Denise Mina - Still Midnight

The Big Man probably didn’t recognise it himself and Pat only saw it because he’d been away for so long, but the pokey upstairs living room was a recreation of the house he used to live in. A brown armchair faced its twin, empty now that the wife was dead. A small telly sat on top of a lacy doily over a wee chest of dark wood drawers that they’d had in the old house. The sideboard was even running away from the door the way it did in the old room, before he bought the next house and had the wall knocked down. On the walls and dotted around the room were the symbols of his tribe, a big wooden crucifix with a brass Christ writhing on it, novenas propped up against devotional candles, a framed picture of Padre Pio on the wall. School photos of his daughter, smiling, gap-toothed.

The Big Man wasn’t big but he was square, like professional footballers in another age, a terrier of a man. He looked up at Pat from his armchair and seemed old but still vital, still threatening. ‘Son.’ He nodded, almost smiled, and Pat wondered if he’d been missed. It seemed unlikely. The Big Man had a lot of nephews and Pat’s mother had been dead a long time. ‘What’s your business?’

‘Um.’ Pat stood awkwardly by the door, his hands in his pockets, wanting to leave. ‘I’m sorry to come here…’

The Big Man waved his hand, telling him to get on with it.

‘I’ve got a hire car outside, need to get rid of it and get another motor. I didn’t know who else to come to…’

‘Hired in your name?’

‘No.’

‘Model?’

‘Lexus.’

The Big Man nodded. ‘OK. Tell Parki I said it’s OK and you’ve to get a few grand as well.’ He looked at Pat expectantly.

‘Oh. Um, thanks very much.’

‘Yes?’

Bewildered by the non sequitur Pat glanced behind him.

‘No…?’ prompted the Big Man, turning his ear, wanting to hear something. Pat frowned, he couldn’t guess what that was.

‘Sorry?’

Bizarrely, the Big Man chortled to himself and said Pat’s name a few times. He sighed and looked at him. ‘I knew it.’ He stood up and walked over to the sideboard, reached down and took out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. He unscrewed the lid and poured two shots into crystal glasses that looked dusty, smiling all the while.

It hit Pat like a slap on the back of the head. The Big Man knew. He knew about the van, the guns and the pillowcase, and he thought Pat understood or he’d have dragged it out, made him guess.

He handed Pat a glass, and lifted the other to his mouth. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Going?’

‘The thing. With Eddy, how’s it going?’

Pat held the glass to his mouth and breathed in a cloud of bitter whisky.

‘Aye,’ said the Big Man. ‘Ye can see me after – square up then.’

They owed him money. Eddy owed the Big Man money. That’s how they got the van, the guns, the brand new clothes, the fucking face paint Eddy had asked him to put on in the bedsit before. Pat had struggled to stay out of all this and it turned out now that Eddy had gone to the Big Man for capital and betrayed him from the off.

‘Still attending to your devotions?’ He was frowning up at Pat, serious, nodding, as if this was what really mattered to him.

Pat downed the whisky in a oner, gasping, ‘No. I’m not religious.’

The Big Man held his glass but didn’t drink. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said into the glass. ‘That’s a shame. Our faith is what holds us together. Used to be a culture, a family, what kept us together. Now folk go sometimes, don’t do confession, only pray sometimes. It’s not a finger buffet. Ye can’t just pick and choose bits of it to please yourself.’

Pat put the glass down on the sideboard. ‘I better get going.’

‘Aye, tell Eddy I’ll expect him.’

Gordon let him out and leaned in for a silent order from his boss, trotted after Pat down the stairs, into the barn-sized living room and overtook him, whispering to Parki. Parki nodded and put down his paper on the Victorian card table. It was open at a picture of a topless bird. She looked very pleased with herself. He stood up slowly and made his way over to the window, peering out into the street. Pat hoped he didn’t spot the police.

‘The Kia’s a bird’s car but it’s reliable.’

It was a kind offer and Pat appreciated it. ‘That’s good of ye, Parki.’

But Parki brushed it aside. ‘What the Big Man says, goes.’ He reached into an antique wall cupboard sitting on the floor and pulled out a set of keys. ‘Go out the back. Round to the lock-ups, third door in.’

Pat blinked hard as he took the car key. ‘Thanks, man.’

‘How ye keeping anyway?’

Pat shrugged.

Parki pulled a wad of notes out of his back pocket, peeled ten one-hundred notes off and handed them to Pat. ‘How’s your Malki? Never seen him for ages.’

Pat took the keys out of his pocket, the pen torch and Eddy’s house keys were on it, and handed them to Parki, backing away across the room. ‘Ye off now?’ said Parki, still trying to work out what was going on.

‘Have tae, man,’ said Pat quietly. ‘Got somewhere I have to be.’

Morrow was sitting in the car outside Annie Tait’s house with Harris when the call came. The registration was bogus, belonged to another make, another year, another car altogether.

She picked up the radio mike and gave her first order on the case: two squads to come and follow the car, see where it went when it left here. It was a long shot but they didn’t have any short shots so it would have to do.

They waited until they knew the unmarked cars were in position, marking both entrances to the scheme before Harris started the engine and pulled out.

Gobby had looked through them as well and agreed with Harris that there was something to see. They left the tapes for Morrow in her office but it was hard for her to concentrate on the screen, resentful thoughts about Bannerman kept piercing her concentration. Phrases she would like to say to him if it came to a fight, which it never would, pointless articulations of the exact nature of his wrongs; selfish, careerist, self-important, coward, twat, arse, fucking arse. She knew from long past experience that rehearsing a fight that would never happen was a short-lived luxury. Initially intoxicating, it didn’t help any, just wound her up even more.

She forced her eyes to the screen but couldn’t focus because the image was blurry anyway. Mr Anwar’s videos had been used over and over again and the magnetic tapes had been stretched at the top sometimes, cutting out important bits of the picture with hyperactive diagonal lines. Intermittent waves of snow descended across the image as well and she found herself leaning this way and that, as if she could see past the obstacle. In the faded grey colours of the shop nothing seemed interesting except the extent of Mr Anwar’s concern with tidying up the sweet shelves.

Every time someone bought a chocolate bar or a bag of crisps he’d wait until they had left and then, slightly guiltily, skirt around the counter to straighten the shelves. Johnny Lander was there a lot, sitting silently on the stool next to him. He’d nip around and straighten the shelves without being asked.

Twat.

Another snow-front shimmied down the screen and she stood up quickly, almost over-balancing her chair, stepping over to the door and flinging it open. ‘Harris!’ she shouted out into the corridor, ‘come in here and tell me what I’m supposed to be looking at. My head’s bursting looking at this.’

Harris appeared at the door, pleased finally to have his pain acknowledged and pulled over a chair. She sat down next to him and mumbled a clumsy apology. He ignored it and she appreciated it.