The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery

Synopsis

The incredible standalone novel from the award-winning author of The Glasgow Trilogy

Longlisted for the CWA Steel Dagger for Best Thriller 2015

There's nothing so terrifying as money. . .

Two friends, Alex Glass and Oliver Peterkinney, look for work and for escape from their lives spent growing up on Glasgow's most desperate fringes. Soon they will become involved in one of the city's darkest and most dangerous trades. But while one rises quickly up the ranks, the other will fall prey to the industry's addictive lifestyle and ever-spiralling debts.

Meanwhile, the three most powerful rivals in the business - Marty Jones, ruthless pimp; Potty Cruickshank, member of the old guard; and Billy Patterson, brutal newcomer - vie for prominence. And now Peterkinney, young and darkly ambitious, is beginning to make himself known . . .

Before long, violence will spill out onto the streets, as those at the top make deadly attempts to out-manoeuvre one another for a bigger share of the spoils. Peterkinney and Glass will find themselves at the very centre of this war; and as the pressure builds, each will find their actions - and inactions - coming back to haunt them. But it is those they love who will suffer most . . .

From the award-winning author of the Glasgow Trilogy, The Night the Rich Men Burned is a novel for our times, and Malcolm Mackay's most ambitious work to date.

Release date: May 3, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

Start with a kick to the door. He got a crack out of it, and the plain door shuddered in the frame. Didn’t open though. Still staring back at them. Try again. Not a boot this time. Give it a shoulder. A short run-up and a collision with the door. A bigger crack and the door caves in, buckled on the hinges and smashed around the lock. Alex Glass stumbles in with it.

“Shit.” A mutter under his breath. Embarrassed by his ungainly entrance. Embarrassment pushed aside by an attempt at professionalism. He’s taking the lead here. Older by six months. His accomplice, Oliver Peterkinney, is still only nineteen. Anyway, this is Glass’s job. He set it up. He found the target.

They’re searching downstairs, through the kitchen, through the living room. It’s a small house, which helps. Tidy as well, everything where it should be. No rubbish for someone to leap out from behind. Flicking lights on and off as they check each room. No attempt at subtlety, not after that entrance. To the bottom of the stairs. If he’s here, he’s heard them by now. He’s had time enough to get a weapon. They didn’t plan for that. What if he keeps a weapon by his bed? Something else to put on the long list of things they didn’t plan for.

A light comes on at the top of the stairs. Glass and Peterkinney look at each other. Never been here before. Never been in this situation. If they had to make a split-second decision, they would be too late. A man has emerged at the top of the stairs. Older than these two by ten years. Fatter by three stone. Wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. That makes up their minds for them.

They’re looking up the stairs, necks craned. Suddenly feeling confident. The amateurs just got lucky, as all amateurs need to in this business. Peterkinney moves up one step.

“All right, Holmes,” he’s saying. Because it is Jim Holmes, the target. He doesn’t need clothes to look like his picture. Big and broad, with a thick head of dark hair and a dimpled chin. “We can sort this out nice and quiet. No need for trouble.” Peterkinney’s smart enough to know how dumb that sounds. You smash your way into a guy’s house and tell him there’s no need for trouble. This isn’t how Peterkinney would have played it.

Holmes had his hands in the air, but they’re falling now. Who did he think he was going to find at the bottom of the stairs? Maybe the police. Probably the police. Would be about fucking time. He’d raise his hands to them; try to make a good impression. Could have been worse than the police. Could have been a real tough guy. He knows Marty Jones is looking for him. Wants to send a strong message. Marty’s big on sending messages. Marty is under the protection of Peter Jamieson. That could get him the use of a man like Nate Colgan. Now there’s a man you raise your hands to, no matter how tough you are. But these two? These are just kids. The one coming up the stairs doesn’t even look like he’s started shaving.

“The fuck are you pair?” Holmes is growling. Going for his best tough-guy voice, which is pretty good by general standards. He’s had plenty of practice. Being a tough guy is his job. It’s how he makes his living. Marty lends money to people. That money gathers interest at a mathematically improbable rate. Men like Holmes collect the debt. But Holmes got a little tired of handing all that nice money over to a smarmy prick like Marty. Holmes did the hard work, deserved more of the reward. So he started keeping a bigger share for himself. Took Marty an awful long time to work that out, for a guy who figures himself as sharp as a razor. But he was always going to work it out eventually. Marty’s no mug.

“We’re here for Marty,” Glass is saying. Saying it like it means something.

