Dumfries (42 page)

  “Ma measuring tool, ma clip…hiv any ae youse…right, never mind that.  Back tae yer machines…now!  Donald!  Hit the alarm…ma fucking bullets hiv walked,” Stafford howled.

  Everywan strolled back tae their machines as ten screws came bounding through the different doors intae the machine shoap, batons drawn, the clanging ae the alarm bells, oddly enough, complimenting the base riff ae Little Richard’s horn players.

  “Christ, Ah hope Pat hisnae fucked aboot next door wae that clip,” Tony said drily, as Johnboy, Silent, Stu and Snappy sat doon, failing tae keep big grins fae spreading across their faces, as panic-induced chaos and confusion exploded roond aboot them, as Little Richard’s fingers tore up and doon the ivories, pursued by the wailing sound ae a demented baritone saxophone, as he shouted at Lucille tae come back tae where she belonged.

  “
Good evening.  My name is John Turney and these are the news headlines in Scotland tonight.

  A young nurse has been run over and killed by a hit-and-run driver as she finished her work at Stobhill General Hospital late last night.  Twenty-year-old staff nurse, Rose Bain, was crossing Balgrayhill Road just after 11pm when the tragic incident occurred.  It’s believed that local residential car owners, who park around the hospital, have been plagued by young joy riders as this is the second such tragedy to have happened in the area in recent months.  In January, an elderly man was knocked over and killed on Belmont Road.  Two fourteen-year-old youths who stole a hospital consultant’s car, have already been charged in connection with that incident.  Police are trying to trace a black or dark blue Transit van seen driving off erratically after the incident…

  Police are investigating the disappearance of a lorry from George Bellows & Sons transport depot in Balmore industrial estate, Lambhill, early this morning.  The lorry, believed to be containing an undisclosed amount of 10-year-old Johnny Walker Black Label export malt whisky, had only arrived a few hours earlier from Johnny Walker’s bottling plant in Port Dundas Road, Cowcaddens…

  Police Traffic Superintendent John Bower has asked for the public’s help in identifying the driver of a silver racing car that has been plaguing the city’s West End in the early hours of the morning intermittingly at weekends for a few months now.  A total of seven policemen have now been taken to hospital following multiple car crashes whilst pursing the driver along Great Western Road.  Concern for the safety of the public has been growing since police have failed to stop the car or apprehend the driver…

A Castlemilk coalman, who won almost 10,000 pounds on Vernon’s Pools three months ago, has been found dead of alcohol poisoning.  Craig Robertson who…”

Chapter Thirty Nine

  The Stalker felt the plane bank tae the left, as the contents ae his stomach threatened tae end up oan the back ae the heid ae the passenger sitting in front ae him.  He grasped the ermrests firmly, supressing the urge tae jump up oot ae his seat, and run screaming doon towards the wee air hostesses who wur sitting at a forty five degree angle facing everywan wae fixed, company-issue smiles spread across their coupons, tae demand tae be let oot ae the flying coffin.  The fact that they wur coming in tae land, as opposed tae taking aff, wis whit probably saved him the embarrassment ae gieing himsel the biggest showing-up ae his life.  He opened his eyes as he felt the plane straighten oot ae its death curve and grabbed his nose wae his thumb and index finger and blew wae aw his might, relieved tae hear baith ae his ears pop like champagne corks and the pain in the left wan recede.  He couldnae understaun why the passengers roond aboot him didnae seem too concerned aboot dying, as something in the pit ae his stomach threatened tae escape through that flapping arse ae his.  His pretend nonchalance wisnae fooling the wee wean sitting across the aisle fae him who wis sitting pointing at him and laughing as the plane wance again, descended tae certain death.  He took a wee bit ae comfort fae the female yelp that came fae somewhere doon tae the right ae him, knowing it wisnae jist him that wis terrified, as the wheels hit the tarmac and the screaming ae the engines threatened tae throw him intae another uncontrolled panic.  He swore if he ever goat aff ae that plane alive, he’d never again take his life fur granted and fly again.  Noo he knew whit Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper must’ve experienced before they copped their whack in that snowy field back in the late fifties.  It took him aw his strength no tae go doon oan his hauns and knees in the hot sunshine and kiss the tar efter he pushed people aside and took the stairs two at a time, tae get his feet back oan tae terra firma.  His two weeks in the sun hid been pleasant enough, bit it hidnae been worth the stress and anxiety ae hivving tae be hermetically sealed intae a big giant Castella cigar tube fur hours oan end, wondering if every wee bump wis the start ae the plane plunging towards mother earth.  Oan the way oot he’d jist aboot shat himsel when he’d clocked bits ae the wing moving aboot.  He’d wanted tae scream tae the wee hostess lassie that there wis something wrang wae the wings and that they wur aw gonnae die, when the fat bloke beside him put his fears at ease.

