sections by lines of white railings. All the tout booths were shuttered, and an old man with a broom was waging war against drifts of damp ticket stubs. It didn t look as if he was winning.
The Westing s track was a flat-sided oval of sandy brown, with a big swathe of grass in the middle. Crumbling wooden stands wrapped around the rest of the course, gaping holes in their corrugated metal roofs, chains blocking them off from the main building.
Andy Inglis s Range Rover was parked in the middle of the grass, glistening deep-blue in the low sunlight.
I stopped. You sent someone round to my house.
Mrs Kerrigan walked on a couple of steps, then turned, smiled.
And let me guess, yez are wantin to apologize for lettin yer foul mouth run away with yez on the phone the other night?
You sent someone round to cripple me.
Did I now?
You wrecked my house.
There s a reason a man pays his debts, Constable Henderson.
You got Joseph and Francis to beat the crap out of Susanne.
A man pays his debts so he can keep himself and his loved ones free from reprisals.
I pulled my hand from my jacket.
Her eyes darted down to what I was holding, then back up again. She licked her lips. That what I think it is?
I gave her the envelope. Fifteen grand. You ll get the other four in a couple of weeks.
She ripped it open and flicked through the bills. Two and a half thousand from Little Mike s pawn shop, twelve from flogging Ethan s Mercedes, and five hundred from the grand and a bit he d had hidden under the desk in his study. Leaving six hundred for me. Enough to pay for Katie s birthday party, pony trekking, and a nice present.
Mrs Kerrigan stuffed the notes back into the envelope, then the envelope into her pocket. You mean the other six.
Four. It was nineteen grand, not
Dry yer arse, Constable Henderson: that was before ye decided to miss yer repayments. Now it s twenty-one thousand, all in, with interest.
Do it. Walk right up to her right now and blow a hole in her head big enough to shit through. Take out the gun and fucking do it.
I took a step closer.
She smiled. Last time we had a wee chat with yer girlfriend. Want us to have one with yer missus and kid?
Listen up, Mrs Kerrigan, and pin your lugs back because this is the only warning you re getting
Who the feck do yez think yer talkin
Her mouth fell open, eyes wide.
I rested the barrel of the Beretta against her forehead. In case you re wondering: it s French, there s no safety.
She shut her mouth, licked her teeth.
Your one and only warning. You ever go anywhere near Katie or Michelle, I m coming after you. There won t be any sirens, there won t be any uniforms there ll be me, and you, and a shallow grave in Moncuir Wood. And it ll take a long, long time. Do you understand?
A pause. Yes.
Fuck with my family and I ll make you beg for it.
I said I understand. Now put that thing away before you get hurt. She backed up, turned, and whub-wheeked towards Andy Inglis s Range Rover. And it s still six thousand.
The big double gates on the other side of the racetrack swung open and an ancient-looking Ford Capri rattled and banged to a halt just inside. A big man in a parka jacket followed it in, then hauled the gates shut again with a muffled clang. He dragged a figure out of the car s boot: a young man, dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, hands behind his back, as if they were tied together.
T-Shirt struggled to his feet. Parka Jacket slammed a punch into his kidneys and he went down again. Then Parka Jacket grabbed a handful of the kid s hair and dragged him across the track, and onto the grass making for the Range Rover. The kid s legs kicking out behind him. Not so much as a scream.
I slipped the gun back in my pocket and marched after Mrs Kerrigan.
Ash, you old bastardo. Andy Inglis stuck his hand out. Five foot four, broad shoulders, short arms, Glaswegian accent, and a collar-length sweep of grey hair surrounding a little freckly bald crown. He was wearing a double- breasted suit in a dark-blue pinstripe: playing up to the image. How s it going?
His handshake was like a car crusher, making my knuckles scream.
I gritted my teeth and forced a smile, keeping my eyes on Mr Inglis. Not looking at Parka Jacket kicking the living shite out of the young man on the grass. Can t complain: no bugger would listen.
Mr Inglis clapped his hands together and roared out a laugh, hunching his shoulders, doing a little two step, as if the ground beneath his feet was lurching. You remember that Russian? What was his name, Mikhail Massivesonofabitchovitch? Fists like shovels?
The young man had duct tape over his mouth which explained the silence tears and blood running down his angular face, grunting every time Parka Jacket slammed another boot into his stomach, ribs, thighs, and back. He was razor-thin, with straggly brown hair and Keith Richard dreadlocks.
Thirteen rounds! Mr Inglis beamed. Man, that was a beautiful fight.
Parka Jacket staggered back a few paces, then bent double, hands on knees, puffing, breath steaming out from inside his fur-trimmed hood.
Mr Inglis popped a couple of punches into the air. Right hook, jab, jab, then that haymaker! Wham! He shook his head.
Happy days You hear he croaked it? Three weeks after he got out of hospital, bunch of guys lost a lot of money on the big Ruskie decided to recoup their investment. Used a wood-chipper.
Lovely. Mrs Kerrigan said you wanted a word?
Man, you were something special He tilted his head on one side, eyes flicking across my face. Probably taking in the bruises and the scabbed-over scrapes. Let s see them golden hands of yours.
I held them up. Wanted to drop off a chunk of cash. I know I ve been a bit behind but
Ash, what do I keep telling you? He shook his head. Sighed. Gottae go in with your elbows, not your fists. Look at these knuckles. With your condition?
I know I m a bit behind, but
See, you use this bit. He pressed his right fist into his right shoulder and threw the elbow out, head height, fast. Caught it with the palm of his left hand with a sharp smack. No cartilage in there, no joints to break, just a nice wee slab of bone to shatter the bastard s face with He frowned. Turned. Mrs Kerrigan?
She appeared beside me without a sound, as if she ran on castors. Wellington boots in stealth mode. Mr Inglis?
He hooked a thumb at the young man bleeding into the grass.
Aye, what s the story?
This little bollox needs taught a lesson in manners. Robbin off his employers.
Parka Jacket straightened up, grinned from the depths of his fur-lined hood, then stomped on the T-Shirt s head a couple of times, grunting with the effort.
Mrs Kerrigan nodded. That should do, Timothy. Break both his legs, then yez can dump him outside Accident and Emergency.
Parka Jacket got to work.
Mr Inglis turned his back on the beating. I hear you ve had a wee problem with that house of yours in Kingsmeath. Place is all flooded and wrecked?
I stared at Mrs Kerrigan. Council says it s not fit for human habitation.
Never was, Ash. Come on: enough with the hair shirt. You got to live for the day, cos Mr Time s gonnae eat you up. He curled his hand into a fist. Squeezing the life out of the air. Man like you shouldn t be living in a shitehole
