The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) (29 page)

He understands why Frank is here. Here to put the pressure on. Here to make sure the Jamieson message gets across. One thing for a wrecked former doctor to deliver it, quite another for Frank.
It means more coming from Frank. A man you respect. A man who matters.

‘All dressed up, huh?’ Calum’s saying with a smile, nodding at Frank.

Frank’s looking down at his formal attire. He’s of a generation that dresses for things. Doesn’t seem unusual to him. ‘I’m on my way to lunch with Peter. Have a
chat about Spain. He has stuff for me – keys to the villa, and the like. Lay out a few ground rules. No wild parties, that sort of thing.’ Now they’ve brought Peter Jamieson into
the conversation, and he’s going to hover over everything that’s said.

‘So you were just passing by,’ Calum’s saying with a knowing smile.

Frank can handle this any way he wants, it doesn’t matter. Calum’s already sussed it, and nothing Frank says will change that. Calum knows that Frank’s here to deliver a
message. All Frank can do now is deliver.

‘How are you feeling about it?’ Frank’s asking. Sounding genuine.

‘About my injuries? Give them time, they’ll be fine. That’s what the doc says.’

‘Uh-huh. What about the job?’

‘What about it?’ Not making this easy. Why should he?

‘You happy with the way everything was handled? I have to say, I was impressed with how you handled it yourself. On the night. Getting rid of that shit Davidson was a service to the city.
The way you handled the removal as well. Impressive. You happy with how everyone else handled it?’

This is it. If he’s happy with the job everyone else did, then he has nothing to complain about. If he has nothing to complain about, then he should hurry back to work.

‘Everyone seemed to handle it well enough,’ Calum’s saying. A bit of a shrug. ‘I’m not sure it was wise to get people so high up the chain involved so early, but .
. . ’ he’s saying and trails off.

‘They’re looking after you, though,’ Frank’s saying. Not a question this time, an observation.

‘Yeah.’

Frank’s nodding. Sitting with his hands on his lap, looking uncomfortable. ‘They will look after you too. You’re a smart kid. You have talent. You’ve been able to keep
all that talent to yourself and do well with it. Things change, though. Gets to a point where you need people looking after you. Only way to stay safe. That’s the gunman’s
maturity,’ he’s saying with a smile. ‘You start out independent and determined to stay that way. The thought of working for an organization is horrible. You want your freedom. You
end up the opposite. You’re in an organization, and you know that going freelance would kill you. Being tied to someone isn’t such a bad thing,’ he’s saying. ‘If you
have the right people around you, being in an organization is the smartest thing you can do.’

Frank’s gone now. Looked like he was struggling with his hip as he made his way down the stairs. Calum’s struggling with his hand. It’s why he didn’t offer a cup of tea
or coffee. Even taking a piss is a struggle.

If he was freelance? He’d be a sitting duck. Easy target for anyone wanting rid of him. Wouldn’t be able to hide away like this. Would struggle for cash. Frank learned to love the
organization. As good as admitted that he couldn’t survive without it these days. Maybe, in time, Calum will learn to love it. Maybe not.

Calum’s back sitting in the living room. Staring into space. All alone in a flat that doesn’t feel like home. Trying to stare into the future. Looking at the inevitable. He
can’t run from Jamieson – too dangerous. Staying means more of this. Common sense says you stay and you suffer it. You do the jobs. They pile up on top of you, and one day you get
caught out. Then it’s all over. That’s the inevitable. Unless . . .

Maybe a chance comes along. A chance to defy the inevitable. Then you just need the guts to take that chance.

If you enjoyed
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter

you’ll love

HOW A GUNMAN SAYS GOODBYE

the second gripping instalment in Malcolm Mackay’s Glasgow Trilogy

How does a gunman retire? Frank MacLeod was the best at what he does. Thoughtful. Efficient. Ruthless. But is he still the best?

A new job. A target. But something is about to go horribly wrong. Someone is going to end up dead.

Most gunmen say goodbye to the world with a bang. Frank’s still here. He’s lasted longer than he should have...

The breathtaking, devastating sequel to lauded debut
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter, How a Gunman Says Goodbye
will plunge the reader back into the Glasgow
underworld, where criminal organizations war for prominence and those caught up in events are tested at every turn.

Out soon

An extract follows here.. .

