by Ian Todd
Chapter Fifty One
Johnboy looked across at Grizzly Chops and smiled. He’d tried tae convince Senga tae join them, bit she wis hivving none ae it. Probably because Captain Birds Eye always came across as being hauf cut, which he usually wis. She’d stood oan the beach, waving him aff, a worried look oan her face.
“What, laddie?”
“Is this no cheating?” he replied grinning, nodding intae the roond plastic bucket wae the black and silver mackerel, still flapping aboot in it.
“Why, because I’m not using a rod and line?”
“Something like that.”
“Fishing’s fishing, no matter how you do it. The main thing is to catch the buggers. I don’t do this for sport. This is about livelihood,” he growled, drapping the line intae the water wae barbed hooks knotted intae it every eight inches.
“Oh, by the way. Ah’ve goat ye a let fur a few days, starting Monday.”
“Oh?”
“Aye, he’s coming up fae Glesga.”
“A friend?”
“Naw, which reminds me…no that it’ll happen, bit if ye come across Senga, don’t mention him.”
“Why?”
“Good question,” he replied, thinking oan how tae answer.
“What’s the secret?”
“He’s a private dick, so he is.”
“A what?”
“A private investigator. Somewan who investigates people.”
“I know what a private eye is. Not that I’ve ever come across one before…in real life, that is. When I was in hospital getting my appendix out last year, I watched a programme called The Rockford Files. Bloody rubbish. No wonder the end is nigh.”
“He’s investigating The Laird.”
“The Laird?”
“There’s a family friend ae mine doon the road in the toon...”
“Glesgie?”
“She’s hivving him investigated. She believes he’s a crooked basturt,” he continued, ignoring the question, as the baith ae them laughed.
“He’s jist coming up fur a wee sniff aboot, maybe talk tae a few people…withoot The Laird or that gofer ae his, MacLeod, knowing whit’s happening.”
“In a place like Lochinver?” Grizzly snorted, suddenly tugging sharply oan the line beside Blackie hinging o’er the side ae the boat, barking excitedly.
“Aye, well, that’s where somewan like you could come in handy.”
“Me?”
“Well, you know whit’s been happening aboot here, so ye dae.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be able to help you, or him, laddie.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he a stranger, that’s why. We don’t like strangers about these parts, poking their noses into other people’s business that doesn’t concern them, that’s why.”
“How kin ye say that when ye run a caravan park that’s noo swarming wae strangers?” he asked, as the wriggling fish oan the line started tae appear up fae the depths.
“That’s different. That’s business.”
He sat and watched him expertly unhook the fish, some ae them hooked by their tails, before tossing them oan tap ae the others in the bin.
“The book…what’s it about?”
“A stubborn auld fisherman who disnae want tae get involved.”
“It’s alright for someone like you, laddie. You don’t have to live here and face the consequences. You can move on anytime, leaving us to pick up the pieces.”
“Me and Senga hiv bought Little Vestey’s Croft, so we hiv,” he admitted, pleased at the surprised reaction. “It wis done through that friend ae mine’s company. The place is in her name fur the time being. The Laird managed tae track her doon and started tae put the squeeze oan her tae sell it tae that company ae his. When she refused, he goat up tae nae good behind the scenes and started putting the mix in tae encourage her tae reconsider.”
“One or two?” Grizzly asked, looking at him, haudin up a mackerel in each haun.
“Two.”
“Two it is,” he said, heidin tae the stern ae the boat and opening up the wooden box, taking oot the wee gas stove, large frying pan and the essential ingredients. “Right, are you watching, laddie. This is how it’s done.”
He worked fast, using the starboard rail that ran alang the length ae the boat as a worktop tae gut the fish.
“Here, you try,” he said, haunin the knife and a fish across tae him. “From its arse hole, up to the middle of its chest. That’s good. Now, open him up and remove the guts…like this,” he said, demonstrating wae the wan he’d gutted two seconds earlier, leaning o’er the boat and gieing the fish a wee wash in the water. “See? You’ll be a fisherman yet, laddie.”
“God, this is the best fish Ah’ve ever tasted…at least it is since they couple ae cod fillets ye gied me and Senga last week, that is.”
“Aye, you’ll be hard pushed to beat fresh mackerel, fried in butter and oats, laddie.”
