by Mark Newman
Violence in the Blood
BY
Mark Newman
A Crime Syndicate Thriller
Published by markjnewmanbooks 2016
Copyright ©
Mark J Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL FICTION.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover artwork created by Jimmy Gibbs
Edited by OBS (www.onlinebookservices.com)
Get Mark J Newman Crime Syndicate story 2 FOR FREE
Sign up for the no-spam newsletter and get the second in series Crime Syndicate novella and more exclusive content, all for free.
Go to
www.markjnewman.com
or
www.facebook.com/markjnewmanauthor
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Chapter 1: 1988
Back in eighty-eight, Vinnie Edwards ran the city. Controlled it all, nothing went down that he didn’t know about. He didn’t figure on Malkie Thompson showing up and staking his claim.
Malkie and his crew started making noises mid-July of the same year. Came down from north of the border, ripped off a building society. Daylight job, zero casualties unless you count the cashier pissing himself.
Simple but effective. Three-man crew, one on the door, Frank waving a shooter, modified double-barrelled shotgun, cut short, and easy to conceal. The intention to intimidate, not to kill. George, his back to the counter, crowd control, wielding a pickaxe handle. Malkie, Browning nine-millimetre pistol embedded in to the back of the cashier’s head while she loaded three sports holdalls.
Two minutes forty, Malkie called time. All three strolled out into the Friday afternoon sunshine. No shots fired, textbook job. Sixty grand up, they split up, and laid low for the next seventy-two hours.
It had all the hallmarks of a pro job. Clinical, in and out, less than three minutes door to door. The kind of job that grabs attention, bringing heat from the cops. The local faces getting hauled in for questioning, released, harassed on their own doorsteps in the early hours. Surveillance teams sitting outside houses in the middle of the night. Everything recorded and documented for future evidence.
Vinnie Edwards’ name made it to the top of the list. The man in the know, he had to be hiding something. Cops had the thumbscrews on him within a couple of hours of the robbery. Enforcer battering ram busting down the door to his girlfriend Tanya’s apartment. They took it as a given they’d find him with his pants down. Vinnie, a creature of habit, guaranteed to get down and dirty every Friday afternoon. DI Chas Morrison, deep in Vinnie’s pocket, had to make it look authentic. Took along the police photographer to immortalise the moment. The kind that could ruin a man’s reputation.
Organised crime operates on respect. Lose respect and you lose everything. Difficult for Edwards to maintain, photographed on his knees gimp mask in situ, getting pummelled from behind with a luminous dildo.
Chapter 2
Vinnie wanted answers fast. In his manor, nobody made a move without his consent. This was unprecedented. The way he saw it; it had to have been pulled by an out of town outfit. No local crew wanted to go head to head with him. He couldn’t help but admire their audacious tenacity, which didn’t change the fact he’d have to kill them. No one went against the firm, more to the point, no one crossed him.
They had to expect repercussions. Can’t walk on to the manor tooled up, pull a job and expect to disappear. They’d crossed the line, committed an act of war.
Thompson caught Vinnie and the cops napping, causing embarrassment. Sure as hell, it wouldn’t happen twice.
The way the cops saw it, Edwards was losing his grip. Needed to pull his finger out, find those responsible. Edwards and the police had an understanding. He kept order, they left him alone. Three blokes going equipped, waving guns around on a Friday afternoon meant all bets were off.
Morrison traded information, the kind that could have a detrimental effect on Edwards’ business interests, and was rewarded for his endeavours in helping the local business community. Paranoid about Internal Affairs, he covered his tracks. He kept it simple, hard cash, and no electronic transfers. IA had been in to him for over five years, and had a tome of a file on him. Like Teflon, they couldn’t make it stick.
The way he saw it, safer to go the old way. Used notes, tens and twenties. Fifties are open to scrutiny, too many fakes on the market. He stuck with what he knew, the blue and brown skins. Dividing his stash in to three separate deposit boxes, located at three separate locations, and an emergency five grand secreted in the lining of his mattress topper. His just in case money, enough to tide him over, never knowing when he might have to leave in the dead of night.
Thompson’s daylight raid threatened their way of life, their existence, with the top-end chain of command asking awkward questions. Morrison’s survival depended on avoiding IAB, managing that by keeping those above him sweet. He kicked up to the suits, who in return had his back.
The press were all over Thompson’s coup d’état, the chief constable screaming for a quick result. Shooters on a Friday afternoon scaring Joe Public shitless didn’t go down well at the Masons Hall.
Pressure on, Morrison and Edwards agreed to meet up out of town. Just the two of them on neutral ground, some place away from prying eyes. A one on one chance to straighten things out. Both agreed to come alone, no firearms, no muscle, no wires. They met up at a disused power station on the outskirts of town.
Vinnie had suspicions from the get go about Morrison’s involvement. Confident he had the contacts to put it in play, the question was did he have the moxie? Dirty cop turning gangster? Just maybe.
Morrison turned up late. Agitated, convinced he was being tailed, he took a detour, jumped on a bus before going cross-country. Familiar with the pathways and the disused rail track, easy to make a rapid exit if events turned bad.
