She was right.

By two o’clock she was tucked up in bed, snoring gently.

In the East End of the city, in a ground-floor flat in Haghill, Lizzie Coughlin pressed the stub of her cigarette onto an upturned saucer, taking the time to grind the ash into tiny flecks before reaching for her mobile phone and checking for missed calls. There were none. No texts either. Nothing. She took the phone across to the window and stared out. Haghill was deserted at this time of the night except for a thin dog, its ribs clearly visible through its coat, wandering through the rain and stopping for a moment to sniff the air before deciding which way to continue. Behind her, her canary, Duchess, moved a little on her perch. Coughlin’s voice was scratched with nicotine when she spoke to the bird. ‘It’s okay Duchy hen, you go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.’ Coughlin scrolled down the numbers on her phone, stopped at Mason’s. She started texting furiously: M where the fuck r u? Get ur arse back here. Pressed send and heard the chirp of the phone tell her the message had been successfully sent. She waited for a few minutes but heard nothing. She cursed Mason loudly before opening the door to her bedroom and going inside.

Chapter 7

Like other sprawling European cities, Glasgow’s ongoing renovation and regeneration had encountered problems. Changes had been enforced in the city and some of the new-world, architecturally envisioned incentives perched nervously beside the resistant old-world buildings. In various parts of Glasgow, shiny new buildings were thrown up in isolation and conflicted with the barren wastelands and derelict tenements that often sat a short stroll away. In the progress-versus-tradition argument, the old pub sat firmly on the traditional, wasted-to-fuck side. Its boarded-up windows were doubly secured with wire mesh and the reinforced door bore the scars of a recent unsuccessful arson attempt. The area was almost desolate; empty premises mourned a displaced or long-dead community and rain battered on corrugated iron nailed across shop fronts. What sign of life there was, came in daylight hours when the bookies and the cut-price booze shop were open and then pale, wasted bodies slipped in and out of each establishment, carefully counting out money to be lost or slugging hard and desperately from bottles encased in brown paper bags.

Maurice Mason stood in the shadows across the road from the pub. He was wearing a second-hand navy-blue imitation-Crombie coat, black chinos, black DM boots and a thick gold bracelet around his wrist. He was bald and drops of rain clung to his skull, like sweat. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His pallor was grey. He studied the pub entrance. A few of the neon letters over The Smuggler’s Rest had been smashed and the sign now read ‘The muggers Rest’. Crudely stapled to a noticeboard were four A4 photocopied sheets of paper advertising nightly pole-dancing, Girls, Girls, Girls, until three a.m. Mason waited. The pub door opened and a couple staggered down the side alleyway. They were soon followed by a second couple. The women in both couples were identical twins. Heather and Shona Greg had followed their mother into the profession. And their mother had followed her own mother before that. The twins both wore silver platform boots and Shona was already hiking her miniskirt up around her waist as she entered the alley. Two minutes later Shona walked back out, the man walking ahead of her, zipping his fly and turning away from the pub. Shona turned into the doorway, shoved a five-pound note into her plastic handbag and tugged her skirt back into place. A few minutes later Heather emerged behind the second man. As he walked away, she bent over and spat heavily on the road before following her sister back into the pub.

Mason crossed the road and went inside. Behind the bar an obese man, his face smothered by tattoos, looked up. ‘Mason you old bastard, you out already?’

‘Looks like it, Sonny.’ Mason smiled, baring his teeth.

Sonny returned the same smile. ‘Time flies, eh?’

‘Aye, it does.’

‘How goes it?’

Mason tried to keep his voice even. ‘No too bad.’

‘Nah, been in for longer myself. The Bar-L’s no the worst of places.’

‘Not the worst,’ Mason agreed.

‘Cosy wee place.’

‘Aye, sometimes gets a bit crowded though. And I fucking hate that you can’t wear your own gear.’ He patted the lapel of his coat as if stroking a kitten.

In the corner of the bar the sound system cranked into life and a small, skinny woman in her late forties took to the floor, gyrating around a steel pole. After a few seconds she began tugging at the red nylon Santa outfit she was wearing.

The barman shook his head, ‘Fucking mental that Gail. Told her it’s one size fits all but can she stop clawing at herself? Can she fuck. It’s no hygienic and it puts the punters off.’

‘Mibbe she’s got worms?’ sniggered Mason.

‘Naw, it’s worse,’ said Sonny.

Mason watched Gail dance. Recognised the signs: features exhausted by a long and committed diet of alcohol, drugs and violence. A jagged scar ran from thigh to knee. Thin strands of peroxide hair clung limply to her misshapen skull as she gyrated against the pole. Her eyes were already dead.

Mason glanced around the room. ‘That Gail looks knackered.’

‘Well spotted, Mason.’

‘Can you no dae any better than that, Sonny?’

‘Nabody else willing to dae it, wages we pay.’

‘You one of they not-for-profit organisations then?’

‘Aye very funny. I’ve got overheads like every other fucker in this business.’

Mason risked another furtive glance. ‘Anybody still knocking about these parts or have things moved on since I was inside?’

‘Jamieson or McGregor or what? Who are you looking for?’

Mason’s voice was low. ‘Either or. Mibbe no one. Just trying to get the lie of the land, that’s all.’

‘Okay, well Weirdo took a look in earlier. On the hunt for somebody. Didnae say who. Doyle I haven’t seen for donkey’s and the rest don’t bother – they like tae be seen in classy wine bars. A bit more upmarket, where the money is.’

Mason licked his lips.

‘But there’s been a wee upset lately.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Course you’ve probably heard.’

‘Go on.’

‘Guy name of Gilmore got mashed.’ He studied Mason’s face, waited for a response, maybe recognition. Got nothing. Gave up. ‘You been hame yet tae see Lizzie?’

Mason shook his head. ‘Cannae be arsed. I fancy becoming a freelancer, flying solo.’

‘That right?’

‘Aye, commitments just drag ye down.’

‘Totally agree, Mason. Family and commitments, can’t see the point of either myself. I had tae clear my old man’s house last year after he died. House was full of shite. Should’ve just put a match tae it and watched it burn.’

‘Aye, you should’ve just torched it,’ Mason agreed, watching Gail claw at her crotch.

‘Took most of it to the skip. A few bits and pieces I sold. Hardly worth the bother.’

‘Nae inheritance tax tae keep ye up all night worrying then, Sonny?’

‘Nuthing keeps me up at night, Mason, it’s called a clear conscience. Whit about you? You got big plans with all this talk of freelancing?’

Mason felt the package in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a wee plan. A friend of mine in the jail’s got me ontae something.’

‘Oh aye, whit’s that then?’

‘Let’s just say that I’ve come intae a bit of merchandise; it’ll give me a wee income.’

‘Merchandise?’

‘Aye, I think it might roll and roll.’

‘And I suppose it’s top secret?’

‘Correct.’

‘You staying for a pint or are ye just farting in the wind?’

‘Might as well have a pint, if the coast’s clear. Pint of heavy.’