Careful on these stairs. That would be some return, falling flat on his face the first day back. Not the first time he’s been to the club since he had his hip replaced.
He’s been haunting the place for the last two weeks. Letting everyone see he’s back. New hip, same old Frank. Someone got the message. Frank had a phone call this morning from John
Young. Young’s the second in command, Peter Jamieson’s right-hand man. When Young calls you up and invites you to the club, it’s usually because Jamieson wants to see you. For
some people, that could be very bad news. For Frank, it’s good. The recovery, the holiday – that was all fine. Enjoyable, for a while. It’s nice to put your feet up and not even
think about work. It got boring, though. When your work is your life, a long holiday is a bad thing. He’s been itching to return to work. To be back in the loop. It’s taken a couple of
weeks to convince people, but it seems to have worked.

In through the double doors at the top of the stairs. Into what’s known these days as the snooker room. The club and dance floor are downstairs, but they’re for customers. People in
the business, people who know what the club’s really about, tend to stay upstairs. There’s a bar to your right as you come in the door. The main floor is taken up with snooker tables.
They became Jamieson’s passion a couple of years ago. He has plenty of little hobbies. Harmless things to pass the time and relieve the pressure. He’ll get bored of snooker eventually
and drift along to something else. Golf, probably. Right now, it’s snooker and horse racing. Not too many people in the snooker room at this time of day. A couple of hardy alcoholics at the
bar. A few recognizable faces at the tables, killing time. One of them’s a loan shark that Frank’s seen at the club in the last couple of weeks. Seems to be hanging around a lot. Kenny
McBride, Jamieson’s driver, is there too. Nobody that could be mistaken for important.

At the far end of the room is a short corridor. Rooms on both sides, offices, but only one that matters. Bottom of the corridor on your left-hand side, Peter Jamieson’s office. The room in
which he runs his organization. He has a number of legit businesses, like the club, but they exist only to serve their illegitimate counterparts. Money is cleaned through the club; people like
Frank are given fake jobs here to explain their income. He’s the security consultant for the club, apparently. The security consultant is walking along the corridor, making sure he hides the
last trace of his limp. He’s fit enough to work, but he has to prove that to everyone. If they see the slight limp that remains, they’ll think he’s still an old cripple.
He’s sixty-two now, which is old enough. But he’s no cripple. He’s quite determined about that.

Knocking on the door and waiting for a response. Someone’s calling for him to come in. He’s opening the door, seeing the familiar scene in front of him. Jamieson’s sitting
behind his desk on the far side of the large room, facing the door. There are a couple of televisions behind him, usually showing horse racing. Not today. Today they’re both switched off.
John Young is sitting on the old leather couch to Jamieson’s left. He’s always there. It’s a little trick they pull. Means that when someone sits opposite Jamieson, they
can’t see Young, but he can see them. They’re a sharp pair, these two.

‘Frank,’ Jamieson’s saying, and standing up. ‘Good to see you, pal.’ This is more of a greeting than he expected. He was in the club a couple of days ago, saw
Jamieson then. This is different, though, and they both know it. This is the official return.

He’s shaken hands with both Jamieson and Young, very uncharacteristic, and is now sitting in front of the desk.

‘It is good to have you back, Frank,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘A relief, to be honest with you.’

Frank’s nodding politely. Better not to look too pleased with yourself. Better to remember what’s happened in your absence. Things change, even in the space of three months. They
hired Calum MacLean, for a start. That was Frank’s recommendation. Calum has talent, and he’s smart. He’s young, too; Frank can’t remember if he’s even turned thirty
yet. Jamieson would never say it, but Calum is Frank’s long-term replacement. Right now, he’s his backup, but he can’t even play that role. Injured on a job, both hands badly cut
up. Frank hasn’t seen Calum for a while. Not since before the trip to Spain. It’s probably past time to pay a visit. Keep up to date. Things change, and you have to know about it to
stay fresh.

‘You’ll take a glass of whiskey,’ Jamieson’s telling him. ‘You driving? Och, you can still have one.’

He’s filling two celebratory glasses. Celebrating the return of Frank MacLeod.

‘Oh, you know, I think your tan is fading,’ Jamieson’s saying with a smile. He sent Frank away for a couple of weeks, to stay in his little Spanish villa. Frank’s first
foreign holiday in twenty years. A lovely relaxing break, if you like that sort of thing.