Edwards saw a figure scrambling down the embankment and coming out of the trees as he squinted his eyes against the sun.
Morrison waved at him, four hundred yards out, his Glock nine millimetre tucked in the back of his waistband, the safety off, ready to roll. He couldn’t rely on Edwards keeping his end of the bargain, and was bound to be carrying and have his back-up someplace close.
With his plans gone to shit and no chance to scope the place, paranoia kicked in, convinced IAB was on to him, employing every counter-surveillance technique in the book to shake off his bogus trackers.
They stopped three yards apart, an imaginary line separating them. A stand off for two would-be gunslingers. ‘Something you wanna tell me, Vinnie?’
‘Could ask you the same thing?’
‘Lot of people pissed down town. Things gonna get ugly real quick.’
‘That a threat, Morrison?’
‘Consider it advice. Maybe one of your boys gone freelance, forgot to tell you.’
‘You’re good at that, it’s what you do.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Defle
cting.’
‘We can do this all day, don’t change the facts though.’
‘That how you’re gonna play this? See, I’m thinking you gone got yourself a retirement plan. What is it? Some place in the sun you plan on sipping Vodka Martinis all day?’
Getting closer, two yards, Morrison ignoring the jibe. ‘Shit...You don’t look so good, Vinnie, sampling your own product again?’
‘Don’t be worrying about me, you got other concerns.’
‘You and me got a bond, we’re like family, help each other out.’
‘Family. That why you pulled that stunt?’
‘Stunt?’
‘You know what I’m talking about, you and your photographer.’
‘Had to make it look good, Vinnie, authentic.’
‘You’re on borrowed time, Morrison; you’re not the only bent cop looking to make a little extra cash, do well to remember that.’
‘Yeah well, I’m the only one got your back right now.’
‘Stand down your surveillance, I’ll go sort this.’
‘Out of my hands. Pressure’s on. Direct orders from the top. It’ll get a lot worse, local elections, media’s all over this. Public need to feel safe on the streets.’
Edwards turned to go. ‘Want those pictures, all of them.’
‘We back on that. Well gotta admit, it was a surprise.’ He patted himself down, searching for his cigarettes. ‘Never had you down for all that kinky stuff. Each to their own. Lads on shift had a good laugh. Keep them going for a while.’
Edwards moved within spitting distance. ‘You should watch how you go, stress of the job, looks like it’s getting to you.’
Morrison pulled out the roll of undeveloped film from his pocket. ‘Tasty stuff. Little keepsake, call it insurance. And don’t worry, just messing with you about the canteen banter. Photographer’s one of mine. So long as I stay healthy you got no worries.’
‘One word from me, you’ll be hanging from a meat hook by your ball sack.’
Morrison sighed, looking up at the blue cloudless sky. ‘Some little scrote’s sixty grand up, how’s that make you feel, you gotta be hurting right?’
‘Rein in your boys and I’ll go do my thing.’ Edwards turned to go. ‘And don’t be relying on any insurance policies, guaranteed they don’t pay out.’
Morrison called after him. ‘Quicker this gets done, better for the both of us, then we can have a sit down, do things civilised, renegotiate.’
Edwards balled his fists, stomping back toward Morrison. ‘You already got everything you’re gonna get. Wanna walk away? Go ahead. Dirty cop, town like this, I’ll bet you ain’t lasting the week.’
‘You’re not thinking straight, Vinnie, put it down to your emotional state.’
‘Tell you this, Morrison, I’m gonna find them and nail them to a fucking cross, parade them through the street. Be just like carnival. And I reckon if I shake hard enough, your name’s gonna fall out somewhere.’
Morrison, unfazed, lit a cigarette. ‘If I were a betting man, I’d say all that strap-on action’s starting to affect your judgement. You really think I’m gonna sanction a job like this, jeopardise our agreement, bring in an outside crew...daylight hours?’
Edwards stepped forward, getting in close, stabbing him in the chest with his index finger ‘Your grimy prints are all over this. When this is done you and me gonna have a straightener, guaranteed.’
Morrison, cigarette in mouth, stared through the plume of smoke, his reaction instinctive, hands reaching for his waistband, poised, ready to draw, the location deserted, easy enough to clip Edwards and walk away. Still, he needed him for the time being. He held his gaze. ‘Just find them, eh. Chief Super’s on the warpath. And that ain’t good for anyone.’
Chapter 3
Malkie and his crew laid low, content to let events play out. They had managed to create a shit storm and avoid the fall out. All three remained below the radar – went untouched. Back then, the name Malkie Thompson was unknown south of the border. A ghost, able to make a daylight strike and disappear. Hit and run job.
The easy pickings buoyed the fledgling firm. Glasgow, the past, was but a distant memory. The Midlands provided a new beginning, a chance to wipe the slate clean and write their own history. Thompson’s rules.
Meanwhile, the locals were getting restless. Money coming in short. Confident to take a risk, waiting to see how events would pan out.
Problem was, Edwards had become complacent, expecting his reputation would deter any would-be challengers. He got that wrong. Malkie relished the opportunity, saw Edwards’ patch as the land of plenty. Now he wanted it all.