“That ma ae mine used tae dae that wae herring, so she did,” he said, nodding as another two coated fish wur drapped intae the sizzling frying pan, wae Blackie sitting there, licking his drooling lips. “The hoose used tae stink fur days.”
“This private eye. What’s he looking for then?”
“He basically jist wants a feel fur the place…somewan tae show him aroond, pointing oot the properties that The Laird owns. He’ll also maybe want tae ask a few questions and that’ll be it.”
“Does he know what’s been happening across on Vestey’s Bay?”
“Ah hivnae spoken tae him masel, bit Ah gied a wee lowdoon oan whit Ah awready know, which isnae much, tae Donna, the family friend that Ah mentioned.”
“He employs a lot of people about here, y’know. Before he came, there was no jobs.”
“Look, Flintlock, if ye want tae bring this basturt doon, then this is probably the wan and only chance ye’ll ever get tae dae it, so it is.”
Silence.
“So, whit dae ye think then?”
“We’ll see,” he replied.
Flintlock flung wan ae the cooked fish doon oan tae the deck.
“Watch this,” he said, as the dug started circling it, barking at the steaming fish, as the baith ae them laughed and that growling auld voice ae his suddenly burst intae song.
“Hill ye ho, boys, let her go, boys.
Bring her head round, now all together.
Hill ye ho, boys, let her go, boys.
Sailing homewards to Mingulay.”
Chapter Fifty Two
Harold MacMillan, the great grandson ae the greatest prime minister this country’s ever deserved, sat back in his fine leather chair, and allowed a wee contented sigh tae escape fae between they cracked lips ae his. It wis true whit they said. Patience actually wis a virtue, especially if ye applied a healthy wee dollop ae loyalty and hard work in there tae get ye across the finishing line. Fur wance in his life, he’d finally arrived. Okay, there hid been times in the past when he’d stupidly believed that, bit this time, this wis it. This wis the real deal. Other than no hivving a wummin in his life, it wid never get any better than this, he thought tae himsel, getting up aff the chair tae go and straighten his fancy, ornate family tree print and framed calligraphy award that wur hinging slightly lopsided. He’d jist goat the back ae them restrung. The wee pluke-faced apprentice in the frame shoap hid telt him the string wid probably stretch tae start wae before it goat used tae the weight ae the frames, as if that wee retard knew whit the hell he wis talking aboot. Experience, time served, paying yer dues, managing tae keep yer heid above the water when aw aboot ye wur floundering, that’s whit separated the elite fae the great unwashed in life. Mind you, he wisnae knocking the branches in the Toonheid, Maryhill and Springburn which hid made him the man and success he’d become. Ye hid tae start somewhere. Twenty three years it hid taken him. He’d been held up, tied up and tied doon mair times than Houdini, bit he’d survived…other than hivving tae get a few wee stitches inserted in that napper ae his efte
r being robbed by a few ae the undisciplined robbers. Bit anyway, that wis aw in the past. He hidnae slept fur the past two months, wondering where they wur gonnae put him, efter the confirmation hid come through fae heid office that the tenements in Springburn Road wur tae be demolished, tae make way fur the extension tae the inner ring road doon oan Castle Street. It hid been aw hauns oan deck in amongst the tears. Fur maist ae the staff it hid been tears ae sadness, bit fur him, his prayers hid at last been answered. He wis being shifted tae Bishopbriggs. Bishopbriggs? Christ, he’d been there three days and he still hidnae come across any graffiti oan the walls ootside or any empty sweetie wrappers or discarded fag packets littering the pavements. And the account holders? Christ, he thought he wis oan another planet at the sound ae the accents that first morning. Bishopbriggs wis where the real money wis. Clean money. Where people actually saved whit they earned. There wis seventeen millionaires who kept their finances in the branch. Successful businessmen, interesting people, who bid the lassies oot front a good morning when they arrived wae their deposits before bidding them cheerio efter being served by nice friendly staff, who genuinely enjoyed working in the bank. It hid been like walking through a TV advert that first morning wae the amount ae smiles that hid beamed at him fae behind the grills oan the coonter. Only that very morning, he’d been welcomed through tae the kitchen and presented wae a birthday cake. He’d furgoatten that it wis his birthday. No only that, bit The Bishopbriggs and District Herald hid his face splashed across the front page, announcing tae everywan in the locality that he wis the new Clydeside Bank branch manager and that he wis waiting tae welcome them tae come and open an account. Okay, the photographer hidnae goat his best side, bit still, there he wis, like something oot ae the William Hickey column in The Daily Express, capturing the imagination ae the readers, enticing them tae come and meet the great man’s grandson himsel. He looked across at the antique grandfaither clock. Ten past two. There wis still time before the branch shut up shoap fur the day at hauf three. Everything happened in threes, he wis jist thinking tae himsel, when the phone jumped oan his real bees waxed desk.
