Blood Whispers (14 page)

The tap at the basin in the far corner was running: someone filling a glass. The noise of wastewater sloshing around then gurgling into the trap sounded abstract and distant, like it was happening somewhere else.

Keira had lost all sense of time passing. The silence that followed could have lasted a second, a minute or an hour: she had no way of knowing. The only thing she was certain of was that the person was still in the room, moving towards her bed.

There was another tapping noise, or clicking . . . footsteps, maybe.

The pills she’d been given to help her sleep made her head feel heavy and her gaze unfocused, but the medication hadn’t dimmed her hearing.

She needed to know what time it was.

All she had to do was raise her head from the pillow and look at the digital read-out on the clock by the bedside table, but physically that didn’t feel like it was an option.

It wasn’t unusual for the nurses to check on her throughout the night.

Keira could feel herself starting to drift back to sleep.

Suddenly a shadow passed over her face: a presence close by.

A rush of adrenaline kick-started her brain into action. There was a figure standing over her. She’d caught a faint whiff of alcohol and knew instinctively that whoever it was posed a threat. Suddenly a hand clamped down over her mouth: the rough, calloused skin stinking of cigarette smoke.

Her eyes were wide open now, her screams muffled as she struggled to break free from the intruder’s grip.

Then the voice came, speaking to her in urgent whispers. The same voice she’d heard in her apartment just before she’d lost consciousness.

‘Miss‚ it’s only me. Don’t scream, awright? It’s only me, Miss!’

Immediately the hand was removed Keira’s body went limp and her head dropped back on to the pillow.

Jay-Go was standing to the side of her bed, looking just as frightened as she was.

‘For Chrissake, Jay-Go, you scared the fucking life out of me! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Keep it down, Miss, keep it down.’

‘How the hell did you get in here?’

‘The cop is giving it big snoresvilles out there. Walked straight past him.’

‘Jesus!’

‘I’d have a word with his superior and get the clown defrocked. That’s bang out of order. Sorry for the hand clamp, by the way; I thought you might scream.’

‘Too bloody right I’d scream! I still might! A gentle nudge would have done the trick.’

‘Good to see you’ve still got some fight in you. A bit of good news for a change. I’m glad it was you.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Keira slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position.

Jay-Go was wearing a white lab coat.

‘What the hell are you doing here? I’m supposed to be dead.’

‘The word’s out that’s a lot of bollocks . . . Rumour is somebody survived. That’s what I’m saying . . . I’m glad it was you. Naebody knows for sure if it wis you or the girl that copped it. Here, Ah brought you this.’

Jay-Go lifted a bottle of Irn Bru and a bunch of petrol-station flowers from the chair next to the door and handed them to her. ‘Couldnae find Lucozade anywhere; I don’t know if they still make it.’

It may have been the relentless boredom of lying in a hospital bed for days on end, but Keira surprised herself by being pleased to see him.

‘You look awright for someone that copped three bullets.’

Keira shot him a look. ‘How do you know how many times I was shot?’

Jay-Go hesitated just long enough before answering for Keira to figure whatever he said next would be a lie.

‘Must have heard it on the news.’

‘I don’t think they reported that fact on the news.’

‘Whose diary?’ asked Jay-Go, trying to change the subject by referring to the tatty brown notebook on the bedside table.

‘How long have you been in here?’

‘Long enough to have a wee glance.’

‘It’s private.’

‘It’s interesting. And I cannae read, remember.’

‘D’you think I’ve just met you? You can read as well as the next . . .’ she paused, searching for the word.

‘Junkie! Is that what you were gonnae say? I’m a man o’ means these days . . . Is it your boyfriend’s diary? Thought you were still a virgin?’

Keira let that one pass.

‘My dad’s.’

‘Fuck me! Yer da! Looked to me like he was riding point for a couple of dope dealers in the States.’ Jay-Go’s voice was getting higher and higher with incredulity. ‘That’s your da?’

‘So I believe.’

‘Respect, Miss! All new high on the respect front.’

‘How d’you know they were dope dealers?’

‘It’s all in there! All them figures: working out his cut for keeping the edge.’

