17

She hit him such a punch he landed on his backside with a jolt that shunted up his spine and rattled his teeth. It took him completely by surprise.

"You are a lying, cheating, deceiving shit, Jack Lorne."

He sat on the grass, rubbing his chin, while tiny points of light spangled in peripheral vision. Kate waded in and took another swing at him, clipping his ear with a sharp knuckle.

"Ow! Cut it out." It really stung.

"I'll cut out your black heart," she said, green eyes narrowed, hair like smouldering coal, temper several degrees hotter still.

She jabbed another fast punch and he caught her by the wrist, trying to keep her off without hurting her. She pulled against him, stronger than he'd have thought..

"Come on Kate. Stop that before you do me a damage." He could feel the skin begin to swell and his ear was ringing hot. He held her and grabbed the other wrist and then used her to get to his feet. He had been strolling down the lane from his uncle's house and she had turned the corner, walking fast, taken one look at him and hit without any explanation.

"I'll do you a damage Jack Lorne. Helping the protest indeed! You lied to me. You deceived me. And you've dragged me into whatever daft scheme you've hatched up, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Oh no? Did you see the news at teatime? You can't have missed it. I didn't." She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he knew she'd only have another go at him. She could really do him a bit of damage if she put her mind to it, and he guessed rightly that her mind was made up.

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Getting me to do some artwork indeed. Trying to help those Dunvegan boys get their jobs back? The next thing I know it's on television, shown in every home in the country."

"Oh, that," he said.

Blair Bryden had got the story into the Gazette and then freelanced it across the news bulletins. The banner headline was big and black and the story spared no detail.

Jack had read the piece in clenched silence when Sandy had brought the paper in along with the morning rolls.

"What are you going to do now," Sandy asked, genuinely concerned.

"Sit tight. Pray. Nothing else for it."

"Too many people know."

"The only ones who know are involved."

Sandy shook his head. "Three people can keep a secret only if two of them are dead.

You've got a lot of nerve Jake, I'll give you that. But, like I said, that big highlander, he's no fool."

"Just a couple of days and it'll be gone. Sproat's going to need a deal and quick."

He sounded more confident than he felt, but now was the time to hold it together, hold himself together. "He'll be worried the cops think he was involved, but he's now got a three million pound cash flow problem, and he's going to have a few more worries very soon. I'm going to force him out of his corner and catch him on the move."

"You really think this is a board game, don't you?"

"Come on, Sandy, it's just juggling. He's had the ball so long it's about time he dropped it. What did he ever do that he deserved to have so much control over people's lives? He's got no talent and no brains and no sense of social responsibility, just Daddy's money that was made on the backs of our family and everybody else's."

"What I want to know is how you plan to get rid of the stuff."

Jack smiled. He trusted his uncle implicitly, but he himself had already made a couple of mistakes. One of them was trusting Donny, and the other was humiliating him. God love that ginger haired cretin, he thought, you should keep your friends in the pub and out of business altogether. Family? You kept them away if you could, but old Sandy, he was still razor sharp, and could put it on when he wanted.

"Don't you worry about that. I've fixed up an appointment for you. Have you read the papers?"

"Sure I have. Child's play. We used to run a few good scams in National Service. Don't you forget Jake, I'm the original wee fly man."

The job made headline news at six o'clock and Jack had sat fixed in front of the screen. It was almost word for word what Blair Bryden must have sent round the newsdesks. The camera picked it all out, the runnel and Donny's stupid rainbow trout. Jack fervently hoped the idiot hadn't gone to Barloan Harbour and then paid for them by plastic. The idea that he had almost bought a crate at Gallagher's fish shop still gave Jack palpitations. That would be the first place Baxter would look, and Jack would have had to raise another levy just to get Donny out of the country for a while. He wasn't worried about the pump. He and Ed had got that well sorted out, and his hours trailing around Glasgow had proved very worthwhile. The fish had been a mistake, but he'd made sure other things were battened down tight. He hoped. It was time for more diversions. They were already in place, just in case.

The camera zoomed through the fence and picked out the two fire hoses and then the scene flashed to the spot under the bridge. Baxter and the uniforms were hanging around while a man in council overalls lowered himself down the manhole and handed the bottle up to the big policeman.

Jack shrugged to himself. The fish were a giveaway. Everything after that was up for grabs.

On screen, the reporter faced the camera:

The reporter stepped to the side and blurred out of shot as the camera focused in on Angus Baxter. He was standing just outside the shadow of the bridge, holding a clear plastic oblong in his hands. The camera expanded the scene just as he looked up, directly into the lens, and the lettering on the plastic snapped into crisp focus.