  “Amazing whit technology kin dae, eh?” he’d said, thrusting his fat face forward between The Stalker and the back ae the seat in front ae him tae peer oot ae the wee windae, gieing The Stalker a birds-eye view ae his dandruff-infested skull.

  The Stalker thought he recognised wan ae the customs boys who raked through his suitcase ae dirty laundry, bit couldnae place the time and the place.  He wis even mair surprised tae see Bumper staunin oan the other side ae the barrier waiting fur him.

  “Christ’s sake, Paddy, ye look like a darkie, so ye dae.”

  “That’s because Ah’ve been sizzling that arse ae mine in amongst aw they dolly birds in Española, that’s why,” he retorted, rolling up his shirtsleeve tae gie Bumper a good swatch ae his tan under they hairy erms ae his.

  “Christ, wis it hot?”

  “Ye could’ve fried an egg aff ae the tanned arses ae aw that fraulein fanny that wis lying aboot, hauf naked, aw o’er the place, so ye could’ve.”

  “Sounds great, bit Ah’m no sure Ah’d be able tae cope wae aw that foreign muck they call food.”

  “Ye like Vestas Curry, don’t ye?”

  “Aye…”

  “Well, it’s the same thing, only worse.  Anyway, whit the hell ur you daeing here?”

  “Picking ye up tae save ye hivving tae humph yer bags wae the rest ae the cattle oan tae a bus aw the way back intae St Enoch’s Square before hivving tae get another bus up the road.”

  “Using a squad car?  Christ, ye’ll get yer baws felt if anywan finds oot.”

  “Ach, well, Ah widnae worry…the inspector’s been in Spain fur the past two weeks,” Bumper said, as he took an auld battered suitcase fae The Stalker’s haun and slung it intae the boot.

  “Whit a difference the motorway his made, especially fur aw youse international jet setters, eh?  Remember the auld road?  We’d still be sitting in Abbotsinch, scratching oor auld hee-haws jist noo, so we wid.”

  “Y’know, gaun across the Kingston Bridge always gies me the willies, so it dis, jist thinking aboot aw the stiffs that must be doon there, haudin it up,” The Stalker mused oot loud, crossing himsel, a shuddering shiver following tae emphasis his point, as the cables haudin up the bridge came in tae view.

  “Anywan that ended up doon there probably deserved it, and mair.  We might no admire the basturt, bit ye hiv tae gie The Big Man a bit ae credit.  He wis a past master at getting shot ae people oan a permanent basis who upset him, withoot any fear ae a comeback.  Wan-bob Broon jist isnae a patch oan him, when it comes tae substance or style, if ye ask me.”

  The Stalker wanted tae say something back, bit decided no tae.  Insteid, he gazed oot ae the windae at the passing warehooses oan either side ae the Clyde, wondering whit swag they contained.  He wisnae too sure if he agreed wae Bumper regarding Pat Molloy.  Substance and style wisnae whit sprung intae his heid when he thought ae that murdering basturt, laying there, soaking up the sun, in amongst aw that luxury oan the Costas.  The Stalker hid hired a wee car and hid gone fur a drive aboot Marbella, hoping tae catch a glimpse ae Pat, bit he’d been naewhere tae be seen.  He’d goat talking tae an English guy who wis a mechanic back hame in Leeds, bit who worked in the bars oot there during the summer, who pointed him in the direction ae Gangster’s Row.  When he’d driven up past the big fancy hooses wae their electric gates, he’d thought ae Pat Molloy, sitting by a pool in wan ae them, sipping his Pina Colada, wae his haun resting oan the arse ae some big-titted dolly bird, young enough tae be his granddaughter, while people like him and Fin hid tae work tae earn their daily crust.