Jay-Go caught her look. He shook his head and sucked air between his teeth. ‘You need to do some time in the pokey, Miss; get up to speed with the lingo your clients use. You’re looking at me like I’m talking Martian: the edge. It’s like sauvegarder, you know, protect, look out for. A couple of days in jail and you’d have it down.’ He shook his head again, as though he couldn’t believe she didn’t know this. ‘You represent some major miscreants and you probably don’t even know what they’re saying half the time. Or is that just an act? Are you secretly from a major crime family and you know all the parlance?’

‘“Sauvegarder”, “parlance” – have you been studying French in jail?’

‘My mum was French.’

‘Really!’

‘Was she fuck,’ replied Jay-Go. ‘Total psych! The nearest my ma came to France was drinking three bottles of claret every night before her tea.’

Jay-Go was toying with her now, trying to be a smartarse, but Keira had already had enough and wanted to get back to sleep. ‘Why are you here, Jay-Go?’

‘I’m heading off. Wanted to say ta-ta and check that the rumours of your passing had been greatly exaggerated.’

‘Enjoy the trip.’

‘“Enjoy the trip”! Fuck me. I travel all this way to say cheerio and all Ah get is ‘‘Enjoy the trip”? I havnae even told you where I’m going yet.’

‘You can send me a postcard.’

‘The States, California! Going to pay Betty Ford a visit. Sort myself out: break the cycle. When you heading over? We could meet up. Is Niagara close to California?’

Keira looked at him coolly. ‘Who said anything about going to Niagara?’

‘There’s a ticket in the back of the diary,’ replied Jay-Go. ‘Did your da send it over so you could go visit him?’

‘My dad’s dead. That ticket’s twenty years old.’

‘So who sent it?’

‘No one sent it. It was his ticket. I think he was planning to live there.’

‘But?’

‘He was murdered, along with his brother. Scuppered his travel plans.’

‘Heavy doors! Who did it?’

She gave him a look that let him know he’d gone far enough.

‘Jay-Go, I like you, but only up to a point, and I passed that point about two seconds after I realized it was you in the room and not one of the nursing staff. None of this is any of your business.’

‘I don’t even know who my da is. Pissed off when I was born. My ma never even told me his name: still don’t know. Every guy I pass in the street I think, “Wonder if that’s him?” Mental! Does your brain in. At least you knew yours.’

Keira could easily have contradicted him, told him that she never knew her father, but that would have kept the conversation going and all she wanted to hear Jay-Go say now was ‘goodbye’.

‘That’s why we get on, Miss: lots in common,’ he continued. ‘We should hook up: “a marriage made in prison”! What meds are you on, by the way? Got the jangles coming on bad here. You got anything I could borrow?’

She could see that Jay-Go was starting to sweat.

‘They give me Dihydrocodeine, but I don’t take it: blurs the thinking too much.’

Jay-Go snorted. ‘That’s the fuckin’ point, Miss. Where is it?’

She could see him eyeing the small white paper pot with last night’s pills still in it and realized why he’d filled a cup at the sink. ‘Is that water for me?’ she asked.

He knew straight away she was on to him.

‘If I hadn’t stirred, would you have swallowed those pills, even though you had no idea what they were?’

‘You’re in a hospital, they’re hardly likely to give you shit that’s gonnae make you more sick.’

‘I suppose if I closed my eyes and they disappeared, I could always say I didn’t know where they went . . . I may have swallowed them myself.’

Jay-Go gave her a look, then said, ‘Aye, you could give that one a try.’

Keira closed her eyes. When she opened them again the small paper cup was empty, and Jay-Go was finishing off the rest of his water.

‘D’you think if I closed my eyes again, maybe you could disappear too?’

‘Aye, very good!’ Jay-Go was nodding his head. ‘You get the big picture. Man, you are too cool! Standing at the North Pole in a fuckin’ T-shirt cool. You know the right thing to do, Miss. You know which way to look and when to cross. That’s why Nick-Nick Carter and Big Paul and Holy Man are on the warpath.’

‘What are you talking about‚ Jay-Go?’

