Savage Night (6 page)

The boy yelped. The tape probably took some facial hair with it. Then again, maybe not. He didn't look old enough to have any.

"Told you to be quiet," Phil said, balling his fist.

"I will," the boy said, teeth chattering. "Just don't … don't hurt me."

"Ready to talk, then?" Tommy said.

The boy nodded.

"That's good. Answer a few questions and you can go home to Mummy and Daddy. Okay?"

He nodded again.

Tommy said, "Who hired you?"

"Don't know her name."

Her? Tommy looked at Phil. The little bastard was having them on. "Try again."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no 'her'."

"There was. There
is
. A lady. I'm telling you the truth, man. She was short, about my height. Old. About sixty. I'm not lying. Why would I lie? Come on, man. You gotta believe me." He breathed quickly, gasping for air between his sentences.

"This 'lady'. She have a name?"

"No. I mean, yeah, probably. But I don't know what it is."

"She just hired you to look after a big pile of money."

He pinched his eyes against the light, looked away. "I don't know about any money."

"What do you think's in the bag?"

"Dunno."

"Have a guess."

"I dunno."

"You didn't look?"

"Didn't have time."

That was probably true.

"You didn't ask?"

He shook his head.

Tommy waited. Then said, "So, this sixty-year-old lady whose name you don't know. Why did she choose you?"

"Dunno, man. It's a mystery."

Tommy gave him a minute to see if he'd say anything else. He didn't. "A mystery," Tommy said. "I'd say so. It's a real puzzle."

"Look, I dunno. Please. You gotta believe me. She just asked me if I'd do it and I said yes."

"Just walked up to you in the street, this stranger, and propositioned you?"

"Yeah."

"Asked you to go fetch her bag out of a locker in the bus station?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did she say why she needed you to do it?"

"She just asked and I said yeah."

The boy's legs were shaking so hard the chair rattled against the floorboards.

"You didn't ask yourself why she wanted you to get the bag?"

"No."

"Didn't worry there was a bomb in it?"

"No."

Tommy held the light steady, watched the boy's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

"She offered me money," the boy said. "Not the money in the bag. I mean different money. Out of her purse. I didn't ask why."

"You got this money now?"

"In my pocket."

"How much?"

"Fifty quid."

"Not much, is it?"

"Only half. I was going to get the other half later."

Tommy sighed, said to Phil, "You want to check his pockets?"

Phil said, "Not particularly. I don't doubt he's got the fifty quid. Hardly a fortune."

"Fair point." Tommy breathed in through his nose. "What's your name?" he asked the boy.

The boy paused.

"Don't bother making one up."

The boy said, "Grant."

"Well, Grant. I'm going to go out to the car and get my toolbox. Got all sorts of things in there. Screwdrivers with the ends filed to a point. Hacksaws. Powerdrills." He remembered there probably wouldn't be any electricity here. "Cordless, of course. All charged up and ready to go. I'll just be five minutes. When I come back, I want to know the truth, or I'll start doing some carpentry on you. Okay?"

"It
is
the truth. I'm telling you, man. I'm telling you the fucking truth."

"No need to swear." Tommy turned.

Grant started to scream. It was short-lived, though, cause before Grant had time to take a second breath, Phil was right on top of him, arm locked round his mouth, stifling his cries.

Tommy carried on walking. "You want the torch?" he said to Phil.

"Nah," Phil said, puffing as he held onto Grant. "We'll have a great time in the dark, won't we, Grant?"

Tommy went out into the corridor. Opened the flat's front door, but stayed where he was and let it swing shut with a bang. Then he crept back along the corridor, popped into the nearest room. A bedroom. The bed was still there. No other furniture, though.

He was about to sit down on the bed but smelled that sickly sweet popcorn/dead-mouse odour again and decided to stay standing. Looked at his watch. He'd give it five minutes.

It'd be so different if Smith was in the sitting room with Phil instead of Grant. If Smith was in the chair, Tommy might have actually gone out to the car to fetch his toolbox. Assuming he had a toolbox. Nah, course he wouldn't. Not his style. But Phil would. Only question would have been whether Tommy would have let him.

Stupid kid just had to tell them the truth instead of making up shit. If Phil had half a brain he'd be describing to Grant what he could expect once Tommy came back. And Grant would be crapping himself.

That's if he'd got Grant to shut up by now.

Tommy listened, but couldn't hear anything other than the distant thump of a downstairs neighbour's music. Almost as bad as Grant's phone. He turned off the torch. The music immediately seemed louder. Not so much as a whisper from the sitting room.

Phil probably still had the poor sod in that chokehold.

