The black BMW 4 x 4 drove slowly towards a block of flats in Clydebank in the west side of Glasgow. From the living room window on the sixth floor, Calla Lennox looked at the car with a growing feeling of unease. Drug dealer, had to be. Nobody with money would be coming here otherwise. Especially in a car like that. Calla had been born on the estate – she knew just about everyone who lived here. Aside from a couple of years in care homes and a period across the river in Port Glasgow, it had been home for most of her life. She was dyslexic; she couldn’t write the word, but she knew a vehicle like that spelled ‘trouble’.
‘Drew, come here,’ she said to the man sitting with his feet up on the sofa. He was short and muscular with a round, pleasant face and spiky dark hair. He was wearing a Celtic away jersey and a heavy gold chain round his neck.
He looked up from his phone. ‘What now?’ he said in an exasperated tone. The baby had only just gone to sleep.
‘Come and look at this.’
The 4 x 4 was pulling up outside their block. She stared at it with troubled eyes.
Calla’s face was worried, her voice quiet. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered to himself, putting his phone down.
He went over to the window.
‘What?’
She pointed at the car. They exchanged looks. They were both concerned now.
Drew thought frantically. Had he had issues with anyone recently? Home, pub, small deals of Charlie and weed here and there, all local, all above board – these were some of the things running through his head. He didn’t owe Frank – his supplier – any money, he hadn’t cheated anyone, he was a reliable dealer, he didn’t short-change customers. Maybe it was nothing. Or if it wasn’t, maybe it was nothing to do with him.
Had someone fitted him up? Surely not?
The BMW parked. They stared down at it, far below, pulling up by the front door, the light glinting off its bodywork. It was like waiting for the curtain to go up before a show. Who was going to get out?
Calla and Drew watched, holding their breaths, hoping to be able to release them in relief. Then the doors opened, four doors, all in unison as if choreographed, and four men got out. Three pairs of trainers and one pair of highly polished black brogues hit the dirty tarmac outside the front doors of the tower block simultaneously. Three men in bomber jackets; the one who had been sitting in the front passenger seat wearing a tan mac. He was much taller than the others – you could see that even from up here. He pushed some of his floppy dark hair back from his forehead and lit a cigarette. He suddenly looked upwards towards them. Calla knew it was impossible for him to be looking at her directly, but that was what it felt like. He took a few drags on his cigarette and then threw it to the ground, half smoked; three of them headed inside, one stayed behind, leaning against the bonnet of the car.
‘God, it’s the Big Man,’ Drew muttered.
Calla somehow knew they were coming for them. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, no…’ she whispered.
Graeme Millar strode into the lobby of the tower block, walking with the invincible self-confidence that practised violence gave you, flanked by his minders, Big Dougie and Ray. She had heard about them from Drew, although she had never met them.
‘What have you been up to, Drew?’ wailed Calla. This woke the baby who started to cry. She looked in anguish at her husband, then picked up her daughter, Palmer, and held her close. ‘There, there,’ she said, soothing the baby.
What had Drew been up to? Surely to God nothing he could have done would have warranted Millar’s presence? He simply wasn’t important enough. Millar controlled the drugs trade in Dumbarton and the other towns and suburbs like Clydebank on the western fringes of Glasgow. He was the guy who Drew’s dealer bought his coke from; he was top of the food chain and Ray was his second in command.
‘Nothing, woman,’ he snapped. He lit a cigarette. Calla looked at him with anguish. It was obvious to her that the same question that was going through her mind was going through his. The Big Man was here for a reason, but God knew what. Surely it could have nothing to do with him? He was too far down the pecking order to attract Millar’s attention. But here he was, nevertheless.
Drew walked into the bedroom and came out carrying a baseball bat.
Her husband had a short fuse and Calla could see that far from being intimidated by Millar he was determined to take the initiative.
‘Put it down, Drew,’ Calla shouted at him. ‘Don’t be stupid!’
He hefted the aluminium bat; Oh, God the idiot. She could guess what he was thinking – that he’d show Millar. There was a pounding on the door.
‘Drew, it’s Millar, put the bat down,’ she begged, starting to cry.
He shook his head. ‘Nobody fucks around with me in my own place, Calla,’ he said. Another couple of blows on the door.
‘Go and open it,’ he ordered her.
She did so and Big Dougie, about six foot four, raw boned, his long, pale face and very light blue eyes topped by fine, blond hair, shoved the door open. She didn’t say anything, instead, she backed away from the door, terrified, Palmer cradled in her arms.
Now the Big Man and Ray walked into the flat and Dougie closed the door behind them and stood leaning against it. She had never met Millar, but she recognised him from descriptions. He was massive, with a hard, brutal, red face and glittering eyes. The blue two-piece suit and raincoat somehow made him seem even bigger. He always wore a suit, she’d heard that. Rumour was true, then. She felt like a small child in his presence. Drew, still holding his baseball bat, walked backwards as the two men came into the living room. What the hell did he think he was going to achieve? she thought. The idiot.
