by Todd, Ian
Frisky Frank’s radar obviously picked up that there wis a bad smell in the bar. Fae slouching, looking intae his drink, he sat up straight oan the bar stool and slowly turned towards the door. The Stalker hid awready decided he wisnae gaun tae mess aboot. It wid be an in and oot job.
“Right, Frank, oot ye come.”
“Whit dae ye mean?”
“Ye heard me, ye’re banned. Ah know it…you know it…even Santa fucking Claus knows it, so let’s hiv ye.”
“Banned? Fae where? Ah’m no banned fae here. Alex hisnae banned me, at least no that Ah’m aware ae,” Frisky snarled, as the barmaid disappeared fae behind the bar tae be replaced two seconds later by Alex The Manager.
“Look, Ah’m no gonnae ask ye again. Ye kin leave oan yer ain two feet, or ye’ll get dragged oot, feet first. You choose,” The Stalker informed him.
“Whit the fuck hiv Ah done, eh? Ah’m jist hivving a wee swally oan the way up the road. Ah’m no daeing anywan any herm.”
“Ye’re wanted ootside.”
“By who?”
“Ye know who, so get they feet moving towards the door,” The Stalker said as calmly as he could, slowly wrapping the leather thong attached tae the haundle ae his baton that sat comfortably in his trooser pocket, roond his thumb, like some gunslinger.
“Well, it better be a fucking square-go this time, insteid ae the liberty that wis taken before,” Frisky snarled, throwing his nip glass at the gantry behind the bar and jist missing Alex, who ducked in the nick ae time, like the true professional that he wis.
It aw happened in a flash. As soon as Frisky walked through the door oot oan tae busy Springburn Road, Froggie whacked him o’er the side ae the napper wae his baton. Before he hit the deck, Bumper and Biscuit grabbed him under his erms and dragged him roond tae Flemington Street and slung him in tae the back ae the squad car. Biscuit and Froggie wur awready sitting oan tap ae him by the time The Stalker goat intae the driver’s seat.
“Where tae noo?” he asked Bumper.
“Ah think Frankie boy here needs a wee bit ae religious instruction. Let’s take him doon tae St Teresa’s so he kin get closer tae God,” Bumper said wae a smile, as Frisky Frank groaned fae under the two arses that wur sitting oan tap ae him.
“Ah bloody-well knew there wis something no right gaun oan,” The Stalker growled, as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Like whit?” Froggie asked.
“Since when hiv any ae The Simpsons and their hatchet men started drinking o’er here in sunny Springburn? Ah’ve jist clocked that psycho Toby Simpson and Jo Jo Robson coming oot ae Burns’s pub, alang the road, jist efter youse disappeared roond the corner wae Frisky.”
“Really?” Bumper asked, surprised, turning tae look at him, wae a puzzled frown oan his coupon, as The Stalker crossed Springburn Road intae Keppochhill Road, heiding fur St Teresa’s Chapel in Possil.
Chapter Eight
“Right, youse will aw be wanting tae know why we’re here. It’s Saturday and Ah want tae try and get oot tae Motherwell tae see Celtic tanning their arses before the second hauf starts. So, who wants tae kick aff first?” Daddy Jackson, superintendent fur the north ae the city asked, looking doon the table at the Springburn contingent.
The only sound tae be heard wis the loud ticking ae the clock oan the wall at the far end ae the boardroom ae Central, doon in St Andrew’s Square. Everywan wis looking across at Chic Thompson, the inspector covering Springburn, seeing as it wis him that hid asked fur the confab.
The Stalker looked at those present. Gaun roond the table fae the left ae the superintendent, sat that right-haun man ae his, Chief Inspector Billy Liar, a full-time shite-hoose and Mr Angry tae aw and sundry. He wis sitting there quietly, as if butter widnae melt in his foul mooth. Next tae him wis Duggie Dougan, the inspector who covered Possilpark, wae his two sergeants, Dave McGovern and Shane Priestly, commonly known as The Gruesome Twosome by everywan who’d the misfortune tae hiv hid a run-in wae them. Next came Chief Inspector Bobby Mack fae the city’s murder squad. The other inspector fae that squad, Duke McLean, wis presumably aff trying tae reduce the ever-increasing unsolved murders in the city. Sitting twiddling his thumbs wis Chief Inspector Mickey Sherlock, another wan ae the superintendent’s bum-boys, who wis wan ae two chief inspectors who wur in charge ae the operational side ae the city’s serious crime and intelligence squad, and then there wis Chic, himsel and Bumper.
It wis Mr Murder himsel who kicked aff first.
“Er, excuse me, Daddy. Everywan else might be wanting tae know, bit Ah think there’s been a mistake by inviting me, lovely though it is tae see everywan,” he said, nodding tae the uniforms roond the table.
“Aye, well, ye’ll maybe find oot in a minute, wance Chic here gies us a wee briefing, eh?” Daddy replied, gieing Chic a wee nod.