Peterkinney, three steps up, is looking back at him. Scowling. Shouldn’t have said Marty. Should have said Jamieson. That would have carried more weight. Common sense says you exaggerate the power you have behind you.

“Pft.” A snort of derision. Not aimed at Marty. Holmes isn’t stupid either; he knows how dangerous Marty can be. A well-connected guy with a big ego and a short temper? Those are always dangerous. “He sending kids to do his fighting for him now?” There’s a smile in his eyes. Marty actually has sent kids. There are other debt collectors he could have sent. Tough guys. They’d have done it too, for the right price, even though they know Holmes. Plenty of general muscle he could have hired for the job. But Marty sent the cheap option. A couple of kids looking to make a good first impression.

“Look, we can sort this out,” Glass is saying from the bottom of the stairs. Still trying to lure him down. Trying to fool a man who does this for a living. Still hoping this can be easy. It was never going to be that easy.

Peterkinney isn’t waiting. Holmes won’t be won round. Once he has it in his head that they’re kids, he’s going to treat them that way until they change his mind. Only way to change his mind is to do what they came here to do. And the clock is ticking. You don’t think the neighbors heard them smash the door in? You don’t think they’ll be calling the police right now?

Glass is about to open his mouth to say something else when Peterkinney moves. Jumping two steps at a time, getting to Holmes and making a grab for him. So what if he’s older? So what if he’s tougher, has a reputation for bad things? He’s nearly naked. There are two of them. They came here to send a message for Marty. They can’t leave until they’ve tried and they need to leave soon. So you do something, don’t you?

Holmes has seen him coming. Leaning his weight forwards on the balls of his feet. Shoulders down, ready. Peterkinney is two steps from the top and reaching out for a grab. It looks like a wild attempt. A throw of the arms in the general direction of the target. An amateur lunging at a pro. That’s what Holmes thinks. It’s what he thinks when he throws his weight directly at Peterkinney. He thinks he’s going to knock the kid back down the way he came.

That’s not what Peterkinney’s thinking. He’s thrown his arms out there, but he’s not watching where he’s throwing. He’s watching Holmes’s feet. Waiting for that reactive lurch forwards. And now it’s coming, and Peterkinney’s moving his feet, pushing himself backwards against the stair wall with a thud. Watching as Holmes goes sailing past. Holmes’s shoulder catches him, but it’s glancing, no impact. Holmes is falling onto the stairs, shouting something loud that doesn’t involve words. But Holmes has experience of falling over at other people’s insistence. This is standard for him. He’s managed to push out and wedge himself in the stairs, three steps down from the top.

But that isn’t enough to make him safe. Not nearly enough, and Holmes knows it. You can’t be on your back in this situation. You’re either on your feet or you’re out of the fight. You can rely on them being kids, but you can’t rely on them being stupid. Before Holmes can struggle to his feet, Peterkinney’s got his first kick in.

Knocking Holmes down a couple of steps with the first kick. Holmes shouting, but this fight is over. All Holmes has left is noise. Peterkinney jumping downward, kicking into Holmes with both feet. Peterkinney’s landing on his arse, it’s jarring but worth it. Holmes is bouncing down the stairs now. Glass had been moving up the stairs to help, now jumping down the last three to get out of the way. A grunting ball of flesh crashing down after him. Holmes has rolled to the bottom. Lying there. Not moving. Groaning, but not moving.

Glass is watching, doing nothing. Standing beside Holmes, looking up at Peterkinney. As far as Glass is concerned, this is over. Peterkinney’s quickly down the stairs, standing beside Glass now. Looking down at Holmes. Taking a step back and kicking him hard in his ample guts.

“Try and knock me down the fucking stairs,” Peterkinney’s saying. Speaking low, a little spit on his lips. “That’s for Marty. You remember that. That’s what happens.” An intensity conjured from a place Glass didn’t know his friend possessed.

Glass is pulling at Peterkinney’s arm. The job is more than done, time to go. A second person has emerged at the top of the stairs. A thickset woman, glaring down at them. The woman who keeps this house organized and tidy.

“Get out,” she’s shouting at them. “Go on, get out.” She’s starting to march down the stairs towards them. Wrapped up in a thick dressing gown, hair tied back, slippers too big for her making an unsettling slapping noise as she walks. Scowling like she was born that way. Moving towards her partner at the bottom of the stairs. He’s groaning on the floor, rolling slightly. Trying to twist into a position that relieves the pain. Trying to turn his back on them, so they can’t kick him in the stomach again. Facing the striped wallpaper, hoping this is over. Peterkinney’s given him one last kick in the small of the back, he and Glass turning for the door.

