The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4

by Todd, Ian

  “Er, Ah don’t want tae sound insensitive tae the boy’s family who wis murdered, superintendent, bit whit’s the difference between this murder and the other twenty or so fatal stabbings that ur still unsolved in the city?” Mary Marigold, fae The Glesga Echo hid asked, puzzled at the announcement.

  “That’s a fair question, Mary-doll, bit may Ah say that the Glesga Polis treat aw murders, particularly wans that result fae knives, equally serious. This wan dis hiv a slight difference in that the suspected perpetrators who’ve been arrested and who’re noo helping us wae oor enquiries, happen tae be well-known notorious Glesga gangsters fae that part ae the city.”

  The press corps hid suddenly hit him wae a barrage ae questions and Daddy hid felt a particular glee in seeing the faces ae Bob Mackerel, who heided up the murder squad and Sam Bison, serious crime and intelligence, looking sick as parrots that the news hid come fae him and no wan ae their ain boys.

  That hid been then, bit noo, sitting there in his office, the pages ae the morning’s events wur turning a lot faster than he’d expected them tae. Duggie Dougan hid jist been oan the blower, screaming that he’d jist been telt that Tam Simpson hid jist hid his fucking heid blown aff by some kind ae time-bomb and that Duggie wis oan his way up tae High Possil tae check it oot. He’d also said that some social worker who’d been wae him, hid jist been rushed across tae The Western Infirmary. It wisnae thought that she wid make it. Duggie also mentioned that it looked highly suspicious and that Tam might’ve been hinging oot ae the social worker, although it could jist be his dirty mind. Duggie added that his desk sergeant, who he wanted sacked straight away fur being a fucking eejit, hid alerted The Marine boys before him and that they, alang wae forensics, wur up at the scene locking the area doon. He’d said that him and Bobby Mack wur oan their way. Duggie hid also said that he wisnae sure if the papers hid been oan tae it yet, bit wid phone him back as soon as he’d arrived up at the murder scene in ten minutes wae the latest news.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Daddy growled oot loud at the turn ae events.

  If it hid been five minutes earlier, he could’ve alerted the hacks himsel and goat even mair credit. He tapped the tap ae his desk wae his Celtic FC pen. He’d need tae be careful. A social worker and a gangster? Christ, this could become sticky, he thought tae himsel, as he stood up and heided fur Jack Tipple’s office oan the flair above him.

  10.45 A.M.

  Wan-bob looked at the three kneeling figures in front ae him. The wan tae his immediate right...Toby...wis swaying in an anti-clockwise motion. He detected a wee groan coming fae under wan ae the canvas money bags that the three ae them wur wearing o’er their heids. Wan-bob looked aboot. The warehoose in the Coocaddens hid been owned, until recently, by The Big Man, since the days that auld man Molloy, Pat’s da, hid used it as a collection and drapping aff point, when he’d owned hauf the stables in the city, during the war. Although he didnae own it anymair, Pat still used it tae store bulky stolen swag, though it’s main function the past eighteen months hid been tae settle auld scores and dish oot punishments. Wan-bob tried tae remember the last time he’d been there. He wis sure it wis efter they’d dealt wae Hawkeye Campbell...bit anyway, he thought tae himsel...another day, another dollar. He nodded tae Peter the Plant tae take the bags aff ae the heids. The three faces screwed their eyes up against the beams ae the spotlights that wur hitting them. Shaun Murphy moved intae the light. Blaster wis the first tae open that gub ae his.

  “Shaun, fur Christ’s sake, whit’s gaun oan? Whit hiv Ah done?” he wailed.

  “Shaun, whit’s happening? Whit the fuck did ye attack me fur, eh? Ah thought we wur mates noo?” Toby Simpson demanded, blinking, as blood streamed aff the tap ae that heid ae his oan tae the chest ae his nice white shirt.

  Peter the Plant sniggered.

  “Fur Christ’s sake, Shaun,” Blaster wailed. “Ah hivnae done a thing, honest… Ah swear tae God, so Ah’ve no.”

  “Naw? And whit aboot aw oor good chickens, ya prick, ye?” Charlie Hastie asked.

  “Charlie…whit fucking chickens? Whit ur ye oan aboot? Ah bought they chickens fair and square aff ae that farmer, McPherson, oot in Helensburgh,” Blaster protested.

  “And the hijacked van across in Colston, jist before Christmas? Wis that aw fair and square as well, ya thieving basturt, eh?”

  “Charlie, whit hijack across in Colston? Ah hivnae a bloody clue whit ye’re oan aboot.”

