28

John Young is in a pub when he hears the news. It’s half past ten in the morning, and he’s not there for a drink. One-third of the pub is owned by the Jamieson organization, and it appears to be the only third that isn’t making any money. It’s remarkable that the other two owners would try such a thing. That they would think they could get away with it. But then, some people are stupid. They came to him because they were in debt. In debt to bad people. They made Young an offer. One-third share in the pub to make the debt collectors go away. He took it. The pub had the potential to make money. Easy money in a legit business that could be used to filter more ill-gotten cash.

This is Young’s area. He picks out the right businesses to invest in. He’s the one with the head for this. So when it goes wrong, it reflects on him. He doesn’t like things that reflect badly on his judgement. Who does? The pub is making money, as he was sure it would. They were cleaning bad money through it, as he thought they could. A call from an accountant had suggested that the money the pub was making was not being split evenly between all three parties. Remarkably the two other owners, who still run the place, handling the day-to-day stuff, think they can screw Peter Jamieson.

They will get one warning. Just one. The pub’s a useful place to have, and Young doesn’t want to have trouble with it. Kicking the other owners out and taking it for themselves would mean trouble. It is the next step. If they really think they can hide money from the people they ran to in the first place, then they’re kidding themselves. They need to understand that. Make them understand. If they try it a second time – which very few ever do, having already been warned – then they will be punished appropriately. They only have their share in the business because Young did a deal with the debt collectors. He didn’t pay the full amount owed, but the other owners don’t know that. All they know is that they owe him.

He called them up early this morning, told them they needed to have an urgent meeting. Told them that he had worrying news for them. Told them he’d had an urgent call from his accountant and there were things that needed to be worked out. He worded it to sound like he wasn’t blaming them for anything. His tone made it perfectly obvious that he was. Now he’s at the pub, and he’s brought Neil Fraser with him, just as a little reminder of how angry he is. Neil is a thug. He’s not one of the more sophisticated hardmen that Peter Jamieson employs. A man like George Daly, for example, is a hardman with a brain. Reliable and decent. Neil Fraser is a thug. Big muscles, small brain. Big mouth, small words. Big presence to have sitting beside you when you confront these people. Useful as a warning.

The meeting is everything Young expects it to be. The two men play at being mortified. Two middle-aged Glaswegians, trying to pretend that it’s all the fault of some accountant they hired to look after the books for them. They assure him, repeatedly, that they’re as angry as he is. If not angrier, in fact. They mutter about making sure their accountant pays the price, all the time glancing at Fraser. He’s under strict instructions to sit there, keep his mouth shut and look mean. It’s an easy part to play, and he’s playing it better than the pub owners are playing theirs. Young rounds it off with the warning that he can’t allow this sort of thing to happen again. Nothing against them, of course, but he can’t have his business mistreated. If it happens again, then he’ll have to take serious action. No word on what that serious action is. All very friendly.

‘We totally understand, John, totally,’ one of them is saying to him. He’s letting them off the hook, not demanding back every penny that was stolen from the Jamieson organization. They’re grateful for that too. It doesn’t occur to them that the pub’s principal purpose for Young is money laundering, but then it’s not clear that they’ve yet worked out that he’s laundering drug money through the business. He hopes that if they have realized, they’ll be bright enough to continue to ignore the fact.

‘I feel like we’ve been mugged here,’ the other one’s saying, ‘and by our own accountant. Goes to show, eh, you can’t trust a soul.’

The conversation descends into the usual pit of excessive mock-outrage that you get from people caught with their fingers in the till. John sits and lets them play it out; they’ll feel better for having said it all. He slowly turns the conversation round to local news. People in a pub hear it all, often before most other people do. Sometimes you find out some very relevant things. Like this morning.

‘Heard there was a shooting last night. A fellow who comes in here now and then. Drugs. Probably had it coming.’

‘Yeah, who’s that?’ Young’s asking.

‘Name’s Winter. Ah’ve chucked him out of here before, when I thought he was doing a drug deal. Can’t have that. We have a reputation.’

You sure do, Young is thinking to himself. Winter must have refused you a cut. He doesn’t say it, though; no need to antagonize.

‘Got shot, huh?’

‘Aye, in his own home. No surprises, the way he’s been carrying on.’

‘How so?’

‘Been running around like Flash Harry lately. Got himself a wee girlfriend, half his age. Pretty thing, was in here with him once. Stuck up, but pretty. He’s startin’ to dress young, go to nightclubs, live the flash life, you know. Tryin’ tae keep up with his girl. You got tae act yer age. Must’ve been show-in’ off his money one time too many. Pissed off the wrong person, or somethin’. Drugs. They all end up dead in the end. Serves ’em right.’

Young leaves them to their moralizing. The chant of the hypocrite. If they threw Winter out of the pub, it was because of money, not drugs. That pub’s been used by dealers over the years – it’s that sort of pub. The owners turned a blind eye. The dealers cut them in on deals done on their premises. Maybe they give them a little supply of their own to be getting on with instead of cash. Winter obviously decided not to. His margins were probably too slim to allow for anyone else getting in on the deal. Everything points to the fact that he was struggling. It’s what made him so attractive to someone wanting to get in on the market. An easy lure. The sort of person that a smart prick like Shug Francis would target.

He’s meeting Jamieson at a flat that Peter owns. Not a company flat, a personal one. Down by the river. Lovely view. Very few people know he owns it. A private little place where he can indulge himself now and again. They’re sitting in the kitchen, Young tutting that his friend is still in a bathrobe at twenty past eleven. He doesn’t honestly mind. Jamieson’s the sort of person who needs to relax now and again. Needs the occasional blowout. Can’t function well without it. Does nobody any harm.

‘I hear Lewis Winter was shot dead last night.’

‘Yeah?’ There’s a brief hint of relief in his voice. It’s been dragging on.

‘Apparently. At his house. Don’t know anything else about it. Find out in due course. No word of anyone being caught, anything going wrong. Just talk about it happening, people saying that Winter had it coming. All talking about him being a dealer. Talking about his younger woman. Talking about him living the high life and attracting the wrong attention.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Jamieson’s nodding. There’s nothing else to say. Until they know more detail, he can show no greater concern than that.

They both know that nothing went wrong with the killing. If it had, that would be what people were talking about. It wouldn’t be a story about Lewis Winter being killed; it would be a story about Calum MacLean being arrested, with Winter being reduced to an afterthought. A shame for him perhaps, but the perpetrator is more glamorous news than the victim. The victim only gets his moment in the spotlight when the perpetrator is nowhere to be seen. So it went well. They’re not complacent. They assume it went well because there’s no evidence to the contrary. Time may change that opinion.

Young leaves Jamieson to his amusements. Call it a day off. Jamieson doesn’t get many. Young gets fewer still, but that’s through choice. He’s built his life around his work – there’s little else to do with his time. Holidays are of no interest to him. The things that tend to occupy so much of Peter’s spare time hold little interest, either. No interest in golf or horse racing or even snooker. He plays only because Peter insists on having someone to play against. So life becomes work, work becomes life. And he loves it. It continually thrills him. It tests him every single day. It tests his judgement. It tests his intellect. It tests his nerve. It may have its downsides, but they are hugely outweighed by the good, in his mind.