“Eh?” he yelped, the blood draining fae that face ae his.
“He’s with who?” he asked, that sphincter ae his twanging oot ae tune as he jist aboot shat himsel.
“But…er, Mr Bertram and Mrs Jeffs aren’t account holders in this branch. Mr Bertram’s account was moved to the Saracen Street branch across in Possilpark.”
“Oh…right, well, er…please, er, bring them through, Miss Craddock,” he croaked.
He looked across fearfully at the grey, frosted glass door, dread in his heart. He’d deliberately transferred Harry ‘The Bouffant’ Bertram, hairdresser tae the Springburn blue-rinse brigade and associate ae gangsters, across tae Possil. Whit the hell wis he wanting, his brain screeched. No only that, bit he hid Donna The Prima Donna in tow as well. Whit hid he done noo, he wondered. He knew he should’ve spoken tae Harry himsel, insteid ae leaving it tae his assistant tae inform him. Whit wis he gonnae say that widnae sound like a fork-tongued lie? Christ.
“Mr Bertram, Mrs Jeffs, please…have a seat,” he beamed, trying no tae bow, as he held oot wan ae the chairs in front ae his desk.
“Aye, very nice, Harold,” The Bouffant said, looking aboot the office. “And Ah see ye’ve brought that good fake family tree scroll that Ah goat done fur ye as well. Look, Donna. Hiv a wee peek-a-boo. Noo, tell the truth, wid ye think that parchment wis fake?”
“Aw, it’s beautiful, Harry, so it is. Must’ve cost ye a few bob,” she agreed.
“Ach, whit’s money when it’s a friend in need ye’re helping oot. Is that no right, Harold?”
“Oh well, yes…I’m very proud of it. Although I’ve only been here a few days, the high account holders that I’ve met with, so far, have all commented on it,” he stammered, jist aboot collapsing intae that fine leather chair ae his. “Oh, er, can I offer you a refreshment…tea, coffee, perhaps?”
“No fur me. Harold,” Donna replied.
“I’m fine tae, Harold.”
The bank manager looked across at the pair ae them. He wis scared tae open his gub in case he puked up aw o’er the surface ae his polished desk. His stomach wis churning. She didnae look too bad…a cross between mutton dressed as lamb and Joan Crawford hivving a bad hair day. It wis the hairdresser that took his breath away. Despite the heat wave ootside, his hair wis slicked back at the sides wae some sort ae gel. A wee bit ae green eye shadow and a beauty spot pencilled oan tae his face, jist above his right lip, a la Marilyn Monroe. Under that chubby chin, he wis decked oot in a black and white ostrich feather sleeveless top, above a pair ae black, skin-tight, wet-look, leather troosers. He shuddered tae think whit wis oan they feet ae his, as he sat there, cross-legged, wae a black, wet-look duffle bag perched oan his knee. Surely there must be a law against strolling aboot like that, he asked himsel. It wis the Ghastly and Ghastlier Twins in aw their glory. He wondered if any ae they posh, up-market account holders ae his, hid clocked them oan the way in.
“Oh, er, it’s wonderful to catch up with you both again,” he lied.
“So, hiv ye settled in, Harold?” Joan Crawford asked him.
“Oh, well, I just started on Monday, but it seems to be going fine…a new start and all that. Although the procedures are the same, I’ve been very busy getting acquainted with all the new accounts.”
“Well, we widn’t want tae keep ye away fae yer work, seeing as how busy ye ur, Harold. And seeing as ye’ve jist brought up the very reason fur this wee visit, we’ll maybe jist come tae the point, shall we?” The Hairdresser asked him, smiling sweetly.
“Oh, er, right, but…”
“Ah’ll jist let you take it fae here, Donna, hen.”
“Aye, well, this shouldnae take too long, Harry,” she acknowledged tae her partner in crime, turning tae the bank manager. “Ah need tae hiv a wee swatch ae somewan’s personal account details, Harold,” she said, inserting a fag intae her wee fag-holder and lighting up.
