The
Glasgow Grin
by Martin Stanley
Copyright 2015 by Martin Stanley
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The basic geography contained in this book is more or less accurate, but the locations, buildings and businesses are either used fictitiously or are products of the author’s imagination.
Cover & book design: Martin Stanley
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this and did not purchase it then please remove it and purchase a legitimate copy from a legitimate vendor. The author thanks you for respecting his work in producing this book.
Martin Stanley was born in Middlesbrough in 1972. He is the author of the Stanton brothers series of crime thrillers (The Curious Case of The Missing Moolah, The Green-eyed Monster, Bone Breakers, The Hunters and The Glasgow Grin). He is also the author of the noir thriller The Gamblers and The Greatest Show in Town, a collection of shorts. When he’s not writing crime fiction, or working as a freelance crayon monkey, he can be found writing reviews or offering unwanted opinions on his website The Gamblers.
Martin Stanley
The Glasgow Grin
A Stanton Brothers thriller
The author would like to thank Dan Sollis for his invaluable assistance in editing the first draft into something readable. He devoted a lot of hours to the cause, and evidence of his work can be found on pretty much every page. This novel didn’t come together easily, but Dan’s efforts made the grunt work of editing and polishing a lot easier than it would have been if I was doing the work myself.
This one is for the readers who have devoured all of my scribblings; the ones who have posted Amazon and Goodreads reviews, and told others about the crazy adventures of two violent siblings who operate on the fringes of the deepest, darkest north-east, the ones who have waited a long time for this bad boy to show up. Yes, my friends, this one is for you...
Enjoy.
Table of Contents
Copyright page
About the author
Title Page
The Past is prologue
I.
II.
III.
Laying The Trap
1.
2
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
Luring The Victim
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
59.
60.
61.
62.
63.
64.
65.
66.
67.
68.
The Part Where The Plan Should Come Together
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74.
75.
76.
77.
78.
79.
80.
81.
82.
83.
84.
85.
86.
87.
88.
89.
90.
91.
92.
93.
94.
95.
96.
97.
98.
Epilogues Are The New Prologues
I.
II.
If You Enjoyed This Book...
I.
IT WAS the shouting that Larry Eldridge heard first.
Hollis Haulage did odd hours and it wasn’t unusual to hear people screaming at each other from midnight until dawn. He’d complained about the noise to his employers at Paragon Logistics on many occasions, asking them to do something about it. His requests were always met with uncomfortable looks and shrugs. They calmly informed him that John Hollis didn’t take criticism very well and it would be best for everyone involved if he left it alone. The bosses even loaned Larry an iPod and some expensive headphones, and told him to play music when things got too loud next door. Get on with the cleaning, and mind his own business, in other words.
Of course, they weren’t noted for being generous without some strings attached; he was told that if he lost or broke the iPod he’d be looking for a new position that very same day. It was another millstone around the neck of a man who already had so many he often joked, without smiling, that he should make a necklace out of them.
As the shouting began, Larry was emptying wastebaskets into a large black plastic bag with lethargic, haphazard movements, spilling as much as he bagged. He was tall and slender but seemed shorter because of a stoop he’d earned from thirty long years of bending down to pick up other people’s mess. Two decades of lugging bins around in the sun for the council had etched deep lines into his face, but the rest of his wrinkles came from years of money troubles. Larry often wondered if stress had caused his baldness too, which he’d tried to disguise with an elaborate thatched combover that consisted mostly of hairspray and a few carefully placed grey strands. Most people were surprised to learn that Larry was only fifty-two, because he looked much older than that. With all the hardships he’d endured over the years, Larry was just thankful that he wasn’t dead and still had a job – even if he did hate it.
As the shouting built to a loud crescendo, Larry decided that now might be a good time to put his iPod to good use. He was putting in his ear buds when he heard the first bang.
It sounded like an engine misfire – there had been plenty of those at Hollis Haulage over the years, and he’d learned to ignore them – but the explosions that followed came in quick succession, each a little different from the last. An icy ripple of fear raised the hairs on his forearms. He tried covering the commotion with Led Zeppelin at full volume, but all the denial in the world couldn’t clamp down on the instinct that told him it was gunfire.
Heart racing, Larry switched off the iPod, tucked the unit away in his right uniform pocket, and turned in the direction of the sounds. More blasts rang out, lingering in the air like distant thunder as he weighed up his options.