The reporter stared into the camera and allowed himself a slanted grin.

The camera flicked to Franky Hennigan, somewhat cleaned up and shaved for his moment of fame, and obviously topped up with sufficient alcohol to make him forget the threat from beyond the galaxy.

The reporter smiled again.

"Yes that," Kate stormed, "All my own work. You conned me Jack Lorne. You told me you were doing something special, something important and I believed you."

She pulled back and he opened his hands, letting her wrists spring free. Two old ladies along the end of the lane paused at their gossip and stared down towards the commotion at the far end.

"How could you do that, Jack?"

"It's not what you think."

"Not what I think? A fortune in whisky goes missing and the only piece of evidence they have is that logo you asked me to do."

He scanned the lane, up and down.

"Shhhh."

She came in at him again, raised her hands and thumped him on the chest and then, without warning, she burst into furious tears.

"You told me it was for a demonstration. To try to save the jobs. All for the workers."

The tears trickled down her cheeks and a sore twist wrenched in his heart.

"It's not what you think." He reached for her, caught her shoulders, brought her in and held her tight. Her sobs heaved against his chest. There was nothing to do but wait until they were done. After a minute, she pulled back, drained.

"Just what is going on Jack? First of all you tell me you're going out on the North Sea, then you disappear and the boys won't tell me what's going on. You get me to do those damn logos, and it's just as well I didn't get the fourth year kids to do that one or I'd be up there talking to Inspector Baxter, wouldn't I? Accessory to theft."

She looked up at him, tear streaked but still fiery.

"So what's happened, Jack. Can't I trust you any more? I really thought you were one of the good guys. I had faith in you."

He blew out between tight lips, wondering what to say and where to start..

"Listen, Kate. I'm sorry I got you into this, really I am. I wasn't thinking, and I never thought for a moment anybody would ever see it. They were supposed to be stripped off and burned."

Fuck Donny Watson. That had been his other job.

"So it was you? You really did it?"

He nodded, hardly able to look her in the eye. She had no such trouble.

"You stole a tanker of whisky?"

"No. I stole two tankers of whisky."

"My God, Jack. Just what have you got yourself into?"

He shrugged and then dived in.

"That's what my uncle said. But you and him, you're both the same. You said to me I was wasting my life. Get off my backside and make something of myself."

"Sure we did. You're half way to getting your degree, aren't you?"

"And then what? Start on the corporate rung at my age." He reached a hand out and put it on her shoulder. Underneath his fingers she was trembling like a tuning fork, fast and tight. He gently pulled her out of the lane and into the field where he'd fought off the two heavies beating up Donny after the golf. The sun broached the hawthorn hedges and he eased her away from the lane, away from listening ears, towards the old blowdown sycamore trunk that sprawled, barkless in the grass. He sat her there and lowered himself on to the thick smooth jutting branch that the small kids used as a step up.

"You said it yourself, these people, Sproat, the council, everybody, they just take advantage of the workers. Look at all the firms that pulled out and went to whatever third world shithole would do the work cheaper than we would. Sproat selling up for a shopping centre, putting Andy Kerr out of business, and everybody, every single person in this town just tugs the forelock and says yes bwana. Turkeys voting for Christmas every time."

"But it's criminal, Jack."

"What he's done is criminal. But every court in the land will back him up, because it's all loaded against the common man."

"So you think the answer is to steal from him?"

He wished he could tell her just what his answer was, but nobody knew that, not even his uncle, nor Lars Hanssen. Nobody could.

"In a way. Change starts at the bottom. You only want a new deal when you've got a shit hand, not when your sitting on four aces."

"So that's the philosophy. A little redistribution of wealth? When I said you should get into business, this is not what I meant."

"I needed a head start. It was payback time for that cretin. All he needs is the money to take over Red Planet and get in on the designer drink business and make another fortune. Goodbye sunny Levenford, it was nice knowing you. Well, no matter what, he'll have something to remember us by."

"So you decided to risk jail and everything, all you've worked for, just to get even?"

"I'm not getting even with him. I don't give a tuppenny damn about him. I just needed an asset. Money breeds money. It's like a magnet. Once you have it, you can pull in more, and when you have enough, you can do anything at all. Look at me. I'm twenty seven years old. I'm a milkman for christ-sake with a half chance of getting a degree and maybe a job in an office. Work my way up to middle management by the time I'm forty and then get kicked out for being past it."

"That's the way you see it?"