The woman’s still shouting something, but it’s unintelligible and entirely her own business. They’re out into the night, across the small front garden with no fence and moving down the street. Trying not to run, but walking fast enough to draw attention. The neighbors will have heard the door being broken. They’ll hear the shouting. People will be looking out of windows.

“We should have brought balaclavas,” Glass is saying.

“We should have brought a lot of things.” Peterkinney’s thinking of all the things they did wrong in this job. More than he realizes. Their first job. Thrown into it by Marty Jones. Someone with experience, a professional, would have done it differently. They did the best that amateurs could.

“First thing I’m spending money on is a car,” Glass is saying. They’re still walking too fast, but they’re putting distance between themselves and the house. Looking backwards half the time. Nobody following. But then, nobody would need to. You can see their guilt from a distance.

Peterkinney isn’t saying anything. Glass wanted this. He’s in charge, so let him do the talking. He’s his best mate, and you don’t puncture your best mate’s balloon. But this has been a shambles. They didn’t think about it beforehand. Marty gave Glass the job. Their first chance to make a good impression. They rushed out to do it, knowing the prize that will be waiting for them. Next time will be different. Next time they’ll make an effort to plan it. Having a vehicle to get away in will be a good start. Neither of them owns a car. Peterkinney doesn’t even have a license.

They’ve reached the bottom of the street, round the corner. A little relief. They’re out of view of the scene of the crime. Walking faster, almost jogging. Anyone looks out a window and they see two guilty-looking young men running past. The kind of guilty young men you remember. Maybe mention to the police if they knock on your door looking for information.

“We did it though,” Glass is saying. “We fucking did it.”

“Yeah,” Peterkinney’s nodding, and he’s smiling despite himself. “We fucking did.”

2

He’s tired. They say you shouldn’t drive when you’re tired. He’s driving, and driving carefully. Got the call twenty minutes ago. Doesn’t know why the hell he’s bothering. Petty games, and they’ve lost this round. So what, just win the next one and move on. But Patterson insisted. Get round there, talk to the man. Try to keep him onside. So Alan Bavidge is nearly there. Nearly ready for his conversation with Jim Holmes. Nearly caring about it. But not quite.

He’s pulling into the street and already there’s a problem. There are people around Holmes’s front door. Must be four or five of them, standing on the patch of grass that serves as a front garden. Neighbors, probably. Some of them are still in pajamas. Nosy bastards. Get a little dignity, for God’s sake. Semi-detached houses in batches of two, tightly packed along either side of the street. A mix of former and current council housing, he’s guessing. Bavidge is stopping the car at the side of the road. Switching the lights off. None of the neighbors have clocked him yet. He’s waiting. Hoping they’ll bugger off back home before he goes in. An unknown guy in his late twenties at the scene of the crime will instantly become a suspect.

One of the neighbors has turned round and is staring at the car. A middle-aged man, glaring right at him. Turning and saying something to the group, proud to be breaking news. Now they’re all looking at him and murmuring. A broad woman in her mid-thirties pushing her way past them. Norah Faulkner. Holmes’s girlfriend. Not the sort of woman you marry. Not if you can help it. A tough one, her. At least as tough as her man. Kind of woman you might have thought would do a better job keeping Holmes out of trouble. Bavidge knows who she is; she doesn’t know who he is. With another sigh, he’s getting out of the car.

Across the patch of grass and walking towards her. Making a noticeable effort at ignoring the gawkers. Nodding, and hoping she’s bright enough to let him speak before she gets abusive.

“Norah? I’m Alan, you were told to expect me.” Speaking as quietly as possible. Trying to keep this between the two of them.

She’s nodding now. Still scowling, but nodding. “Come in.” She’s turning and walking back to the door. Stopping suddenly enough that Bavidge almost crashes into the back of her. Turning to her neighbors. “All right, you had your wee nose about, now piss off.” Some of them are shaking their heads, giving her looks, but not one of them will disobey. She’s coarse, and they’re all just a little bit scared of her. Sure, they all want her arguing their case when the housing association routinely lets them down on repairs. But even when she’s on your side, you’re scared of her. They’re all turning and walking back to their houses.

Norah’s inside, holding the door for Bavidge. Once he’s inside, she’s trying to push it shut. Isn’t working. Won’t hold shut, just leans open of its own accord. The top hinge is damaged, Bavidge can see.

