The Dead

30

That afternoon Palmer parked a car two streets from the Serbs’ makeshift headquarters in Edinburgh. They’d set themselves up in a crumbling old house in Pilton; not the best part of the city, but it was a good way to avoid casual police scrutiny. Palmer walked slowly up the road, hands deep in his pockets, not looking directly at the building he was checking out. Instead he used his peripheral vision to take in the number and make of cars parked in the street and whether any men stood back from the Serbian brothers’ house, watching.

The main security was provided by two burly bodyguards; one on the gate and one on the front door. Palmer had to assume they were both armed. He was patted down three times before they let him near the brothers; both men at the front of the house searching him in turn, in case one of them missed anything. Next he was ushered up a staircase and a new man was waiting for him at the top. This guy was huge and Palmer guessed he was one of the brothers’ main enforcers. He wore a black leather jacket and, when he raised his hands to indicate to Palmer he should do the same, for the inevitable pat-down, his gun was clearly visible in a shoulder holster that hung low and loose inside his jacket.

The room had a reinforced steel-plated door, which would have taken a long time to break down, giving anyone behind it ample time to ready themselves or call for help. When the man had finished searching Palmer he called through the door in Serbian. He must have indicated his satisfaction because a moment later there was a buzz from inside the locked door and it came free automatically, opening slightly. The big man ushered Palmer through it.

Palmer placed his hand on the door, opened it completely and stepped into the large room that served as the brothers’ headquarters. There were three men waiting for him and, from the resemblance, Palmer took them to be the Stevic brothers. No one else had been admitted to the inner sanctum so it appeared they kept the big decisions within the family. The brothers even dressed alike, in jeans and T-shirts and were sporting the same heavy gold chains around their necks like a badge of office.

Palmer noticed a machine gun propped up against a wall, within easy reach, and two shotguns. Two of the brothers had handguns in shoulder holsters they didn’t even bother to cover with jackets. These guys were beyond blatant, but they were protected, so maybe they thought they could leave shotguns and machine guns lying around without worrying about a raid.

‘Skorpion vz61,’ was the first thing Palmer said to them.

‘What?’ asked the brother who looked like the oldest. Palmer took this to be Dusan.

‘Haven’t seen too many Skorpions,’ added Palmer indicating the machine gun, ‘not lately. Czech-made but there’s not been a new one in thirty years. Where’d you get it?’

‘Took it from the dead hand of a Muslim bastard in Kosovo,’ said Dusan proudly, ‘he didn’t need it any more. It still works,’ he assured Palmer.

‘I’ll bet it does, they were built to last. Eight hundred and fifty rounds a minute.’

The brother who appeared to be the youngest reacted angrily, ‘You are not here to talk about guns.’

‘No,’ confirmed Palmer, ‘I’m here to talk about you leaving Edinburgh,’ he said it quietly, ‘and the terms we will agree with you for your return to Belgrade.’

The middle brother, Sreten, spoke then as if he too was determined to say his piece, ‘You don’t make terms with us. We make terms with you and the terms are nothing. That’s how much we will give you to leave the city to us. We are already driving your men out.’

‘And we’ve given some of your boys a battering too,’ countered Palmer, ‘there’s no end to the number we can put on the streets. Can you say the same?’

Dusan Stevic had been listening calmly, but he intervened then. ‘I could summon a hundred men tomorrow and you should know they would arrive with no problems from your police.’

‘Having bent law in this country isn’t always enough. You can’t buy everyone. Believe me, it’s been tried. Even in your own home you failed to do that.’

‘What is it you are offering for us to leave this city? I ask out of mere curiosity.’

‘Half a million Euros,’ Palmer let the amount sink in, ‘plus whatever you’ve made here already. That’s a hefty profit for a few weeks in a foreign land.’

‘Then what?’

‘You set up somewhere else; Marseille, Hamburg, Riga?’ Palmer shrugged as if it was of no consequence to him.

‘And if we don’t leave?’

‘Then you will never leave.’

The youngest brother, Marko, took exception to that and pulled his gun. Dusan barked something at him in Serbian and Marko’s face flushed, then he put the gun away reluctantly.

‘You come here to threaten us, it makes Marko angry. If it was his choice we would take you from here and cut you to pieces for that insult.’

‘Perhaps all three of you could do that,’ admitted Palmer, ‘but not all of you would live.’

Dusan’s eyes widened in disbelief, ‘Fucking balls on this guy,’ and he laughed without amusement. ‘I’ll tell you what will happen. I will let you keep those balls and you leave here. Return to Blake, yes I know who your boss is, and tell him what I smell when I hear his offer; weakness and fear. If he thought he could make us leave he would try, but no, he wants to pay us and he offers what he thinks it is worth to him. If he can afford to pay this, it cannot be enough for us to go. Tell him the city is ours. Now leave, before I let Marko and Sreten do what they want to do.’

I don’t usually travel alone. I normally take a bodyguard with me and I’ve grown used to that. It comes with the turf for men like me and the inconvenience factor is far outweighed by the flipside of being lifted or killed by a rival or wannabe gangster. Usually it’s Palmer, but if he isn’t with me I’ll use Joe, or one of his sons. That day it was Peter Kinane and I was comfortable enough with it. All of Joe’s sons know their shit. It’s part genetic and part training from their dad and Palmer.

It was late when we finally called for coffee at a shabby Service Station on the way back from York. The place was virtually deserted at that hour. The newsagent was closed and shuttered and we were the last visitors to trouble the coffee bar, before the guy upended chairs onto the other tables, then fucked off home and left us to it. I couldn’t see anyone else around, apart from two old blokes in overalls, absent-mindedly swishing mops back and forth across a grey, tiled floor that shone for a few moments each night when no one was around, until it dried and settled back to its usual dull, scuffed appearance. A yellow plastic sign next to them reminded us that stepping on their handiwork was likely to prove dangerous; a cartoon of a man, his feet thrown high into the air, warned us to give them a wide berth. We drained the dregs of our coffee and walked to the main door but Peter was looking uncomfortable.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked him.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I could do with a slash.’

‘Well go then. I’m not stopping you.’

‘I know you want to get going like.’

‘You taking a wazz isn’t going to delay me that much, Peter, and it’s preferable to you fidgeting all the way back up the A1,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you at the car.’

I walked out into a crisp night. The air was fresh and cold and there was no one around. Most people would be in bed by now. I looked over at the lorry park and there were maybe a dozen huge artics lined up with makeshift covers over their windscreens to blot out the light. The drivers would be getting their heads down for a few hours before waking early, then pegging it miles down empty motorways before most normal people had brushed their teeth. I was still looking at the lorries when I heard a heavily-accented voice close by me.

‘Come with me now,’ it told me, ‘or I will kill you here.’