Ten weeks ago
Mount Alexander, Camaghael, Fort William
‘Bloody hell.’
The woman driving the blue Volkswagen Bora jumps forward in her seat. She hadn’t known her passenger was awake. For the past ninety miles he has been doing an excellent impression of a shop dummy carved from discount ham. He’s been sleeping with his eyes open, gazing deadly out of the grimy window as the urban landscape of Glasgow Central has gradually given way to greenery and soft rain. It has been a slow, tiring journey and she has kept the radio off in deference to the presence of her companion. She has had to fight an innate urge to chatter and to point out interesting sights.
Now, on the verge of reaching their actual destination, he has announced himself conscious, though she can see no obvious reason for the choice of words. They are down a dirt track, bounded on one side by a rusty chain-link fence and on the other by a scabby wall of trees and dead vegetation. The shortbread-and-thistles of Fort William’s touristy areas are nowhere to be found in this out-of-the-way location on the very outskirts of town. In the distance, she can make out the snow-topped peaks of a jagged mountain range, but the immediate view beyond the glass is so dispiriting that the far-off panorama seems somehow unreal.
‘Sorry?’
He shakes his head, readjusting himself and sitting up straighter. ‘No. No you’re not sorry. No manners now, love. No politeness. You’re hard, right. You don’t give a fuck. I say something you don’t understand, it’s not your fault, it’s mine. Yes?’
She looks across at him. Dirty trousers, unwashed shirt, harlequin-patterned jumper and a greasy donkey jacket. She feels as though she’s picked up a hitch-hiking tramp.
‘Don’t mumble, ya wee fuck.’
He smiles, showing mismatched teeth. The yellow ones are real. The gleaming white ones have been drilled into the bone, though they move around in his soggy gums like poorly hammered tent pegs.
‘Was there a reason for the “bloody hell”?’ asks the driver.
‘Just occurred to me I’m in Scotland. With the Scottish.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve got a lot of Jock jokes. It’s going to be a battle.’
‘We can laugh at ourselves. You might get a few Englishmen-are-wankers jokes in return. Difference is, we won’t be joking.’
‘And you’d be right. We are wankers.’
‘Takes the fun out of it if it’s not news to you.’
‘Take a coach trip to London. You’ll find a load of arrogant pricks who still haven’t been told.’
They turn a corner and the broken-down fence becomes something sturdier: a long line of corrugated iron panels nailed to big imposing posts. It points the way to where a low, pebble-dashed grey building hunkers down as if hiding from the wind, and which conceals the entrance to a large parking area. The surface is all craters and potholes: loose shingle and broken glass. Further ahead, another chain-link fence, barring access to a big flat space given over to dozens of wrecked cars – roofs smashed in, bumpers torn off: a mechanical graveyard full of metal bones and rusty innards.
‘There,’ says the driver, slowing down.
A dark-haired man is leaning against the door of the outbuilding, staring up at the sky as if in prayer. He still has his eyes closed as he turns towards them, delaying the moment for as long as he can.
‘Not bad-looking. You might need to behave yourself.’
‘Get tae fuck.’
‘Not bad. Bit more spit when you talk though, eh? Bit more froth between the teeth.’
‘I’m still being me.’
‘Oh, right.’
They pull in to the empty parking area, bouncing over the pitted surface. A moment later, the back doors open and the man climbs in, announcing himself with a sigh.
‘Don’t start off like that, mate. Put a downer on proceedings. We’ve come a long way for this.’
‘Sorry, I…’
‘And don’t start with a sorry. Can’t stand apologists.’ He turns in his seat. Gives him a once-over, then nods. ‘I’m Nicholas Roe. I’m not, of course, but that’s who the fuck I am for now. And you’re Callum Ashcroft.’
A nod. He’s pale. There’s a darkness under his eyes. He’s huddled inside his coat as if trying to disappear.
‘This is Kimmy,’ says Roe, nodding at the driver. ‘She’s a bad girl. Bad as they get. She’s been working with one of Pope’s rivals for a good while now but she’s seen the light. She has special skills. She has connections. Connections that Bishop might need, and that Pope will appreciate. She’s also your bit of skirt, and you’re going to introduce her to the people you know.’
Ashcroft looks at Kimmy. She has her hair scraped back tight and there are gold studs in her dimples and top lip.
‘You’re a copper?’
Roe laughs, shaking his head. ‘Well, you’re going to be shit at this, I can tell. Should I just shoot her now and save you the bother? What’s the matter, mate? Is it a syndrome, or something? There must be a name for it. I mean, nobody’s allowed to say “moron” anymore, but it’s the neatest fit.’
‘I’m sorry… I’m nervous, I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘No, I hear you. I was the same up until I killed my first bastard. Figured it would be harder than it was. Now, take a breath, and do as I tell you. Say hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘Wrong. That’s not how you talk to a Kimmy. Kimmy here, she’s been through it. No time for soft soaping. No time for a gentleman or a romantic. She likes a man who bangs her head off the cistern when he’s enjoying himself behind her – know what I’m saying? So, put some bass in your voice, mate. If you’re going to be our way in, I need some faith in you and right now I wouldn’t trust you to put your shoes on the right feet. Just take a breath. Get yourself together.’
Kimmy gives him what she hopes is an encouraging look. She’s only partly in character. She can turn it on when required. Right now she’s still mostly a detective constable, on secondment to the NCA. Even with the hair and the jewellery and the semi-permanent tattoos of former lovers’ names tattooed on her left breast, she can’t be Kimmy until she has to be. Every time she puts on the character it seems to eat a little bit of what lies beneath.
‘I have a wife,’ says Callum, quietly. ‘She doesn’t deserve to get caught up in this.’
‘Wouldn’t life be peachy if we only got what we deserved, eh?’
‘Whatever happens, you have to keep them safe. You have to promise me that.’
‘How would that help, lad? What’s my promise worth to you? How about you make a promise to yourself instead. Promise yourself you’ll do everything in your power to make things right. Promise yourself you’ll do whatever it takes to put the bad men away before they can make good on their threats.’
For a moment, there is something like sincerity in Roe’s eyes. Something flares: some spark of humanity. Then it is gone.
Callum turns to Kimmy. ‘You all right, doll? That’s some tan ye’ve got yersel’. Must have cost a fortune to fill a bath with that much Irn-Bru…’
Roe looks across at Kimmy, who gives a begrudging nod. ‘It’s a start.’