Random (9 page)

Package posted, I turned around and drove to work.

I did all that with the utmost certainty that things had just begun to go wrong.

I had a problem. Potentially a rather serious problem. The little man with the mouse-eating grin was named Thomas Tierney. Known, apparently, as Spud. The papers said so. They said he had been stabbed just minutes from his home. They said police were seeking witnesses to his last movements. They said he had been drinking in the Brig Tavern. They said he had been brutally murdered. They said it may have been a gangland killing.

Yes. Gangland.

They said Tierney was a known associate of Alexander Kirkwood. That was the problem. The papers said Kirkwood was a well-known Glasgow businessman. That meant gangster. That meant trouble. In Alec Kirkwood’s case, it meant trouble with a capital F.

Glasgow is a village with a city within it. Everyone who lives and breathes in the other city plays by different rules, speaks a different language, lives by different laws. The world is woven inside, under and around the official Glasgow.

The other city has its own police, its own civic leaders, its own lawmakers. It has its own code of conduct and it all runs perfectly smoothly as long as everyone plays the game. Some people live entirely within the other city and couldn’t leave it if they tried. Some live on the fringes, others make day trips in and out. Some of us can speak the language and know lots of people who live there but try to keep our distance all the same. Except when it suits us.

Right then, it suited me to trade chat with people who lived closer to the other city than I did. They heard things that I wanted to hear. Things I needed to know. Alec Kirkwood was police, councillor and lawmaker in the other city. Big cheese. Bad man.

He wasn’t strictly A-list. The very fact that he was even known to the likes of me made him B-list. Big and bad but B-list all the same. No one knew who the A-list guys were but chances are, these days, they were not even in Glasgow at all. Strings pulled from Liverpool and London.

I knew of Kirkwood but I knew people who knew people who knew him. Guys like Ally McFarland. He knew people but thought he
was
people. Ally was in his late twenties and not as bad as he liked to make out. He’d sell some dodgy gear and get in a fight when he’d had a swally but that was about it. He was mates with some of the heavies in the Star Bar over in Royston and liked to drop their names in to impress. He also liked the sound of his own voice. And best of all, he liked me.

I think there was a bit of him that felt sorry for me after what happened. Normally I’d hate that but it suited my purpose. Let him think what he likes as long as he talks. And he talked about Kirkwood when I asked. Kirky was not a happy bunny. He had taken the killing of Spud Tierney as a personal insult.

Image is a funny thing in the other city. The likes of Alec Kirkwood need to keep a low profile for the public and the press but needs his name in lights as far as the scumbags go. They need to be shit-scared of crossing him. Even the thought of thinking about messing with him should make them pish their pants.

He made sure everyone knew that if you touched one of Alec Kirkwood’s boys then you were a dead man. Simple as that. I’d touched one, big time. Serious problem.

The people that knew people said that Kirky had this thing about having a quiet life. He believed that if everybody did as they should then everybody would be all right. Everybody would have money in their pockets and an easy life. Everybody knew the cops wanted a quiet time of it too. They didn’t need to come around stirring up dirt to see what shit was lying beneath it, they already knew. Everybody was happy.

Kirky had this line he liked to put about. Everyone behaves and everyone’s fine. But if some muppet shits in the ice cream then the party is over.

I’d killed Spud Tierney. I’d put the keech in the Häagen-Dazs. Now Alec Kirkwood wanted revenge. He wanted me. He just didn’t know it yet.

The strange thing is that I’d actually met him once. I was drinking in the Comet in Ruchill, a pub with a certain reputation. I hadn’t been that comfortable even going into the place. It was only the fact that the two guys I was with were locals that I could even be in there without getting my head kicked in. A quick pint and away.

Then the door opened. In walked this guy and the entire place froze. Got the distinct feeling guys would have jumped through windows if there weren’t bars on them. I didn’t know who he was but there was no doubting that he was somebody. He was no more than five foot ten but gave the impression of being bigger. And that was despite being followed in by four gorillas who were all well over six feet. He reminded me of a game show host. Weird but he did.

