Plenty of campsites and caravan parks, but so far Ransome had drawn a blank there, too. He’d then decided to start at the other end, so to speak. There had been a slight frisson in contacting Interpol – he was ashamed to admit it, but it was true nevertheless. Full description… possible Hell’s Angel affiliation… Scandinavian. How much more did they need?
Well, a name for a start, one of his email respondents had joked. As a last resort, Ransome had contacted a mate at the Scottish Criminal Records Office, though he doubted Hate would have form in the UK.
‘I share your scepticism,’ the mate had said, ‘but I can run it through a few databases here and there.’
Ransome had also gone into the Shining Star and asked staff there about Chib Calloway and Michael Mackenzie. Mackenzie they barely knew, and Calloway they were unwilling to discuss.
‘Never causes us any trouble,’ the manager had opined.
‘He will,’ Ransome had warned her. Liked the line so much, he’d repeated it to Ben Brewster back at the station. Ben had given a half-hearted laugh, his eyes on the paperwork piling up on his colleague’s desk.
‘I’ll get round to it,’ Ransome had chided him.
But Calloway was consuming too many of his waking hours, along with some of his sleep. In his dreams, he was chasing the gangster on foot through the streets of a sprawling city. His prey seemed to know the place better than him, and would lead him a merry dance through hotels and office blocks and factories. At one point, Ransome had been chatting up a good-looking woman in a hallway, while slowly becoming aware that Calloway had squeezed himself into a cupboard right next to them and was eavesdropping on the seduction.
Jesus, he needed a drink. He’d tried calling Laura to see if she might be free after work. So far he’d left three messages. He was seated at his desk in the CID unit at Torphichen Place and finding it hard to breathe. It was as if all the oxygen was being sucked from the place. He’d been to the toilets, splashed water on his face. Too much coffee, he told himself. Too much stress. His wife Sandra had been studying cookery at night school – Thai, Chinese, Kashmiri, fusion. The nightly assaults of spiced concoctions previously unknown to him were playing havoc with Ransome’s digestion. Not that he could say as much to Sandra’s face. He kept a supply of Rennies in his desk drawer, but the indigestion tablets could do nothing about the pungent sweats he broke into occasionally.
If only he could open one of the windows…
His request for 24/7 surveillance on Calloway had been met by his bosses with a hoot of derision. Cutbacks were biting – where was the money for overtime going to come from? CID was short-handed as it was. Ransome had taken it on the chin and walked out of the room with his pride intact. He’d even driven out one night to the newish housing scheme where Calloway lived. Car in the driveway; lights on in the living room; no sign of either Johnno or Glenn.
Glenn… someone else who owed him a text, a phone call, a message.
Glenn the Gullible, who would be easy meat for CID once Calloway was behind bars. Always supposing Johnno let him climb on to their old boss’s throne unopposed. Glenn might be the clever one, but Johnno could boast a wide streak of viciousness. With Calloway gone, he was bound to fancy his own chances. Who would Chib’s old team be the more willing to follow – brain or brawn? Didn’t much matter to Ransome. The whole set-up was coming crashing down.
At going-home time, Brewster suggested a quick one. But a quick one was never quick. For a start, they couldn’t drink anywhere near the station – too strong a chance they’d be sharing the place with people they didn’t want to meet, villains fresh out of the holding cells, scowls with a grudge. So that meant a jaunt, and Ransome didn’t feel much like a jaunt with his colleague.
‘Doing anything at the weekend?’ he asked instead, trying to sound interested.
‘It’s Doors Open tomorrow – I’m taking the girls to St Bernard’s Well.’
‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’
‘It’s down by the Water of Leith… used to be some sort of health spa. Kept under lock and key these days.’
‘I meant, what’s Doors Open?’
‘Doors Open Day. People get to go into lots of buildings, ones they’re normally barred from. Masonic lodges and banks and stuff. I think Leith cop shop’s throwing open its doors.’
‘Sounds a riot.’
‘It’s fun. Ellie says it’ll be good for the girls, too.’
‘Well, good luck with that.’ Ransome knew that Brewster had two daughters just shy of adolescence and a wife who, like Sandra, always got her way. The girls were being educated privately, which kept funds tight elsewhere. As good a reason as any never to have kids… not that Sandra had shown much interest in that department… Ransome sat at his desk until the office had emptied. He liked the CID suite when it was deserted and silent. Staring at his screen, however, he realised he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to do. There was the paperwork to be got through, but it could wait. Maybe he’d come in tomorrow or Sunday – a couple of hours would clear the backlog and give Brewster something to think about on Monday morning.
An hour and a half later, Ransome had been home, eaten lamb Peshwari, changed clothes, and was seated in his local on Balgreen Road. There was a darts match, and normally he would have pitched in, but not tonight. Teams were wanted for a pub quiz, but he steered shy of that commitment, too. He was thinking about Chib Calloway and all his money… and Michael Mackenzie and all his money. Sure enough, they’d been at school together – a check of the records had confirmed as much. And it could well be true, as Glenn said, that they’d just bumped into one another. But Glenn could be pulling a flanker; or Chib could have lied to Glenn. Mackenzie had made a mint from computers. Calloway had to want him for something – either to fleece him or to bully him into paying protection.
Or there was some skill Calloway needed, and Mackenzie was privy to it. Hacking came to mind. It was a stone-cold fact that these days to rob a bank like First Caly you didn’t need to ram-raid it or pick the locks – you just had to chip away at its digital defences. And that could be done from anywhere…
He held out another hour before phoning the station, asked if anything had been happening. He did this some evenings – and on days off, too. He’d call the central switchboard at Bilston, or the comms room at Torphichen Place.
‘It’s Ransome here.’
Usually that was all he had to say. They knew him well enough by now and would reel off the details. Cars nicked or torched, break-ins, fights, domestics. Dealers busted, flashers collared, shoplifters hunted down. Friday nights were second only to Saturday in the number and variety of offences. Tonight was no different. ‘Still on the lookout for a few stolen cars and vans,’ Ransome was informed. ‘Two drunks ejected from a stag do on Lothian Road and taking umbrage. And one poor old chap mugged down by the canal.’
Ransome wasn’t surprised: like a lot of Edinburgh, the canal was more dangerous than it looked. Probably kids from Polwarth or Dalry.
‘What was he doing down there?’ he asked.
‘Nothing suspicious, far as we can tell. He lives in the new flats by the old Arnold Clark showroom.’
Just bad luck then – wrong place, wrong time. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Couple of shoplifters earlier on today, and a hit-and-run in Shandon. Teenagers smoking dope in the Meadows – give it till later, there’ll be the usual booze casualties and fights.’
Ransome gave a sigh and put away his phone. He’d promised Sandra he wouldn’t be late, even though Friday had always been his night out. But looking around him, he wondered why he bothered. The darts players were going through the motions. The quiz hadn’t found enough bodies to make up the requisite teams. Nobody was playing the bandit. Ever since the smoking ban, the place had been dying on its feet.