Calling the cops could be bad for his health, because the people next door had connections. But not doing anything would be worse for his conscience if someone had been hurt. He looked up at the dirty suspended ceiling tiles for a few seconds, closed his eyes, and listened as his inner voice begged him to do something.
“To hell with it” he said, under his breath.
Larry spr
inted through the open-plan offices, dodging desks and shouldering his way through doors, working up a sweat. One of the bins caught his foot and got kicked aside, scattering its contents across the carpet, as he raced to the exit. For a brief moment he questioned why he was running towards gunfire. Was he really that stupid?
Maybe, but he found it impossible to ignore his conscience, which told him that something bad was happening next door. Nor could he disregard a legitimate excuse to escape the five-pound an hour monotony of his cleaning job. At that moment, even danger was preferable to the daily grind that was eating up his sorry life.
Larry burst into the reception room and lost his footing on the freshly cleaned floor tiles. He slid across the room on his side, finally coming to rest near the front entrance. Despite rubbing his left hip on reflex, the only thing he’d really hurt was his pride, and there wasn’t much of that to lose anymore. Getting to his feet, Larry opened the door and emerged into the crisp night air. He turned left and pressed his face between a gap in the tall rail fence that separated the two businesses.
Several large, garishly branded eighteen-wheel trucks were stationed across the car park, obscuring Larry’s view of the hangar sized unit where Hollis had his office. Voices whispered in the distance, too faint for him to make out words. Then, three figures dressed in dark clothes emerged from behind the farthest lorry, sprinting towards the the rear of the property. It was too dark for Larry to make out details, but he noticed one of the men was carrying a huge holdall. They ran into an area of shadow not covered by security lights and disappeared from view. He thought he heard two voices bickering in the darkness, but couldn’t be sure.
Larry went back inside, grabbed a stepladder from the janitor’s office, and placed it next to the fence. He climbed to the top and craned over the rails, angling his body to get a clear view, which still consisted mostly of Hollis trucks. Leaning further forward, until the railing spikes were supporting his weight, still didn’t help, and as he wasn’t prepared to risk his life by going over the fence for a better view, he decided to phone the police instead and be done with it.
Larry was still dangling over the fence when he felt something slip from his top pocket: the iPod. Panicking, he lifted his right hand off the barrier to prevent it from falling, but this made him lose his balance and tip forward. Self-preservation kicked in and Larry forgot the iPod momentarily. He placed his hand back on the railing and stopped himself from falling, but watched helplessly as the music player dropped.
It seemed to fall in slow motion, lingering in the air. Then the edge of the player clattered against the tarmac and it bounced and skittered away from the fence.
Heart beating double-time, Larry held his breath and angled his eyes towards the player display. It didn’t appear to be cracked, although he couldn’t be sure about the internals. All thoughts of gunshots left his head for a moment and he started worrying about his job instead.
Larry clambered down the ladder, lay on the floor, and snaked a thin arm through a gap in the railings. He clawed at the ground and pushed forward as far as he could go, until his shoulder was wedged in tight. A few inches were all that separated his bony fingers from one of the ear buds. Another attempted push sent bolts of agony down his arm and he conceded defeat.
But he had to get the iPod back. He might have hated his job, but that didn’t mean he could afford to lose it. Mortgages didn’t pay themselves, more’s the pity.
All he needed to do was drop over the fence, grab the player, and get back over. Easy peasy. No fuss, no lost iPod, and no being a hero. A few moments of thought were all it took for him to shout, “Hello?”
No answer. Silence. That should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. He was certain that what he’d heard were gunshots. Silence might mean absolutely nothing at all, but it could also mean that somebody was seriously hurt, maybe even… No, he didn’t want to think about that at this moment in time.
Larry shouted hello again. More silence. He got on the top of the ladder and used what upper body strength he had to pull his torso back onto the railings, then he swung his right leg up and rested it between the spikes. Using his right leg as fulcrum and wrapping his hands around a couple of railings, Larry brought his left up and over and then tried to drop gracefully. But it didn’t work out that way. He lost his balance as he tried to bring both feet over, his hands lost their grip, he turned in mid-air and he landed on his stomach. His hands scraped along the rough tarmac. He hissed softly with pain. Fear prevented him from making more of a fuss.
Larry was now in unknown territory and needed to be careful. He dropped into a crouch, shuffled over to the iPod and put it in his pocket. Now that he had what he wanted, Larry considered climbing back over, but curiosity made him drop on his stomach and peer through the gap between the trucks and the tarmac. Larry thought he saw something on the ground casting shadows, but without a closer look had no idea what it was. Staying low, he weaved his way between the trucks, using them to hide his progress, scared that somebody might see him.
