Dumfries (46 page)

“Aye, ye may laugh, Father, bit clocking that Johnboy Taylor wan and that side-kick ae his, Silent, running aboot the toon centre, daeing Billy Whizz and The Flash impersonations, like something oot ae they DC comics, made ye seasick, jist watching the pair ae them,” Hugh Pelly sniggered.

  “How the fuck…er…sorry, Father…Johnboy managed tae make any money wae somewan like Silent in tow, is a bloody mystery tae me.  It jist shows ye that ye cannae judge a book by its cover.”

  “That’s why Silent’s The Mankys’ secret weapon, so it is.  There’s mair tae that blond yin than they’re letting oan.  How else wid they allow somewan like him tae run aboot wae them?”

  “Well, whitever it is, they’re the knobs that hiv the right connections fur the toon centre.  Somewan…somewhere…is gieing them a wee haun up, so they ur.  If they wurnae, they widnae be sitting here taking the piss oot ae Napoleon The Boar.”

“Whit dae ye think yersel, Father?  Dae ye think there’s mair tae Silent Smith, other than no hivving much tae say aboot life in general?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure of that, Hugh,” Father Leonard replied, no fur the first time wondering whether his group wur deliberately ignoring the task in haun and wondering whit the reaction fae Chief Baker wis gonnae be when they didnae come up wae any answers oan whit they’d take tae a tropical island wae them.

  “So, we’ve goat a tent and a saw.  Whit else?”

  “How aboot a torch?”

  “A pack ae cards, keeping in mind it wid be boring at nights, so it wid.”

  “Nice wan,” The Tormentor said, impressed, nodding tae himsel…ignoring being ignored by the group.

  “A torch?  Ur we aw okay aboot taking a torch wae us?” Paul Morrison asked them, getting nods ae agreement back.

  “Yes!” The Tormentor muttered under his breath, smiling and writing doon the answer, obviously chuffed that his group wur oan tae a winner, as the YOs continued tae ignore him by looking aboot tae see how the other groups wur daeing.

  “Don’t fucking talk tae me like that ya cheeky wee gnome, ye,” The Chief growled at Wee Mick McGeachy.

  “Well, fucking butt oot and stoap spoiling it fur us.  How the fuck you goat the job in the first place wae the shite ye’re suggesting, Ah don’t know.”

  “Christ, the other wans getting interviewed must’ve been Sad Sack material if they gied you the job,” Henry Sinclair fae Kinning Park scoffed.

  “Right, boys, listen up.  Five minutes!  Five minutes!” The Chief shouted as he stood up, looking at his wristwatch.

  “Triumph GT6 MK3s ur okay if ye want tae get oan yer bike pretty pronto, bit speed isnae everything.  Ye need a big tank in the first place. The main thing is tae nip back tae where ye know the lay ae the land is.  Fuck, how many times his Sloppy Joe took oan they bizzies and whipped their arses in their big fancy jam sandwiches oan wheels, eh?  Took them tae the cleaners, every time, withoot breaking sweat in amongst the hoosing scheme.”

  “Aye, bit that’s why two sets ae wheels ur the answer.  Wan tae dae the damage and wan tae rip roond they wee streets and crescents.”

  “Boys, boys, Ah’m sorry, bit hiv ye forgotten the task in haun here?” Dickheid reminded them.

  “Did you jist open yer gub and say something, Peter?” Mick Grant asked, as the boys in the group laughed.

  “Ah wis jist saying…Christ, ye’ve only goat aboot two minutes tae go,” Dickheid persisted.

  “Wan Minute!” The Chief shouted.

  “Right, hiv we aw come up wae oor answers then?” Tony asked, looking at Johnboy, Snappy and Silent.

  “Right, whit hiv we goat?” Mick Grant asked the Barlanark crew.

  “Okay, fire away,” Neil McKinnon, fae Carntyne, said tae the YOs in Father Leonard’s group.

  “Right!  Ah’ve jist aboot hid it up tae here wae you, ya wee ugly retard!  Mr Dick? Put that cheeky wee basturt oan report,” The Chief bawled.

