It’s ringing. Finally, it’s ringing. Three days he’s been waiting. It feels longer. Nobody else has called him in that time. Nobody’s been round to see him. His life without his job is empty, and that’s starting to worry Frank. If they kick him out, this is what it’s going to be like. Every day until the end of his life. You see people his age who just go off a cliff. They stop working, stop socializing, and their health falls apart. He’s been thinking about that for hours. What will his life be like without his work? Empty is the first answer. Dangerous is the second. He’s moving to the phone, looking at the display. It’s the number of the club. It’ll be Young, inviting him to come round. He’s their security adviser, so there’s nothing suspicious for the neutral observer in the call. He’s nervous as he answers. He hates himself for that. Nervous about a bloody phone call.
‘Hi, Frank? It’s John here, from the club. How’ve you been keeping?’ Blandly asked, he’s not looking for an answer.
‘I’m okay. Everything okay with you?’ Equally blandly put. Going through formalities for the sake of someone who probably isn’t listening. Always nurture your old friend, paranoia.
‘Yeah, we’re all good. Listen, there’s one or two things we wanted to talk about–work stuff. Why don’t you come round to the club this afternoon, we’ll chat. Be good to see you.’ Trying to sound friendly. You never know with Young. This would be easier to judge if it was Jamieson. You could tell if he was in a depressed mood or not, but Young’s different. He’s always cold, never shows a lot of emotion.
‘Sure, I can be round this afternoon. Say two-ish?’
‘That’ll be great, see you then, Frank.’
Young didn’t sound angry, but then he wouldn’t after three days. They’ve had enough time to find out everything they’re ever going to find out. They’ll know what Calum had to say. They’ll know what the police are saying about the case. They’ll know, but they might not tell him. Put himself in their shoes. That’s what he’s been doing for three days now. If he were Peter Jamieson, he would cut Frank loose. As soon as you lose trust in the ability of a gunman, you get rid. It has to be that way. That’s what Jamieson has to do. Frank’s hoping for a reprieve that he would never think of giving himself, if he was the man in power. He would actually think less of Jamieson if he proves soft enough to brush this under the carpet. They have to get rid of him, and that’s where the big problem starts.
He becomes the man on the outside. He knows where the bodies are buried, literally and figuratively. He becomes a danger to the security of the people he used to help. Obviously he would be in as much trouble as them, if the truth ever came out. That ought to reassure them, but it won’t. He knows how these things work, how people’s minds move. They push you out. They want rid of you, to make themselves feel safer. As soon as you’re out, they find another reason to be afraid of you. They convince themselves that your incompetence was a danger, so they get rid. Then they convince themselves that your previous competence was equally problematic. You did work for them. You know things that nobody else outside the organization knows. Somehow, the fact that you’re outside the organization matters more than all your previous displays of trustworthiness combined.
Frank’s been thinking about a man called Bernie something-or-other for the last hour. Bernie was in the business, in a roundabout sort of way. Had a small haulage company and moved a lot of counterfeit gear around. Not involved in drugs, which he seemed to think made it okay. Eventually he got chatty, people started to realize what he was up to. This was back in the days before Frank worked for Jamieson. Must have been late Eighties, although he couldn’t put an exact date on it. He was working for Barney McGovern back then. Barney wasn’t one of the big players, but he was reliable. He took a heart attack in the early Nineties; no one was surprised, given the size of the man. He died and his whole operation fell apart. Anyway, Barney stopped working with Bernie, but it still wasn’t enough. Barney convinced himself that Bernie knew far too much. A man on the outside with that much information was too dangerous for his tastes. He called Frank.
Bernie went on a fishing trip by himself to the Highlands. Frank followed him. Killed him beside a quiet loch. Beautiful and tranquil, warm as well. That’s what happens to people with dangerous knowledge. Where will they follow him, if they have to kill him? There’s nowhere to go. He sure as hell isn’t taking up fishing. They’ll have to send someone round to the house. Maybe they’ll call him to a secure location. Yeah, that would make more sense. Set it up that way, because you know the person. You can lure them somewhere safe and do it there. They’d have to use Calum. There isn’t anyone else. Or is there? He’s been out of the loop for three months now. Things move quickly. He hasn’t been around to hear the hints and rumours. No, it would be Calum. You use the best you have, and that has to be Calum.
He’s grabbing his car keys. Fed up of thinking the worst, plotting out all the likely death scenarios. It’s idiotic; there are other ways this could happen. Just get there and talk. If you go in with all these thoughts in your head, then you’re likely to say something you really shouldn’t. You have to play this carefully. Talking to a man who’s about to push you overboard is a delicate business. Frank will have to pick every word carefully. Say nothing that might give Jamieson reason not to trust him. Try to present himself as calm and confident. A little apologetic for what happened, not making excuses, not living in the past either. Ready to move on to the next job, not likely to make the same mistake again. Listen to every word and the tone. Even if he kicks you over, make sure he ends the conversation believing he can trust you. Nothing matters more than that.
It’s good to be in the car again. That was one of the things he missed most when he was recovering. The freedom to go where he wants to go–nothing beats that. Pulling away from the house, heading for the club. He’ll be there in twenty minutes, earlier than agreed. No harm in being early. It strikes him, when it’s too late to matter, that he could be walking into a trap right now. He’s pulling up outside the club, a little along the street. It’s so unlikely that he shouldn’t pay the thought any attention, but still, it’s natural to worry. They would never kill him in the club. They would never use the club in any job. That would be an unpardonable risk on their part, putting everyone around them in danger. No, don’t even think about it. Just go in.
In the front door. Technically he’s an employee, on the books, no need to sneak around. The place is silent. Nobody in the club downstairs; that’s always a little unnerving. You expect to see bar staff and cleaners around. Nobody. Just a very large silence. There’ll be the usual afternoon drinkers at the bar upstairs. The unemployable, mostly. It’s not the sort of bar where the retired often choose to drink. Not with a club downstairs.
Up the stairs then. The one thing he still has any trouble with after the hip replacement. It just feels stiff stepping upwards. He kicks against a step. Damn it all! These stairs are a death-trap. Jamieson’s been talking about having them fixed since he bought the club, but it’s never happened. Too much disruption. Besides, it’s become an institution, laughing at people falling up them. Don’t give them a reason to laugh at you. Ridicule’s even worse than pity.
Top of the stairs, double doors on your right. He can hear people beyond them. Someone talking loudly–some drunk at the bar with an opinion that he’s proud of. All the snooker tables laid out in front of them. Two in use, both by people he doesn’t recognize. Both playing by themselves, which seems pointless. Looking for a familiar face. Kenny the driver is there. Frank’s never been close to Kenny. He always seems a little nervous.
‘Afternoon, Kenneth.’ Frank’s smiling to him. ‘How have you been keeping?’
‘Me?’ Kenny’s asking. More nervous than usual. Nervous about talking to the guy who botched a job. Understandable. You don’t want people thinking you support the guy who isn’t trusted to do his job properly. Especially if you are replaceable, too. ‘I’m okay,’ Kenny’s saying. ‘You want me to go tell Peter you’re here?’
‘Yeah,’ Frank’s saying, ‘you do that.’ An excuse to get away.