Smart, tailored suit. Corporate hair cut. Always adjusting his cuffs or the knot in his tie. Grinning like a man who knew all the answers. I guess he was good-looking. Ask a woman.

I’d say he was about thirty-two. Face unmarked, which surprised me even before I knew who he was. There was something about him reminded me of George W. Bush. That wasn’t a compliment.

Game show host. Businessman. Politician. It was as if he had been on some correspondence course for charisma. He was glad-handing everyone around him. He even shook mine. He would hold people’s gaze with this grin and nod at whatever they were saying as if they were saying the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. Above all, there was a supreme confidence about him. It was an arrogance, a sureness that was almost surreal. It was as if he was running for election but had already got every vote locked away.

The guys I was with were lapping it up. The man’s pure class, they said. Got five jacuzzis in his house, they said. See that suit? Bought me a drink. Great guy.

Aye, right. He nodded and grinned at me just the way he did with everyone else. I don’t think he heard a single word I said. When I found out who he was, that suited me fine. Alec Kirkwood had fought his way out of Asher Street in Baillieston, a mental bampot who was as handy with his head as he was with a baseball bat. He hurt a lot of people and won the kind of reputation you need to separate yourself from the herd.

Those that tried to stop him found their houses fire-bombed. Those with asbestos homes had their pets poisoned. Some even went to their kids’ school to find that Uncle Alec had already picked them up and looked after them for a couple of hours. He never touched them. It was a message.

A mental case. Psycho. Mad, bad and deadly to know.

He worked his way up. Swapped his bovver boots for an Armani suit and his knuckleduster for a chartered accountant. Too smart to get his hands dirty these days. Still plenty of blood on them though.

He now had one of those knock-through council house rows where three homes had been turned into a ranch. He was established. He was establishment. Other city establishment. He thought himself a cut above the rest, a smart guy among smartarses. A game show host among mongrels.

Those who knew said that Spud Tierney was a dealer for Kirkwood. He was an irritating wee shite by all accounts. It was only being Kirky’s boy that had kept him alive for as long as it did. People knew he was Kirkwood’s and that was his passport through closes and schemes, it was his shield of invincibility. Right up till when I killed him.

They said he was a yappy wee dick who was always winding folk up. He’d needle guys twice his size and the only wonder was that he’d never been killed sooner.

Spud was low life and low rent. He’d bang out wraps to wasters. A few quid here, a dirty tenner there. He’d shank out smokes and snifters, pills and pokes to any hoodie or Burberry bam that had scraped the necessary from their giro.

He wouldn’t be missed but there was something else. I’d worked it out. I just hadn’t worked out if it would be a good thing or not. I had sawn off Spud Tierney’s finger for my own purposes. Kirkwood obviously wouldn’t know that. So what would he think? Easy peasy, he’d take it as a sign. Tierney had been killed because he was Kirkwood’s and that finger was someone’s way of telling him so.

There was probably a hundred ways that a wee nyaff like Spud could get himself stabbed. World he lived in, it was obvious. But being found minus one digit would be sure to have Kirkwood thinking it was more than just a deal gone wrong, more than just someone taking a dislike to his mouse-eating face. He’d see that single missing finger being stuck right up in front of his face. He’d think rivals. He’d see threat.

You’d maybe think that for someone like Kirkwood, there’d be a hundred possibles who’d have done Spud Tierney to get at him. Maybe you’d think thousands. The people who know people say the truth is quite different. There’d maybe be thousands who’d like to, hundreds who’d like to think they had what it takes. There would be a handful who’d actually have the balls.

They spoke of candidates. Could be sure Kirky would be doing the same.

There was the Gilmartin brothers from Easterhouse. Two up-and-comers who had been throwing their weight about. Supposedly a big jump up in class for them to look at Kirky but you couldn’t rule it out. Men get greedy.

Tookie Cochrane. Big bastard. Kirky’s counterpart on the south side. Word was it was unlikely to be Tookie, he’d know a full-on turf war was a waste of everybody’s time.