“Ah asked Daddy if we could aw get roond the table tae take a look at a few wee possible developments that seem tae be germinating up in God’s country...that’s Springburn tae aw youse who hivnae been let in oan the secret,” he said, getting a few smiles oot ae the braids sitting roond the table, as he took his time in lighting up a fag. “Noo, there might be nothing in it, or there might jist be something happening that we hivnae picked up oan. Either way, Ah thought it might be better tae hiv a wee look at it wae a broad brush, rather than us aw hivving tae catch up oan events later oan, should the shite scatter efter hitting the fan, so tae speak.”
”Unless there’s deid bodies flying aboot or turning up in unexpected places, Ah don’t see that it’s goat anything tae dae wae us,” Bobby replied, referring tae the unsolved murders ae young lassies popping up fae behind the walls during the demolitions ae tenements in the Toonheid since the mid-sixties.
“Maybe we need yer wide-ranging polis expertise then, Bobby, seeing as everywan else disnae know whit the fuck they’re daeing, eh?” Billy Liar slung in.
“And here’s me thinking we’re aw in the same game...detecting the bad guys,” Mickey Sherlock muttered tae himsel, looking at his watch.
“Chic?” Daddy asked again, butting-in oan the argumentative wankers before they goat a full steam up.
“Well, it’s probably Paddy and Fin here ye should be asking, bit Ah’ll gie ye a wee taster fur starters, jist tae get the juices flowing. Don’t be shy, noo. Jist come in when ye’re no sure ae anything. Right, efter Fin here took it upon himsel tae ban that Frisky Frank McKenna fae stepping oot in Springburn jist o’er a year ago, we’ve picked up that he’s back oan the scene, or wis, until last night.”
“So?” Billy Liar asked.
“As ma boys wur assisting him wae his travel arrangements back across tae Possil, Paddy spotted Jo Jo Robson and Toby Simpson coming oot ae Burns’s oan Springburn Road,” Chic replied, getting everywan’s attention instantly, as everywan reached fur their fag packets.
“Toby Simpson wis coming oot ae Burns’s oan Springburn Road? And where wis Frisky Frank before he goat his lift hame tae Possil then?” Mickey Sherlock asked.
“Across in Jonah’s, scaring the shite oot ae Alex The Manager.”
“Is that no where that wee manky mob fae the Toonheid hing oot nooadays, Paddy?” Mickey asked.
“Aye.”
“Noo, why the fuck wid The Simpsons be hinging aboot across in Springburn, Ah wonder?” Billy Liar muttered oot loud, oan everywan’s behauf.
“Ah still don’t see the connection wae ma squad,” Bobby repeated.
“Paddy, dae ye want tae take it fae here?” Chic turned and asked him.
“When Ah went intae the lounge in Jonah’s last night, the place wis deid, apart fae the manky blaggers. Ye’d normally expect the place tae be like a blanket stall, doon at The Barras oan a Sunday efternoon,” he said.
“Aye, bit did we no fuck them up the arse earlier in the year by shutting up their wee modus operandi in that flat across in Millarbank Street and slinging some ae them in the jail?” Mickey asked, letting everywan know that it wis his crew that wur taking the credit
fur it, hivving supplied the intelligence.
“We shut doon the line, bit no the goldmine. That wis jist shifted roond the corner or alang the road. And as fur the two scallys, Taylor and Smith, who we sent doon? Them being oot ae circulation widnae hiv hit the ship below the water line. Naw, this crowd didnae look as if they wur daeing much business, bit they didnae come across as poverty-stricken either.”
“So, where am Ah in aw this?” Bobby asked again, stubbing his fag oot in the ashtray in front ae him fae within a blue smoke cloud.
“Joe McManus.”
“Whit aboot him?”
“He wis stabbed tae death in Gourlay Street, which sits bang in between Jonah’s and Burns’s,” Bumper reminded everywan, joining in fur the first time.
“Ah still don’t see the connection. Granted, the only witnesses tae the murder wur a couple ae doddery auld wummin, bit ye hiv tae admit, Paddy, some wee ned getting murdered in between two pubs up in Springburn widnae exactly be that unusual,” Bobby replied, looking aboot at the faces roond the table.
“Yer Joe McManus, the murder victim, his ran aboot wae The Mankys since he wis a snapper back in the Toonheid,” Bumper reminded him.
“Aye, Ah kin see where ye’re coming fae, Fin, bit according tae this, McManus sustained severe heid injuries last year, that resulted in permanent brain damage,” Bobby said, lifting a sheet ae paper fae the folder in front ae him.
“And ye believe that, dae ye? Ah still see the basturt walking aboot the streets, at least, Ah did until recently,” Bumper replied, looking roond the table.
“Even though ye’re brain damaged disnae mean ye cannae walk aboot the streets, Fin. Ah mean, ye don’t need tae look any further than Shane sitting there...”