  “Me?  Whit the fuck hiv Ah done?” Wee Mick McGeachy demanded.

  “Cheek and insolence tae start wae!”

  “Cheek and insolence?  Fuck you, ya pig-faced wanker, ye!” the YO screeched, kicking a chair away fae the front ae himsel, heiding towards the door wae Dickheid scurrying behind him, tae catch up.

  “Right, the rest ae youse, line up and nae chatting.  Ah knew this wis a bloody bad idea and a complete waste ae ma time.  C’mone, ye heard me, dib, dib!” The Chief shouted, sending spit in aw directions, as the smiling YOs started tae line up o’er by the door.

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

Police are searching for a gang of young thugs who attacked and slashed two men as they stood at a bus stop on Paisley Road West last night…

  A police officer was said to be in a stable condition in The Royal Infirmary after being set upon by a large gang of youths on Cowcaddens Road late last night.  Superintendent Daddy Jackson from Central condemned those responsible and has appealed for witnesses to the vicious assault to contact…

  Glasgow is the official murder capital of Western Europe, it was confirmed this morning, as figures show a thirty percent increase in murders in the city compared to the same period last year…

A new tourist initiative has been launched to attract foreign visitors to Glasgow, highlighting the city’s West End architecture…

Firemen spent over fifteen hours attempting to contain a fire in a warehouse in Anderston overnight.  It is thought the fire was started deliberately…

Police have arrested and charged a number of women in Springburn after a warrant sale turned ugly and police and sheriff officers were attacked whilst attempting to protect buyers and traders who turned up at a household furniture sale in Gourlay Street.  A report has been sent to the procurator fiscal…

  A significant increase in the number of licensed premises in Great Western Road applying for extensions to their opening times at the weekends, has taken councillors by surprise.  Arguing against the applications at today’s licencing committee, Chairman, Councillor Ron Smart, argued that granting the extension to licenced premises would be encouraging the mystery driver of a racing car that has been causing chaos on Friday and Saturday nights, bringing people out onto the streets of Great Western Road at the weekends in anticipation of spotting the driver, the public have nicknamed, The Silver Arrow…

  Two nurses have been assaulted in Glasgow Royal Infirmary’s Casualty department as they attended to a drunk driver who had been admitted earlier in the evening after crashing his car into a lamppost in Tollcross…”

Chapter Forty Two

It wis inevitable that they’d be spotted.  It hidnae helped that Bumper hid been like a walking, talking, parrot, reminding him ae that fact every five bloody minutes.

  “We’ll be clocked.  Ah’ll gie us nae mair than ten minutes flat, and Daddy’ll be oan tae us like a rash, so he will.  You kin dae the talking. Ma alibi is that Ah’m jist here tae keep ye company, so Ah am.”