“Buggers managed to smash this in the process,” she’s saying redundantly.

Bavidge doesn’t care about the door. If his boss is serious about Holmes, then Bavidge will send someone round in the morning to put a new door in. He’s concerned about what he’s not seeing. He’s not seeing Holmes. She told his boss, Billy Patterson, that Holmes was unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. There’s nothing at the bottom of the stairs. Just a wet patch where Norah’s been trying to wipe blood off her plain fitted carpet.

“Through here,” she’s saying. She has a more feminine voice than he expected. Especially now that she’s calmed down. A broad face on broad shoulders, a hard look about her. No soft edges that Bavidge will ever see. But they’re there. She cares about Holmes, and she looks after him. This is a better life than most people in Holmes’s profession get to live. She’s leading Bavidge into the living room.

Holmes is sitting on the floor, back against the black leather couch. He’s tilting his head back, holding something to his nose that used to be white and is now red. He’s still in his boxer shorts. He’s looking at Bavidge. A glare. They’ve never met. Bavidge can only hope his reputation goes before him. When it does, it buys him all the respect he needs.

“I’m Alan Bavidge,” he’s saying. “Billy sent me round.”

“Uh-huh,” Holmes is saying. Turning and staring back up at the ceiling, more interested in what’s pouring from his nose.

“Who was it?” Bavidge is asking. Not here for polite conversation. Not here to make a new chum. Get this over and get out.

Holmes went to Patterson. Ran to him when Marty Jones found out he was skimming money off his collections. Wanted protection from Billy. Offered himself as an employee in exchange. It was a hell of a job application. I want to work for you because you can protect me from my old boss. By the way, my old boss hates me because I ripped him off. Yeah, that’ll get you through the door. But Holmes did get through the door. Not because he offered to work for Patterson. He got through because everyone knows he worked for Marty. He was one of Marty’s boys for a few years. Throwing his weight around, trying to make a name for himself. Suddenly he starts working for Patterson, and people think Patterson is taking employees away from Marty. A cheap way of making a rival look vulnerable. So Patterson took him on. Just wasn’t able to offer him protection in time.

“Them,” Holmes is mumbling. “There was two of them.”

“Who?” There’s impatience in Bavidge’s voice now. Doesn’t care if Holmes hears it. Holmes is a thug. The sort of guy who goes round picking fights with drug addicts and hopeless cases. That’s the difference between a tough guy like Holmes and a tough guy like Bavidge. The reason Bavidge has a reputation and Holmes doesn’t. The standard of person they have to intimidate.

“Kids. I don’t know who they were. Kids, working for Marty. Some shitty little bastards he picked up from somewhere. I can handle them.”

“Uh-huh,” Bavidge is saying now.

Holmes doesn’t want to talk about it. Probably wouldn’t have told Patterson at all if it wasn’t for Norah. Doesn’t want to admit that he got battered by a couple of kids. The big bad bastard, bloodied and beaten. It wounds his pride. A lot of thugs live off their pride because they have nothing else. Proud and stupid. He’s a hell of a new employee to have on board. There’s a few seconds of silence, before Norah decides to stamp on it.

“Smashed their way in through the front door. The front door. Jim challenged them. One of them came up the stairs, got into a fight with him. Threw Jim down the stairs. Top to bottom. Then they started laying into him. Vicious, like animals.”

Holmes is glaring across at her, saying nothing. He ­doesn’t want her causing trouble. He knows the position he’s in. Screwed over one boss, already bothering another. Patterson doesn’t need to stand by Holmes. Could just as easy leave him out in the rain. Holmes needs to be useful, and this isn’t a good start.

Bavidge is looking round at Norah. Surprised by her disgust at the violence of the kids. She knows what her man does for a living. She’s not daft. She must know that Holmes behaves like those very same animals on a near daily basis. The only talent he’s known to have. Yet she seems repulsed by them.

“Billy Patterson said he would protect us,” Norah is saying. “Said we’d be looked after. Well, a fine fucking job he did of that, uh? Where were you?”

“Norah,” Holmes is saying loudly, then groaning and tipping his head back again.

“Well, where were you? Where were you when Jim was bouncing down the stairs? When I was confronted by those kids in my dressing gown? They could have killed us. We could be dead now. What sort of protection is that?”