Larry paused at the last truck, steeling himself to face whatever was on the other side. He mumbled a soft hello and closed his eyes, waiting for gun shots to answer him.
They never came. There was only silence.
Certain that the area was clear, Larry stepped around the carriage.
He smelled the carnage before he saw it. A bitter scent like burnt charcoal hung in the air, with an underlying whiff of hot metal. Both were different from the usual smells of exhaust fumes and scorched rubber.
A young black man lay motionless on the ground, face down, with a shotgun nearby. Fresh blood had pooled around the body and was probably still warm. Even though he knew it was futile, Larry prodded the man’s arm with the tip of his shoe and asked if he was okay. There was no reply, so he stepped away. Another young black man lay a few feet away, facing the building. Another shotgun. More blood.
But then Larry saw something much worse, clamped a hand over his mouth and held it in place. Hot bile burned his throat, and it took a couple of swallows to send the taste back down to where it belonged.
A fat headless corpse dressed all in black lay on its back in front of the office entrance. Chunks of hair-covered skull and brain surrounded the carcass, leaving Larry to wonder if this was the remains of John Hollis. The body was certainly fat enough to be him.
There were another two headless bodies near Hollis, one of which was missing an arm, and the corrugated walls of the building were covered with an impasto of blood, brains and hairy hunks of head.
Larry’s fear departed for a moment and his rational brain kicked in with a single question: Why did all this happen? Surely there had to be a reason for all this bloodshed. The only answer his mind could conjure was: You probably don’t want to know. Just see if there are any survivors.
Pausing at the entrance of the building, Larry craned forward slightly, shouted hello and winced. Amidst the silence, his voice seemed to boom. He waited for the explosions to start, but the only sounds he heard were the rasp of his fingernails scraping nervously against the heavy fabric of his uniform.
Larry didn’t want to go inside, but knew that if there was even the slightest possibility that somebody needed help it would be wrong to run away. This thought made Larry step around the corpses and into the huge open-plan office.
As soon as he stepped inside, Larry’s eyes went wide and his legs went wobbly. He brought his hand to his mouth again, but this time it was too late. Vomit sprayed over his hand and across the floor. Leaning against a wall to keep himself upright, Larry gasped and spluttered several times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He shivered momentarily and looked again to make sure that what he’d seen was real.
It was.
A small, naked body lay in seven pieces on a large black plastic sheet. The head had been placed at the far left corner of the sheet, and a shrivelled cock and balls were in a sloppy pile beside it. The arms and legs had been hacked away from the t
orso, which had been opened from crotch to ribcage. Entrails poked through the gash like a raw sausage link. Blood sloshed around the plastic and soaked into dark towels that formed barriers at its edges. In places, the blood had spilled through and flowed across the floor. Larry couldn’t believe that the human body contained so much of it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said to nobody in particular.
Larry scanned the room for survivors, but knew that it was empty. Then he took a cigarette from a box in the left overall pocket and lit it with trembling hands. He inhaled until the smoke burned his lungs, then let it out in one big cloud, and left the room as quickly as he could.
Dazed, Larry stepped around the bodies and walked towards the Paragon offices without looking back. The desire to pretend he’d never witnessed all this was huge, but he also knew it wasn’t an option. Larry had stomped around a crime scene, leaving DNA and fingerprints in his wake. To walk away and say nothing would bring trouble that he didn’t need.
Larry paused at the fence, focused on a couple of railings and jumped at them. His hands wrapped around the cold metal, clinging on with reserves of strength that he didn’t know he had, and his rubber soled feet kicked and scraped up the rails. Then he hooked a thin arm over the top of the fence, grabbed on tight, and swung his body up and over. He dropped on his feet and swayed for a few seconds, feeling momentarily light-headed.
He wasn’t sure if the dizziness was because of the physical exertion or the shock of all that bloodshed. Leaning against the barrier, Larry smoked another cigarette, using it as an excuse to pause and gather his thoughts, then he staggered back towards the Paragon building.
Fear made him pause at the door and think through his options again. He knew he couldn’t pretend to have seen nothing, and knew what he had to say. Be honest, be brave, and hopefully the rest would take care of itself.
Larry entered the reception and moved behind the main desk. He sat in the chair and waited for a few seconds, considering what he wanted to say, weighing up the words to avoid blurting them all out at once. Finally, he picked up the phone and punched in three numbers.
The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 1