Mick Docherty. Medium-sized dealer who thought he was big league. He thought he was Huggy McBear, all flash gear and a big, big mouth. The suggestion was that Kirkwood liked Docherty for it because it would take someone stupid or crazy to do Spud Tierney. Docherty didn’t just deal it, he used it. He was way fucking unpredictable.

Seemed Kirky was sure that the sawn-off finger was a message from one of them. Don’t shoot the messenger? Aye right, he wouldn’t just shoot him, he’d rip his balls off and nail them to the gates of Ibrox. He’d shoot the messenger and whoever sent him.

Word was already out that Kirkwood wanted to know every second of Spud Tierney’s whereabouts for the day he was killed. He wanted to know everyone that he sold to, everyone that said boo to him, everyone that stood next to him while he pished. He wanted to know everything he ate, everything he drank, he wanted to know which side of the bed he’d got out of in the morning. If anyone so much as looked at Spud the wrong way – or the right way – then he’d know.

He also made sure that the people knew exactly what he had said to his right-hand man, a maniac by the name of Davie Stewart. ‘Five o’clock,’ he’d said. ‘If no one turns up the fucker who did Spud by five o’clock then we pull in bodies and hurt them.’

They say Davie Stewart had smiled. They say that Davie would have been hoping that five o’clock saw nothing but silence. He liked hurting people and that was why Kirkwood had him around. Davie didn’t give a flying fuck about Spud Tierney but he would gladly break fingers or fry someone’s bollocks to find out who did him in. And Kirky would gladly let him.

Five o’clock? It came and went. It was showtime. Davie Stewart’s show.

There was a guy worked for Mick Docherty who ran drugs out of the Victory on the edge of Baillieston. They say it was strictly Kirkwood’s turf but it was borderline and small beer and so it had been let go a long time ago as long as Docherty’s boy, name of Jimmy McIntyre, behaved himself. Everyone behaves and everyone’s fine.

Davie Stewart and two others hauled Jimmy Mac out of the Victory, kicking and screaming in front of a pub full of punters, and tossed him into the back of a white van. The fact that he didn’t go quietly would have been perfect for Kirkwood. If you make a point, you want everyone to hear it.

In no time, Jimmy was sitting in a chair in front of Kirky. He was a lanky sort with red hair and way too many freckles. He was still talking tough and making out how he wasn’t worried. He talked the talk but he looked about ready to shit himself.

They say Davie Stewart didn’t look all that pleased at that, thinking that if Jimmy Mac gave it up too easy then he would miss out on his fun. Maniacs are like that.

Alec Kirkwood pulled up a chair and sat right in front of Jimmy, looking him hard in the eyes, saying nothing. Davie Stewart took up a position to Jimmy’s left. Jimmy knew he was there and was dying to glance at him but was shit-scared to defy Kirkwood by looking away. Davie was boring his eyes into him, no doubt thinking all kinds of bad thoughts and trying to force them into Jimmy’s skull.

Five minutes Kirkwood looked at him without a word.

Jimmy spoke. Jimmy was joking, Jimmy was giving off casual, Jimmy was trying real hard for cool. He got nowhere near it. He had nothing to say but he spilled his guts anyway.

He asked if it was about Spud Tierney. He asked it twice. He said if it was then he knew nothing. If he knew anything then he’d say it.

Kirkwood just sat and looked at him.

Jimmy kept saying he knew nothing. Kept saying he would tell him anything if he had anything to tell.

Davie Stewart got out of his chair. Jimmy heard him move but couldn’t look. Kirky wouldn’t let his eyes go. Jimmy’s left eye strained like fuck. He could feel Davie Stewart’s breath on him and he wondered if every story he’d heard about this mad bastard were true. They were.

Jimmy Mac sweated. He began to pish himself. He was near to crying.

At last Jimmy couldn’t take it any longer and turned his head to Davie. Big mistake. As soon as he turned, Davie Stewart stuck a screwdriver in his eye.