. . She had to smile at that. Westie was terrible at keeping secrets. He would always blurt out the identity of her birthday and Christmas gifts before she had a chance to unwrap them. When he’d snogged a girl at a party once, a party Alice had missed because of work, he’d admitted everything to her over breakfast the next morning. She didn’t think he could lie to her, even if his life depended on it. She doubted she’d have any trouble finding out what the story really was.
Especially when she was so intrigued.
9
The last thing Chib Calloway ever expected to see squatting on his parked Beamer was a six-foot-three Hell’s Angel in a tailored double-breasted suit. The man wore polished black brogues on his feet and a crisp white shirt with a mauve silk tie. His long brown hair was tied back into a presentable ponytail, and he sported just the single studded earring (though with lobes pierced for plenty more). He had removed any other facial jewellery and was clean-shaven, cheeks glowing. When he raised his head there was a giveaway blue dotted line across his throat - a prison tattoo. As he scratched his hands down his face, Chib noted more tattoos on both sets of knuckles - HATE on the right, HATE on the left. Blue ink again, home-made. The guy sported laughter lines around his eyes, but the eyes themselves glowed with milky-blue malevolence.
Now this is more like it , Chib thought to himself. This I understand . . . sort of .
It wasn’t the most genteel part of town, nearer Granton than Leith and not yet part of any regeneration scheme. Leith itself had changed. There were more Michelin restaurants there than in the city centre. It made Chib wonder what the Trainspotting tours made of the place. The guy who did those tours, Chib had tried persuading him that he should feature one of Chib’s pool halls. Chib also owned a couple of neighbourhood bars, and had just been into one of them to do the weekly check. He was realistic enough to know that the staff would be skimming, but needed them to know that he knew. That way nobody got too greedy. And if temptation proved too much, leading to takings below the norm, Chib would get out the photos of Donny Devlin and tell the staff, ‘This is what I do to friends who cheat me. So consider what I’ll do to you if that cash doesn’t magic its way back into my till by next week.’
Exiting the bar, happy enough with its turnover, Chib had started gnawing his top lip. The place was run almost too well. The manager had come to Chib from a big pub-grub chain in the south; said he missed Edinburgh and wanted to come home. Overqualified for the job, but never complaining. It was making Chib wonder. Could the guy be a plant, some kind of grass or CID undercover thing? Johnno and Glenn had checked him out as best they could, but that didn’t mean much. They were with Chib now as he crossed the road towards his car, flanking him in the approved manner. Across the street was a park - not much of a park, just playing fields for football, criss-crossed with paths and a few benches where teenagers could gather of an evening to scare their elders. Twenty-odd years ago, that would have been Chib, swigging cheap booze and blasting the ciggies, shouting and cursing, eyes on the lookout for intruders, strangers, victims . . . Top of the world and wanting the world to acknowledge the fact.
‘Hell’s going on?’
Johnno had been the first to spot the Hell’s Angel. Chib’s car was a 5-Series BMW, solid but not too showy. There was a Bentley GT in the garage back home, never used for business. The stranger had parked himself on the Beamer’s bonnet, sitting there cross-legged in his suit, hands rubbing up and down his cheeks as he watched the three men approach. Though he wore shoes, his ankles were sockless. There were tattoos there, too. Chib clicked his fingers and Glenn reached a hand into the front of his jacket, even though there was nothing there. The stranger
Especially when she was so intrigued.
9
The last thing Chib Calloway ever expected to see squatting on his parked Beamer was a six-foot-three Hell’s Angel in a tailored double-breasted suit. The man wore polished black brogues on his feet and a crisp white shirt with a mauve silk tie. His long brown hair was tied back into a presentable ponytail, and he sported just the single studded earring (though with lobes pierced for plenty more). He had removed any other facial jewellery and was clean-shaven, cheeks glowing. When he raised his head there was a giveaway blue dotted line across his throat - a prison tattoo. As he scratched his hands down his face, Chib noted more tattoos on both sets of knuckles - HATE on the right, HATE on the left. Blue ink again, home-made. The guy sported laughter lines around his eyes, but the eyes themselves glowed with milky-blue malevolence.
Now this is more like it , Chib thought to himself. This I understand . . . sort of .
It wasn’t the most genteel part of town, nearer Granton than Leith and not yet part of any regeneration scheme. Leith itself had changed. There were more Michelin restaurants there than in the city centre. It made Chib wonder what the Trainspotting tours made of the place. The guy who did those tours, Chib had tried persuading him that he should feature one of Chib’s pool halls. Chib also owned a couple of neighbourhood bars, and had just been into one of them to do the weekly check. He was realistic enough to know that the staff would be skimming, but needed them to know that he knew. That way nobody got too greedy. And if temptation proved too much, leading to takings below the norm, Chib would get out the photos of Donny Devlin and tell the staff, ‘This is what I do to friends who cheat me. So consider what I’ll do to you if that cash doesn’t magic its way back into my till by next week.’
Exiting the bar, happy enough with its turnover, Chib had started gnawing his top lip. The place was run almost too well. The manager had come to Chib from a big pub-grub chain in the south; said he missed Edinburgh and wanted to come home. Overqualified for the job, but never complaining. It was making Chib wonder. Could the guy be a plant, some kind of grass or CID undercover thing? Johnno and Glenn had checked him out as best they could, but that didn’t mean much. They were with Chib now as he crossed the road towards his car, flanking him in the approved manner. Across the street was a park - not much of a park, just playing fields for football, criss-crossed with paths and a few benches where teenagers could gather of an evening to scare their elders. Twenty-odd years ago, that would have been Chib, swigging cheap booze and blasting the ciggies, shouting and cursing, eyes on the lookout for intruders, strangers, victims . . . Top of the world and wanting the world to acknowledge the fact.
‘Hell’s going on?’
Johnno had been the first to spot the Hell’s Angel. Chib’s car was a 5-Series BMW, solid but not too showy. There was a Bentley GT in the garage back home, never used for business. The stranger had parked himself on the Beamer’s bonnet, sitting there cross-legged in his suit, hands rubbing up and down his cheeks as he watched the three men approach. Though he wore shoes, his ankles were sockless. There were tattoos there, too. Chib clicked his fingers and Glenn reached a hand into the front of his jacket, even though there was nothing there. The stranger
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