The Night the Rich Men Burned (35 page)

‘I’m going to start moving some money,’ Kilbanne is saying. ‘Need to have it to purchase with. I mean, you’re right; we should go for the simple stuff first. I’ll start looking around. There’s always pubs shutting down. Should be easy pickings.’

Easy pickings. Two best words in the criminal lexicon. Often the two most misleading, as well. These things are almost never easy. Peterkinney isn’t naive about that. The economic situation will make it easier for them to find struggling places willing to sell. They’ll either buy the whole place or a share. More likely the whole thing. Only buy a share if you can rely on the other shareholder to keep their mouth shut. Peterkinney isn’t willing to trust people he doesn’t know. Not big enough to scare people into silence yet. Kilbanne will take control of the books. Filter dirty money through them.

By the end of the afternoon, Peterkinney’s in rather good cheer. He knows to expect his grandfather. It’ll be a call now, because they’re going to lock up the office. His grandfather’s never been to his flat. Might not even know where it is. So he’ll telephone and bitch and moan, and Peterkinney will have to explain the way the world works. And he’ll rather enjoy it. It’s about time Arnie Peterkinney found out that his Good Samaritan routine is a shambles. Worthless and ineffective.

3

He’s nervous. Potty’s actually nervous about this. It’s because things are so different. Until a few months ago, this would have been routine. And even if this didn’t go his way, he’d still have other options. But not now. The whole industry is changing. You can’t take anything for granted now. Even he’s trying to find a foothold in the shifting sands.

It started out looking like good news. Potty thought he was going to be one of the big beneficiaries of this turmoil. Some gunman belonging to Peter Jamieson blabbed to the cops. Dropped a lot of people in the shit. Somehow or other, that involved Paul Greig. PC Paul Greig wasn’t a PC any more. He was quietly shunted out of the force. Police didn’t want the embarrassment of it going to trial. His superiors would have had to admit that they knew some of what he was doing. But all the evidence he’d provided them with was suddenly useless. The cases that hinged on his evidence were quietly dropped. Including Potty’s.

Throw in the fact that Jamieson and his organization looked like they were finished, and it seemed like a good day to be Potty Cruickshank. For a start, that would be the end of Marty Jones. Marty was never a major concern, too much of a playboy, but this would get rid of that nuisance. Without Jamieson’s protection, he couldn’t possibly survive. And Jamieson’s fall would make Alex MacArthur stronger. Potty had been cultivating his relationship with the MacArthur organization. So good news all round. Three cheers for the gunman who talked.

But it didn’t turn out that way. MacArthur was arrested a couple of days later. It didn’t go anywhere, but that doesn’t matter. He was weak. That was the opening the ambitious younger ones had been looking for. People like Don Park, looking to take control. For the last few months, it feels like it’s been silent civil war in the MacArthur camp. People trying to slice each other, without the outside world hearing about it. Potty hasn’t been able to get a meeting. Hasn’t been able to get anyone to pay him any damn attention. To top it all off, that bastard Marty Jones seems to be going from strength to strength.

He’s finally got himself a meeting with Alex MacArthur. Was offered a meeting with some junior a couple of weeks ago. Turned that right down. Don’t they remember who he is? Don’t they remember the respect the Cruickshank name commands? Whatever their internal problems are, they’re no excuse for disrespect. Maybe they remember him now, because MacArthur’s agreed to see him.

He’s sitting in the back of the car. Sweating, which isn’t good. He needs to look relaxed when he goes into MacArthur’s office. It’s a small office they’re going to. That’s a bad sign. Might be more to do with MacArthur’s recent struggles than Potty’s. The old man moving around more to stay safe. Not using his preferred meeting places so often. Maybe it’s not another sign that he doesn’t take Potty seriously. Maybe. Still, it’s a negative to focus on and make him sweat a bit more.

He needs this. Needs an alliance that can protect him through the storm. With Marty growing and seemingly pairing with that shit Patterson, Potty’s feeling the pressure. Peterkinney’s growing, becoming a serious player and a serious threat. Potty seems to be the only one standing still. The only loser in this little game. He needs support. Cut MacArthur in. Give him the chance to open up a new avenue of revenue, something he ought to want to do. Should want it even in good times. He should be bloody grateful for this chance now. Someone of Potty’s stature coming to him and making him a generous offer. He has no right to turn it down.