“Ha, fucking ha,” Shane Priestly scoffed.
“... and the medical report states that ‘The severity ae the assault his meant that the victim suffers fae impaired cognitive functioning, such as intermittent memory loss, speech impediment, confusion and loss ae co-ordination. These injuries tae the brain hiv been diagnosed as being permanent. It is unlikely that the victim will ever be able tae haud doon permanent employment or be able tae take responsibility fur looking efter himsel withoot professional care assistance and that the injuries sustained ur unlikely tae be reversed’...end ae quote,” Bobby quoted, laying doon his sheet ae paper.
“Fuck, and here’s me thinking he wis always like that,” Bumper said, tae laughter.
“And then there’s Frisky Frank. Across tae yersel, Shane,” Duggie Dougan interrupted, nodding across tae wan ae The Gruesome Twosome.
“We goat a phone call fae Father John, the priest across at St Teresa’s, in the early hours ae this morning, tae say that there wis a hauf naked man lying oan the grass behind the vestry. He said that it looked as if he’d been assaulted. He’d, unfortunately, awready phoned fur an ambulance.”
“Aye, the doctors up in the hospital said that another five minutes and he wid’ve died fae hypothermia,” the other gruesome brother added.
“Anyway, as he wis being carted intae the ambulance, he wis murmuring and babbling a heap ae shite. Ah couldnae really make oot whit he wis saying very well, bit Ah put that lug ae mine doon tae they blue bloody lips ae his when they goat him in tae the ambulance…jist in case he wis gonnae blurt oot where he kept his stash,” Shane admitted, as mair wee smiles appeared oan the faces.
“And did he?” Billy Liar interrupted, no being able tae contain his curiosity.
“Naw, bit Ah could’ve sworn he mumbled something alang the lines ae ‘Ah swear, Tam, Ah never telt them aboot Gucci or McManus’.”
“Aw, thanks a bundle fur bloody-well keeping that wan tae yersel, Shane,” Mr Murder growled, clearly pissed aff.
“Bit Ah only heard this in the early hours ae this morning when we picked him up fae the chapel grounds, Bobby.”
“Ye could’ve bloody-well phoned me at hame, insteid ae me fannying aboot aw o’er the place, trying tae find oot who done in the McManus boy.”
“Paddy?” The Chief asked.
“Well, he never uttered a word tae us, other than yelps when Bumper and the boys ladled intae him last night and we must’ve been wae him fur a hauf an hour, at least.”
“And ye reckon this Tam is Tam Simpson?” asked The Chief.
“Who else?” Chic Thompson replied, shrugging his shoulders.
“And where’s Gucci noo?”
“Well, according tae ma watch, he’ll be arriving at the station up in Springburn in aboot two hours fae noo wae his brief,” Bobby replied, slipping back his sleeve, trying tae impress everywan wae his fancy new Rolex.
“And why is that? Is he awready under suspicion fur the McManus murder?” The Chief asked.
“Routine. According tae oor sources, he wis the only wan ae that bunch ae blaggers that wisnae in Jonah’s oan the night ae the stabbing. Apart fae the two who’re oot in Polmont, he wis McManus’s best pal...or he wis before McManus ended up becoming a cabbage.”
“If he’s no a suspect, why the need fur a brief tae go wae him then?” Billy wondered, frowning.
“Because that’s whit he dis. He’s scared ae being fitted up, Ah assume. Ever since the mute, Smith, wis arrested oan the same day as he wis released fae approved school, aw that manky mob turn up wae a brief attached tae them as soon as we look at them.”
“An eighteen year auld wae his ain brief? Whit the hell ur youse daeing up there in God’s country, Chic? Nae wonder The Simpsons ur moving across fae Possil.”
“So, who’s the brief…as if we don’t awready know, Bobby?” Chic asked, ignoring the jibe.
“Portoy.”
“That young pup? The fruit ae Harry Portoy’s loins?” Mickey Sherlock snarled.
“Aye, the very wan. He represents maist ae that young crowd noo,” Bumper said.
“And hauf the wee chib merchants across the city as well,” Shane chipped in.
“Ye wid’ve thought he wid’ve goat the message and learned a lesson efter whit happened tae that auld man ae his and took up a less dangerous career,” Mickey said, drapping his eyes, efter getting a withering look fae Daddy.
“Is that the wan that droont?” Dave McGovern asked.
“Aye, he wis a famous big-time lawyer back in the fifties and early sixties until he fucked up. A right ducker and diver, so he wis. He represented a mad dog who escaped being hung, only fur him tae get let oot oan a technicality and go oan tae kill some poor auld geezer. The papers turned against Portoy. He hit the booze big-time until he wis persuaded tae resurface and defend wan ae that wee manky mob’s maws. He ran rings roond that stupid prick who sat oan the bench at the time, JP Donnelly, the crooked councillor, so he did.”