Snow Storm

17

Burke had been unable to get any shuteye. Images of spirograph generated crime networks floated in his head, along with dead soldiers, both criminal and actual.

He didn’t like loose ends, not that there were any tied ones yet, but it was increasingly looking like a many splintered thing, an equation that took in too many factors to allow him to sleep the sleep of the just.

He wouldn’t tell Rachel he’d decided. There were certain types of information he could impart when it came to his job and certain types he couldn’t. He’d learned that through hard won experience. She’d only freak out, and that couldn’t be good for her or the baby.

As ill as it made him feel he doubted the threats were grounded in reality. No one could be that ruthless, could they?

“I’ve been busy a lot, haven’t I,” he said as they sat in front of the TV before going to bed.

“I’m glad you noticed,” she replied. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but his wife had turned it into an art form. She did it better than anyone he’d ever met.

“I’ve had a lot on,” he said defensively, before reminding himself where this was actually going.

“I know,” she said. “It’s becoming a theme with you these days.”

“It is, and that was why I wondered if it might be worthwhile you spending some time with your mum.” He could see the expression leave her face and knew this wasn’t a good sign. It meant she was trying not to give away her true feelings, which meant she had probably taken offence. “It’s just I’m worried I’m not around when you go into labour or if something goes wrong. Surely if you went away while I’m busy you’d be in better hands.”

“It is the 21^st century James. People’s employers do make allowances for paternity leave, that kind of thing.”

“I know,” he said, now stuck for words. “I just.”

“Ok,” was all she said.

And he couldn’t help but feel that nothing was.

He sipped on a coffee. Some people drank it to wake them up in the morning. He would probably confess he needed it to sleep at night. The TV chattered in the background, having been robbed of any significant volume, owing to his cautionary approach to anything that might disturb Rachel’s sleep. He paced the living room letting his mind wander, images of the past converging with images of the present. Pattern recognition; that was what he strived for. He’d always suffered from a pictographic memory but it came in handy for some things, namely his job, the one thing he was vaguely good at.

So, who was body number two? Were there yardies in Edinburgh now? His manner of dress and the manner of his killing, being bumped off execution style, suggested there were.

He’d quizzed Edwards about it, even phoned him at home, out of hours, if there was such a thing in this job.

“Not aware of anyone operating in this area,” he’d said. Something didn’t add up about it though. He remembered what had happened ten or so years ago, back when he’d been a fresh detective, nowhere near drugs or organised crime admittedly but he knew a bit about it. Surely Edwards must. They’d arrived from Birmingham with intentions to boldly where no Brum gangsters had gone before. They’d heard about the city’s, by now legendary, heroin habit. In truth, they were a bit far behind. Anyone who saw Trainspotting knew about that and it was mid-nineties, based on an epidemic in the eighties. Even so, the yardies, seeing an opportunity among the city’s fabled smack-heads, had made for the Scottish capital in an effort to try their hands at conversion selling or perhaps upselling depending on the customer’s viewpoint. Their grand plan had been to convert some keen smack-heads into born again crack-heads, which seemed a logical move. The problem was they hadn’t counted on the brand loyalty of Edinburgh’s skag connoisseurs. They were unable to gain a foothold and having eventually caught the attention of Lothian and Borders Police they’d decided it might be a good move to bow out and head for the green, green grass of home.

Surely Edwards should have known that, mentioned it in the passing, or maybe he didn’t do small talk unless he had something to gain.

Were they having another go at cornering the market in the capital? If so they were doing a grand job of flying under the radar. If they chopped up the Russian and then lost one of their own they were certainly making waves. So why hadn’t someone noticed? And now this was blowing up he had a suspicion he hadn’t seen the last of Edwards. Word had a habit of getting around.

