Falkirk Chris stormed off down the main road that ran parallel to the Meadows. It was dark and raining; the traffic was heavy. He felt the gun, weighty, threatening, in his raincoat pocket. He was very tempted to return and put a few bullets into Ray and Dougie. God, how he hated them. Particularly Ray. He hated Ray more than Dougie. The way he looked down his nose at him, all those snide remarks about his clothes.
He’d like to hold Ray down and beat his face until it was a bloody pulp. But deep down Chris knew that he was no match for Ray in a fight and that made him even more furious.
But what he could do was find McDonald before Ray did, and make Ray look incompetent. Millar wanted McDonald punished for killing Jordan, that meant dead.
Millar had turned to him in the car on the way over and said to him, ‘Let me get one thing straight with you, Chris, I want McDonald six foot under. In an ideal world I’d like some information from him, but right now, I’ll settle for dead. I’m not sure if Ray’s up to it, Chris… If you sort it out…’
The conversation had ended there. But he knew what success would mean: everything.
There was no doubt in Chris’s mind that destiny was calling. A call that had been a long time coming, a call that was, not to put too fine a point upon it, long overdue. Millar had picked him; he wouldn’t let him down. He’d been waiting for a moment like this for a long time, a moment where he could prove himself, show Millar his true worth.
Chris was heading for a part of Edinburgh called Gorgie. Gorgie was not going to feature highly on any tourist agenda; it was run-down, blue collar. There was a bar there, the Park Bar, that was one of those pubs where you could buy drugs real easy. He’d heard that McDonald was back to his five-hundred-pounds-a-day habit. McDonald had to be struggling for money; since his falling out with Millar, nobody would be brave enough to employ him and face Millar’s wrath. There weren’t many people in Edinburgh who would be prepared to give McDonald a line of credit as opposed to just a line, but the ones that were would be found in the Park Bar. It was that kind of place.
He was feeling a bit calmer now. He’d got it all worked out. He’d get the credit for finding McDonald, Ray and Dougie would fuck off back to their Glasgow gay bars and he could go back to Fife. Edinburgh was all well and good, but the people were just too up their own arses. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and ordered an Uber. Even if McDonald never showed up at the bar he’d ask around after him. Gorgie was his part of the city; just about all the people who drank in the Park Bar knew him. And Millar’s reward money was very generous, a big incentive for people who’d sell their granny for a quick fix or fifty quid. At least he could put the word out. Also he’d score some Charlie and spend the evening getting pleasantly hammered on Guinness, maybe go home with one of the Lothian Road whores for a couple of hours.
The Uber stopped, he got in.
‘Where to, chief?’
‘Park Bar, aff the Gorgie Road.’
The driver put the car in gear and they drove off into the night.
Back in the Marchmont flat, Dougie’s phone rang. They were in bed together, making the most of Falkirk Chris’s unexplained absence. Dougie’s body language as he took the call showed something important was happening. Ray watched intently as Dougie sat bolt upright, the covers falling away from his naked body, his voice tense.
‘You’re sure about that, the Park Bar…? He’s still there… alone? With some girl, aye, but not mob-handed… Look, that’s great, aye, the money’s yours, we’ll be straight over… If he goes, follow him, OK… twenty minutes.’
Ray started pulling on his clothes quickly, as did Dougie.
‘You got that, Ray?’
‘Aye, the Park Bar – it is McDonald, yes?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Dougie.
‘OK, you take the gun.’ Ray thought a moment. ‘I’ll use this. Maybe we’ll need something a wee bit more discreet.’ He picked up a hunting knife with a six-inch blade in a leather sheath and put it in his pocket. Thank God there were two of them, he thought. McDonald was a daunting prospect.
‘Who was that on the phone?’ he asked as they left the flat.
‘Davie Jessop, Junkie Dave, he was in that crack house in Muirhouse – do you not remember?’
Ray shrugged. ‘No.’
‘He’s reliable,’ Dougie said.
‘C’mon, then, let’s go. I’ll drive.’