Savage Night (4 page)

KILLER ON THE LOOSE

Police said today that they had no clues as to the killer of Eric McCracken. The unmarried thirty-six-year-old was brutally murdered last night in Lochend Park as he jogged in the shadow of Easter Road football stadium. Mr McCracken, manager of the St Bernard's wing of the Meredith House Nursing Home on Parker Road West, was strangled to death with a length of clothesline left behind at the scene by the killer.

A police spokesman revealed that at present they had no suspects, and there was apparently no motive for the murder. Mr McCracken seemed to be well-liked and had no known enemies. The police have asked that anybody who might have seen or heard anything suspicious in the neighbourhood last night should contact them as a matter of the utmost urgency.

Eric McCracken was alive yesterday lunchtime. And Smith had known he was going to die. Which could only mean that Smith had killed him.

Fuck, no. There had to be some other explanation. But Tommy couldn't think of one.

On cue, the phone rang.

"Well?" Smith said.

His voice no longer sounded whiny. Maybe Tommy was getting used to it. "Why did you have to do that?" Tommy asked.

"Demonstration."

"Of what?"

"What I'm capable of."

Tommy didn't want to think too hard about that. "What exactly do you want?"

"I told you that already. You're going to have to start paying attention."

"For Christ's sake, tell me what the fuck you want."

"You need to control your temper. It could get you into trouble." Silence. Then: "Let's start with fifty grand."

"I don't have that kind of money."

"Don't bother with your shite, pal."

"It's true." Damn, it was such a lie.

"Jordan's at his brother's, right?" Smith said. "Hope he's safe there. Wouldn't want Fraser dosing him up with cocaine."

How did Smith know about that? The muscles round Tommy's mouth tensed, started to quiver. But, sod it, Fraser's coke problem was hardly the best kept secret in the world.

"Nice lads," Smith said. "Fraser takes after you. And Jordan's got your mother's eyes."

Tommy shouted down the phone: "You go anywhere near my family and I swear to
God—
"

"What did I tell you about that temper?"

Tommy gulped air, saying nothing, a buzzing in his temples.

"Better," Smith said. "Speaking of your mother, very nice arse on her. For her age."

"You sick fuck." Tommy felt a familiar burning sensation in his stomach. He squeezed the receiver. His mother was seventy-one, for Christ's sake.

"You're in control here," Smith said. "Your choice. Fifty grand."

Tommy forced himself to breathe slowly. "If I refuse?"

Smith made a strangled sound which Tommy guessed was a laugh and then said, "Just think about your children, Tommy."

Afterwards Tommy had considered going to the police, but Smith had proved with McCracken that he wasn't messing about. Before long, he decided to tell Phil about it. Nothing else for it. Anybody else in the family would have freaked and you couldn't blame them. But Phil just said, "No problem. We'll sort this Smith tit out in no time."

Which is why Phil was lurking back at the bus station, hoping he'd get an ID on Smith—no reason for him to be wearing his ski mask again. If they could ID him, steps could be taken to ensure he didn't cause any more trouble.

***

IT WAS WARM inside the taxi and it smelled of cheap air freshener and something sweet that might have been cannabis.

Tommy had been told to leave the money in a locker at the bus station, flag down a taxi and deliver the key to a pub.

And that's exactly what he was doing.

The driver eyeballed him in the rearview. Big bastard, dark shadows under his eyes. "Youupherevisiting?"

He had a strange accent. Transatlantic Scots. And he spoke ridiculously fast.

Then, when Tommy realised what he'd been asked, he couldn't be bothered explaining that he wasn't 'up' from anywhere, and neither was he visiting. Let the driver assume what he wanted.

"I'm from Philadelphia originally," the driver said. Waited for a reply, but didn't get one and carried on anyway: "Name's Duane Shweerski. Came over here couple years ago. Made some porn movies. The work dried up." Pause. "Drive cabs now."

You don't say.

Tommy smiled, nodded.

Shweerski didn't need any encouragement, though. Rattled on at length, glancing in the mirror every now and again, tapping a fingernail against his chin as he talked. Only stopped when he had to change gear.

He came to the end of his monologue, paused for a second or two to catch his breath, and said, "Going out at the weekend?"

"What's it to you?" Tommy said.

Shweerski frowned. He was tapping his chin with a couple of fingertips now. "Set up?"

Tommy was tempted to ask him to pull over, cause he wasn't in the mood for this shit. What did he mean by 'set up'? Was he warning Tommy? How could he know it was a set-up? Did he know about the money Tommy had just deposited in the locker? Did he know Smith? Was he a plant, idling outside the bus station in his taxi waiting for Tommy to appear? Was he telling Tommy it was a set-up because he was part of Smith's operation and wanted to rub it in?

"The fuck're you on about?" Tommy's stomach rumbled. He adjusted his coat to smother the sound.

Shweerski said, "Got your bits and bobs?" And winked.

Tommy stared at him in the mirror.

"All your gear?"

Ah,
gear.
That was why he was being so pushy. Tommy leaned back, let his shoulders drop. "I don't do drugs," he said.

"Yeah?" Shweerski was quiet while he changed lanes. Didn't take long. He was back again, saying, "Why not, buddy?"