  Bumper’s whining hid been incessant.  The Stalker knew that it wid be risky, bit whit choice did they hiv?  He wis surprised that it hid taken Daddy Jackson, The Superintendent doon in Central, so long tae come and nip them in the bud.  Maybe he’d awready goat wind ae whit they wur up tae and wis jist letting them get oan wae it, until he goat fed up waiting fur them tae catch up wae their man, Wee Eck Thomas…that dirty, wee, conniving, shifty basturt, that widnae pish oan ye if ye wur oan fire.  Even though he wis noo making good money, running The Big Man’s newly acquired scrap yard up in Lambhill, the wee cretin wid still break intae yer auld granny’s gas meter if he thought he could get away wae it.  The only problem fur The Stalker wis that the wee fucker hid gone AWOL, or as Bumper put it…missing in action.  The Stalker hid put the word oot…surreptitiously, of course.  He hid The Gruesome Twosome ae Dave McGovern and Shane Priestly, the two sergeants fae across in Possil, scouting aboot the pubs across there, as well as up in Balmore, High Possil, Lambhill and Milton.  They might hiv a bit ae a reputation fur being nasty fuckers, bit they wur good boys.  If Wee Eck wis oan the go up in that part ae the toon, then they wur the wans tae sniff him oot.  Up in Burmulloch and Balornock, he hid wan ae his ain sergeants, Fitz Kennedy, or The Bushwhacker, as he wis known oan the streets, scouring the boozers up there.  In Springburn itsel, the local pavement pounders wur working in pairs oan opposite shifts.  Biscuit Smith and Froggie Shearer wur taking it in turns wae Bob Hope and Spencer Glory, tae sit ootside or tae turn up at Springburn pubs known fur late night lock-ins, in search ae the shifty, wee sleekit basturt.  The night before, they’d checked oot Bauldy Banes, The Caley, The Cawder Vaults, Clarks, and The Vulcan, paying particular attention tae The Railway Tavern or The Bottom Shoap, as everywan called it and The Highland Fling doon oan Cowlairs Road.  He knew Hope and Glory wur gonnae be turning up at The Stag Inn, Bells, The Eureka, The Morven and The Victoria Bar later oan that night.  Bumpers assertion ae Wee Eck Thomas being missing in action, wis noo starting tae germinate intae reality, in the back ae The Stalker’s mind.  The main chat amongst the lads in the canteen wis aboot the amount ae drinking dens there wur in Springburn, something nowan hid really ever thought aboot.  They wur jist always there and there wis nae reason tae sit and coont them.  Bumper reckoned there must’ve been aboot fifty aw in.  The Stalker shut his eyes and sighed. He hidnae been sleeping much since that wee chat wae Haufwit Murray, before he’d croaked it, up in Stobhill.  He’d spoken tae Biscuit and Froggie Shearer jist before they finished their shift the night before.  Biscuit hid the start ae a swollen eye where some wee Ned hid put wan oan him before Froggie hid split the wee fucker’s heid wide open wae that baton ae his.  The Stalker wisnae surprised tae learn earlier that the wee puncher hid been kept in up in Stobhill wae a fractured skull fur his trouble.  Well, he’ll maybe think twice in the future before assaulting a bizzy oan duty, The Stalker thought tae himsel, glancing alang the corridor tae where Peggy McAvoy, Daddy’s typist, wis sitting clacking away at her typewriter.  He wondered whit wis wrang wae her.  Blonde, early tae mid-thirties, quite tidy, wae a nice pair ae paps trying tae burst oot ae her blue uniformed shirt oan either side ae her black tie.  There wis jist something aboot a wummin in a uniform, he thought tae himsel.  She used tae drive Big Liam Thompson…the sergeant that Johnboy Taylor hid blasted in the bank up in Maryhill Road…crazy, back in the days when she worked under Sean Smith, the superintendent who’d committed suicide in Central, back in the sixties.  He knew hauf the uniformed boys in the city hid been trying tae get intae her pants since the mid-sixties, bit she wis still Miss McAvoy…the blond yin wae the nice tits.  He’d clocked that there wis still nae ring oan that finger ae hers when he’d presented himsel in front ae her desk.

  “Jist take a seat oan the chair, alang the corridor, ootside his office and Ah’ll let him know ye’re here, Inspector,” she’d pouted, picking up the phone, bit no talking intae the receiver until he wis well oot ae earshot. 

  He knew he wis walking oan thin ice.  That’s whit hid been making Bumper nervous, especially efter the last carry-oan when he goat his sudden promotion, efter contradicting everywan and their dug by putting Tam Simpson’s killing at the feet ae Tony Gucci and his Manky Mob.  It hid been nearly four months since he’d hid his wee chat wae Haufwit up in Stobhill and three and a hauf months since he’d last hid Wee Eck Thomas’s baws crushed in the palm ae his right haun.  He’d decided that he’d wait and see whit Daddy wid come up wae before he spilt the beans and confessed whit he’d picked up oan his travels.  Even though Glesga hid nearly a million people living and dying in it, it wis still a village as far as the gossip mongers wur concerned.  The buzzer oan the door startled him.  He never saw the wee red light above the door change tae green.  He stood up and took a deep breath before stepping forward and turning the haundle.  Jist before he disappeared through it, he glanced alang the corridor tae Peggy and they nice paps ae hers.  He hidnae realised she’d stoapped typing and wis sitting, staring silently in his direction, wae whit looked tae him like pity in her eyes.  He wondered whit her response wid be, if he aboot-turned and strolled back alang the corridor tae her desk, and asked her if she fancied gaun oot oan a date wae him? Or, maybe that distant look ae hers wis the same expression a condemned man could expect fae the priest, jist before he crashed through the trap door.