Tommy had always steered clear of this kind of crap. Knew that Phil had to get rough now and then but he'd never wanted to know about it. But until now, nobody had ever threatened Tommy's mother and children.

They had to convince Grant to reveal the identity of Mr fucking Smith. And once they had that information, Phil would have a quiet word with Smith and that would be an end to the violence.

Simple.

Okay, Smith was a killer and maybe it wouldn't be so simple but Tommy didn't see a whole lot of alternatives. He'd like nothing better than to bring all this to an end without anyone getting hurt. Once Grant told them where his boss was, they'd sort something out. Just knowing who Smith was would give them enough leverage for him to back off.

Yeah, it was going to work out fine.

Tommy wondered if maybe enough time had passed now for Grant to believe he'd been out to the car and back. But it was only a couple of minutes since he'd last looked at his watch.

Tommy slipped off his shoes. Didn't much fancy walking on this floor in his socks but he didn't want to risk making a noise. He shuffled along the corridor. Crouched down by the sitting room door and placed his ear to the keyhole.

"… a machete," Phil was saying. "Sliced off the guy's arse cheeks." He laughed. "I know. You're thinking that's pretty funny. No? Anyway, you can't ever walk again. No arse cheeks, no walking muscles. You know that? Hard to find a pair of trousers that fit, too."

Pause. Tommy heard himself breathing.

Then: "Not laughing?" Phil said. "Right. Cause I'm not joking. You know that. Just tell me who hired you."

"I told you."

"The old lady? Sticking with that still? Well, it's your arse."

"She hired me to take the bag, deliver it—"

"Deliver it?"

"Yeah. That was the plan."

"When?"

"When? When she told me the plan."

"No, you prick. When were you supposed to deliver it?"

"Eleven."

"Tonight?"

"Aye."

"Where?"

He paused. Swallowed. "Car park."

"Which one?"

Another pause. "Greenside."

"It's closed by eleven."

Tommy wondered how Phil knew that. He had to be bluffing.

"Oh."

The bluff worked.

"Don't lie to me again," Phil said.

"Okay, sorry."

Pause. "Where?"

"I can't tell you."

Phil said, "You'll tell me when I start drilling holes in your kneecaps."

"Warriston Cemetery," the kid blurted out.

Strange venue, Tommy thought, but Grant sounded like he was telling the truth. Warriston Cemetery was a notorious cruising spot for Edinburgh's gays. Plenty privacy behind the tombstones, but the last place you'd expect a bagman to deliver fifty grand. In cash. Maybe that was the idea.

Smith was a clever bastard.

It was about time Tommy got his shoes back on, got in there and found out exactly who Grant's employer was.

***

"GOT MY TOOLS." Tommy shone the torch into Grant's eyes. Made him squint.

"Don't need them," Grant said. "Tell him," he said to Phil.

Phil told Tommy what he'd already overheard and Tommy pretended it was news to him.

Tommy kept the beam directed in Grant's eyes. Otherwise Grant might spot that Tommy's other hand was empty and realise there was no toolbox, that it was all a bluff.

Tommy said, "I don't know that our young friend's telling the whole story."

"I am," Grant said. "Honest."

"Hmmm," Tommy said.

Grant's eyes shone in the light. Tears leaked down his cheeks. He said, voice thick as though he had a cold, "What can I do to make you believe me?"

"What do you think?" Tommy asked Phil.

"Get the drill out," Phil said. "Do an elbow. See if he sticks to his story."

Tommy's stomach rose a couple of inches at the image. He forced it back down, then said, "Sounds like a plan."

"No," Grant said. "Please don't. Please. Please.
Aaah.
" His torso went rigid. He grinned. No, he was grimacing. Like he was in pain. "
Aaaah,
" he said again, and his head slumped forward and he didn't move.

Tommy swept the light over him, up and down, and then up and down again, finally resting on the crown of his head.

"What was that?" Phil said, eventually.

"Really bad acting. I think that was supposed to be a heart attack. That right, Grant?"

No response. Grant kept his head down.

"Grant? Wakey-wakey."

Still didn't move.

Tommy said, "Stop pissing about."

Phil said, "Hey," grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head up.

Grant's eyes were closed. He didn't appear to be breathing.

Phil smacked his cheek.

No reaction.

Phil was just about to strike a second blow when Grant charged forward. He tried to butt Phil but Phil stepped out of the way and Grant, still bound to the chair, plunged into the darkness.

There was a crash, like somebody'd just smashed a window, and then a clatter and Grant said, "Oof," and then, "Ahhhhh."

Tommy swung the torch in the direction of the sound.

Holy shit.

Grant had just run headfirst into the plate-glass door, and burst out most of the glass. He was either wedged in the doorframe or something was holding him up a couple of feet off the ground.