‘Good,’ Frank’s saying. ‘Hard to blend into a crowd round here, looking like a fucking Oompa-Loompa.’

Jokes out of the way, down to business. ‘Good to have you back, because we’re in need of your talents,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘We need to send out a little message,
and you’re the man for the job. I might have used Calum, but he’s out of action. That’s meant things running longer than they should have. Made us look a little weak.’

‘How is Calum?’ Frank’s asking. Making it sound like genuine concern for the boy. More concerned about the state of play within the organization. He respects Calum, but this is
a cut-throat business. A boy with Calum’s talent doesn’t stay as backup for long.

Jamieson’s taking longer than expected to answer the question. Puffing out his cheeks, glancing at Young. Frank’s watching carefully. He knows Jamieson’s not convinced of
Calum’s loyalty. That’s why Frank went to see Calum before flying to Spain. Tried to persuade him that organization-work is the way to go. The old head, winning round the young
freelancer. Didn’t quite work.

‘Honestly? I think the boy’s still swinging the lead. Only one of his cuts was serious. It’s been patched up long enough for him to come to me and tell me he’s ready to
work. I sent our doc round to have a look at him a couple of days ago. I don’t want to push him too much, but he reckons the boy’s good to work.’

Frank’s nodding. It all makes sense. Calum was a freelancer. Never worked for an organization before. He was brought in for the Lewis Winter job. Kill Winter, a dealer for Shug Francis. He
did the job well, by all accounts. Shug worked out it was Calum who killed his man. Stupidly decided to strike back. Sent big Glen Davidson to kill Calum. It didn’t go well. Davidson’s
knife may have slashed Calum’s hands, but it ended up ripping a hole in Davidson’s side. Another one of Shug’s men dead.

‘Best not to push him,’ Frank’s saying. ‘He’s not used to being in an organization. Freelancers get to run wild. Give him time.’

Frank might not want to be replaced, but it’ll happen eventually. When it does, it should be Calum who takes over. For Jamieson’s sake, it needs to be someone like Calum. Someone who
lives the job, respects and understands it. There are far too many silly little buggers running around thinking they’re gunmen. They’re not. They’re just men with guns. He was
thinking about this a lot in Spain. Thinking that he might just be the last of his generation. Frank, Pat and Bob are being replaced by Kyle, Conner and Jordan. Kids doing grown-up work. A talent
like Calum is rare. Always was, but more so now. You have to handle him with care, make sure you don’t lose him to someone else.

‘I’ll speak to him again, if you want,’ Frank’s saying. Hoping Jamieson will be smart enough to say no.

He’s grimacing. ‘Nah. You can only pass off that conversation as friendly once. Any more and he knows it’s me putting the squeeze on him.’ Jamieson’s sharp all
right. ‘Never mind the boy,’ he’s saying, ‘it’s you I want to talk about. How’s the hip?’

‘Hip’s good,’ Frank’s saying with a smile. ‘Much better than before I went off.’

Jamieson’s nodding. This is what he wants to hear. ‘Good. I have a job for you.’ Lowering his voice now, getting more serious. He’s about to order a man’s death
– it seems right that it should be solemn. ‘Shug’s been hard at work trying to get networks set up. He has more than one supplier. I think he’s getting his supply from down
south. Can’t find any locals he’s using. We’ve managed to put a stop to a few of the networks, but one of them’s become a problem.’

This is what Frank expected to hear. It tallies with the rumours. Shug getting a little desperate. Word is Jamieson’s hired Nate Colgan to make sure no network gets off the ground.
Intimidation and beatings. Stops anyone becoming enough of a problem that they have to be removed. Obviously one got through.

‘There’s a kid called Tommy Scott,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘Wee bastard of a thing. We didn’t think much of him. He used to be a peddler. Street stuff. Ran with a
gang, sold to them – shit like that. Used to do deliveries on a bicycle. A fucking bike! I guess I underestimated the bastard. I’ve been getting complaints. The kid cutting into our
market, up Springburn way. I tried sending a warning, but the little bastard’s tough. Determined, too. Got one of his gangs providing security for his peddlers. Only has three or four guys
delivering for him now, but a couple of months ago he had none. He’s growing fast, and stepping on toes. I’m fed up of hearing people complain. I need my people to know I’ll
protect their patch. I need Shug-bloody-Francis to know his men aren’t safe.’