‘A few things you should know. I told you they were gonnae hit the girl, didn’t Ah?’

‘Who told you?’

‘No questions, Miss, remember?’

‘D’you know who the shooter was?’

‘Listen up. You know what I said was right. So if I tell you there was a big, bad, bag of smack left in your apartment, you’ll know I’m not making it up. They were probably trying to set you up, Miss.’

‘Who was?’

‘Abazi and the Watcher, the guy that carried out the hit.’

‘Is that his name?’

‘His nickname. His real name is Eggys Eezee or some shit like that.’

‘Why would they try to set me up?’

‘How the hell should I know, but it was there on your kitchen table; a full kilo of top-grade caballo. Maybe they were trying to blur the picture.’

‘Blur the picture?’

‘Aye, you know, make it look like you’re dirty to throw people off the scent of what’s really going on.’

‘How d’you know all this, Jay-Go?’

‘Ah don’t know anything, I’m making this shit up.’

‘How d’you know I was shot three times? How did you know which hospital I was in?’

‘There’s only one hospital in Glasgow that specializes in gunshots. Where else are they gonnae take you?’

‘The police are working to trace the caller who phoned in the shootings; was it you?’

‘If the Holy Man shakes your hand is he likely to screw you over?’

‘They recovered bullets from two different guns. Theory is that someone tried to shoot the killer, does that sound about right?’

‘What you asking me for?’

‘Can you just answer the question?’

‘You answer mine first. Is the Holy Man the type of guy that’ll fuck you about?’

‘No. If he’s given you his word, then that’s it: even if it means him taking a hit. What did you shake hands over?’

‘Holy Man wants me to report back if I find anything,’ replied Jay-Go, avoiding her question. ‘Is it okay to tell him I’ve seen you’re alive?’

‘When did you hook up with him? I thought you were a lone gun?’

‘It’s a one-off. Doing a deal: some business.’

Keira interrupted. ‘You’re trying to sell the Holy Man the kilo of heroin you took from my apartment?’

Jay-Go shrugged. ‘Man, way off.’

‘Was it you who phoned for the ambulance?’

‘Ah wis nowhere near your apartment.’

‘How much did he offer you?’

‘Eh?’

‘For the heroin.’

‘Ah don’t know what you’re fuckin’ talking about, Miss . . . What heroin?’

‘How much?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘For a kilo!’

‘For half, then ten for the other half. I asked for fifty for the whole lot, which is still half of what it’s worth, by the way, but there’s a war on and they’re using “the silence of money” as their main weapon. Whatever the fuck that means.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, Jay-Go. Just listen to me for a second. I want you to go back to him and tell him you’ve changed your mind, you want sixty.’

Jay-Go was staring at her. ‘Are you still bombed on general anaesthetic? He’d stick my arse on my head like a fuckin’ beanie.’

‘Ask for sixty, settle at forty.’

‘Are you negotiating a deal for me, Miss?’

‘I’m speaking my thoughts out loud and you happen to be in the same room. He won’t be happy, but you can tell him he owes me and I’m calling it in. Tell him I’m alive and I’m okay.’

‘How does he owe you?’

Keira didn’t have time to answer. Suddenly the door opened and the officer who was supposed to be on guard duty was in the room. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine, pal,’ answered Jay-Go, giving off way too much attitude for someone passing himself off as a doctor.

The cop looked over at Keira. ‘You all right, Miss Lynch?’

‘I’m grand, thank you.’

‘I was just sorting out her meds,’ said Jay-Go, winking over at her. Then to the cop: ‘I could get you some amphetamines if you think that would help. Maybe give you something to stop the snoring too.’

The cop didn’t have a response.

‘Plenty of rest, you,’ said Jay-Go to Keira as he headed for the door. ‘Take that trip,’ he continued, ‘but don’t wait too long. Niagara’s lovely at this time of year. Excuse me,’ he said making the cop step aside to let him pass.

‘Ask for sixty . . . Betty’s not a cheap date.’

‘Who’s Betty?’

‘Ford.’

‘Aye, very good.’

‘It’s my way of saying thank you.’

‘North Pole, no T-shirt, Miss. Too fuckin’ cool!’