  “So, whit’s up, Fin?”

  “Whit dae ye mean, whit’s up?  Nothing’s up.”

  “Whit’s happened while Ah’ve been away?”

“Everything’s as ye left it, apart fae a wee…whit ye wid call…a few wee discrepancies tae the grand order ae things, that probably mean nothing and ur no connected in any shape or form…if ye know whit Ah mean,” Bumper declared, indicating and moving intae the inside lane, tae exit the motorway at Coocaddens.

  “Don’t bother leaving the motorway here, Fin.  Heid up tae Castle Street and we’ll go fur a cup ae tea at The City Café.  Ah’ve no hid a decent brew fur a few weeks.  Even the tea in the airport doon in London tasted as if it hid been brewed using a flair cloth,” he said.

  “A big pot ae tea, hen,” Bumper said tae the wee waitress lassie as they took their seats.

  “It’s days ur definitely numbered,” The Stalker said wistfully, looking aboot the café and feeling the vinegar catch in his nose fae the mince pie and mushy peas being served tae the toothless auld couple oan the table opposite them.

“Aye, Ah think they call it progress.  She wis a mad bitch that Helen Taylor wan, bit she knew whit she wis talking aboot when she said they’d flatten the place.  Springburn is crawling wae men in suits and McAlpine hard hats nooadays,” Bumper sighed, taking a sip ae the strong brew.

  “Right, Fin, spit it oot,” he eventually commanded, slurping his tea and smacking they lips ae his in satisfaction, while looking at his partner ae eight years o’er the rim ae his cup.

  “Well, as Ah’ve said, it might be nothing, bit then again, ye never know.”

  “Ah’m aw ears, so Ah am.”

  “Wee Eck Thomas?”

  “Whit aboot him?”

  “He’s gaun AWOL, so he his.”

  “So?”

  “So, if ye cast yer mind back tae a wee while ago, when you and me interviewed the wee cretin in the back ae the Black Maria, tae try and obtain corroborating evidence oan whit yer pal, Haufwit, telt ye at yer bedside chat…remember?”

  “Aye, bit he only confirmed whit Haufwit said in that it wis Charlie Hastie that done the damage tae Toby Simpson and Bootsy Bell in Bob Montieth’s front office, before Shaun Murphy transported them, and later oan, Blaster Mackay, across tae the Coocaddens tae hiv them finished aff.  Noo, disappointingly fur us, fur whitever reason, bit probably through fear, the wee wanker refused tae confirm whether it wis Helen Taylor’s boy that done in Shaun Murphy.  Thinking back, we should maybe hiv taken the skin fae that arse ae his, bit there wis nae way he wis gonnae sign anything that wid’ve stood up in court, especially efter you’d finished wae him.”

  “The chicken farmer?  Remember him?”

  “Aye, auld McPherson…runs a farm jist ootside Alexandra.  Whit aboot him?”

  “Well, he’s pan-breid noo, so he is.  Died in a hoose fire at his remote farmhoose in rural Dunbartonshire, the day ye left tae go oan holiday.  Smoking in bed, hivving been known fur setting himsel and that missus ae his oan fire in the past…apparently.”

  “So?”

  “So, then there’s yer doctor pal, Dr Walsh?”

  “Don’t tell me…” The Stalker said o’er the rim ae the cup.

  “Committed Hari-kari…apparently.  He wis found by his cleaner last week.  When she opened the front door in the morning, she wis confronted by him hinging fae the balustrade ae his staircase in the hall ae that big fancy hoose ae his across in Pollok. The boys across in the south side couldnae get a word oot ae her fur days, she wis that traumatised.  There wis a wee mention ae it in the papers and oan the news wan night last week, bit some fancy big wedding attended by the Queen grabbed aw the heidlines.  Whit the news didnae say wis that when they cut him doon, his wrists and ankles hid rope burns oan them and his arse and back wur in shreds, suggesting somewan hid flogged the fuck oot ae him. 

