Silent Money Page 25

  ‘I want to keep you close to me, to protect you from yourself. I don’t want you to wake up one morning full of irrational guilt and do something silly, something you’d come to regret. The best thing is for us to be together, Roberta. I need to make sure nobody develops bothersome conspiracy theories based on your speculation that I was connected to McDonald’s death. As I’m sure you can appreciate, that troubles me.’

  He told her his idea about her coming to work at Mallards, running the marketing side of the business. He could see the horror on her face and that it filled her with dread, but he persisted, said that she should at least come down to Surrey the next day and have a look at what was on offer. She mumbled her agreement.

  He left it at that. He might be able to convince her, he might not. But at the very least he had shown her he was trying to be reasonable, that she had nothing to fear if she continued to keep silent about her past involvement. Now it was a question of waiting to see how she would react.

  She didn’t turn up. And when Michael checked, he found she’d disappeared again, walked out of the agency and no one had a clue where she had gone. For the second time, she was risking everything, throwing away all that she had worked for, so that she could escape from him. He cursed his foolhardiness at trying a rapprochement between them. She was running scared, no doubt going over in her mind whether she would ever be free of him, maybe even considering breaking her silence. He had to find her.

  He told his London detective to check the ad agencies, and the one in Glasgow was instructed to keep an eye on her friend Duncan. After the lack of success last time, Michael didn’t hold out much hope. She’d been smart when she came to London, avoiding the obvious option of finding work in the theatre. She’d think the same way again, start a new life doing something new. Meeting up with old friends or finding another job in advertising would make it easy for him to track her down.

  So Michael was surprised when his Glasgow detective told him she’d moved back to Scotland, and was staying at Duncan’s Glasgow flat. That made his concerns about her keeping her silence ever more acute. Duncan no doubt knew about McDonald, and the two of them together, desperate to find a way to put the threat of Michael behind them once and for all, could easily convince themselves that they should finally go to the police with what they knew.

  Michael sat alone in his flat that evening, pondering what to do. Disposing of Ron and Eddie had been so easy, so clinical. One phone call from Dick to Los Zetas, one payment of fifty thousand pounds, and they were gone. He started doodling on a notepad, a few random words to try to organise his thinking, and he thought back to that evening, a lifetime ago, when he had sat down and worked out the pros and cons of a life of crime. Four people dead because of him, one of them killed by his own hand, and now two more murders just a phone call away. That had never been part of the equation.

  He gave a rueful smile as he thought about his promise to himself to put his life of crime behind him and use his fortune to start a new business, a legitimate one. Now, only a few weeks later, he was contemplating killing again. He had to stop kidding himself. There would always be something else, one more horror he would have to be part of, every time telling himself it was the last. This decision was a test, a crossroads. If he ordered the execution of Roberta and Duncan, he knew it would never stop.

  He made up his mind. He would have their every movement watched, do nothing unless he saw evidence that they were going to turn him in. He got back in touch with the advertising agency, told them he’d read through the presentation and wanted to give them a second chance. Then he waited to find out what his detective would uncover.

  Roberta stayed silent. Michael learned that she moved out of Duncan’s flat a few weeks later, got a place outside of Glasgow where she probably felt she would be less visible. The detective told Michael she’d gone back to college to get a psychology diploma, no doubt part of her plan to start her life all over again. It was time to let her go. Roberta was an irritation, a voice from the past that had spoken for the last time.

  He was proud of his decision. He’d never have blood on his hands again.

  1978

  chapter twenty-seven

  Michael stared at the full-page ad in Country Life. ‘Stunning Highland estate. Ten thousand acres, early-Victorian house, three cottages, full stalking and fishing rights. £1,500,000.’ Glensporret Estate was for sale.

  His annual shooting trips there were one of the highlights of Michael’s year. The intensity of stalking one of the world’s most magnificent wild creatures – a Royal or an Imperial, very occasionally a 16-pointer, the sublime Monarch; the adrenaline of the kill; the atmosphere of privilege in the smoking room afterwards, rubbing shoulders with the higher echelons of society. And now, he could own all this.

  He was close to reaching the ten-million turnover target Dick had said was the price of leaving the Mallards operation amicably. Running the Glensporret Estate would be the perfect legitimate business for him to take over. He could move into the lodge, wind down the rest of his business operations from there, and spend his days living off the estate’s revenues. The life of a landed gentleman, mingling with the guests when it suited him, deciding which members of the establishment to make the acquaintance of. He wanted that life so badly he could taste it.

  The lawyers handling the sale sent him the brochure and said he could view the accounts when he visited the estate. As he stood on a heather-covered knoll, overlooking the magnificent glen, the mighty River Sporret coursing through it, he felt he had found his home. Bidding closed in three months. He had to move quickly.

  He had about a million pounds he could get his hands on – all the wealth he had accrued in the last few years. Half a million more would secure the estate, the same again to do the refurbishments and the PR for the launch.