Pulling to a stop in the sort of area a car like Potty’s doesn’t stop in often or for long. The driver will stay with the car. Potty’s getting out and waddling slowly towards the door. It’s a small building in an industrial area. The parking’s tucked in just off the road. Up a step and pulling open the glass door. There’s a small reception desk inside and the young woman behind it is asking if she can help him. She doesn’t even know who he is. Bloody cheek. He’s telling her, and now he’s having to stand there waiting while she makes a call.

He’ll put this down to MacArthur’s increased need for security. He’ll forgive it, which is generous. They should not be making a man like him stand in some waiting area like this. She’s hanging up the phone and smiling at him.

‘If you’d like to go through, the office is second on your right.’

Not even going to show him the way. Nobody coming to meet him. This really isn’t the way to treat a person. Treatment like this is remembered. Alex MacArthur should know that. He wouldn’t accept it, and he shouldn’t hand it out. Potty’s pushing open the door at the side of the woman’s desk and walking slowly along the corridor. Finding the appropriate door. Two knocks and then opening, not waiting for an answer. Potty Cruickshank doesn’t need to wait for answers.

MacArthur’s sitting behind his desk. Ray Buller is sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room from MacArthur, and there’s a chair in front of the desk. It’s a small office. Not the sort of place you would expect to find a man with the business concerns of Alex MacArthur. Yeah, that would be the point, smart guy. MacArthur’s hiding himself away.

No wonder he looks miserable. Looks even older and frailer than the last time they met, and that was only a few months ago. A man of his stature should not be hiding away in wee places like this. It’s embarrassing for him. It makes him look weak, and he did not get where he is by looking weak. Does beg the question, just who is he hiding from? No stories about people outside the organization targeting him. Bloody hell, is he in here hiding from his own people? Bang goes any chance of a deal worth having.

‘Mr MacArthur, how are you, sir?’ Potty’s asking, and regretting it. You don’t ask an obviously sick man how he feels. That’s the last thing MacArthur will want to dwell on.

‘Good enough. Sit down, Ronald. What do you want?’ Said with obvious impatience. An implication that Potty couldn’t possibly have anything useful to talk about. This is all a waste of an important man’s time.

It’s an insulting way to speak to a man like Potty. This whole visit has been one long insult. Longer it goes on, the more Potty thinks he shouldn’t be here. Thinks MacArthur might not be capable of helping him. Might have been wiser to try and start a relationship with Don Park instead. Too late. He’s in the chair in front of MacArthur’s desk, so he might as well play to the end.

‘I have a business proposition for you, if you care to hear it.’ That was a slightly snide way to end a sentence. Potty’s struggling to hide his impatience. Should always maintain your manners around people like MacArthur. Doesn’t matter what you feel or think about someone, you stay polite. Then, if you need to move against them, they’re less likely to see it coming. Good manners cost nothing. Bad manners can be very expensive indeed.

‘I care to hear it,’ MacArthur’s saying. His voice is weak, almost whispery. Makes his tone seem even more dismissive.

‘We both know that the city is changing. Things have happened . . .’ Potty’s saying, and trailing off. Hardly needs explaining. Few people know better than the man in front of him. ‘I’m offering a chance to open up a new revenue stream. I know you’re not involved in the collection business in a big way. It’s a potential new source of revenue for you. It offers me an opportunity of growth that will protect my business through this time of upheaval. It’s good for both of us.’

MacArthur’s making a good effort at looking unimpressed. He’s about to say something when he starts coughing instead. A long-drawn-out wheeze of a cough. If Potty had heard that cough before he came here, he wouldn’t have come. Everyone knew MacArthur was ill, but he’s been ill for so bloody long, people assumed it was no big deal. One of those things that last long enough for something else to kill him. Now it looks and sounds like a big deal. Now he seems like the wrong horse to back. Truth is, if he was a horse they would shoot him. Someone still might.

‘I’d be looking at providing you a cut of 25 per cent,’ Potty’s saying. As he’d come in the front door of the building, he had been committed to offering forty. Now he’s not sure he wants MacArthur to accept his offer. Forty might have been enough to win him over. Twenty-five shouldn’t be.