Jay-Go rode the top deck of the number 41 night bus to Westerhouse Road from Glasgow city centre with a noddy-dog drunk and an elderly couple who looked like it was way past their bedtime. It was the second bus he’d been on since leaving the hospital – a journey that had taken over an hour. Jay-Go liked the bus. If you avoided pub closing and school hours, they were a good way to get around and they were cheap. He didn’t travel out of his area often, so the thought of blowing some of the money the Holy Man had given him on a cab hadn’t even occurred to him.

The thick wad of cash was pressing against his thigh as he strutted his way up Grudie Street. The railing-topped wall of the community fire station was over to his right. A row of boarded-up terraced houses to his left: most of the occupants of which had either moved on or had flitted to the new houses further up the estate.

It was just after one o’clock in the morning.

The dark streets were deserted, the quiet disturbed by the distant sound of a heavy bass dub-beat banging away in some inconsiderate stoner’s house. The air was filled with the incongruous smell of freshly cut grass wafting down from the square of green common at the top of the road.

Jay-Go was just about to turn right into his street when his mobile buzzed.

It was a message from Yogi Bearcat.

‘Party was at your house? Heated Funny waiting out front. Picked up something else: not Funny. Be COT don’t be caught.’

Yogi was a gang member with brains who lived on the estate. He monitored the police activity in the area with a selection of scanners he’d bought from the Internet. For a small subscription charge he would send text messages warning of any possible problems with, or sightings of, the cops. As Jay-Go was his dealer, he didn’t have to pay. The enterprise was never going to earn Yogi enough money to buy a house, but the guy had enough successes to make it a popular service. He earned sufficient to keep him in dope and cigarettes.

The first part of the message was pretty straightforward. The police had raided his flat and were now waiting outside. ‘Heated’ meant they were armed. Jay-Go was pretty confident they wouldn’t have found the heroin, but he’d left kit all over the table in the lounge. They wouldn’t need to test it to know it was covered in residue.

The second sentence of the message was more worrying. Yogi had picked up something else on the scanner, but if it wasn’t the police who was it?

‘Be COT, don’t be caught’ was Yogi’s sign-off – ‘Be Careful Out There,’ was a line from an old TV cop show.

Jay-Go thumbed a quick reply. ‘Ta v much yogi.
OU
1’. If the message had come through two minutes later, Jay-Go would have walked straight into a set of cuffs.

Jay-Go’s brain was frayed around the edges, making it difficult to hold on to a thought long enough to form any sort of plan. If the cops picked him up now, the 007 in his pocket would send him straight to jail, and if they’d raided his flat and found the Serb’s heroin, he’d be looking at the big stretch – anything up to life for possession and intent to supply a commercial quantity of class A.

And this haul was triple-A rated.

Jay-Go ran across the road and disappeared into the shadows shrouding the gable end of his apartment building. Partially obscured by the overgrown hedges that bordered the small gardens in front of each block, he sneaked a glance round the corner and saw a dark-coloured car containing four men parked in one of the bays at the end of his street.

Small wafts of smoke rose into the night sky through the car’s open windows.

Jay-Go figured he had two options. Option one: drop the PPK in the bin, walk round the corner and front it out with the cops; stroll up to the car and bang on the windscreen: ‘Hello officer. Is it me you’re looking for?’ Or option two: head up the back stairs of his apartment block and break in through the toilet window, retrieve the heroin, then climb through the roof space to the end of the building and make his exit through his neighbour’s front door. They wouldn’t be happy, but he’d done it before.

After that he’d go find somewhere else to stay until he could figure out his next move.

The biggest problem with option two being that the back door was usually bolted shut from the inside.

The harder Jay-Go tried to come up with an answer the more he realized he was reading the situation in Braille. A line of coke would sort him out.

Muttering ‘This is shite’ under his breath, he edged backwards along the side of the building – past a tall brick wall tacked on to the end of the gable – until he came to a set of metal gates used to secure the communal garden at the back of the apartment block known as ‘dog-bog alley’.

