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‘Well, I’ve a plan to use it, and it involves the cops, but we need to keep our fucking voices down. You know what it’s like in here, Frankie. In exchange we’ll get immunity, and we just have to do two to four years at Castle Huntly. It’s a bloody breeze in there, man. Your own key, cooking facilities, unlimited gym and even better, regular home leave, and Christmas at home. Elizabeth will leave me if I have to do another eight to ten in this shite-hole.’ Davie’s eyes were pleading.
Frankie said nothing. He just sat staring at the wall above Davie’s head, breathing evenly, a palpable strain in his face. All of the jail noises of shouting, music, clattering and doors banging were zoned out and there were just the two brothers, in that grim cell with the tension almost crackling with its intensity.
Suddenly, and with almost impossible speed, Frankie rocketed to his feet and his open hand whipped out and connected with Davie’s cheek with a sound like a pistol shot. Davie’s head rocked to the side, but he did nothing. He didn’t retaliate, he didn’t cry out, he just sat there, his eyes fixed on his brother, tears brimming in his eyes.
‘Listen to me, Davie, and you listen well. You are sullying our fucking family name, if you help the bastard polis. Our pa would be spinning in his grave if he knew that one of his sons was grassing. Hardies don’t grass, Davie. Hardies. Don’t. Grass. Of all the rules in the book, that one is written in big fucking bold letters, and you’re considering going against everything our family has ever stood for. You’ve broken the code,’ Frankie said, drawing himself to his full height, his chest puffed out and his face brick-red.
‘Frankie, I …’ but Davie couldn’t get the words out.
‘I dinnae want to hear it, man. The only thing I want to hear is, “I’m no helping the fucking polis.” That’s it,’ Frankie said, his voice tight and hoarse, the veins protruding on his neck, and his teeth gritted. The loathing came from him in palpable waves.
‘It’s not so easy for me, man. I’ve a wife, you don’t. She’ll fucking leave me, and I cannae have that. She’s all I have left. Our name means nothing any more, and it certainly won’t after another eight in here. The Albanians will already have taken over.’ He shifted his gaze down onto the coarse bedspread, but he said nothing, his face pale and a slight tremble detectable in his shoulders.
Frankie almost growled, the loathing evident in his face, ‘Say that again, and I’ll fucking kill you, right now.’
Davie said nothing, just continued to stare at the bedspread, a solitary tear falling onto his grey joggers.
Frankie looked down on him, scorn in his eyes. ‘You’re no longer my brother. You’re dead to me.’ He turned on his heel and walked slowly, and calmly, out of the cell.
9
‘OH WELL, LOOKwhat the fucking cat dragged in. Detective Sergeant Craigie has at last deigned it timely and appropriate to grace us with his presence. Only half a day late, Craigie, anyone’d think you’ve been bloody working hard. I want to say thank you, DS Craigie, we are honoured that you’ve lowered yourself sufficiently to come to our humble office. Get the bastard kettle on,’ said Detective Inspector Ross Fraser, looking up through his bushy, untamed eyebrows, a phone receiver clamped to his ear as Max walked into their office in the bowels of Tulliallan Castle.
‘Hey, Max-dude. Where’s the tardy doughnuts?’ Norma piped up from behind three large monitors, her impish face peering around the edge of the largest one. Norma was the team intelligence analyst and researcher who Ross had recruited from the National Crime Agency. She was hugely capable and could decipher and interpret the most complex intelligence from multiple sources and come up with a concise and cogent briefing document within a startlingly short timeframe, but only if she was regularly supplied with cakes, sweets and biscuits.
By way of an answer, Max produced a pack of Tunnock’s teacakes from his rucksack and tossed them onto her desk.
‘Ah, man. All is forgiven, be late any bloody time if you’re bringing teacakes,’ she almost squealed.
Max just smiled weakly and walked over to the small, dented and ancient-looking fridge, on top of which was a tray cluttered with dirty mugs and an old stainless-steel kettle.
‘Mugs are bloody bogging,’ said Max, looking at the scummy selection of chipped china.
‘Well, you know where the sink is, or is that too lowly for someone with a high-maintenance supermodel’s regard for timekeeping, eh?’ said Ross, scowling at the phone, before slamming it down hard into its cradle. ‘Why does nobody ever answer the bloody phone? It stresses me out. Pass me a teacake, my blood sugar’s dropping, and I need tea and sustenance. Come on, tea. Chop-chop.’
Ross looked tired, his face was craggy and pale, and he looked even more dishevelled than normal. His shirt was creased, and there was a button missing where it bulged against the pressure of his belly, exposing white, hairy flesh.
‘Don’t you want to hear why I’m late?’ said Max.
‘Of course, DC Calder was being deliberately evasive when I asked her, so I was going to do it over a nice cuppa, but as you seem to be eager to get to the bollocking, let’s go for it. Where the fuck have you been?’ Ross said, a touch of humour creasing his face as he caught the foil-wrapped teacake that Norma had tossed to him.
‘I’ve received some concerning intelligence from a source.’
‘What type of source, human or electronic?’
‘Can I answer that a bit later?’ said Max.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a little irregular, and I need time to think about how I describe it.’
‘Is it reliable?’
‘Very.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ said Ross, taking a big bite of the chocolatey dome, the white fluffy interior spilling out and smearing on his lips.
‘Because it’s been very reliable in the past, but is a little …’ Max paused to consider, ‘can I say, shy?’
