away. But he had not. He was still Danny McCall’s boy. And when the devil came knocking, he would have to deal with it.
10
RAB M c CLYMONT pulled his thick coat tighter as he peered at the number on his pager’s small screen. A stiff breeze flooded through the broken glass pane of the phone box and chilled his body. He hated the cold, always had. Some day, if he worked everything correctly, he’d take Bernadette and little Joe and any other kids they had by then to a land where it was warm and sunny. Even in November.
Cars roared past the box on Shettleston Road and further down he could see the Range Rover with two of his boys watching carefully. They didn’t know who he was calling and they never would. Even Luca had no idea who Rab’s connection was in Pitt Street. The only person who knew was Bernadette, for Rab told her almost everything. He and Knight had been using this system for years – pagers, registered in someone else’s name, of course, used to relay the number of a clean public phone. When the little plastic box bleeped and a number flashed up on the screen, it meant one of them had something to pass on and the other had to reach another public phone to call the number in the display. Rab was confident the phones in his home and the one in Luca’s café were clean – he paid a couple of British Telecom employees a hefty amount of cash to let him know if there was any undue interest in the lines. That wasn’t enough for Knight, though – Rab had learned long ago that if there was one species more paranoid than drug dealers, it was bent cops.
‘This better be fuckin good,’ said Rab when he heard Knight pick up at the other end. ‘Freezing my bollocks off in this box.’
‘And good morning to you, mate,’ said Knight.
Rab sighed. He was not a morning person. He didn’t come fully awake until he had at least two cups of coffee. ‘Spit it out, Knight.’
‘Just thought I’d let you know Liam Mulvey’s come into some cash.’
Rab said nothing as he processed the information. Liam Mulvey was a former Glasgow ned who moved to Ayrshire so his wife could be near her folks. He bought gear from Rab and punted it among the sheep and the associated shaggers down there in the country. And he owed Rab cash.
‘How the fuck do’you know these things, Knight?’
‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,’ said Knight, and Rab knew he was only half joking. They’d had a working relationship for ten years now and Rab knew the big cop was capable of many things. However, he also knew that wasn’t the only reason for the call. He wouldn’t say that he could read the Black Knight like a book – that would be like trying to do Braille wearing a boxing glove – but he knew there was more to come.
‘Your boy McCall’s getting out today, I hear.’
‘Aye,’ Rab said, wondering where this was leading.
‘Been a long time.’
‘Aye.’
‘He still not suss it was you who put him away?’
Rab fell silent again. So that’s what this was – a wind up call. Knight knew that Rab’s betrayal was a sore point, and he was never one to shy away from poking a wound. They had needed Davie McCall off the streets because he was a loose cannon in the wake of Joe the Tailor’s death and that would have been bad for business. Rab had provided the basic information to have the boy jailed, pinning the leak on that sucker Mouthy Grant. Naturally, Mouthy had to go away, something Rab dealt with in his usual direct manner. The big man never agonised over Grant’s death, but he suffered pangs of conscience over grassing his mate McCall. And, truth be told, he was a little afraid Davie would work it all out. The only other person who knew the truth was Bernadette. The question was, why was Knight bringing it all up now? Was he just doing it for fun, or was he reminding Rab that he should continue to play ball, and pay up, or he’d drop a word in McCall’s ear about who grassed him
10
RAB M c CLYMONT pulled his thick coat tighter as he peered at the number on his pager’s small screen. A stiff breeze flooded through the broken glass pane of the phone box and chilled his body. He hated the cold, always had. Some day, if he worked everything correctly, he’d take Bernadette and little Joe and any other kids they had by then to a land where it was warm and sunny. Even in November.
Cars roared past the box on Shettleston Road and further down he could see the Range Rover with two of his boys watching carefully. They didn’t know who he was calling and they never would. Even Luca had no idea who Rab’s connection was in Pitt Street. The only person who knew was Bernadette, for Rab told her almost everything. He and Knight had been using this system for years – pagers, registered in someone else’s name, of course, used to relay the number of a clean public phone. When the little plastic box bleeped and a number flashed up on the screen, it meant one of them had something to pass on and the other had to reach another public phone to call the number in the display. Rab was confident the phones in his home and the one in Luca’s café were clean – he paid a couple of British Telecom employees a hefty amount of cash to let him know if there was any undue interest in the lines. That wasn’t enough for Knight, though – Rab had learned long ago that if there was one species more paranoid than drug dealers, it was bent cops.
‘This better be fuckin good,’ said Rab when he heard Knight pick up at the other end. ‘Freezing my bollocks off in this box.’
‘And good morning to you, mate,’ said Knight.
Rab sighed. He was not a morning person. He didn’t come fully awake until he had at least two cups of coffee. ‘Spit it out, Knight.’
‘Just thought I’d let you know Liam Mulvey’s come into some cash.’
Rab said nothing as he processed the information. Liam Mulvey was a former Glasgow ned who moved to Ayrshire so his wife could be near her folks. He bought gear from Rab and punted it among the sheep and the associated shaggers down there in the country. And he owed Rab cash.
‘How the fuck do’you know these things, Knight?’
‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,’ said Knight, and Rab knew he was only half joking. They’d had a working relationship for ten years now and Rab knew the big cop was capable of many things. However, he also knew that wasn’t the only reason for the call. He wouldn’t say that he could read the Black Knight like a book – that would be like trying to do Braille wearing a boxing glove – but he knew there was more to come.
‘Your boy McCall’s getting out today, I hear.’
‘Aye,’ Rab said, wondering where this was leading.
‘Been a long time.’
‘Aye.’
‘He still not suss it was you who put him away?’
Rab fell silent again. So that’s what this was – a wind up call. Knight knew that Rab’s betrayal was a sore point, and he was never one to shy away from poking a wound. They had needed Davie McCall off the streets because he was a loose cannon in the wake of Joe the Tailor’s death and that would have been bad for business. Rab had provided the basic information to have the boy jailed, pinning the leak on that sucker Mouthy Grant. Naturally, Mouthy had to go away, something Rab dealt with in his usual direct manner. The big man never agonised over Grant’s death, but he suffered pangs of conscience over grassing his mate McCall. And, truth be told, he was a little afraid Davie would work it all out. The only other person who knew the truth was Bernadette. The question was, why was Knight bringing it all up now? Was he just doing it for fun, or was he reminding Rab that he should continue to play ball, and pay up, or he’d drop a word in McCall’s ear about who grassed him
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