Chapter 4
Violence in the blood, second nature to Malkie. He learnt his craft the hard way on the back streets of Glasgow. In the late seventies, during the punk revolution of bands such as the Clash and the Sex Pistols, he fell in with the street gangs. Popping a few pills, downed with cans of Tenants Super Strength, which tasted like tar. It did the trick, jacking him up, ready for the row. He would track down the rivals and get stuck in, close and personal, getting creative using anything that came to hand; bicycle chain, pool cue, flick knife, broken bottle.
Back then, it didn’t matter. There was no future, no prospects; they were Thatcher’s children of the north. Scotland, the land of the dispossessed, the forgotten, and the abandoned. To survive you had to make your own way.
Within eighteen months, Malkie was doing a stretch in Barlinnie. His first taste of life banged up. He put it to good use, getting in with the faces. He made himself known, attacking a warden on the first day. He went down the block, and got the shit kicked out of him. Four weeks later, bruises healed, reputation enhanced, he was back on the wing.
The MacBride brothers, connected on the outside to the McAlister firm, approached him. Impressed by his appetite for violence, they took him on as muscle. What he lacked in stature he made up for in fury. Word soon went round not to cross Malkie Thompson.
Six months later, time served, he was out. Got himself a personal endorsement from the MacBrides. He’d changed and wanted something more. Rucking with the gangs lost its appeal. He needed money. Smashing heads and breaking bones wasn’t enough; Malkie had ambition.
He quit the pills and the drink. His dear old ma thought he’d turned Calvinist Presbyterian, thanking God for cleansing her son. He went along with it. In the meantime, he sought out the MacBrides’ employer.
Back then, Ian McAlister was the man, a big name in the city of Glasgow the kind that opened doors for a young man of ambition. McAlister spread his interests far and wide. He liked to diversify, and was into everything from salvage yards to slum rentals. Most of his money came from the racket, by putting the squeeze on local businesses and taxing them ‘for their own protection’ as he liked to call it. But the big money came from illegal gambling and whores. McAllister sank his hooks in to everything from arcades, horses and dog tracks, right across to the lucrative bare-knuckle unlicensed boxing bouts he sponsored. His enforcers ran the streets. The working girls were under his protection, seventy percent of their earnings guaranteeing safety from rival pimps and freaks.
Thompson’s name was well known to him. The way they told it, the MacBrides reckoned on him being a face, having proved his worth tenfold while doing his time. He was a good earner, fearless, a man with a growing reputation and one to watch. Better to get him affiliated than run the risk of losing him to a rival firm. No point in storing up trouble for the future, so McAlister set him to work the next day.
It took three months for Malkie to move from driver/chauffeur to street enforcer. A fast learner, he soaked it up, spotting the flaws from the start. McAlister never considered his own blokes would skim the takings.
Malkie learned the trade from the ground up. All the time he kept his eyes and ears open. Within six months, confident he had watertight evidence, he went to McAlister, laid it all out, dates, times, accounted for the missing percentages, even threw in a couple of Polaroi
ds. It didn’t go down well. McAlister threatened to rip Malkie’s fingernails out one by one. Malkie stood his ground, refusing to retract the accusation, telling McAlister his own crew was mugging him off.
McAlister couldn’t accept the cold, hard truth staring him in the face. He had to make an example. He summoned Malkie. When he arrived, three masked attackers overpowered him, and taped him to a chair. McAlister went to work on him, pliers taking his thumbnail from his left hand, followed by his index finger. His screams could be heard in a quarter of a mile radius. McAlister braced the third finger in the pliers, ‘Three to go, then I’m starting on the right hand, work my way through one by one if needs be.’
Malkie, panting like a dog, gritted his teeth, willing the ragged burning pain far away. ‘Won’t change a thing, telling you the truth. Go check it out; you’ll see I’m right.’
McAlister moved the pliers down to the finger joint, applying the pressure. ‘OK, let’s just suppose there’s some element of truth to your story, my own guys stealing from me...Makes me look bad. That what this is about, Thompson, you trying to undermine me.’
‘Just trying to help you out.’
McAlister, jerked the pliers up and to the side snapping the finger. Malkie swallowed deep, insurgent pain puncturing his lungs, keeping the scream silent and internal – his eyes locked with McAllister’s the whole time.
McAlister admired his handiwork. ‘Hurts don’t it?’ Malkie’s middle finger ruined, hanging limp and flaccid, fragments of bone protruding torn skin. ‘Don’t go away now, I’ll be back directly, so we can finish our wee chat.’
Chapter 5
One week later, it was all set. McAllister knew all along Malkie was on the level. His story corroborated his own suspicions. He didn’t want to admit his own blokes could be screwing him over. The nail ripping, pure showmanship, his way of putting Malkie in his place. There could be no misunderstanding; McAlister was the boss.
McAlister made the call, change of location for the drop, putting it down to the cops’ detection and clear up rate needing a boost. They had to show the public they were in control, shake down the names and tick the boxes for the paperwork.