He heaved himself up and over the metal gate, down on to the other side. The thin strip of overgrown grass ran the length of the block and was enclosed by high, wire-mesh fencing that reminded him of the exercise yard at Barlinnie.

The back door – shuttered with metal sheet – made a loud screech and several juddering creaks as he tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

Jay-Go thumbed Yogi’s number into his phone again.

‘Need the cavalry, big man?’

‘You could say. Ah need a diversion.’

‘Get the Funnies away from the front of your house?’

‘Bang on! They might be waiting inside too.’

‘I’m in the zone, Jay-Go. I don’t know how much good Ah’ll be to ye. What’s the deal?’

‘Take a stroll over to my block, let them think you’re me. Head up to the flat and put the light on or something, make it look like I’m home. You’re bound to get huckled, so it’s gonnae be an inconvenience, but there’s fifty notes in it for you. I just need to get into my flat for two minutes. How stoned are you?’

‘Three spliffs down. Nothing major. Why don’t I just let you in the back door?’

‘If I get lifted I’m in big trouble. Too risky.’

‘Fifty notes, you say?’

‘I’ll meet you at the back gate and give you the money with the keys right now. And I’ll throw in a wee wrap of something nice to go with, by way of a thank-you.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘I’ll have to drop the gear by in the next few days, ’cause I don’t have it on me.’

Yogi was weighing up the deal.

‘I’ve never bounced on you yet, Yogi; you know I wouldn’t be offering you that much if I didn’t have it. You can tell the Funnies you’re looking after my place while I’m away.’

‘Where will Ah say you’ve gone?’

‘Niagara.’

‘It needs to be somewhere real.’

‘Niagara is real, ya spanner.’

‘What about Spain?’

‘Who gives a fuck where it is? Make it up.’

‘Ah’ll do it for a hundred.’

‘Fair enough. Ah can give you that right now if you want, it’s just the gear I don’t have.’

‘Na! Bring it round the morra. If I get carted off to the station with that kind of dough on me I’d be answering questions for a week. See you in two minutes.’

DI John Mullin caught a movement in the wing mirror. He took a final draw on the single-skin roll-up and flicked it out of the window on to the road.

‘Bandit at six o’clock,’ he said to the three other officers in the car.

The men watched as a lone figure made his way down the east side of Grudie Street and crossed to the corner of Sielga Place.

‘We’ll let him get in. Give him a minute to get the kettle on. Word is, he likes to carry a shooter, so we’ll go in hot, but no twitchy fingers unless he’s actually got the gun in his hand. We’re here to make an arrest, not funeral arrangements, all right? Neil and Seb come with me, Ross you wait at the bottom of the stairs. There’s no point covering the rear of the premises unless he’s going to jump from a second-floor window.’

Mullin turned to Neil and Seb in the back. ‘If we have to use the ram, I’ll do it and you two cover me, yeah?’

The two officers nodded.

‘What’s this clown up to?’ asked Ross. ‘Is it definitely our man?’

‘Looks like it.’

With his hoodie pulled tight around his face, Yogi Bearcat strolled past the row of parked cars and round the side of Jay-Go’s block of flats.

A hand suddenly reached out from a hole in the hedge and grabbed his arm.

‘Fuck me, Jay-Go, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘What are they up to?’

‘Just sittin’ there. Where’s the keys?’

‘Here.’ Jay-Go handed him a small set on a skull-and-crossbones key ring. ‘This is all yours,’ he continued, fanning out a wad of ten-pound notes.

‘Nice one.’

‘Take it just now if you want.’

‘Nah, tomorrow’s fine.’

Yogi sidled round the side of the building and headed for the front entrance.

Once inside, he climbed to the second floor, then made his way along the narrow balcony overlooking the street below.

It took him a few minutes to work out which key fitted which lock on Jay-Go’s heavily fortified front door, but eventually he turned the final deadlock and pushed through into the darkened hallway.

The air inside smelled stale and there was an undercurrent of dampness and food long past its sell-by date.

Yogi flicked the hall light switch, but nothing happened.

After feeling his way through the blackness he came to the entrance of the lounge and reached round the doorframe for the switch panel.

The lights were dead there, too.

Behind him was the door to the kitchen.

