In spite of himself Craig was impressed by Hugh Affleck’s manner even if the logic of his plea cut little ice. There appeared to be something vital at the core of the man’s argument, an authority that reminded Craig, just a little, of Mr Sanderson. He experienced a sudden tilt of attitude, a grudging respect.

Hugh Affleck was quick to spot the change. ‘Come on, Craig. Be sensible.’

Kirsty moved towards Craig and put her hand on his shoulder. He twisted round and glanced at her enquiringly but he did not draw away. Indeed he leaned into her a little and covered her hand with his to hold her there, close by him.

He cleared his throat. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Help us catch Malone.’

‘How?’ Craig said.

The scratch and flare of a match wakened Kirsty at once. She rolled over. Craig was crouched in a corner of the bed recess, blanket up to his chin, a tobacoo-tin lid on his knees. He puffed on a cigarette, hiding the glow in his cupped hand.

‘What’s wrong, dear? Can’t you sleep?’

‘Nope,’ he told her.

‘What time is it?’

‘’Bout three, I think.’

‘Will I get up an’ make tea?’

‘Just go back to sleep, will you?’

She struggled into a sitting position, too sleepy yet to judge his exact mood.

‘Are you worried?’ she said.

‘I’m worried in case Malone realises I’m lyin’ to him.’

‘If he does,’ said Kirsty, ‘we’ll just have to move.’

‘Aye,’ Craig snorted, ‘wi’ me in a coffin.’

‘Is Malone as bad as Mr Affleck says he is?’

‘Worse.’

‘If you want to,’ Kirsty said, ‘you can hand in your notice; or not show up at the yard again.’

‘If it wasn’t for the baby, I would,’ Craig said.

‘The baby’s not due for months,’ Kirsty said.

‘How can you know what Malone’s like?’ said Craig. ‘Christ, the very way he eyes you up.’

‘You’re frightened, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t you bloody start.’

‘Why did you ever get mixed up with him in the first place?’

‘For the bloody money, o’ course.’

It always came down to money in Craig’s book. Even so, she felt closer to him than she had done for months. He seemed to have no basis for pride, and no pride in anything worthwhile and in consequence needed her more.

Craig said, ‘I wish she’d write to me.’

Kirsty was taken aback. He was thinking of home, of his mother. She should not grudge him that, perhaps, under the circumstances.

She said, ‘I’m afraid she hasn’t forgiven you, Craig.’

‘Knowin’ her, she never will,’ Craig said. ‘I wish Dad would write, though, or Gordon.’

‘They know we’re all right.’

‘Aye, but we’re
not
all right, are we?’

Kirsty drew up her knees. Her breasts were less tender this past week. She could feel the gradual quickening of the child inside her, though. She had no words to tell Craig what it felt like, what it meant to her, how the texture of her feelings was changing with its growth.

‘Are you sorry you came away wi’ me?’ Kirsty said.

‘I’m sorry we ever went to that damned boardin’-house,’ Craig retorted. ‘Sorry we ever clapped eyes on bloody Affleck.’

‘It’s not his fault.’

‘It’s not my bloody fault either.’

‘Craig, is it the baby? Do you not want the baby?’

‘Aye, of course I do.’

She slipped an arm about his waist. He did not draw away as she had expected him to do. He was shuddering, though it was not cold in the kitchen. She laid her cheek against his shoulder.

He said, ‘Are you cryin’ again?’

‘No.’

‘You are,’ he said. ‘You’re cryin’ again. Why the hell’re you always cryin’ these days?’

‘I canna help it.’

‘It’s me should be doin’ the cryin’,’ Craig said.

‘I’m frightened too,’ said Kirsty.

‘You don’t have to do it, what Affleck asks.’

‘We could – could run away.’

‘No.’

‘Craig—’

‘
No
.’

‘I wouldn’t mind if we—’

‘I made a mistake, all right. But I’ll live wi’ it. Even if it means losin’ the job. Even if it means gettin’ my neck broke.’

‘Craig—’

He disentangled his arm and stabbed out the cigarette into the tobacco tin, grinding at it until not a grain of the coal remained alight. He slumped back, head thudding against the corner wall.

‘God, but I’m tired,’ he said. ‘So damned tired of it all.’

‘It’ll be over soon,’ Kirsty whispered.

‘One way or the other,’ said Craig.