The first and last thing he needs is a gun. He hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Hoped that the last time he had held a gun would be the last time he held a gun. When he killed Kenny. That would have been the case, if all had gone well. All has not gone well, Calum’s reflecting. A change in strategy. The dream of a smooth departure dead. The fake ID useless. Other things matter now. Like making people pay a high price for their actions. He’s sitting in the back of a taxi, being driven through the city. He knows which taxi firms can be trusted and which can’t. Some are very close to the criminal business. You have to avoid the ones that might report your journey. He knows which are clean. Or thinks he does, anyway. These things change quickly and often. Doesn’t matter a whole lot. Calum’s going to move fast now.
The taxi’s pulling up outside the address Calum gave the driver.
‘Wait here,’ he’s saying. Getting out of the back of the car and glancing left and right. No other cars on the street. Nobody watching him. Walking in through the front garden and up to the front door. It’s his usual supplier. He thought about going to someone else. Someone who wouldn’t recognize him. If word’s been going round for the last twelve hours that Calum’s wanted by Jamieson, then the supplier might know. Might report Calum as soon as he leaves the house. Go to someone who doesn’t know you–they have nothing to report. All they know is your name, not your face. But going to someone you don’t know brings its own risks. No guarantee that they won’t recognize him. No guarantee that they’re reliable. No guarantee that they’ll be willing to do business. His own supplier might not have heard that Calum’s persona non grata. Might not care if he is. People in the gun trade are good at keeping their mouths shut.
A whole industry built on the principles of a blind eye and a deaf ear. Calum’s relying on that now. People for whom silence is intuitive. Ringing the doorbell and waiting. There’s a routine to this. Do nothing that upsets that routine. This will go somewhat beyond the routine. Nine days since he was last here, buying the gun he used to kill Hardy and Kenny. The dealer will have expected that gun to be returned. Calum’s a returner–that’s the routine. Not this time. He chucked that gun. Thought he would never need another one. And now he’s back on the doorstep, looking for another gun. So soon after the last job. Paying the going rate. Cash in his bag. The door opening. The seller looking at him. A short little man in his later years. Nodding for Calum to come in. Nothing to say, not yet.
Inside the house. Warm in here. The seller won’t mention the previous gun. The fact that it wasn’t returned. Fine by him. Means he gets to keep the whole fee. Calum’s a reliable client. He knows he can rely on the boy to say nothing about it. To expect no money back, if he’s not able to return the weapon. Some people do make a fuss. Clients who somehow think they’re special. Think they can get some of their money back without returning the gun. Morons–they’re the ones who never last. The ones who think they can rewrite the rule book to suit themselves. The reliable ones, like Calum, are the good clients. They last because they understand. Shape themselves to fit the business, not the other way round.
‘Single piece, small?’ the old man’s asking him.
‘Single piece, small,’ Calum’s nodding. And that’s all they’ll say to one another.
The old man’s gone upstairs. Going to his loft to get the gun for Calum. Leaving the younger man standing by himself just inside the front door. Old man could be doing anything. Gone up there to call Peter Jamieson and tell him to get someone round here quick. Would he do that? It would end his career if people found out he’d been so disloyal to a client. You have to be able to trust your supplier. That’s rule one. Maybe he would call Jamieson if he thought nobody would ever find out. Everyone, no matter how experienced, is capable of convincing themselves that they can get away with things other people can’t. Everyone likes to believe they’re special. But honest or not, he’s a businessman, so he will sell the gun. Never refuse a sale. So he’ll go and get the gun. And he’ll sell it to Calum, and he’ll take the risk that comes from that. It could be the gun used to attack Jamieson or Young. That’s the risk you run as a dealer.
He’s back downstairs. A small handgun, wrapped in a cloth and placed in a thick plastic bag. Handing it across to Calum. Calum reaching into his pocket and paying the man. Seems like the right thing to do. He’ll never be back. What’s going to happen next means that he’ll never need another gun from this man again. He knows this. He could just walk out. Tell the old man to stick his money. Nothing the old man could do about it. But he’s not going to do that. The old man’s always played straight with Calum, so Calum’s going to play straight with him. He’s paying the man. Taking the wad of cash from his pocket, paying up. The old man nodding and opening the door for his client, as he always does. Calum’s nodding goodbye and walking out.
