Page 25 of Savage Justice

“It’s been a pleasure doin’ business wi’ ye, Mr Savage.”

The thick Glaswegian tones of our latest ally grate on my ears. His accent is so strong, at times I struggled to follow what he was saying as we went over the finer points of our transaction.

“Not yet, it hasn’t,” Ethan corrects him. “You’ve yet to prove your worth to me, Mulligan.”

“I willnae let ye down, sir,” he is quick to promise.

Albert Mulligan is a well-known villain of this parish with his sticky fingers in a lot of pies. He runs a string of girls, manages a few of our drug lines, and fences the proceeds of robberies. Albert is nothing if not versatile. He’s dealt in stolen motors for years and done a few stretches inside for his trouble but he takes all of that in his stride. He sees the free board and lodgings courtesy of His Majesty as a perk of the job.

Recently, he’s gone upmarket in the motor trade, leaving the battered Fiestas and clapped-out Volkswagen Golfs to the kids and turning his attention to the higher-value merchandise we favour. He claims to be able to lay his grimy paws on as many Beamers and Discoveries as we can handle, and what’s more he’ll see the vehicles safely divested of any tracking devices and stowed in containers for shipment abroad. He’s absorbing all the risk in exchange for a generous payout. Well, not too generous, obviously. We’re only giving him a fraction of what those cars are worth on the Eastern European black market, but he’s happy and clearly basking in the kudos of working for us.

As he should. We choose our associates with care. Mulligan is an accomplished thief, and we can use his talents, but in return he benefits from a level of protection. Our links with the police and other authorities will smooth his way and make further sojourns at His Majesty’s pleasure less likely. We offer a guaranteed market for his goods and a price he can rely on. And we always pay up once the goods are supplied. Not before.

His eyes gleam when Ethan beckons Tony forward.

“Give Mr Mulligan a down payment,” he instructs. “Just enough to keep him interested. And keen.”

“We agreed on a hundred grand, Mr Savage,” comes the sullen protest. “An’ ten fer every set o’ wheels I put yer way.”

“No, Mulligan. You mentioned a hundred grand. And you’ll have that and more if you deliver as promised. Right now, though, you’ve given me fuck all.”

“Aye but—”

Tony grabs him by the greasy hair and smashes his face into the table. The crunch of bone is almost as sickening as the stench of stale cannabis. Still with his fist in Mulligan’s hair, Tony drags his head back up, and Ethan gives a dramatic wince at the sight of his smashed nose and missing incisor.

“There now. That should help you focus. I expect the first shipment by next Tuesday, then a dozen motors a week after that. Once I’m satisfied that you’re good for it, I’ll authorise the payment. Are we clear?”

He swipes blood from his nose, though it continues to gush. “But, sir,” he whines, “I got expenses…”

Fucking idiot. Doesn’t he know when to stop?

Tony slams his chin down onto the table, dislodging two more teeth.

“Are we clear, Mr Mulligan?” Ethan enquires once more.

“Y-yes, sir. Verra clear,” he mumbles, blood now drooling from his mouth as well. “Next Tuesday. Right.”

Ethan gets to his feet and offers Mulligan a polite nod. The man doesn’t get up himself; I doubt if his legs would hold him right now. He nods like one of those plastic dogs you see in the back of a cheap Ford Focus and babbles something to the effect that we can rely on him.

He’d better be right. He won’t get a second chance if he fucks up.

“I don’t trust that slimy little pillock,” Jack snarls as we make our way towards the exit. “He’s greedy. And careless.”

“True,” Ethan agrees. “But there’s nothing to link us to him. We’ll see what he comes up with then go from there.”

“I know, but…” Jack’s response is interrupted by the trilling of his phone. He answers the call. “Hi, bro.”

“Aaron,” he mouths, then returns to the call. “Okay. Good. Yeah, we’re done here. On our way back.” He hangs up. “Aaron’s headed back to Caernbro Ghyll. He has Frankie with him. Apparently, the kid hacked into the phone.”

“You always said he’d come in useful for something.” Ethan uses the remote key to open the car doors, and we pile in. “What do we know so far?”

It’s me who takes up the story. “I spoke to the guy I know in the CPS.” My networks are nowhere near as extensive as Ethan’s, but I do have a contact in the Crown Prosecution Service who proves useful from time to time, in exchange for a regular supply of free product. “Our man goes by the name of Jonas Bairstow, aged thirty-three. Discharged from hospital three weeks ago and currently banged up with the paedos and cop killers at Barlinnie. Solitary confinement, for his own safety.”

“Hmm. Might be hard for George to get to him, then,” Ethan muses. “Does he have previous?”

“Not for child abduction. A few GBH convictions and an armful of traffic offences. He was driving whilst disqualified, so they’re throwing that at him as well.”

“Do we know what he’s pleading?”

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