Yogi leant across and tried there as well.

Light from a single sixty-watt bulb, dangling from the kitchen ceiling, spread through into the lounge, casting long shadows across the coffee table littered with Jay-Go’s gear and an untidy sofa scattered with clothes, empty DVD cases and ding-dinner containers.

Yogi headed for a lamp over by the window in the lounge. Jay-Go had told him to switch it on to let the cops know he was home, then take a seat and wait for something to happen.

As he picked his way through the rotting debris strewn across the floor, he was suddenly aware of a presence behind him.

Before he could turn he heard a familiar metallic click and felt the cold end of a gun barrel being pressed firmly into the back of his neck, forcing his face hard against the window.

‘You have ten seconds to tell me where the heroin is,’ came a voice.

‘What heroin?’

‘Nine.’

‘You’re supposed to shout a warning or something before you pull your weapon, fuckhead. I’ll have you for misconduct,’ cried Yogi.

‘Eight.’

‘I don’t know anything about any heroin, ya fuck.’

‘Seven.’

Yogi tried to push backwards off the window, but there was a hand pressing hard into the middle of his back, making it impossible to move.

‘Six.’

If this guy was a cop he was coming on way too strong.

‘I don’t know anything about any fuckin’ heroin‚ pal, all right? I don’t live here. This isn’t my flat.’

‘Five.’

‘Please. I’m doing a favour for a friend.’

‘Four.’

Yogi struggled again, but it was no use, he couldn’t move.

‘Three.’

‘Okay, okay . . . I’ll tell you! Get the gun away from my head and I’ll tell you.’

‘Two.’

‘It’s in my car,’ cried Yogi, stalling for time. ‘It’s in my car.’

‘Where’s your car?’

‘Right outside the flat. If you switch the lamp on, I’ll get the keys for you. They’re in here somewhere, on the floor.’

‘What make?’

‘Eh?’

‘What make is the car?’

‘A Ford,’ he answered quickly.

‘How much of it is left?’

‘Of what?’

The gun was forced harder into the back of Yogi’s neck.

‘The heroin.’

Yogi had no idea how much heroin there was, but he needed to keep the guy talking. ‘All of it.’

‘The whole two kilos?’

‘Yeah, the whole lot. I haven’t touched any of it. Two kilos.’

‘One,’ said the gunman, resuming the count.

John Mullin and his team were halfway across the road when the window in Jay-Go’s flat exploded out, spraying the ground directly in front of him with shards of glass and tiny fragments of bone and tissue.

While the rest of his men scattered and took up defensive positions behind whatever cover they could find, Mullin dropped to his knees, shouted a warning that they were armed police officers and cracked off two shots up at the window. Then, shuffling forward along the ground, he made his way over to the hedge until it blocked him from the line of fire.

The four officers crouched or knelt, weapons drawn, waiting to see if there were any more shots coming.

Mullin signalled silently for Neil and Seb to cover so that he and Ross could break for the front door at the same time. It was a manoeuvre they’d practised many times in training. Presenting two moving targets instead of one gave the gunman more to shoot at, which made him more likely to rush the shot, reducing his accuracy.

Mullin mouthed the words ‘After five’, then held his left hand splayed in front of him, folding each finger in turn as he counted backwards.

With no further communication the two officers were suddenly on their feet sprinting towards the front of the building, their weapons trained on the upstairs window.

Jay-Go had been watching from the corner of the building when the window exploded into the darkness. The loud crack of gunfire made him duck and press his back hard against the rough wall. Seconds later, just six metres or so from where he was hiding, he heard the rattle of the metal gate. A figure holding a gun climbed over and jumped to the ground.

Jay-Go’s first thought was that it might be Yogi.

He was about to call to him when he realized he was wrong.

The guy’s profile looked familiar, but it wasn’t the Bearcat.

The shadows falling on his face made it difficult to make out his features, but he had definitely seen the guy before.

As the figure edged to the corner of the railings he glanced round and for a brief moment his face caught the spill from an overhead street lamp.

It was the guy who’d been eyeballing him in the Holy Man’s pub: bawface Edi Leka.