3

When he knows the boy has gone, he puts his cue back on the rack and crosses the room to the back corridor. At the far end is Jamieson’s office. Two knocks and Young enters without waiting for a reply. They’ve been friends since they were in their late teens, since they were both starting out in the trade. Thrown together by circumstances – a chance meeting on a shared job – they recognized immediately how much each could do for the other. Jamieson was in charge, that was clear; Young the right-hand man. No other right-hand man earns so much or is given so much control. He’s trusted.

‘You are the brains,’ Jamieson would tell him when drunk, ‘I am the balls. It works.’

It wasn’t that Young lacked courage, or that Jamieson wasn’t smart. Young could get his hands dirty, but Jamieson’s instinct for the nasty work was unrivalled, and evident from a young age. Jamieson was intelligent, but Young was tactical, and that was an important difference. Separately they were talented; together they were lucrative.

Jamieson has to be in charge. He has to be seen to be in charge. It doesn’t matter what either of them thinks; their employees and their rivals have to believe that the man they fear most is the man in charge. Perception. PR. You would be amazed how important that is in a trade like this. Being in charge comes with a downside, though. You’re at the top of the tree, where everyone can see you, where so many others want to be. Jamieson can handle that, no problem. Besides, their operation isn’t yet quite big enough to spook the top dogs into action. Yet.

Jamieson is sitting where he always sits, on the swivel chair behind his desk, facing away from the door. The desk faces the door, the chair rarely does. There are two televisions on a long stand behind the desk, both showing horse racing, another passion. He gambles, not because he needs to, not because it’s a thrill, but because he has a need to beat other people. In this case, the bookies. He isn’t trying to be rude when he sits with his back to you; he’s just the sort of person who can be consumed by the things that interest him.

Horses don’t interest Young in the least. Miniature Irishmen torturing dumb beasts in the name of a sport funded by the gullible and controlled by the idle rich. His seat in the office is on a small leather couch at the right side of the well-lit room, just beside the large window. There are newspapers on the table, mostly local, some national, scanned for any references to their work. These days you need to spend more time checking websites to make sure people don’t make unfortunate references to you. Young sits and waits.

‘I spoke to the boy MacLean,’ he tells Jamieson when he’s sure both races have finished.

‘Boy? How old is he anyway?’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘That all? Feels like he’s been around for ages. What did he say?’

‘I think he’ll do it, if he’s one of two or three. Doesn’t want the full workload.’ Jamieson is concentrating now, sitting forward, hands gently tapping on the table. This is his tool to focus on what matters, the constant patter of hands on desk. ‘He ain’t exactly a bag of laughs,’ Jamieson smiles. ‘But I like him. He’s good. Smart. Quiet. Frank says he’s the best of the new breed. I agree. We’ll make him an offer.’