  “Don’t lie, ya big fucking glaikit bawbag, ye. Wee Eck Thomas his been flogging them aw o’er Milton!” Danny, Shaun’s brother, screamed at him, kicking him oan the side ae the face, toppling him o’er.

  “Pick him up, Peter,” Wan-bob commanded quietly.

  “Bit Ah don’t know anything aboot any hijack up in Colston, Shaun,” Blaster bubbled, blood dripping doon his chin fae his broken nose.

  “So, this is how The Big Man goes intae partnership then?” Toby sneered.

  “Toby, shut the fuck up, ya prick, ye. Ye never did know when tae acknowledge when ye wur well and truly humped, so ye didnae,” Shaun snarled.

  “Ye might’ve goat me, bit Tam will fucking skin aw youse alive, so he will,” Toby screamed at them defiantly.

  “Whit hiv ye goat tae say fur yersel, Bootsy, eh? It’s no like you tae be hinging aboot, no trying tae get a word in edgewise, ya limping prick, ye. And talking aboot limping, that wee silent wan fae up in Springburn asked me tae gie ye this, so he did,” Charlie Hastie said, swinging his baseball bat and smashing it against the side ae Bootsy’s heid, splitting it wide open and scattering blood and brains aw o’er the other two kneeling beside him.

  “Oh ma God! Ah don’t want tae die, boys…please! Please!” Blaster howled in terror, spitting oot bits ae Bootsy’s skull, while pishing they troosers ae his.

  “So, this is how ye build bridges, Shaun?” Toby asked tensely, trying tae be calm, considering the shite he wis in.

  “Bridges? Noo, there’s a good word, Toby. Ah wonder how many poor souls ye’ve goat stacking up the Kingston Bridge then, eh? Ach, well, nae tae worry, we’ve goat better things fur ye tae haud up, efter the day, so we hiv,” Danny said, laughing.

  “Shaun, gonnae no dae this...please? Ah thought we spoke aboot aw this...how we’d go forward in partnership thegither. Let me go and there will be nae hard feelings.. Ah promise,” Toby said, pleading in his eyes, realising that he wis definitely up Shite Street, withoot a bus ticket this time.

  “Ah don’t know why ye’re asking me, Toby. Ye better ask Wan-bob…he’s in charge noo,” Shaun said, shrugging his shoulders, looking across at Wan-bob.

  “Aye, well the answer’s naw, so don’t even ask. Ye’re a dangerous wee shitehoose, so ye ur, Toby. Ah even heard that yer ain maw cannae staun the sight ae ye, efter whit ye done tae that wee sister ae yers. Naw, ye’ve hid this coming tae ye fur a long time noo, so ye hiv, ya mad fucker, ye,” Wan-bob said tae him, casually walking across and pulling a gun oot fae the waist band ae his troosers.

  “Ye wait until ma big brother, Tam, get’s a haud ae ye, Broon, ya basturt!” Toby whined fearfully, starting tae bubble and pish his pants, clamping his eyes shut in anticipation ae the bullet.

  “Whit, his yer new pal, Shaun, no telt ye, Toby? That young Tally wan, Tony Gucci and that wee manky crew ae his blew yer big brother’s brains oot ae the back ae his heid this morning, alang wae that hairy he wis perching oan, so they did,” Wan-bob said, as he pulled the trigger at point blank range, two feet fae Toby’s face, while Charlie Hastie let loose wae the baseball bat oan Blaster Mackay’s heid.

  11.15 A.M.

  “Take a seat, boys. Now then, whit hiv youse goat fur me?” The Editor, Hamish McGovern asked them.

  “Ah’ll go first, Sammy,” Tom Bryce said, excitement in his voice.

  “Be ma guest,” The Rat nodded.

  “Right, hiv ye heard aboot the shooting up in Possil earlier this morning, Hamish?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, we’ve picked up that it wis
a notorious gangster called Tam Simpson who wis killed. Seemingly, he wis ambushed when he entered his flat...died instantly, apparently.”

  “Aye, Ah’m familiar wae The Simpsons. Big rivals ae Pat Molloy, Ah believe. Who hiv we goat up there covering it?”

  “Mary Marigold and Slipper, the photographer.”

  “Good, she seems tae be fitting in quite well. Some ae her stories hiv been quite interesting. No great, bit not bad either, considering she wears a skirt and high heels.”

  “There wis another victim involved who wisnae an innocent bystander...a wummin. The polis ur no gieing anything away, bit we believe we know her identity.”