He opened his laptop and googled Russian prison tattoos. He should perhaps have googled Lithuanian prison tattoos but preferred to rely instead on the inherent albeit unknowing bigotry of the internet community. Wikipedia had its own thoughts on the matter, which its collective consciousness had seen fit to lump in with other tattoos, but it was a starter for ten. He scrolled down the list taking a look at the photos he’d sent through to his home email account. He didn’t particularly like viewing images of bloated former jailbirds and close ups of their warped tattoos in his living room. This was supposed to be a sanctuary, a bit of a bolt hole away from all this but needs must. Hell mend him if Rachel found out. He’d already had the lecture about protecting the baby from all this and not bringing his work home. That was probably the least of the kid’s worries with a father like him.

The epaulette, the stars on his knees, the crucifix on his chest, the church with the onion domes, and the dagger in his neck and the drops of blood falling from it, they all meant something.

But maybe the most telling of all were the two eyes concealed below the roll of flab hanging over where his waistline had once time been.

All was not what it seemed with Oleg Karpov.

Giles hated fast driving, always had since a drunken accident with his father when he was twelve. He didn’t tolerate it from friends, family or business associates and especially not Sophie, his pseudo girlfriend, who had all the deft perception of a mole and worse coordination. She claimed the shouting made her worse, but he felt it was character building. It was the way his father had built him up.

On this occasion he was rather enjoying being hurled around the back seat of the Ford S-Max as it accelerated, braked and was thrown into corners this way and that. Trust; that was the thing. You trusted hired, what was the word, mercenaries? Henchmen? He liked the idea of henchmen. Whatever, you trusted the fact they had certificates in shooting people in the face while being kicked in the legs, surviving ambushes and driving at the limit. It was entertaining watching a professional at work. Perhaps most of all this was because it was at his bidding. He was effectively running the show right now. He was capo-di-tutti-capo as the Italians would say, boss of all bosses. Admittedly this wouldn’t be for long, depending on how good he was at his job, and he was good at his job, but for now he had the wheel.

Law, he reflected, had been a good choice; another good decision in a long line. Some may say it was easy when you had a head start in life but he’d happily counter that it did in fact largely come down to breeding. He was a subscriber to the theory of genetic memory and so in a roundabout way, he felt he should congratulate himself all the more. Not that he had blind faith in his abilities. That would be a tad remiss but a realistic belief in ones innate abilities and intellectual superiority in most situations wasn’t too much in the way of confidence.

Looking at the two knuckleheads in the front he had to admit he’d be unlikely to last long if the clock suddenly went back to zero and they were all cavemen again. Physically they could undoubtedly wield a club with more finesse than he’d manage if it came down to it. He’d even concede that given such re-allotment of historical period he’d probably wind up being their bitch but then he’d probably also discover fire or the secret thereof thus turning the tables. His genes had lasted this long and it wasn’t for nothing. The ancestors must have had something going for them and now, at the turn of this new millennium, his genes were having their time. They were the master race. Love it or hate it, these Neanderthals had more or less had their time. Still, they were here to do his bidding. That was the crucial thing. He was in charge and the power was something.

The booze was taking its time in wearing off and he knew he would have to sober up quickly. They sped down the track to the airfield. A small twin-engine Cessna was visible on the left, its navigation lights on, ready for the off, as they headed for the gate to the complex. He wasn’t fond of being in the actual buildings themselves. It brought everything home a bit too much, sent a shiver down the spine. Not that he was directly involved normally. He liked to keep a safe distance.

As they entered the main gate, he thought better of it. “The plane’s over there. I’ll walk,” he said willing them to stop the car.

From his position in the passenger seat, Alexei turned round, his menacing bulk intensified by a lack of hair. “There’s something else,” he said and Giles realised he was having problems with his T’s, and that he was now missing some of his front teeth, at least two, but he didn’t like to count too obviously.

“Yes?” Giles replied in a tone reminding the goon who was in charge.

The driver eyed Giles in the mirror with a look of trepidation. “We have a bit of a situation you might say.”