I know something important about James Gilmore. He was one of the bad guys. He wasn’t what he appeared to be; he was a fucking psycho. I don’t want to give my name. I can’t be implicated in this. But he’s not what he seemed. Look at his history. Just look at his history. No name, no number. Public phone box. Again Ross wrote trace call in his notebook and read on. Two callers, both anonymous, had suggested that Gilmore hadn’t been one of the good guys. Either they were muddying the waters for the police or Gilmore had a life that he’d kept hidden from everyone. Ross favoured the last idea. He fired up the computer, opened the police database and typed in ‘Arthur Wright, London’, pressed enter and waited.

A half hour later and he’d found nothing useful. Ross was closing down his computer when his mobile chirruped. A text. He glanced at the sender. Sarah, his ex-girlfriend. The broody one.

I’m lonely. Want to come over?

Ross thought about their last conversation. About her wanting kids, him not ever wanting them. Nothing had changed for him and he couldn’t carry on seeing someone who so clearly wanted a family. Children would never be on his radar. Wife, kids, dog. He didn’t want the package. Ross picked a stray dog hair from his jacket – well he’d been suckered into having one out of three, but that was it. He wondered idly if Sarah had changed her mind but he knew that there was no chance. If he were being honest, she was lonely and probably a bit bored and what she was offering was sex. He paused for a heartbeat before texting, Will bring wine.

A second later she replied, Food?

He sighed. Chinese or Indian?

Indian. Yum.

Ross stuffed the notes into the tray on his desk and switched off the light on his way out of the room. Good food and hopefully great sex; it was a decent end to a hard day. He even nodded to Cunningham on his way out of the station.

Chapter 21

‘Well, for a start you can take these and shove them up your fucking arse.’

A can of lager split as the four-pack hit the wall behind him. Mason knew it had been a mistake to come home. Lizzie Coughlin was more than pissed at him. Well fuck her, he just needed to get his stuff, that was all, in and out. No messing. He heard the hiss of the lager as it ran down the wall and foamed onto the carpet. Then the bloody bird began tweeting. Fuck, he stared at the birdcage as he walked towards the bedroom door. The yellow bird blinked back. Duchess. Stupid name. Stupid bird. Same as Lizzie.

‘You’ve been in the Bar-L for years, then you’re out and you can’t make it home and now, at this hour, you’ve decided to breeze back in. Where the hell were you?’ Hysterical. Voice trembling. Eyes bloodshot. She’d been on the vodka again.

Mason bared his teeth. ‘I’ve been busy. Not that it’s got anything to dae with you. I’m off. I’m going into business. A partnership. Fifty-fifty.’

Lizzie, hands on her hips, sneered, ‘Oh aye? Doing what?’

Mason tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Nosy cow. Let’s just say I’ve got a bit of merchandise and I’m standing back and waiting for the dividend to be paid.’

Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whose merchandise?’

‘You wouldnae know him.’

‘Try me.’

‘It’s none of your business – keep your snout out of it.’

‘You’ve wanted tae get intae the drugs scene for ever, but it’s moved on since you went inside; you’ve nae chance. It’s all sewn up.’

‘That right?’

‘Aye, Tenant, Doyle, Jamieson. Do you know nothing?’

‘Like you’d know anything,’ he sneered. ‘Tenant’s giving me a way in.’

‘Wee Stevie Tenant’s intae drugs and you’ve nae money, so where are you planning on getting your “dividend” from?’

Mason stared at her. Stevie Tenant was Davey’s younger brother but there was no point in telling her she had the wrong brother. It had nothing to do with her and besides, there was something more important he had to say. ‘You’re staying out of it, Lizzie. You’re no going to be part of it, so there’s nae point in asking. See us? We’re over. You’re history. The lager was tae soften the blow, seeing as how I’m a gentleman, but as usual you’ve lost the fucking plot.’

‘I’m dumped? Is that it?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you’re going in with wee Stevie?’

‘Correct in that I’m going into partnership with someone.’

‘So who’ll you be up against?’ she asked.

He ignored her.

‘It’s got to be Andy Doyle.’ Lizzie watched Mason swagger into the bedroom and emerge a few seconds later with his bag stuffed full of clothes.

‘I’ll be back for the CDs and stuff when I get settled.’

‘So you think you can just walk out on me? Nae chance there. You’re not walking out.’

It was like a white light when it happened, like a migraine beginning, but instead of being painful, it became energising. He dropped the bag and crossed the room in an instant. He was aware that Lizzie had stopped yelling and had started to tremble. He smiled reassuringly as he reached out to her, kept smiling as he raised his right hand and curled his fingers around her throat. Mason held her with just enough pressure to stop the air flow. Waited, watched her flail, arms flapping, mouth gurgling, eyes bulging. Kept his voice low, quiet, sincere: ‘If you ever mouth off at me again, I’ll kill you. Think on Lizzie, you get in my way and you’re dead meat. And don’t bother running tae your auld da. I’ve enough pals inside – I’ll get him chibbed. He’s an old timer, remember that. Yesterday’s news. Just like yourself.’ He waited a few more seconds then let go. Heard her retching and choking as he crossed the room, glanced back, saw that she was doubled over, gasping for air. Bared his teeth in a grin.

Mason grabbed his coat, picked up his bag and opened the door, then he paused, turned back. Opened the cage and took the bird in his right hand, felt its heartbeat quicken, squeezed it hard and used his thumb to flick its head back. Felt the heartbeat flicker, then stop.

Lizzie screamed behind him but it was a weak, snivelling scream. Mason slammed the door and walked to the car, started up the engine and rolled down the window. He turned his car away from Haghill. Next stop was a drink at the Smuggler’s. He smiled, teeth bared at the night sky; it was good to be free.

Chapter 22

A waste ground in North Glasgow.

‘It’s got nits.’

‘It’s no nits, ya numpty, it’s fleas.’

‘Oh aye, so there’s a difference?’

‘Aye.’

Rab Wilson held the pigeon in his hands. ‘And see, it’s tagged – it’s a racer.’

Alec Munroe stared at it. ‘So, how come it’s sitting here in the middle of the road?’

‘It’s knackered.’

‘How?’

‘They race them from a long way away – France, sometimes. The birds get as far as they can and they’re just too knackered to go on, so they stop. Just stop for a lie down.’

‘So they just die then?’

‘Sometimes. Depends where they come down.’

‘How come you know all this?’

‘My Ma’s ex-boyfriend was intae racing pigeons.’

‘Hammy?’

‘Naw, before him.’

‘Thought his name was Billy?’

‘Before Billy.’

‘The wan that broke your nose?’

‘’Fore him.’

‘Cannae remember that far back.’

‘He was called Jock. He was okay.’

‘Then how come your ma chucked him?’

‘He got pissed and shagged my Auntie Tracy. Long time ago now. It spoiled my Christmas though, all the screaming and chucking things at each other. My Ma tells everybody she’s no got a sister. But she has so.’

‘Is that no what Christmas with the family’s all aboot?’