A lot of people want to meet Peter Jamieson. Not surprising. Nothing new. Hardly any of them get to. Not unless they’re already known to him. It’s John Young’s job to do the filtering. The top people–the ones they know are important–get Jamieson. Very few of those. Then there’s the next level down. Interesting people they haven’t met before. People who might have something worth hearing. They get to meet Young. There’s a few of them, but not many. Three or four a week, tops. Of whom maybe half go on to have a meeting with Jamieson. The vast majority of people who want to meet him fall at the first hurdle. They want a meeting with the boss. They’re not interesting enough to warrant a meeting with his right-hand man. Usually more than twenty of those a week. They have to make do with talking to someone much lower down the chain. Like it or lump it.
On a week like this one, nobody gets to see the boss. Jamieson’s busy, you’ll have noticed. Young, too. He’s still taking a glance at a few names. Couple of people wanting a meeting who have been in touch in the last couple of days. Usually these people go to someone lower down. That person passes the message up the chain. Some guy who thinks he has a good business opportunity. Don’t they all. Jesus, the amount of shitty ideas that Young has to wade through. Fantasists, mostly. A busy week like this, there’s no way he’s finding time to meet this guy. Kick it back down the chain. Other one’s interesting, though. Barry Fairly. Been in contact with Marty Jones. Marty called one of Jamieson’s senior men, Kevin Currie. Currie, a very profitable tax-free cigarette and booze seller, has marked it urgent. Says Fairly has possible info relating to an employee. Won’t say who. Fairly does counterfeit ID. That makes him interesting. The fact that it comes from Currie matters, too. He’s an independent thinker. Handles most of this stuff himself. Always pays his percentage to Jamieson, grows his business well. For him to suggest this is urgent means it’s urgent.
Young’s made the call to Currie. Currie’s delivered a warning. Marty Jones is sniffing around this one. Not just reporting it, but wants to be a part of it. Young sighed, but accepted it. Told Currie to find Marty and Fairly and send them round to the club. Be interesting to know who’s been going round buying ID. Could be some idiot of no value. Or some idiot of value who’s prone to doing stupid things. But Currie’s a good judge. And Fairly seems like a solid member of the industry. Marty’s a fucking nuisance, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. It’s only an hour later when the barman’s sticking his head round the door. Christ, still haven’t learned his name. See, this is why so many people think Young’s not very nice. Too impersonal. If it was Jamieson, he would have learned the name ages ago.
‘Couple of fellows here to see you. Barry Fairly and Marty Jones.’
‘Send them in, thanks,’ Young’s saying. Making a point of adding the thanks. It would be nice to be as well liked as Jamieson. All the staff think Jamieson’s terrific. A charmer. Generous and likeable. They’re all good at showing that they don’t think of Young in the same way.
Fairly’s coming into the office. Looks uncertain. Coming over to Young with a hand outstretched. Shaking enthusiastically. Sweaty hand, but Young won’t mention that. Unimpressive-looking man. Won’t mention that, either. Marty’s behind him all the way. Shifty-looking bastard. Always too confident. A quick shake of his dry hand.
‘Take a couple of chairs across,’ Young’s saying, and sitting on the couch.
They’re doing as they’re told. Fairly seems nervous. You’d think a man of his reputation would be used to meetings like this, coming to see a man like Young. Fairly’s known in the business. Respected for his art. Done a lot of work for a lot of people. He’s brought the chair across and he’s sitting opposite the couch. Hands on his knees, looking straight ahead at Young. They all do this. Sit there staring at Young. Waiting for him to say something. They make an appointment because they have something to say, but they expect Young to start the conversation. Mostly afraid of saying anything without permission. Even people with Fairly’s experience fall prey to the fictional bullshit. Don’t speak unless spoken to. The big bad gangster might blow a fuse if you do. As though nut jobs who can’t stand other people talking to them are going to last in this business. No such issue with Marty. He’s sitting next to Fairly, and he’s talking already.
‘I think you’ll want to see this, John,’ he’s saying with confidence.
Young’s looking across at him. He doesn’t like Marty talking to him like they’re best friends. They’re not. Never have been, never will be. Even when Marty was in the good books, he was suffered rather than enjoyed. ‘Go on.’
‘See, I let Barry here use one of my offices for some of his work. People collecting stuff, that sort of thing,’ Marty’s saying. Not explaining what Fairly does, because Young will already know. Young already knows most things. ‘And I bump into this guy leaving the office this morning. I go in. I ask Barry about him. Barry tells me who he is. I ask to see the copy, get a look at the picture. I see it, and straight away I’m on the phone to you. Straight away, John. There was no answer. But I knew this was important, so I made the effort to get in touch with you through Kevin.’
Marty’s stopped. He’s looking at Young with a smile. Waiting to be told what a good job he’s done. Young’s grimacing. Leaning forward on the couch and looking down at the floor.
‘You still haven’t told me what the hell this is about. Barry, is it?’
‘Yes,’ Fairly’s saying. Still looking terrified of the whole thing.
‘Who came to you?’
‘Fellow called William MacLean. See, the garage business is changing, and I need to make sure I’m up to speed with that. So, well, this fellow has a garage. Came looking for documents. Didn’t seem like a big deal. He has a garage. Wouldn’t have let him across the threshold otherwise. It seemed, you know, legit.’
Marty spotted it. No look of recognition when Barry mentioned William’s name. ‘I’ve got a copy of the passport he had done,’ Marty’s saying, taking it triumphantly from his pocket.
Marty’s passed him rough copies of the passport and driver’s licence. What matters is the picture. Young’s looking at it. It’s Calum. Not Calum as he is now. Photo must be two or three years old. Definitely Calum, though. Or Donald Tompkin, as the passport says. Young isn’t saying anything. Sitting on the couch, holding onto the passport a little too tight. Thinking about it. There are reasons why men in the business pick up a fake ID. Sometimes you want it for a job. Not a passport, though. Driver’s licence maybe, not a passport. Maybe Calum just wants to go abroad. Go on holiday. Not unreasonable. Maybe he’s paranoid about being on the police radar, so he wants to go under the radar. Nah. There are people in the business who are stupid enough for that explanation. People who go to ridiculous lengths just for something as irrelevant as a holiday. Not Calum. Too smart. He’d just holiday at home.
Thinking, and thinking some more. But there’s nothing to think about. There’s only one explanation. It’s leaping up and smacking him in the face. Jamieson said it. He called it right. Calum isn’t happy with them. Hasn’t settled. He’s had a run of tough jobs. Too many in quick succession. He wants out. He’s running. No other conclusion. Their only gunman is running. Young’s suddenly remembering that Marty Jones and Barry Fairly are sitting opposite him, gawping.
‘Okay, that’s fine,’ Young’s saying. Standing up to lead them to the door. ‘Good of you to come, but I did already know about this. It’s for a job, so it’s hush-hush. But thanks for coming anyway, I won’t forget.’ And he won’t forget. Won’t forget that Fairly had this information for two days and had no intention of doing anything with it. ‘You’ve done well, Marty,’ Young’s saying, as he begins to close the door behind them. Pains him to say it, but it’s true. Marty’s fluked his way back into the good books. Now, Young needs to get in touch with Jamieson urgently.