MacArthur’s looking at him. Then looking past him at Ray Buller. Then back at Potty before he answers. And that look tells Potty a lot. The old man struggling. Not sure who he can trust. Pulling his friends close. Looking to people like Buller for more advice. Because he’s not sure of himself any more. Giving them more power because they’re the ones he would like to hand over to. Because they’re not Don Park.

‘I don’t think so,’ MacArthur is saying. ‘Timing isn’t right. I’m not saying never, but not now.’ Said with finality.

A finality Potty has no interest in arguing with. ‘If that’s your thinking,’ Potty’s saying, and getting slowly to his feet. ‘Hopefully times will change,’ he’s saying, a sentence that could mean just about anything. He’s reaching out a hand to MacArthur. His fat hand swallowing the bony hand offered. Feels cold. Feels like goodbye.

Potty’s nodding to Buller as he leaves. No handshake there. Buller was the one who said no. He was the one who made the decision. Maybe he should shake his hand. Thank him for killing the deal with a shake of his head. But Potty’s already out the door and making his way along the corridor. Feeling the effort by the time he ignores the receptionist and pushes his way out the front door. Relieved to drop into the back of the car and be driven away.

Dodged a bullet, sure, but for how long? The deal with MacArthur could have been a bad deal, given how weak the old man looks. But what’s the alternative? Stand alone? No, that won’t do. No deal is worse than a bad deal. He needs support. He needs to be able to survive these changes. By any means necessary. Dear God, he just needs to survive.

4

Peterkinney told him to do it this afternoon. And he meant to. He really did. But he got sidetracked. Happens to Holmes a lot these days. Life is a pursuit of the bottle. Everything else is a means to that end. Working to make money to drink. And he has some money. Not a lot. Money never lasts long for Holmes these days.

He wandered into a supermarket, is the short version of why he’s late. Bought a half-bottle and six cans. Took it back to the flat he’s in now. Blotted out the world for a little while. Blotted out what he’s on his way to do now. The memory of that night when those two little bastards smashed their way into his house. His house. Man, if you could turn back the clock. He had his own house. Wasn’t much to look at, but what does that matter? He had Norah. She wasn’t much to look at either, but she was his. All gone now.

His things. Didn’t realize that he cared about them until it was all gone. Until he had nothing. Stupid cliché, but that’s all that’s left. Into the bathroom to splash a little water on his face before he goes out. That straggly beard. Hair’s too long as well. Needs a haircut, but that’s money he could spend on something wet. Could trim the beard himself. Hates it. Only has it to cover the scar. The scar’s ugly, but he stopped caring about that a long time ago. The long, thin red line is a reminder. That was the real punishment. Lets the world see his failure.

Can’t hide the bags under his eyes. The sag of his chin. Jesus, he looks like his grandfather. Bloodshot eyes and loose skin. Same bad teeth the old man had. Same reason. It was booze that eventually killed Grandpa Holmes. Took its time though. Holmes can’t wait that long. Won’t wait. All those dreams of the good life. A better life than the one he had. Skimming money because he thought he could have a better house. A better woman. He’d give everything he has to get back the home and woman he lost, but he has nothing to offer. Fuck it: staring in the mirror is only a guarantee of misery. A splash of cold water and he’s leaving. Little bit drunk, little bit angry. Nothing new.

He threw away the slip of paper with the address on it. Doesn’t need it. Born and raised round here. Knows the place like the back of his hand. Spent his working life pounding the streets, finding and punishing people. If it’s a shitty part of town, you can bet Jim Holmes knows it well. It’s starting to get dark. Damn, must be pretty late. Doesn’t have a watch to check. Never mind. Peterkinney won’t care too much about the timing. He’ll just want to know that it’s been done.

It’s a small block of flats, four storeys high. Not the best exit when the target’s on the third floor, but Holmes doesn’t care. This is going to be simple. One target. Only other person likely to be there is the girlfriend. And the boy isn’t expecting him. That’s always the difference-maker. If you don’t expect it. If you aren’t ready. If Holmes gets the first punch in, he’ll have no problem here.

Up the stairs and along to the front door. A quick knock on the door. Then, thirty seconds later, another one. He’s not patient. He doesn’t want to have to come back a second time. Too much like hard work. Also, being seen repeatedly in the location of your crime is a dumb move. Holmes knows that. The old instincts are still there.