"That's the way it is. Risk? What have I got to lose?"

"Freedom for one thing."

"Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you."

"Don't you give me Sartre. He wasn't talking about crime."

"He was talking about life, Kate. Real life, which is what we're stuck in." "There's more to life than just money."

"You said yourself, art for art's sake, money for god's sake."

"Just the words to a stupid song, you idiot." She was angry and exasperated and close to tears again. "Try this: don't risk what matters most for what matters least. There's no right way to do a wrong thing.

"How about, if two wrongs don't make a right, try three." He'd read the books. He could match her here, even if it left a sour taste in his mouth.

"If it's is not right don't do it; if it's not true don't say it. You thought you'd just make yourself some easy money."

"Nothing easy about it. The hard part's just starting." He reached and took her two hands in his. She seemed to crumple in on herself.

"I never meant for you to be involved, honest I didn't. There's some things I have to do, and some people I have to protect. Including you now. I'm really, truly sorry about that and I won't let it happen again. But what I have to know now, is what are you going to do?"

"How do you mean?" Her eyes widened.

"I mean, now that you know, what are you going to do about it?"

She stared up at him, holding his eyes with his, the way she could. She pursed her lips into a tight bud and he felt her grip tighten on his fingers.

"If you mean what I think you mean, you're going to get another punch," she said tightly. "You're asking me if I can be trusted, aren't you?"

He said nothing, still locked on her eyes.

"Don't you ever dare ask me that again, Jack Lorne. Do you really think I'm going to see you thrown in jail?"

Sandy Bruce looked at himself in the mirror and let out a chuckle. The Armani fitted just as Jack knew it would. Pierre Cardin shoes gleamed. Donna Bryce gave him a big smile.

"You look like Al Pacino, Mr Bruce, so you do."

"I hope I look better than that skinny wee 'Tally."

"Oh, much better. I mean you just look like the godfather, know what I mean? And that suit, that's just pure brilliant, real class."

She beamed at Jack. "I never knew the two of you were into the acting. Where did you say the audition is?"

"Up at the Kings. They're doing the Capone story."

"Well, I hope he gets the part," Donna said. "That wee bit of colour takes years off you Mr Bruce, honest it does. Dead elegant, know what I mean?"

"Nice of you to say, Donna." Sandy admired himself in the mirror again. "And this is our wee secret? I don't want people to be thinking I'm getting vain in my old age."

"Totally confidential. That's me. What happens in the salon is between me and the client."

She stood back. "What a difference. No offence Mr Bruce, but you look dead young. A real catch, by the way."

Jack put his hand on Sandy's shoulder and caught both of them in the wide hallway mirror. His grandfather's thick white hair was now almost black, and grey at the temples. Two days ago he'd been sweeping out the pigeon hut, sporting a three day growth of silver bristles, a torn old boiler suit and balaclava. Now he was somebody you'd take another look at. Jack took the light coat from the hanger and draped it across Sandy's shoulders.

"Look at the state of you, you old poser. I'll have to get a chisel to take the grin off your face."

But Donna Bryce had been right. She'd done a great job. He now did look the part.

All he had to do was play it.

The car picked them up at the Marriott hotel just south of Charing Cross. Jack paid the account with his new platinum card and the doorman held it open for them as they stepped out into the morning.

"Mr Gabriel?" The driver was in grey livery, like the one who'd delivered that rich guy Hammond Hall to his uncle's door what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"That's us," Jack said, switching to the Ulster accent. The Bentley had darkened windows and a rich mirror finish. Sandy looked at his reflection and turned to Jack.

"Get in, you old Mafiosi," Jack whispered, pushing his grandfather by the elbow.

"Watch the schmutter," Sandy said. They got in, Jack gave directions and closed the hatch.

"Look at you. I get your old cast offs and you get the fashion statement."

"Class goes to class," Sandy said. They had wondered about a moustache and rejected the notion. The dark hair took ten years off the old man, and that was enough. The double parenthesis that bracketed his mouth just made him look weather-beaten and tough. Graduated amber lenses made him remote, slightly dated.

"We meet him in the Drumbuie Hotel. He's booked a side room. Remember, start at the outside cutlery and work your way in."

Sandy turned to him, raised the glasses.

"You thinka I no unnerstan' how to eata da pasta?"

The pair of them suddenly burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that took five minutes to subside. The chauffeur checked them out in the rear view. They were out past Anniesland and heading for Levenford when the laughter finally drained away.