  “Aye, ye’ve arrived, Paddy.  Take a seat,” Daddy growled, nodding tae the hard-arsed chair in front ae his desk.

  “Ye wanted tae speak tae me?” The Stalker asked, forcing himsel no tae look away fae the blue watery piercing eyes that wur drilling intae his.

  “Aye, Ah dae,” Daddy muttered slowly and thoughtfully, eyes no wavering.

  “Ah see that wee blond thing alang the corridor still isnae hitched yet.  Anything Ah should know aboot?” he asked, trying tae keep things oan the light side.

  “Seemingly, she hates cops.”

  “Really?” The Stalker exclaimed, no expecting that wan.

  “Aye, especially lying conniving wanker wans, who cannae be trusted tae keep their heids doon and get oan wae the job, insteid ae fucking aboot, getting involved in things that shouldnae concern them,” Daddy growled accusingly, no taking they watery eyes ae his aff ae The Stalker’s face.

  “So, Ah’m in wae a shout then?” The Stalker replied, breaking the eyeball tae eyeball first, and looking aboot the office. 

  Apart fae a few personal photos ae whit looked like Daddy’s grandweans and a photo ae Daddy receiving some commendation fae a smiling Teddy Taylor, wan ae the local hang-em and flog-em MP merchants in the toon, nothing hid changed fae Sean Smith’s day, back in the sixties.  He peered closely at the wall jist tae the right ae Daddy tae see if he could detect any sign ae the bullet hole fae where Sean hid blown his brains oot efter The Big Man hid set him up.  Pat Molloy hid passed oan a brick-thick file oan polis and Corporation cooncillor corruption in the city tae The Glesga Echo, that hid set aff a tidal wave that hid engulfed everywan above the rank ae sergeant in the Central, North and parts ae the West ae the city.

  “So Paddy, whit’s happening up in sunny Springburn then?” Daddy asked him, leaning back and resting his hauns behind his neck.

  “Jist the usual murder, mayhem and madness, wae a few wee interesting ditties slung in noo and again tae keep the troops amused.”

  “And?”

  “And whit?”

  “And why wur you and that big lump, Bumper O’Callaghan, clocked gaun intae The Lyndella, The CA’DORO in Union Street and The Alhambra Inn, doon in Wellington Street last week, making oot that youse wurnae looking fur somewan?  Anything Ah should know aboot?”

  “Christ, ye cannae go fur a shite in this city withoot somewan wanting tae know if ye’ve wiped yer arse,” The Stalker cursed.  “Ah never knew it wis a crime fur officers tae go oot oan a wee pub crawl in the toon nooadays when they wur aff duty.”

  “Paddy, don’t gie’s that shite.  It’s me ye’re talking tae…remember?”

  “Whit ur ye wanting me tae say?”

  “Ah want ye tae tell me why the baith ae youse then split up last Saturday night tae go oan another pub crawl, this time oan yer lonesomes, before the baith ae youse ended up putting the squeeze on the doorman at Clouds, looking fur Wee Eck Thomas?  Youse then spent the rest ae the night huddled in the far corner ae The Chez Gordon in Royal Exchange Square looking like a couple ae harry-hoofters oot oan a first date.  Maybe Ah should put a wee word in wae Peggy fur ye efter aw,” Daddy scowled, swatting a buzzing fly away fae that face ae his.

  “It’s jist a hunch Bumper hid.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, how aboot sharing the hunch.  Ye know whit Quasimodo said tae Esmeralda…if Ah could share this wae anywan, darling, then you’d be the first in line.”