Bavidge is waiting a second. Let her vent. Let her have her moment, she’s not at fault here. Then tell her the truth. “You will get protection. What you won’t get is a fucking babysitter. You’re not important enough. You’re not in enough danger. You got to earn that sort of protection. All your man has done for us so far is wake me up. When he’s done something more useful, you’ll get more in return from us. Until then, the best we can do is make sure there’s punishment. Did either of you see them?”

Holmes knows enough about the business to know that Bavidge is close to Patterson. Not just some muscle, but a senior man. Right-hand man, maybe. You piss off Bavidge and you piss off Patterson. That’s the way it works. Tell him what he wants to know.

“I saw them. Couple of kids,” Holmes is saying quietly. “They didn’t even cover their faces. No weapon. Didn’t even have a car, Norah reckons.”

Norah’s nodding. “They walked to the bottom of the street. If they had a car, it was round the corner.” She’s talking quietly now too. Catching Holmes’s mood. Bavidge’s authority has subdued them both.

“Couple of first-timers, I reckon,” Holmes is saying. “One of them was tall, over six feet. Skinny-looking, sort of light-brown, blond hair. Looked about twelve in the face, but he’d be a teenager, early twenties. That’s the one that threw me down the stairs. Other one was shorter, darker hair. Never seen either of them before. They weren’t working for Marty a week ago, I know that. Probably not in the business. New blood.”

Bavidge is nodding. It’s as much of a description as Holmes can give. Seems like he spent most of their visit rolling down the stairs. Should be grateful he can manage this much. Just need to find a couple of kids that have recently started working for Marty. Not impossible, but he does hire and fire a lot. All the kids go to him first. He has the recruitment tool of throwing parties with whores and drugs. It works.

“You going to be okay?” he’s asking Holmes.

Holmes is nodding very slowly. “Don’t think anything’s broken. Nose is burst. Sore guts. That’s where they kicked me. I’ll live.”

Bavidge is nodding. He hates these situations. People looking to him for leadership, just because he’s close to the boss. He’s not a leader. Doesn’t want to be, anyway. “We’ll find out who it was. We’ll do something about it. Billy will be in touch soon about work. We’ll try and sort this out so that Marty isn’t a problem anymore.”

A grunt from Holmes, nothing from his woman. Bavidge is leaving the house, happy to get out. One of those disgruntled neighbors might have phoned the police the minute they got back in the house. Doubtful. Wouldn’t risk the wrath of Norah Faulkner. Just glad to be out of that atmosphere of stupidity and entitlement. Back into the car and driving away.

There’s a feeling he gets. Like a weight, pushing him down. Like it’s all basically pointless, and it’s all going to end badly anyway.

3

Out the front it’s all locked up. You wouldn’t think a soul was alive in the place. Glass is starting to have his doubts. The Heavenly nightclub. A large front entrance, shabby trying to look grand. Its dim name in lights. Glass and Peterkinney are walking past. They were told to go in a side door by Marty. They were told that side door would be open. Glass is leading the way round the corner and onto a narrow street where the side door is waiting. Hopefully unlocked.

“Hey,” Peterkinney’s saying. “Take off that jumper; we’ll put them in the bin there. Come on.”

Glass is staring at him, watching Peterkinney pull his sweater over his head. “Chuck them? The hell would I chuck this for? Cost me forty quid, this. It’s a good top.”

“People saw us. We were wearing these tops. The police will be looking for them. It’s what people will remember about us. We need to get rid of them. If we go in there wearing the same clothes we used at the scene of a crime, what’s Marty going to say? Us leading the police right to him?”

Glass is nodding. He suspects, wrongly, that Marty wouldn’t say a word. Wouldn’t much care. He suspects that if it didn’t occur to him, it wouldn’t occur to Marty. But it’s a good point, so he’s looking around to make sure no one can see him, and he’s taking the top off. Something else to mention to Marty. How they sacrificed decent clothing to do a decent job. That might impress. Might even get them a little more money. Now that is naive.

Peterkinney was wearing a dark-green shirt underneath his top. Glass was wearing a black T-shirt, which is hardly appropriate attire for the company they hope to keep tonight. If Marty has a problem with it he’ll just have to find a spare shirt. He was the one who sent them on the job. Promised them an invite to the private party in the club as a reward for a job well done. The job was done and done well. Now the reward.

Once the tops are stuffed into the black wheelie bin on the street, Peterkinney’s dropping back. Let Glass lead the way. He’s the one that this matters to. He knows Marty, or thinks he does. He’s the one with dreams of working for the man. Glass is pushing open the side door, stopping and turning as it opens. Looking at Peterkinney with a smile. They can both hear the music. Not too loud, but a thumping background beat. The welcoming sound of a waiting party.