  “Oh?”

  “O’er tae yersel, Sammy,” Tom Bryce said, nodding.

  “Ah’ve been working oan this story...a lurid sex-scandal...since Ah’ve been back in the toon, Hamish. Ah’ve jist spent the last couple ae hours putting the story thegither. It still needs a few wee tweaks here and there, bit Ah think it’s self-explanatory, so it is,” The Rat said, sliding his copy across the desk tae The Editor.

  Hamish picked up the type-written sheets and started tae read. Hauf way doon, he stoapped and looked up at The Rat.

  “Kin aw this be proven and cross-referenced?”

  “Oh, aye, Hamish.”

  “Christ!”

  “Absolutely brilliant, so it is. Ah don’t know how ye dae it, Sammy, so Ah don’t,” Tom Bryce exclaimed.

  “Christ, Ah need tae get a haud ae Lord Frank. Ah wis expecting him in this morning and he isnae at hame either. He’ll want tae know aboot this and whit we dae next.”

  “Oh, Ah think Ah know where ye might find him, Hamish,“ The Rat volunteered.

  “Where?”

  “Try Bell 55787.”

  “Right, Tom, Ah’ll get oan tae the news editor up in Hope Street and ask him to hiv John Turney, the lunchtime news anchor, staunin by. Sammy, get up there and phone me when ye arrive and Ah’ll hiv an edited exclusive by the paper ready fur ye tae pass oan. Noo, in the meantime, Ah better try and get Lord Frank,” Hamish said, dismissing them and reaching fur the phone.

  11.35 A.M.

  Maggie Bates, Governor ae Gateside Wummin’s Prison in Greenock drummed her fingers oan her desk impatiently, as she waited fur the receiver tae be picked up in Edinburgh. She’d jist goat aff the phone. Daddy Jackson, her superintendent contact fae the polis in Glesga, hid jist telephoned her wae some disturbing news.

  “Wan ae the biggest gangsters in the city his jist been wasted less than two hours ago,” he’d said.

  “So?”

  “There wis a wummin wae him who copped it as well”.

  “And?”

  “Why wid the wife ae wan ae the assistant governors oot in Polmont be staunin up a closemooth wae a notorious gangster this morning while hauf his heid wis being blown away?” he’d asked.

  She’d asked fur a name, bit Daddy hid replied that they wur still checking it oot. He’d said she wis a social worker based in Possilpark. George Crawford, the AG oot in Polmont wis getting offered the Barlinnie post this morning. At his interview he’d spoken aboot his social worker wife who wis based up in Possil. She hoped she wisnae too late.

  11.39 A.M.

  Lord Frank jumped. The Duchess hid the loudest bedside telephone he’d ever heard in his life. He looked at her lying beside him and smiled. Her back wis tae him and she’d her erms wrapped aroond her neck. Her fingers curled roond her shoulder, exposing The Princess’s Ring. It hid cost him an absolute fortune, bit he wis glad tae hiv it back where it belonged. Even though he wis still married, he’d surprised himsel by proposing tae her the night before. It hid been an even bigger surprise when she’d accepted.

  “But you must keep this a secret between the two of us...for the time being, at least, darling. John won’t mind, but Saba has to be worked on. Given her reaction to my beaus in the past, we’ll need to put together a cunning plan,” she’d purred in that Flemish twang, slipping oot ae her negligee, so that she wis wearing nothing bit the ring.

  He’d need tae accelerate his divorce, he thought tae himself, or this could cost him a fortune.

  “Darling, pick up the phone, please, before I take one of your husband’s hunting rifles off the wall and shoot the damned thing,” he murmured, drawing his tongue up her spine between her shoulder blades, which seemed tae dae the trick.

  “Hello...” she mumbled sleepily intae the moothpiece. “Hang on a moment. It’s for you,” she murmured, drapping the receiver o’er her shoulder.

  “Me?”

  “You...” she mumbled, as he picked up the handset.

  12.15 A.M.

  The AG wanted tae staun up and start pacing again, but he didnae want The Chief tae see that he wis anxious. He’d considered phoning Edinburgh back, bit hid decided against it. He wis sitting, looking across at the unopened bottle ae Lambrusco sparkling wine that The Chief hid arrived wae earlier, which wis sitting beside two Champagne glasses, when the phone finally rang. He looked at The Chief who smiled and picked up the bottle. The AG let the telephone ring. Let them see that he wisnae desperately waiting wae bated breath, he thought tae himsel. Efter two mair rings, he picked up the receiver fae the cradle efter nodding tae The Chief tae go aheid.