  The Stalker took a deep breath and went oan tae explain his nocturnal visit up tae see Haufwit at Stobhill, the night he’d croaked it.  He telt Daddy how him and Bumper hid put two and two thegither and goat a grip ae Wee Eck Thomas tae try and get some corroboration oan whit Haufwit hid said.  It hid soon become obvious that Wee Eck wis behind hivving Haufwit killed, efter realising his mistake ae telling him too much info wan night when they wur oan a binge drinking session thegither.

  “And did he?”

  “Whit?”

  “Corroborate whit this haufwit, Haufwit said tae ye?”

  “Well, maist ae it, he did.  Keep in mind, it wis hard tae make oot whit Haufwit wis mumbling aboot.  It wis aw coming oot in a jumble ae words.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “Whit dae ye mean nothing?”

  “Ah mean, Haufwit wis deid by this time.  Wee Eck, wae a bit ae encouragement, basically confirmed whit some ae us always knew in that Gucci’s wee manky crowd hid set Tam Simpson up.”

  “He didnae mention Simon Pawlak, the plasterer guy fae Huxley Street across in Ruchill, by any chance, did he?”

  “Pawlak?”

  “Python Lee Jackson…Possil’s answer tae Rod Stewart…who ended up dumped in a cellar in the auld Firhill Iron Works up in Ruchill efter being drooned in a hoose somewhere?” Daddy asked him hopefully, ignoring the dig.

  “Aw, him?  Ach, only tae confirm that the actual snuffing oot certainly wisnae done by any ae Wan-bob’s crowd.  Ah’ve since picked up that maist people think that by getting shot ae Python Lee, it wid act as a warning tae any ae the other local showbiz crowd aboot whit wid happen tae them, if they crossed the line, or in Python Lee’s case, the Clyde, tae play in any ae The McGregor’s joints.”

  “The post mortem said that it wis tap water that he droont in.  Ah’d hardly say the water oot ae the Clyde wid fit that description,” Daddy reminded him, wondering whit The Stalker wisnae telling him.

  “It’s weird though…Haufwit mentioned somewan called the silent wan, or the quiet wan.  He also mentioned the youngest ae the Simpson brothers.”

  “Oh?”

“Wur ye aware that the youngest ae The Simpson clan, Toffee, wis hiding oot in Python Lee’s flat across in Huxley Street efter he goat oot ae Polmont in February 1972?”

  “And yer point is?”

  “Toffee allegedly stabbed wan ae the Mankys, Silent Smith…The Mute…when they wur baith in borstal at the tail-end ae seventy wan.  It wis quite serious.  Smith spent a week in Falkirk Royal Infirmary wae a punctured lung.”

  “Ye’re no suggesting yer wee angels wae dirty faces wur behind Python Lee’s demise, ur ye?”

  “If it hid been an internal dispute, Wee Eck said that he wid’ve probably picked up oan it.  He claimed that he wisnae too sure who wid’ve done the actual damage, bit thought it highly unlikely that Wan-bob wid’ve goat wan ae his ain boys tae get shot ae him, seeing as Python Lee wis part ae Frankie MacDonald’s stable ae entertainers. Everywan knows fine well that Frankie MacDonald is jist the front man fur the Top Stars Entertainment Agency and that he’s only goat aboot a twenty five percent stake in the business…the other seventy-five being owned by The Big Man.  Ah spoke tae a few pub crooners efter ye’d put oot the word fur us tae see if we could find oot anything oan the ground.  Like Ah’ve jist said, they assumed that it wis Wan-bob’s way ae saying that if this is whit happens tae wan ae Top Stars’ big money earners, jist think whit wid happen tae anywan who fucks them aboot by moonlighting across the river.”

  “Ah’m sorry, bit ye’re starting tae confuse me here. Whit exactly is it that ye’re hinting at, Paddy?”

  Silence.

  “Look, Ah’m no gonnae hiv a go at ye.  Jist spit it oot, fur Christ’s sake.”

  “Right, well, jist remember that. Here ye go. Very few people wid’ve known that Python Lee hid terminal lung cancer, probably caused by aw they years ae floating aboot in amongst aw that plasterer’s dust and smoky bars and social clubs. Surely he wid’ve telt Frankie McDonald, who wis his manager and the main man that goat Python Lee aw his future bookings.”