  “Ach, well, nothing oot ae the ordinary there then, wis there?  Whit a state he wis in when Ah cut him loose fae the bed efter Big Bella McPhail wis finished wae him when we busted her place last year.”

  “Aye, well, they busted her again in the efternoon, the same day they found him. He’d a book ae matches oan him that hid Bella’s phone number written oan the inside flap.  Her and some ae the other lassies, as well as a few ae their clients, in exchange fur being let aff, confirmed that yer doctor pal hid been in the night before.  A taxi hid picked him up at ten past eleven and drapped him aff aboot twenty tae twelve across in his hoose in Pollok.  Everywan said he wis as pished as a fart and could hardly staun up.”

  “And the taxi driver?”

  “Seemed clean enough.  No known connections. They did a background check and nothing came up.  The taxi company recorded the time ae receiving the call fae Bella’s at quarter past eleven, yet everywan is adamant he left jist before eleven.”

  “And the taxi company?”

  “Independent.  No allowed tae stoap fur punters in the street.  Telephone calls and pre-bookings only.  Nothing that wid staun up in court, bit definitely wan ae The Big Man’s ootfits.  Oh, and another thing, yer doctor pal wisnae working up in Stobhill any mair.  He’d been shifted across tae The Western Infirmary since ye last spoke tae him.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “Naw, moving aboot is seemingly normal fur practicing doctors.  Something aboot developing their practice, towards becoming a consultant.”

  “Right, well, let me see whit Ah think ye’ve come up wae here, Fin,” The Stalker said, haudin oot his left haun, fingers splayed, index finger oan his right wan poised at the ready above the index oan his left.  “We’ve goat a wee nasty reprobate, who is definitely a member ae Wan-bob Broon’s team, who’s gone missing.  An auld farmer, probably wan amongst hundreds, that supplies chickens tae a company probably owned by The Big man, like Rob Roy’s Poultry oot in Kirkintilloch, who his set himsel alight fur the umpteenth time.  A kinky doctor that likes that bare arse ae his being thrashed by a big wummin fae Patrick who phoned a taxi tae take him hame efter a good night’s thrashing…a taxi company probably owned by the same gangster that probably owns the brothel,” he added, finishing oan his pinkie.  “Ah’m sorry, Fin, bit if Ah wis due up in court in the morning and Ah hid Stuart McKenzie or Stephen Charles as ma QC, Ah don’t think Ah’d be losing too much sleep the night because ae whit ye’ve jist rattled aff.”

  “Aye, well, read this.  This will maybe encourage ye tae explore whit Ah’ve jist said a wee bit mair closely,” Fin volunteered, sliding his haun intae his jaicket before laying doon a folded-up copy ae the early edition ae that day’s Evening Citizen, folded o’er oan page seven.

  The Stalker read it in silence and felt his sphincter snap.

  “How do we know it’s the same wee lippy thing that Ah spoke tae?” he croaked.

  “Ah spoke tae Big John Robertson up at Bishopbriggs while Ah wis drapping aff some wee Ned at the station there, jist before Ah came across tae get ye fae the airport.  He’s the investigating officer.  When he clocked me, he said he’d been planning tae gie me a shout as he wanted tae find oot who aw the wee car thieves wur in oor neck ae the woods.  He let me hiv a look at whit he hid so far, which wis fuck aw, fae whit Ah could fathom oot.  Anyway, whit he did hiv wis the staff rota fur the ward that the wee nurse worked covering the past three months, which included the family support room, where ye met that haufwit, Haufwit.  Seemingly, there wur three members ae staff…aw nurses…oan the nightshift that night, excluding the sister in charge and yer kinky doctor pal.  Oot ae the three ae them, wan wis thirty two, another thirty eight, and the wan that wis knocked doon last night, who wis twenty.  Did ye no tell me that the lippy wee nurse who threw ye oot wis a young whipper-snapper?”