Jesus Christ. This guy had a lot in common with Smith. Maybe he
was
Smith. Nah, Shweerski was twice the width of Smith and his accent was too weird to be put on. "What's it to you?" Tommy said.

"Hey, chill the fuck out. Making conversation here, aye, yo? Fuck's sake. No need to be a motherfucker. Offering to help you out, 's all. You don't want my help, no need to get all nasty and like shit."

The arse-faced bastard had called Tommy a motherfucker. In days gone by Tommy would have walloped him for that. In fact, he wouldn't have, much as he might have liked to. He didn't do violence. Phil would have, though, if he'd overheard. Bided his time, paid Shweerski a visit at home, armed with a length of pipe. But even in the old days, Tommy tried to behave like a civilised human being. Just because he was involved in the occasional illegal activity didn't mean he had no morals.

"Can't tempt you with a wee rock?" Shweerski said. "Got it right under the seat here." He bent down to fetch it, one hand on the wheel.

The car swerved.

"Watch the road," Tommy said.

"
No problemo
. I can drive round Edinburgh like totally blindfolded, ken." He sat upright, bag in hand, held it out to the side for Tommy to see.

Maybe the accent
was
phoney. If he wasn't such a prick, Tommy might have suspected he was an undercover cop. Come to think of it, the one didn't necessarily preclude the other. Tommy said, "Please just drive."

"Going," Shweerski said, "going," he said again. "Last chance." He shook the bag.

"What makes you think I won't report you to the police?" Tommy said.

"You're a decent guy."

Had he just forgotten he'd called Tommy a motherfucker?

"And I'm not doing any harm," Shweerski continued. "Why would you report me?"

"Cause you're annoying the tits off me."

"Sorry about that. Just providing a community service."

"And what if I'm not 'a decent guy'? What if you've got me all wrong? Could be I think you're a scumbag for selling drugs. "

Shweerski looked at him in the rearview. "Like you're some law-abiding do-gooder? Salvation Army in disguise? Hiding a tambourine under your jacket?"

"Maybe I'm an undercover cop."

"You ain't that, dude." He laughed.

"How can you be sure?"

"If you were a cop you'd be one of my best customers."

Tommy guessed the guy was blagging. Maybe the odd cop scored some coke occasionally. Maybe. Anyway, perhaps now Shweerski would shut up.

He did. For a couple of minutes. Then: "Hey, I've got some BetaBlockers. You ever tried them? Help you chill, dude. Get rid of some of that anger."

***

"PULL OVER," TOMMY said. For the last five minutes his driver had been quiet, thankfully. Tommy had finally got through to him that he wasn't going to buy any of his vast array of drugs, no matter how much quality gear he was missing or what kind of give-away prices were being offered.

Shweerski eased to a stop, kept the engine running. "That's eight pounds—"

"I'm not getting out."

"You're not?"

"Nope."

Maybe Tommy had spoken too soon and the fucker'd be back with the hard sell again.

But, no. Shweerski said, "So, we're just going to sit here and let the meter run?"

"Yep."

"Your dollar."

Tommy almost corrected him. Instead, he said, "That's right."

A pause. "How long we going to sit here?"

"I don't know."

Another pause. "Mind if I put on a CD, then?"

"Be my guest."

Flecks of rain streaked the passenger window, showering the sticky guts of a dead insect. Tommy looked up into the greying sky and watched a submarine-shaped raincloud drift along.

Smith had given him a residential address in the west of the city, not far from Murrayfield, and all Tommy could do for now was wait for his phone to ring.

He felt relaxed for the first time all evening. Then Shweerski started to sing along with Michael Bolton.

Seven long minutes later, the call finally came.

Smith said, "Pay the driver and get out. I'll ring back in a while," and hung up.

Tommy did as he was told.

The taxi drove away, Shweerski muttering to himself, no doubt pissed off he hadn't got a tip.

Tommy stared at his mobile. How long was 'a while'? He wiped a couple of raindrops off the display with the fleshy part of his palm, his fist still curled around the locker key. His palm was hot and sticky, the back of his hand cold.

He thought about calling Phil, see how things were going back at the bus station, but it'd be just his luck if Smith phoned whilst he was on the other call. Anyway, Phil wouldn't have anything to report yet cause Smith didn't have the key.

Tommy pulled up his collar. The clouds didn't look too fierce. Just a light shower, hopefully. He'd survive.

By the time Smith called, the rain had stopped and pale sunlight was squeezing through gaps in a much gentler sky. Smith went straight into his spiel: "Follow the road up the hill. At the top, take a left. Halfway along, you'll find a hotel. Go into the bar. The lounge bar. Buy a pint, then go to the toilet. It's a single cubicle. Lift the top off the cistern, and drop the key into it. Then go back out into the bar. Stay there until I tell you to leave. If you leave early, or go back to the bus station, I'll know. Be smart and do what you're told."

***

TOMMY WAS THE third customer in the pub.

The other two were a morose-looking pair seated at opposite ends of the bar. One wore glasses, or rather, he didn't, cause he'd taken them off and was playing with the leg, trying to tighten the screw with his thumbnail. The other guy wore a suit, breathed through his nose, made a whistling sound while he did so.