Sproat met them in the foyer, checked out the limo, the Armani, the gold watch fob. Jack had thought he might bring the company sales manager, but there was a good chance he'd picked up the hints he'd dropped. When they got to the little bay-windowed private room, the table was set for three. Jack allowed himself a smile. He was drawing him out.

"Alistair Sproat, meet Alessandro D'Angeli."

"Pleased to meet you," Sproat said. "Very glad you could make it."

"Grazie," Sandy said, keeping his voice low. "You call me Andro, capiche?"

He sounds like Marlon Brando, Jack thought. Don't overdo it, Grandad.

Sproat ordered an expensive Monticello and sat them down, poured for all three. Jack did the talking and let Sandy come in with a few monosyllables.

"Acting as agent for Mr D'Angeli's company, I can say he will be in a position to place an initial order for two-fifty barrels of three-year-old blend. We've checked your stock, and we're quite satisfied. On the heads of agreement already discussed, we would take one hundred barrels on letter of credit, full price on delivery."

"We're talking half a million," Sproat was sitting forward, elbows on the table.

"Si. Demi millione," Sandy said. He was half turned, feigning disinterest, looking at the birds feeding out on the lawn. "Instante. For now."

Jack tapped him under the table. No need to push his luck.

"We'll need transport, but you've confirmed that would be included. And we would like this to be the precursor to a larger purchase." Jack had practised this in the mirror. "We understand that your entire stock will be cleared and auctioned in less than a month's time. Going by brokerage realisation for three-year mature, you will drop ten to fifteen percent plus auction fees of about the same. Mr D'Angeli and his partners can, without doubt, improve on that."

Sproat's eyebrows went up. Jack could almost sense his need. He drew him out further.

"And for cash, of course. No ninety-day invoicing."

Sproat took a sip of whisky and tried to hide his smile.

"That would be a fair amount of whisky."

"We might," Jack gauged it, "be in a position to take the immature stock. At discount of course for added warehousing costs."

Sproat shrugged, but his eyes were giving him away. The anti-pasti arrived and Sandy used the correct fork to pick at it.

"Multo bene. Ver' nice."

"I thought you'd like a taste of home. The ciabatta is wonderful."

Sandy nodded, chewing on Parma ham. "Michaelo here tells me you had some...what is the word. Difficulty?"

Jack kicked him under the table.

"A full decant." Sproat knew it was all over the television news. "A wonderful twenty five year old Glen Murroch. They knew what to take and when to take it."

Sandy tapped his nose. "My associates, I will ask them to, ah, check this matter out. You understand?"

What are you up to? Jack twisted the napkin under the table.

"A bad business for you. Three million, maybe some more?"

"About that."

"And all this at a very bad time for you. Which is why it is good we do this business. We help each other, no?"

"That's what business is all about," Sproat agreed.

Jack felt a bead of sweat trickle down his ribs. Sandy was winging it solo, totally off the rehearsed lines.

Not the Godfather, he suddenly realised. He's doing De Niro. Talking Italian.

Sandy gave him a sidelong glance and a little nod, every bit the egund don.

"You show him the papers, Mikey."

Don't gild it, Grandad. Jack opened the briefcase and brought out the letter of credit, eager to draw attention away from Sandy.

"Everything will be channelled through my agency," he said. "Mr D'Angeli and his partners wish this to remain confidential."

"Of course," Sproat put in, a little too fast. He could see a way of getting his cash flow running fast again.

Sandy leant forward. "Cash on delivery, am I right? Michael here will handle all the arrangements. "And after the first consignment, we talk about the rest."

"Sounds good to me. When do you want the delivery."

"The end of this week," Jack put in. "No point in delay."

Sproat poured another round of wines. Jack put his hand over Sandy's glass.

"The doctor only lets him have one."

Sandy shot him a look, gave a little snort of disgust and turned to Sproat.

"Orders, orders. Nothing changes, Si?" he bent forward. "Like your tax, eh? Ochento per cento? Eighty percent. Infamita! Worse than anyplace else."

Jack clenched his fists under the table, gritted his teeth, unable to stop the old man.

"Nothing we can do about that."

"Nothing the small people can do, maybe. But a pezzonovante like yourself, must be different eh? Eighty percent out of a business, that is extorte. You go to the jail in Sicily for that."

Italy, I told him Italy!

Sproat didn't seem to notice.

"If there was a way," Sandy said. He made a quick motion with his hands, sliding one palm past the other. "If there was a way to evade such extortion, then good businessman should look for opportunities, no?"

"I'm not sure I understand," Sproat said.

Sandy motioned him forward, flicked his hand to Jack, sending him back. There was nothing for it but to go along with it. Sandy's accent hadn't dropped once.

