Taking a drink of whiskey. Switching on the TV behind him. Switching it off again. Hearing an everyday sound outside and going to the window to investigate. All distractions welcome. Anything to avoid having to make the decision. Anything to avoid deciding to kill Frank. Young’s been in and out. He knew better than to stay. This is something Jamieson has to do for himself. Something new. It’s never been like this. Never been so hard. Never been so real. How many times has he done this before? Jesus, too many. Ordering that someone be killed for the good of the business. Gets to a point where you don’t even think about what you’re saying. It’s the right strategy for the business, so you do it. You tell someone to make it happen. Give him a target; let him get on with it. Nothing more than that. So easy. People you’ve never met. All he knew of them was their name and what they’d done to piss him off. Killing was easy.
He’s thinking about the first one. Must be sixteen years ago now. That’ll make him feel old. They didn’t have Frank back then; they had to hire a freelancer. Some big, lanky bastard with a long face. Can’t even remember his name. It seemed like such a big deal at the time, and now he can’t remember the name. Remembers the name of the victim, though. Derek Conner. Fat little guy, who thought Jamieson was getting too big for his boots. Jamieson’s network was small back then. No legit business to hide behind–living on the edge. It was exciting. Conner had his own network, no more impressive than Jamieson’s. He started making trouble. There was a chance he could run them off the cliff. Young found a freelancer, hired him, the job was done. Messy, as Jamieson remembers. There was an investigation; it went nowhere. He and Young were terrified while it lasted. It seemed such a big deal. Then, with each hit that followed, it became less of an issue. The victims became forgettable, the investigations ignorable. It was so easy. Until now.
He’s playing games with himself, and he knows it. Pretending that he has a decision to make. There is no choice. No alternative option. There’s only one, and he’s going to select it. It’s Frank’s own choice. That’s what he keeps telling himself. The more he thinks it, the angrier he gets, and the more determined he is to make the call. Frank chose this for himself. He went to the police; he said nothing about it when given the chance. How could he not have guessed that Jamieson knew? He could so easily have been honest with him. Frank might be the only person that Jamieson would have let off the hook. He doesn’t deserve leniency. Nobody who puts so many at risk deserves it. Frank’s selling them all out to save his own skin. He shouldn’t get away with that. He can’t be seen to get away with it. The humiliation alone would ruin the business. The police would just sweep the remains away.
He’s called Young into the office. They’re in their usual seats. There’s a little comfort in that familiarity. In knowing that he’s doing the right thing.
‘It needs doing,’ Jamieson’s saying quietly. ‘Tonight, I think. We can’t let them have a second meeting. Can you make that happen this soon?’
Young’s nodding. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call Calum.’
Jamieson’s taking an abnormally long time to respond to an obvious point. ‘Yeah,’ he’s saying, ‘you call him. Let’s keep this as normal as possible.’ That’s a laugh. Normal. When did making this decision ever feel like this before? When was the person on the receiving end someone worth caring about? This might just be a once-in-a-lifetime job. Yet you still have to present it as normal. Make sure nobody else involved knows how much it matters to you.
Young’s left the office. He doesn’t usually do that, but it feels right. Doesn’t want Jamieson sitting there, hearing orders being given and regretting it. He’s made the right call. Young wants to tell him that, but it won’t help matters. Not right now. In the future, when emotions have calmed, maybe. Right now Jamieson will want to be alone, to soak himself in whiskey and sulk. That’s fine by Young; he doesn’t need anyone else interfering now. This is the bit he enjoys. Organizing, ordering and watching the result. He’s found an office downstairs, towards the back of the club. Locked the door, checked to make sure nothing’s out of place. Now he’s calling Calum. Three rings and it answers. Little threat of the little girlfriend picking up. George called to let him know that he’d done the deed. Reckons they’ll be splitting up, if they haven’t already. Another successful piece of work.
‘Hi, Calum, it’s John Young. How’s the hand?’ Calum will already know what the call is really about. He’s a smart one. You get some gunmen who are pretty dumb, if we’re being honest. They go and do the job, but they don’t have the brains to understand detail. To piece together the little things. Calum seems smarter.
‘The hand’s okay,’ he’s saying. Always sounds so bloody miserable. ‘Fit for whatever.’
‘Good, pleased to hear it. Listen, that thing Peter mentioned to you yesterday.’
‘Yeah,’ Calum’s saying. He remembers exactly what that thing is.
‘Any chance you could do it for him–say, tonight?’
He’s put it so politely. Calum understands, though. It’s not a request, it’s an order. It has to be done tonight. ‘Sure,’ he’s saying, ‘I could do that.’
‘Make it tidy,’ Young’s saying.
‘Okay. Might need a little help on that. I can call George.’
‘Do,’ Young’s saying. His way of telling Calum not to leave a body behind.
He is slow at his work. That’s Calum’s one big flaw. Good, but slow. That’s what Young’s thinking. He needs to do all he can to buy Calum time. Then he’s thinking about Davidson and Scott. Wasn’t slow then. Was lightning fast because he had no other choice, yet he did a fine job. Needn’t worry about putting him on the spot.
‘Try not to make too much noise,’ Young’s saying. ‘Don’t want to upset the neighbours in the early hours of the morning. I’ll have an envelope put through your door with something useful in it.’
‘Sure, no bother,’ Calum’s saying. He doesn’t sound impressed. He’s not a man who needs to be told to keep the noise down. Common-sense advice is no advice at all to the sensible. He’ll cheer up when the envelope with a copy of Frank’s back-door key arrives.
Young’s making his way back upstairs. All his work is done. He’ll be the point of contact if something should go wrong. He’ll be ready by his phone, waiting. It’s incredibly rare. Frank called once, to let him know that the target’s house was crawling with cops. That was a scare. Turned out the police were raiding the address at the same time. Young still has his suspicions about that one. Maybe someone leaked the identity of their next target. Maybe Paul Greig decided to stick his nose in and score brownie points by pointing the finger at a dealer. Didn’t matter much. Took their target off the street for three years. By the time he came out he had no network left to run. Still, you never know what might happen. Especially with a target like Frank. He has to trust Calum to be the better man. And trust’s a horrible thing to have to rely on.
He’s stepping back into the office. Walking quietly across to his couch. He’s not saying anything. Jamieson knows what he was doing. Knows that if anything had gone wrong he would tell him. The silence means that everything’s set up and ready. It means that Frank is going to die tonight.
‘You making any progress on finding a replacement?’ Jamieson’s asking. You can hear a little misery in his voice, but he’s making an effort now. Down to business. Keeping it friendly, trying to sound interested.
‘My first thought was George Daly, but he’s still not playing ball. No point in forcing him. The next obvious candidate is Shaun Hutton. When we squash Shug, he’ll need a new employer. Contacting us about Scott shows that he’s interested in us.’ Careful not to mention Frank.
Jamieson’s nodding. ‘Leave him where he is for now. We can use him there until Shug’s done. That won’t be long.’ Sounding like he’s forgotten all about the man called Frank MacLeod.