“You hear that,” Glass is saying. “That’s our reward, man, that’s what it was all for.” Giddy excitement in his voice. The reward he’s always imagined but never seen.

Glass is walking in. Standing in the corridor as Peterkinney pulls the door shut behind them. Glass is itching to get to the party, but business first. Doesn’t matter how good the reward is, business first. Glass is leading the way along the corridor, clapping his hands together. All kinds of adrenaline at work. Peterkinney behind him, sauntering along with hands in pockets. No need to feel giddy when it’s not your ambition being realized.

Glass stopping outside the door of the manager’s office. Knocking twice. Thinking there’s no guarantee that Marty will be in there. He might be on the dance floor like any sensible person. Peterkinney is guessing different. This won’t be a party to Marty. This will be work, and work will keep him in the office.

“In.” A loud shout, making itself heard over the music.

Glass opens the door, steps inside. It’s a small office. A grotty little place, in fact. It was painted once, but only once. There are scuff marks on the wall, little blobs of Blu-Tack that once held up posters. At a glance, Peterkinney can see little holes where something was once screwed into the wall. Probably a shelf that was removed for daring to take up so much space in this dingy little office.

A small desk under a small window, facing the door. Adam Jones is sitting behind the desk, staring back at them. Manager of the club, twin brother of Marty. He lacks Marty’s charisma, Marty’s ability to spot a good opportunity. Adam ain’t dumb, he just ain’t Marty. Marty, prone though he is to occasional misguided outbursts of ambition and emotion, is sharp. Not well educated. Not book smart. Just the kind of sharp you have to be to make it in this business. This revenge attack on Holmes would fall into the emotional category.

Marty’s sitting on the only other chair in the room, to the right of his brother’s desk. There’s a relaxed smile on his face that his brother hasn’t thought to replicate. Sharp, you see. Pretending that all is well and nothing can ever go wrong. It spreads confidence to these kids. The smile is false. Three girls didn’t turn up for the party, which has left him short-staffed. This Holmes thing has the potential to be trouble if Billy Patterson can show off that he’s gotten the better of Marty. There’s a lot to hide behind that cocky grin.

“Fellows,” Marty’s saying, looking to disguise the fact that he can’t remember their names. So many young men come and go. You use them; you throw them away when you’re done. Bad idea to keep them on too long. Not unless they’re specialists. You keep muscle because you need men that have a reputation to do your collecting. Kids like these, doing menial stuff? Nah. Use them once or twice, then chuck them before they get complacent. Bring in the next bunch of enthusiastic young whelps that’ll do whatever you demand of them. Gratitude gives you an opportunity to exploit. It can be the difference between profit and loss.

“So how did it go?” The smile on Marty’s face suggests he already knows. Both of them have walked back in here without a scratch and the short one’s smiling proudly. They could walk in without a scratch if they hadn’t bothered doing the job, but there would be no smiles. Not unless they were good actors, and Marty’s seen too many of them over the years to be fooled.

“Went well, Marty,” Glass is saying, and wondering if he should call him Mr. Jones. But there’s two Mr. Joneses in the room. Better to differentiate. “He was at the house, like you said. We had to smash the door to get in, but we got in. Then we delivered the message.” Saying it with an enthusiastic nod. Trying to sound casually tough.

Marty seems pleased, but there’s more he needs to know. You hang around with big players like Peter Jamieson and you learn that detail is king. Marty doesn’t know that Glass has skimped on the detail because he’d be embarrassed to tell about Holmes being in his boxers. Doesn’t seem like a fair fight, when you tell the story that way. Almost makes Holmes sound harmless. Like he was the victim here. Marty doesn’t care. Wouldn’t care if Holmes was chained upside down to a wall when they got there, naked as the day he was born. He wants to know that the message was properly delivered.

“Tell me what happened. Details, boys, details.” Marty’s sitting back in his chair, looking up at them with that plastic grin. His brother looks depressed, but that seems to be a default setting. The look of the spare wheel.

“We had to smash the door in, like I said,” Glass is saying with a nod. “Searched downstairs but he wasn’t there. Then he came to the top of the stairs. Oliver went up the stairs. Holmes threw himself at Oliver, Oliver dodged. Holmes fell over. Oliver kicked him down the stairs. Bounced right down. We gave him a couple of kicks at the bottom. Told him it was from you. Ma