Calla followed them, clutching her daughter like a talisman. Please, God, she prayed frantically, let her be all right. Please, God, let him not hurt her. Everyone was ignoring her as if she were just a piece of the furniture – that suited her just fine. The lounge had seemed perfectly large a minute or so ago, now it seemed tiny, like a child’s room, and she and Drew were the bairns and here were the grown-ups, to punish them.
Millar was so close, she could have leaned forward and touched him. He was even bigger than she had imagined. He had very black hair, thick and coarse-looking, long on the top and cut short on the sides. It was sticking up here and there as though he had pushed his fingers through it. His eyes looked crazy; she could see he was high – coke, probably.
Why not? He sold enough of it.
She shrank into the corner of the room, her arms wrapped tight around baby Palmer. The Big Man glanced at her.
‘You’re Calla?’
‘Aye, Mr Millar,’ she said, swallowing nervously. She stared at the floor; she didn’t want to meet his eye.
‘What do you want, Millar?’ Drew said aggressively.
Shut up, you cretin, thought Calla, looking up, trying to catch Drew’s eye. But that was Drew for you, he never had known when to back down. Like now – he was holding the bat in front of him, threateningly.
Millar turned to look at him. For Calla, time seemed to stop. Like when you had a car crash. Everything happened in slow motion.
‘And just what the fuck do you think you’re doing with that?’ Millar was pointing at the baseball bat.
Drew raised the bat menacingly.
‘What are you doing in my flat with these two pricks?’ he said.
Calla stared at the three men. The guy with Millar, Ray, was very good-looking, about fifty, she guessed – she had thought he was young, but now, with her heightened senses, she could see the lines on his face. He had a flowery shirt under his jacket that looked expensive, blue chinos and properly good-looking trainers, not like the crap ones from the local market that Drew was wearing.
Millar’s face darkened. Like lightning flickering over a stormy sky. There was a sudden blur of movement. He moved very quickly, without warning, and hit Drew in the face; Drew cried out in pain, his hands covering his nose, then Millar, grabbing the bat from him, drove the metal end hard into Drew’s stomach. Drew doubled up and gasped for breath.
Millar swung the bat into Drew’s head as if he were hitting a ball out of the park. The noise was horrible. She winced. Drew’s legs went and he collapsed. Calla squeezed her eyes tight shut. Then she heard a couple of dull thuds. Millar had dropped the bat and was hitting Drew, his face a kind of mask of animal rage. ‘Fucking threaten me, you fucking wee bastard…would you? Fuckin’ would you?’ The monologue was punctuated four times by his fist; now her eyes were open and she saw that there was something in his hand. Drew was face down, not moving. There was a lot of blood, so red, pooling from him, spreading out onto the carpet. Calla felt sick and black spots danced in front of her eyes. Please, God, let me not faint, she prayed. Her legs were like jelly. Blood on the hands of Millar, on his tan raincoat. Millar straightened up, breathing heavily.
He turned to Calla, his face enraged.
‘Where’s your fucking brother?’ Millar said angrily. ‘Jamie McDonald, where is he?’
She shrank into the corner of the room, pressed herself hard against the wall for support. So this hadn’t been about Drew at all; it was about Jamie.
‘Port Glasgow,’ she whispered.
‘He isnae there, we looked.’ Ray said, his face stern.
‘I don’t know, I swear to God.’ Tears were running down her face.
Millar took her chin gently but firmly in his bloody hand – Drew’s blood. She could smell it. He looked into her eyes. His were hard, pitiless; they dropped down to the baby in her arms, to Palmer.
‘She’s very small,’ he said. He put his head on one side; his eyes flickered meaningfully to the partially open window. She had no doubt he was capable of it. He was capable of anything.
‘Where is he?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Please…’
Millar bent forward and leaned his head close to hers.
‘I’ve heard you’re close to Jamie… When that brother of yours calls you, you be sure to find out exactly where he is,’ he said. His eyes didn’t leave hers.
She swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, Mr Millar.’
‘Good girl,’ he said approvingly. He took his hand away from her and turned away, staring down at Drew’s body with a slight frown on his face.
Millar left the room. Ray came up to her. He nodded in the direction of Drew.
‘I’ll be round tomorrow with some cash for your expenses.’
Calla nodded. Ray didn’t need to add ‘for the funeral’. She understood what he meant well enough.
Ray paused at the door. ‘Clean up behind us,’ he ordered. ‘Oh, and it goes without saying, we weren’t here.’
She nodded again.
You weren’t here. None of you were here.
She heard the door close behind them and her legs buckled. She slid down the wall so she was sitting on the floor and she started to cry.
‘Oh, Jamie, what have you done?’ she whispered.