  “Governor Crawford. Yes, speaking. Yes, I’m married to Mrs Alison Crawford. You wish me to comment on what? Who is this? The Scottish lunchtime news, you say? Yes…yes, she social works in Possilpark in Glasgow. Tam Simpson? Never heard of him. No, Mr Simpson is not a family friend. Of course I’m sure. Look, what is this all about? How did you get this number? She’s where? Transferred to Glasgow Royal infirmary...shot! Oh my God!” The AG screamed, drapping the receiver oan tae the polished table as Napoleon The Boar stood staring at him wae his mooth open, bottle upended and the wine overflowing o’er the tap ae a glass, creating a large bubbly puddle oan The AG’s good prisoner polished desk.

  12.30 A.M.

  “Speak to me, Daddy,” the assistant chief constable demanded, staunin behind his desk.

  “It’s still very fluid, sir. Aw Ah know is that, at aroond ten tae fifteen minutes past nine this morning, Tam Simpson opened the front door ae a flat he seemingly owns in Hillend Road up in High Possil and tripped a wire that splattered his brains across his neighbour’s front door. He wis killed instantly.”

  “And this social worker woman?”

  “Her name’s Alison Crawford, aged forty two and works oot ae the social work department office in Possil. We’re no too sure if she wis oan a call tae a flat in the building, bit whitever she wis daeing there, she caught part ae the blast. We’re trying tae establish why she wis there, as we speak. Fae whit Ah kin gather fae the initial assessment made by the polis surgeon, it seems that she wis behind Simpson when the device went aff. Probably passing him oan the landing. She’s married tae a prison governor who works oot in Polmont Borstal, oot near Falkirk.”

  “Christ almighty, Daddy! Do the papers know anything about this yet?”

  “Naw, we’ve goat a clamp-doon oan the personnel involved and she’s under polis protection up in The Royal, efter being transferred across fae The Western.”

  “How bad is she?”

  “We’re no too sure as she’s still in surgery, bit we know she copped it in the neck.”

  “And the device?”

  “Nowan his seen anything like it. It’s clearly a highly professional hit, so it is. Probably somewan imported up here fae doon south tae carry it oot. Wance the photographer and forensic boys ur finished daeing their business, it’ll be transferred doon tae the forensics lab across in the Gorbals.”

  “Who are our main suspects?”

  “Well, as ye know, The Simpsons hiv hid a few run-ins wae a wee manky crew across in Springburn, oan and aff, fur o’er a year noo. Nothing too heavy that we kin figure oot. Paddy McPhee, wan ae the local sergeants, his been keeping tabs oan the situation and hisnae reported anything definite that wid lead us tae believe that they could pull something like this aff, so t
hey’re oot ae the picture fur the time being, so they ur. The Simpson crowd hiv been trying tae put the squeeze oan them and put them oot ae the game. Aw the indications ur that it’s either Pat Molloy’s boys or Blaster Mackay, fae up in Milton.”

  “What’s Mickey Sherlock saying about it?”

  “Well, Molloy’s still in Spain, as far as we know, bit Wan-bob Broon is back. Apparently he wis attending a nephew’s funeral. We’re checking that oot as we speak. Mickey disnae think Shaun Murphy wid’ve hid a go oan his ain, withoot The Big Man gieing him the nod. We’ve established where aw Molloy’s boys ur jist noo, bit hivnae tackled any ae them…as yet. We’re trying tae backtrack oan their known movements in the past twenty four hours, tae try and put them anywhere near Hillend Road. ”

  “And Blaster Mackay?”

  “Ah’ve asked fur a warrant tae turn his place o’er and get him in fur questioning. Interestingly, a lorry, registered in his name, full ae live chickens, wis found parked up oot oan Great Western Road, jist under the bridge at Anniesland earlier. Aw the chickens hid been let loose during the morning rush hour. The polis wur alerted as the main road wis swarming wae aboot fifty wummin and school weans, aw chasing and snatching up the chickens and stuffing them in tae their shoapping and school bags. Jings Johnston, the local inspector fae Yoker, who spotted it oan the way past, said that it wis like something oot ae ‘The Return ae The Locusts,’ so it wis.”

  “Right, I want kept up-to-date hourly on what is happening up at The Royal. I’ve arranged a press conference for 3pm this afternoon. And the other Simpson brother…the psycho one?”

  “He’s clearly been tipped aff, so he his. There’s nae signs ae him.”