"You and me, we know business. You had some trouble that was not your fault, but will the taxman give you money back? No. It is take, take take, all the time. You don't have to tell me. I know these things. It is criminale, we understand each other."

"We do indeed," Sproat said urbanely. He was bending forward, drawn in.

"What I want to talk about is, maybe a good price, just between you and me. No tax, no customs. No nobody. What they don't know, don't hurt, am I right?"

Sproat's eyes flicked from Jack to Sandy and back again. Jack gave an almost imperceptible nod. Sproat knew what they were talking about. If he'd any brains, he'd know he'd already been well primed for this.

Sandy switched tack just then, catching Sproat off balance. Jack sat back and let him run with it, knowing there was nothing he could do. Sandy had the Armani and the tinted glasses. He was the big client. That's what Sproat thought.

"All the laws, they don't let a business do business, am I right? This protest, these interferers. They want to stop you selling the business, eh? The small people want to tell a pezzonovante, a ninety-calibre, how to run his own affairs. Infamita egundo!

He motioned Sproat forward with a very Italian beckoning of his fingers.

"I hear they want to drag you through the courts. After a hundred years, they tell you what to do. One big problem for you, am I right?"

"We'll beat them in court," Sproat said, eager to get back to the business.

"Maybe you will. Tell you what I'm going to do. I speak to my associates and I make this protest go away. I make them an offer..."

Don't you dare say that Grandad!

"I make them an offer they don't understand," Sandy said. Jack breathed out. What the hell did that mean. "That's for the good faith, yes?"

He jabbed his hand in front of Sproat, who took it automatically. Sandy clamped his other hand on top of Sproat's knuckles, confirming the deal. He looked the part.

"Andro, why don't you come back to the plant with me and I'll show you around," Sproat said. "You and I can talk some more."

"Prego," Sandy said through a mouthful of ciabatta bread. "I ever tell you about the time I met Carlo Luciano? Lucky Charlie? A very nice man....."

The sweat began to cool on Jack's ribs. Sandy had played the black knight and hooked Sproat right in. He had to hand it to him. It was finesse.

The Charter campaigners had set up a little booth opposite the distillery gates and a few well-meaning local folk hung about, self conscious about their protest. They had put up a few banners which read Hands off Our River and Jobs not Shops, and Pollute, Poison and Pilfer.

Sproat growled as the limo swept them in through the gates and Jack slipped on the dark sunglasses when he saw Kate's face in the little crowd. It was only when he got into the atrium that he realised he'd left the briefcase back at the hotel.

"You take the limo," Sandy said, keeping up the accent beautifully. "Me and Alistero, we get a chance to talk."

There was nothing for it. Jack needed the signature on the document he'd drawn up, identically worded to the ones Marge Burns had managed to get from the files. It was the only way to make sure Sproat was tied right down. He gritted his teeth, knowing it was crazy to let Sandy loose on his own, and went back to the car.

"Back to the hotel," he said. "Speed of light if you can make it."

"I'll see what I can do, Sir," the driver said. It was the first time anybody in the world had ever called him Sir.

Margery Burns was giggling like a schoolgirl when he got back. Sandy had the long Armani coat draped over his shoulders, Mafiosi style.

"You Italians," she said. "You've always got such great style. Real elan."

Sandy shrugged like a Frenchman. She leant in towards him and from twenty yards away, Jack recognised the body language. He almost laughed aloud. She was incorrigible.

"And what part of Italy are you from."

"Just beside the Lake Como," Sandy said. "In the mountains. Beautiful."

She took his cup and saucer, then took his hand. "Why don't you sit down here."

Sandy caught Jack's eye before she turned round, and gave him a big wink. Sproat put his coffee on the table.

"Ah, Michael. That was quick."

The driver had crashed two ambers for him there and back. The Bentley had a surprising turn of speed for such a big limo.

Margery turned and saw him and had the grace to blush.

"I'll just clear these away," she said. "You want anything else, just give me a call."

Jack smiled again. She'd tried to make it general, but he knew it had been aimed at Sandy. That dark colour did take years off him. The Armani and an open-razor close shave did the rest.

"I've pulled," Sandy whispered as Sproat closed the boardroom door. "Can you spring me for another night in the Marriott?"

"You pull this off and you can have a week there," Jack said.

He suddenly realised he could kill two birds with one stone. It could get him off the hook.

Sandy turned to Sproat. "Maybe we can get the business done, no?"

Sproat walked right in, stepped right up.