  He booked an appointment with Royal Clydeside for the following week. He had asked Jenkins to prepare the financial side of the business plan. He was seeking a half-million-pound loan to allow him to buy the estate, the property to act as security. Selling his share of the Mallards business to Dick would pay off the loan and cover the refurbishment, the launch and operating costs for the first year. That was going to happen in the next six months. The financial projections showed the estate would make a profit, even without assuming any growth. He’d proven he could run a business; the Mallards turnaround had been remarkable. It was a cast-iron business plan, with minimal risk.

  Ian Mason, now the bank’s regional director, had welcomed Michael back like a long-lost friend, and listened in astonishment as he outlined his success at turning the fortunes of Mallards around, and his ideas for turning Glensporret into Scotland’s most exclusive shooting retreat. Michael left the meeting on a high, certain that the loan application would be bound to succeed.

  The bank turned him down.

  ‘I’m sorry, Michael,’ Mason said when he called. ‘But sometimes it’s our responsibility to save our customers from their flights of fancy. You don’t have the experience or the connections to make this sort of thing work. It’s only been a few years since you were an assistant manager here. I have to say everyone at the bank is very impressed by how you’ve succeeded at the businesses you’ve been running; I take my hat off to you. But there’s a big difference between selling furniture and running a Highland estate. And Glensporret has been in the same family for generations. I think a few of the patrons might think it’s beyond the pale to have it run by a business whizz-kid from a council estate. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Michael said, a red mist descending on his eyes. ‘What do I have to do to make it work? What if I said I could find some extra cash to reduce the size of the loan? Maybe agree to a higher rate of interest?’

  ‘No, the figures aren’t the problem. On the face of it, your plan seems eminently feasible. It’s just, well, it doesn’t smell right. Your business partner at Mallards is not willing to
come forward and indemnify us in case the sale of your share doesn’t go through, and there’s your reluctance to share the detailed accounts with us. It’s a huge gamble to assume that you can learn the ropes about running an estate while at the same time reassuring the current guests that someone who is not one of them will not make regrettable changes to one of the jewels of the Scottish Highlands. So, I’m sorry, Michael, the answer is no. Why don’t you try running a hotel up there as a first step, come back to us in a couple of years when you have a proven track record and you know for sure what the outcome of the Mallards sale is? I’m sure we’ll be much more receptive.’

  Dick couldn’t be budged on letting Michael get out of the Mallards operation before reaching his revenue target. Michael thought about going to another bank, but if Royal Clydeside had rejected him, it was unlikely that a bank who didn’t know him at all would make a different decision. For the first time in years, he’d looked to the establishment for help, and yet again they’d closed ranks against him. He seethed at the unfairness of it all.

  Before Michael left Scotland for Surrey, he met with Big Jockie. He had been in two minds as to whether it was a good idea – he was part of the violent past Michael was trying to leave behind. But with Ron and Eddie gone, Big Jockie was the one person in the operation who knew the incriminating events of his past. They had parted on good terms when Michael had moved to Surrey. Michael had made a generous final payout to ensure Big Jockie didn’t harbour a grudge at no longer being required once the smurfs had gone. It would be good to check what he was up to. And, God forbid, there was always a chance he might need him again.

  What Big Jockie had to tell Michael sent a chill through his heart. He’d taken over Ron’s loan-sharking business once it became clear that Ron had disappeared forever. To some extent Michael had to fill in the blanks, but clearly terrorising the unfortunates who got into arrears had given Big Jockie a thirst for violence which had become insatiable, and brutality had become more and more his opening gambit, rather than a measured last resort. His latest scheme was a perfect example. Some guy on the streets had come into the largest stash of heroin ever found in Scotland, with a street value of just over four million pounds. But heroin had only just started to arrive in Scotland in any quantity, and the guy had no idea how he was going to distribute it.

  Big Jockie had apparently found out, and arranged a meeting to take it off his hands. But not the way the guy was expecting. Big Jockie ‘persuaded’ him until he revealed its whereabouts and once he had his hands on the drugs, the unfortunate dealer was no more. Big Jockie was now sitting on a mountain of heroin and didn’t know what to do with it. Selling it on the streets of Glasgow would take a lifetime and the minute its arrival made the news, the authorities would move heaven and earth to find out who was pushing it.

  Michael told him that it wasn’t the sort of business he was interested in, but promised he’d ask around to see if he could find a buyer. He hadn’t really been serious, but as he travelled back down to England, his mind started to wander. If he could sell it to a middle man for two million, fifty per cent of two million was enough to purchase Glensporret and implement the business plan. The heroin was a one-off, it wasn’t Big Jockie’s usual line of work, so there would be no repercussions if he never went anywhere near another drug deal in future. And he knew of a potential customer in the shape of Los Zetas.

  He pushed the idea from his mind. His decision not to ruthlessly silence Roberta and her friend had been a turning point for him. He had stood on the brink of conscienceless and mercenary brutality, of being so desensitised to violence that he could unleash pain and death on anyone who stood in his way, without any doubts or misgivings. Every day since that decision he had pulled himself further and further away from his life of crime. He couldn’t let himself get sucked back in.

  And yet. He was only having to contemplate this action because, once again, he was being held back because of who he once was. Because of a prejudice that someone of his background had no right to be running a historical Highland estate. Once again, he was being forced to play by a different set of rules because of the iniquity around him.

