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De
“Lovely, isn’t she?” Blaine had said.
“What’s that?”
“You know what I mean.” Blaine stopped directly in front of him, looking him up and down. “I suppose I should say thanks.”
“For what?”
A shrug. “I know how screws can be. Some of them would keep the photos to themselves…” Now a pause. “I’m told you’re the quiet type, Mr. Henshall. That’s good. I respect that. The letters… nobody else sees them but you?”
De
“That’s good,” the gangster had repeated.
And he’d walked off, Chalmers half a step behind him, casting a baleful look back in De
More digging: Blaine in and out of trouble since he was at school. Gang leader at sixteen, terrorizing Glasgow ’s concrete suburbs. Jail time for the stabbing of a rival, then narrowly escaping the same fate for his role in the murder of another gangster’s son. Growing wise by now, starting to assemble that force field. A whole regiment of “soldiers” who’d do the time on his behalf. His reputation solidifying, so that he no longer needed to maim or threaten: Others were there to do it for him, leaving him to wear a respectable suit, working each day in an actual office, fronting a taxi firm, a security firm and a dozen other enterprises.
Selina had arrived on the scene as his receptionist, then secretary, elevated to P.A. before marrying him in front of a congregation like something out of The Godfather. But she was no dumb blonde: came from a good family, had studied at college. The more De
Seated at his dining table, De
Brains and beauty. Put her together with her husband and you had Beauty and the Beast. De
Saturday morning, he parked his car curbside, across the road from her house. He’d been expecting something better. The papers had called it a “mansion,” but in reality it was a plain two-story detached house, maybe dating back to the 1960s. The front garden had been paved over to create a couple of parking spaces. A sporty-looking silver Merc sat on display. Beside it, a larger car had had a tarpaulin thrown over it. De
For want of anything else to do, he switched on the radio, tried eight or nine stations-Medium Wave and VHF-before settling on one that had a lot of classical music and not much talk between the tunes. It was another hour before anything happened. A car drew to a stop outside the house, horn blaring three times. It was an old Volvo, its color fading. The man who got out was medium height and medium build, hair slicked back from his forehead. He wore a black polo-neck, black denims, three-quarter-length black leather coat. And sunglasses, despite the slate-gray sky. Ta
Selina already had her coat on: a denim jacket with silver studs. Her white trousers were skin-tight. She pecked her visitor on the cheek, wriggled when he tried sliding his arms around her waist. She looked stu
The man leaned in toward Selina and whispered something. She thumped him on the shoulder.
“Fred!” she squealed. The man called Fred chuckled and smiled to himself. But now Selina was looking at his car and shaking her head.
“We’ll take the Merc.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“It looks like shit, Fred, that’s what. You want to take a girl shopping, you need a classier set of wheels.”
She went back into the house for her keys, while Fred opened the gates. Then the pair of them got into Selina’s car. De
Fred? -
Fred’s off up north. Denise isn’t talking to him…
But Fred wasn’t up north; he was right here. Why had she lied? Maybe so her husband wouldn’t suspect.
“Naughty girl,” De
Selina drove like a demon, but the traffic heading into the city was sluggish: all those Saturday shoppers. De
They were like boyfriend and girlfriend: Selina trying on various permutations of clothes while Fred gave a nod or a shrug, growing fidgety and fed up after an hour. They’d moved from the center to an array of designer shops the other side of George Square. By now, Selina was carrying three bags, Fred a further four. She’d tried cajoling him into a brown suede jacket, but he’d bought nothing. So far, all the purchases were hers, and, De
So much for her complaints to Blaine about not having any money.
They settled on an Italian restaurant for lunch. De
“What the hell am I doing?” he asked himself as he unwrapped the sandwich. But then he smiled, because he was enjoying himself. In fact, enjoying this Saturday more than any in recent memory. When they emerged from the restaurant, it looked as if Fred had been refreshed by more than an odd glass of wine. He had his free arm around Selina’s shoulders until he dropped some of the shopping. After that, he concentrated on carrying the bags. They headed back to the multistory. De