The old man closing the door, pausing for a few seconds. You survive in this business by knowing who to ingratiate yourself with. Not always an easy thing to get right. He got a call about half an hour ago from John Young. Young knew that this was Calum’s usual supplier. Called to ask if Calum had picked up a new gun recently. The dealer told him that Calum picked one up about ten days ago, never returned it. Young cursed under his breath. Didn’t seem to be good news. Young was thinking that he might have used that gun on George. That he might ditch it and replace it. Told the supplier to let Young know if he saw Calum at any point in the next couple of days. The old man’s making his way back upstairs. Doesn’t matter that Calum’s loyal. Doesn’t matter that other clients would be spooked if they found out about his grassing Calum. The most important thing always is surviving. You can’t do that if you piss off people like Peter Jamieson. The old man’s redialling the number that called earlier.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Young, this is Roy Bowles. I just sold another gun to Calum MacLean. He just left my house in a taxi.’
Calum’s given the driver the next address. He’s always liked his supplier. Trusted him to do his job properly. But let’s not mistake Calum for a blundering idiot here. He knows his business. He knows what doing his job properly means to an old survivor like Roy Bowles. It means keeping the big people happy. Backing the biggest, most dangerous bloody horse in the race. If he knows about Calum being on the run, then he’ll call it in. Of course he will. That’s his job. It’s what Calum would do if the roles were reversed. Doesn’t matter. They don’t know where he’s going next. He’ll pay this taxi off when they reach their destination, and when he needs to move again, he’ll call a different one. All a question of judgement. Relying on people like his dealer to be a grass. Relying on them all to be unreliable. As long as you trust them all to be untrustworthy, they’ll never let you down.
They’re stopping outside a small corner shop. Should be the right sort of place. The taxi’s waiting outside. Calum walking in. Dingy place. Darker than a corner shop should be. Not very inviting. Along to the short aisle that sells cleaning products. On a bottom shelf he can see the familiar blue box, about the size of a tissue box. Thin gloves for cleaning with. Taking them to the counter. The young woman behind the counter is a study in boredom. Not interested in this young man coming in to buy gloves and nothing else. Not interested in looking him in the eye. Running the box over the scanner, telling him how much he owes. Taking the money, giving the change. Within ten seconds of him leaving the store she won’t remember even vaguely what he looked like or what he was wearing. There’ll be a security camera somewhere. That does her thinking for her. It’ll remember the detail she won’t, Calum’s thinking, as he walks back out to the taxi. They’re pulling away from the shop, on to the next address.
Paying the driver and getting out of the taxi. Starting to walk the wrong way, until he’s sure he’s out of sight. If the dealer reported him to Jamieson, then he might have taken the number of the taxi as well. They’ll track it down; demand to know where the driver dropped him off, which way Calum was going when he got out, that sort of thing. The driver’s the next link in the chain. The driver won’t know anything. He’s dropped Calum off twenty minutes away from Calum’s actual destination. Keep taking precautions until the job is done. They can still get to you if you’re sloppy. Walking the long walk to the house. A large detached house in a good area. Along the side and round the back. Nobody’s seen him so far. The key’s under the plant pot beside the shed. In the back door, to the big, empty, cold house.
This is where Jamieson and Young put him after he killed Glen Davidson. Their safe house. Swanky place, but mostly devoid of furniture. It’s somewhere to hide out. Might even have to stay the night. Looking at his watch: it’s into the late afternoon now. The timing of what happens next isn’t in his own hands. Relying on other people to be able and willing to do their part. He knows they’ll be willing. Able is another question. He can force the issue. He’s dialling a number on his mobile. Standing in the big airy living room, asking the woman to put him through to his target. She’s putting him through. The phone ringing and ringing. Calum scuffing his foot along the bare wooden floors. Sounds loud in here. Everything does. The phone eventually answered by the wrong person. Telling him the person he’s looking for is out. Probably won’t be back for a few hours. Couldn’t say when.
‘That’s fine,’ Calum’s saying. ‘As long as they’re in tomorrow morning, I’ll call again then.’ Looking at his watch. Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be long and difficult. The last day.