  He called Big Jockie, asked him to give him a week to see if he could come up with one single buyer at a price he liked. If he did, they’d split the proceeds fifty-fifty. Big Jockie said he’d give him a day.

  Los Zetas said they were interested. Dick had put the proposition to them in return for Michael agreeing to forgo his cash payout when he transferred the Mallards business to him. It was a high price for a few phone calls, but Michael didn’t object. The Mallards money would have been needed to buy Glensporret; this deal would do the same job.

  ‘You’ve got a nice earner, there,’ Dick told Michael when he called back with the news. ‘They say they’ll send a guy over to check it out, but for that amount of dope, they’ll pay the two mill you’re asking for.’

  Michael told Big Jockie the news, and they congratulated each other on their good fortune. But Michael needed to be careful. The deal would make Big Jockie rich beyond his wildest dreams, but Michael still felt vulnerable. Big Jockie had shown how ruthless he was prepared to be to get the stuff in the first place. Michael needed to keep him away from Los Zetas. If Big Jockie knew who the buyer was, he could easily cut Michael out of the deal. Possibly in a very unpleasant way.

  Big Jockie was unhappy that he would have to hand the heroin over to Michael to give to the mysterious buyers, but he finally relented. Michael told him that the buyers were paranoid about their confidentiality, wanted no one other than him to have any hint of who was involved. And he also persuaded Big Jockie that it would, in any case, be the smart thing for him to agree to. Michael was taking all the risk of handling the actual heroin, and Big Jockie was getting the same share without any of the danger of being caught red-handed making the consignment.

  The implications of what he had agreed to only began to dawn on Michael when he drove round to the lock-up where Big Jockie had stored the heroin. Michael gasped when he saw how much there was to handle. When he drove off with it, it felt like there was a ticking bomb behind him. He drove home more carefully than he had ever driven a car in his life. He wanted this stuff out of his hands as quickly as possible.

  He arranged to meet Diego, the Los Zetas contact, at his house. Los Zetas could probably find out where he lived anyway, and he wanted to move the drugs about as little as possible. Diego affected a weary indifference as he prepared to examine the drugs. He brought along a compatriot called Manuel, weasel-like and subservient, his eyes like hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay.

  ‘I make test, here, yes?’ Diego said, as he unlocked his briefcase.

  Michael nodded. Diego chose one of one of the packets of heroin, slit it open with a scalpel and spooned a small quantity into three test tubes. He selected another parcel from a different part of the pile and repeated the operation.

  ‘Agua?’

  Michael fetched a jug of water and watched as Diego added three chemicals from his briefcase to each of the three test tubes, then a few drops of water, before holding them up to the light. Two turned an eggshell blue, the third a deep crimson red. ‘Bueno, bueno,’ he muttered, repeating the test on the second batch and getting the same result.

  ‘Scottish Red Chicken very good,’ he said to Michael. ‘We do one final test. Ready, Manuel?’ He turned to Manuel, who had been watching with a strange, constrained yearning. Manuel nodded, an admiring imbecility escaping from his nose and lips.

  ‘Manuel, he is a connoisseur of Red Chicken,’ Diego told Michael. ‘We let him try a little.’

  Michael couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Diego took another small spoonful of heroin, added a little water and produced a syringe. He sucked up the liquid into the barrel, gave it a tap to get rid of air bubbles, looking for all the world like a doctor ministering to a sick patient. He handed the syringe to Manuel, who clenched a f
ist, raised his arm and pushed the needle into a vein. Michael saw a plume of blood enter the syringe, spiralling around like some distant nebula, then Manuel pushed the plunger fully in. His lips loosened in a furtively exultant smile.

  ‘Ah. Si,’ he groaned.

  ‘Perfecto,’ said Diego. He turned to Michael. ‘You help me lie him on your sofa, while we finish this business.’

  Michael looked at Manuel, whose eyes were glazed in a beatific dreaminess. ‘How long is he going to be like this?’ A room with enough heroin to send him to jail until the end of the century, a stoned junkie, and a professional drug dealer was not a place he wanted to stay in for too long.

  ‘A little while. But I take care of him, no worries. Now we have to do big count of all your nice powder.’

  Diego produced a set of scales and started methodically weighing each parcel in turn, noting down the results in a leather-bound notepad. Michael sank back into his chair. After ten minutes Diego had hardly made a dent in the mountain of heroin in front of him. Michael began to rue his decision to be so personally involved.

  It took Diego just over an hour to complete the inventory.

  ‘Now I tell you the price,’ he said, getting out a slide rule and totalling up the figures. Michael heard a clock in the hallway strike the hour. Soon this would be over.

  ‘Excelente,’ said Diego eventually. ‘Two hundred and twenty million pesetas.’ He looked over at Michael. ‘You want to know pounds?’

  ‘I want to know pounds.’

  ‘One million, seven hundred and forty thousand,’ he said. ‘I tell you what; I make it one-eight because I like your Glasgow Celtic, eh? Jock Stein, he very good manager.’

  Michael didn’t see the point of negotiating; it wasn’t like he had any other options. He’d be two hundred thousand short, but if the worst came to worst, he’d find something to sell.