“Oh, but…”
“Look, it’s no whit ye’re thinking. Ah don’t need tae take anything away wae me,” she said sweetly, as the hairdresser took a nice wee quality Minolta camera oot ae his duffle bag and laid it oan the desk, jist before Prime Minister Harold McMillan’s great grandson started choking, haudin oan tae the edge ae his desk fur a wee bit ae support. “His name’s Robert Hamilton. He’s an accountant, currently the deputy finance director ae Strathclyde Polis. He’s been wae the branch fur a number ae years noo, Ah believe.”
“Bit…”
“Aw Ah need is a few wee photos ae his statements and bank deposits…o’er the past five tae six years,” she added.
“But my job…it’s a criminal offence…I’ll go to jail if…”
“Come oan, Harold. You and me know that won’t happen,” The Hairdresser lisped, trying tae sound reassuring. “Christ, ye’d get far mair time if it wis ever exposed whit ye’ve awready helped me and some ae ma friends wae o’er the years.”
“But…”
“Harold, we realise ye’ve moved oan. Ah kin respect that. Everybody’s entitled tae make a clean break, start afresh. Ah gie ye ma word that this will be the last wee favour that’ll ever be asked ae ye. Ye hiv ma word oan that,” Donna said, trying bit failing tae look angelic and sincere, at the same time as Harry ‘The Bouffant’ Bertram smiled encouragingly, nodding that sprung mattress, that wis sticking four inches oot fae the front ae that foreheid ae his.
Silence.
“A fresh start…fur everywan…think aboot it,” Donna purred tantalisingly, taking a drag ae her fag.
Silence.
“Whi…what was the customer’s name again?” Harold MacMillan, the great grandson ae the greatest prime minister the country’s ever deserved asked.
Chapter Fifty Three
The Laird lingered at the bay windae, watching the grey heron oan his side ae the embankment ae Elder’s Pool. It looked like a garden statue, staunin there, stock
still, waiting patiently tae pounce. When the kill came, it wis swift. Jist a flash ae the beak breaking the surface, followed by a flurry fae the spread oot feathers ae the wings before the shimmering, silver reflection ae the wee fish in its beak disappeared doon the bird’s gullet. Precise, swift and deadly executed. Noo, why couldn’t the man staunin behind him be like that, he wondered. He turned and looked at Heckie MacLeod. He wondered if he’d gied him too much rope tae play wae. There wis nae questioning his loyalty. Serving a master wis in MacLeod’s blood. He wis ruthless and cunning and knew how tae manage the men under him, bit there wis jist wan wee flaw. He jist wisnae that smart. How else could he explain the cost ae getting the truck repaired and back oan the road? And then there wis the black fish. Thompsons ae Anstruther hid been back oan the phone, demanding tae know when the next shipment wid be arriving. Good question. The nursing wench’s man hid thrown the fact that he knew whit hid been gaun oan doon oan Vestey’s Bay in PC Mackenzie’s face. The question wis, hid Lachlan awready reported it tae Customs and Excise? Everywan wis nervous. The trench across the track, leading doon tae Vestey’s Bay hid been filled in, bit nowan wis prepared tae risk it. In the great scheme ae things, it wisnae the end ae the world. It wis mair the principle ae no being able tae dae as he pleased that irked him. He’d scoured Blytheswood Investments’ tax returns, gaun back five years. There wur a hunner and twenty eight companies ae various sizes in her portfolio. There hid been nothing tae indicate that she wis oan the fiddle. He’d wanted tae speak tae her himsel, bit that hid been a non-starter. The closest he’d goat tae her hid been wae the Belvedere Garden property. Who in their right mind entered a gentlemen’s agreement wae the likes ae Hugh Morrison, aka Shug The Rub, a well-known ruthless killer, unless ye awready hid an association wae him? Right fae the start, James Greenway hidnae been convinced that Donna Jeffs wis shaking the gangster’s wife doon. Neither hid he, bit by testing the water tae see if Morrison’s wife wid defend her, jist proved the point that a close relationship existed. If he could’ve goat her oan something as serious as attempted extortion, then there wid’ve been a good chance that she wid’ve started dumping parts ae her investments that wurnae paying their way. Five grand fur Little Vestey’s Croft up the road wid’ve come in handy tae somewan fighting a criminal charge like that.