Walking round the flat, just going in circles. Getting some of the nervous energy out of the way before he sets off. It’s actually nice to be able to do it. A relief, almost. If Emma was still here, then he could never prepare properly. Well, properly might be the wrong word. There is no properly. There’s just whatever works. Pacing around the flat, planning what to do with each half-hour until you leave–that works for Calum. He’ll get something to eat. Something light, nothing that’ll play on his stomach when his nerves are running. The nerves are worst during this preparation. The two or three hours before you leave for the job. When it’s under way you have so much else to think about. A good gunman’s focus will crush his nerves. You have to think clearly. For now, he paces and plots.
It’s after midnight when he leaves the flat. Black jeans, comfy black trainers, a plain navy-blue top. He picked up his gun from his usual supplier a few hours ago; he’ll return it as soon as the job is done. An expensive rental, rather than a purchase. Got a silencer for this job. Rarely uses them. Expensive and awkward. You only take them on a difficult job that needs every precaution. Jobs like this.
He’s taking his car to the meeting place agreed with George. They’ll take the van that George is picking up to do the job. Another job that’ll need a removal. He hates that. But it’s Frank. Jamieson wants the maximum respect shown; have Frank treated as well as a murdered man can be. The removal has something to do with covering tracks, no doubt. Try to make it look like another disappearance. Too many awkward jobs in a row. The chances of something going wrong are piling up. It would be so nice to have a couple of simple jobs. This is the price you pay. The price of working for an organization. Things are never straightforward.
He’s pulling up in the parking places outside a cash-and-carry. There’s CCTV, but it won’t be working tonight. The building’s owned by Jamieson, or by someone who works for Jamieson. It’s complicated, but Jamieson’s on a percentage and George will have made sure about the security. This is where he has to trust someone else with his safety. George is sitting in the van already. Small, old, white, no markings on the side. Nothing that anyone could possibly remember. Getting to the point where its age might become notable. Calum may have to point that out to Young, make sure he has it replaced. He’s leaving his own car unlocked, with the keys tucked inside the sun visor. A risk he has to take. Doesn’t want to be found with his own keys on him. Doesn’t want to be found with anything on him. On this job, it shouldn’t be an issue. The target already knows him. Still, plan for every eventuality; make sure you have nothing about your person that could identify you. He’s dropping into the passenger side of the van. Nodding a hello to George.
George looks more of a wreck than Calum’s ever seen him. Looks like he hasn’t slept for days. Looks like he’s been out partying. It could be nerves. Frank has an aura about him. The greatest gunman in the city, so they all say. George should know better. People get reputations, but it’s like Chinese whispers. A rumour starts, word goes round and, before you know it, people have reputations based on nonsense. People become known for things far removed from what they’ve actually done. Sure, Frank was one of the greats. Up until he walked through Tommy Scott’s front door, Calum might have believed in that mystique too. Seeing Frank sitting on the floor, guarded by Clueless McClure, quickly broke that spell. Frank used to be great. Now he’s not. Now he’s problematic. That’s the business. George can be as nervous as he likes. He’s the driver and he’ll help with disposal. Killing is Calum’s job.
‘You get everything we need?’ Calum’s asking. The collection of tools for a removal was left in George’s hands.
‘Think so. Couple of spades, big canvas body bag, couple of spare bags.’ He’s finishing with a shrug of the shoulders. Calum’s meticulous about these things. Demanding, to the point of annoyance. George has done this sort of job with him before, though. No surprises here.
‘Let’s go,’ Calum’s saying. It’s after half past midnight now; by the time he gets into the house it’ll be after one. He wants this done quickly. Someone could be watching the front of the house, so it has to be quiet and has to be quick. Who’s likely to be watching? Another organization. Maybe Shug’s. Could be police. They could be killing someone else’s target. Forget all that. He has to put it out of his mind, focus on his own job. Never mind what other people are doing. This is going to be hard enough.
George is driving. They’re nearly there. It’s a wet night, which is bad news. Soft ground means footprints, and no doubt George hasn’t brought plastic bags to put over their shoes at the burial. Boot prints can be one more clue you don’t want to give away. They won’t drive along Frank’s street to check for watchers. Frank’s back garden looks onto the garden of the house in the next street, an alleyway in between. That’s the entry point. George has parked the van on the street at the bottom of the alley. If anyone’s watching Frank’s house, they’ll be close. Calum’s looking at George. George is usually the talkative one, yet he’s had nothing to say. It’s that kind of job, Calum supposes.
‘Give me ten minutes, then come in soft,’ he’s saying.
‘Aye,’ George is nodding. ‘Good luck, pal.’
A little nod. Calum’s pulling on his balaclava, opening the van door.
Trying to make as little sound as possible. Walking as close to the wall at the bottom of the row of gardens as possible. Not a great place for a job. A group of occupied houses close together. Too many bedroom windows looking down on the alleyway. Going to be hard to move the body without some nosy bastard twitching the curtains. Especially if they hear a bang beforehand. The silencer will keep it quiet, but there’s still the flash to think about. Closed curtains, hopefully. The victim can make a noise. Hell, even a silenced piece makes a sound. Better to use a knife for silence, but that would be messy. Blood everywhere. Could never hide what happened there. He’s halfway to Frank’s back garden. Counting the houses as he passes, making sure he gets the right one. Dodging bins and a lone bicycle optimistically chained to a rotting wooden gate. Silent so far, but now he’s reached Frank’s gate.
He’s pressing down the latch slowly, not making so much as a scrape. Pushing it open, peering inside before he makes a step. There aren’t likely to be any obstacles yet. They’ll come when he gets inside. The only fear would be Frank standing there, waiting for him. Not a realistic fear, but this is no realistic target. He’s stepped inside the gate and shut it behind him. Looking at the windows. Not for light–Frank would never be so sloppy. Checking for movement. Frank lining up a shot from an open window. No, he wouldn’t kill a man in his own garden. Frank knows better. He can explain a bang from within his house, but not a body lying flat out on the grass with an extra hole in it. Put yourself in Frank’s shoes. What would you be doing right now? He must have set up some sort of alarm. He can’t be lying asleep in there, thinking there’s no threat to him. Not Frank. He must recognize the danger, and he must be ready for it. That’s what Calum’s looking out for as he walks slowly towards the back door. He’s taking the key from his pocket, placing it silently in the lock. Taking his gun from his inside pocket before he turns the key. This is where he starts looking out for traps.