The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  “I won’t bother trying to impress you with who I am,” he said. “‘Cause I see that won’t work here, lad.”

  “You sound like that cunt off the Tetley adverts,” he said, smirking.

  Bob rummaged in his pocket and brought out a pair of steel knuckles that he placed over both sets of fingers. He made fists and drove them into the man’s ribs, hearing them crack on both sides of the cage. The man screamed and thrashed, his muscles tightening, neck veins bulging through the skin, and rocked in the chair.

  Bob unflexed his hands and lowered them. “You’re thinking of Brian Glover, right?”

  “Dunno... his name,” the man said between rattling breaths. “Just know… he’s a… crusty old cunt… like you.”

  Bob danced in and powered a right hook across the man’s left cheek. It struck hard enough to tear the man’s flesh. The crack of bone bounced off the walls. The man shrieked and squealed and fought against his bonds.

  Bob stepped back and wiped blood and sweat off his hands onto his suit trousers. It didn’t matter, he’d burn them before the day was over. He’d hit the man harder than he had intended. The left side of the man’s face looked concave and his head was misshapen. The cheek wound was deep and nasty; blood poured from it and dripped freely off his chin. He had the appearance of somebody who’d had enough, but Bob needed to make sure.

  “You gonna behave, lad? ‘Cause I’m going after your balls next. I’ll tear them off.”

  The man trembled. The fight left his eyes, which blinked repeatedly as he processed what was happening to him. “Whad… you… waanndd?” he said, struggling. The broken jaw made it difficult to speak.

  Bob smiled. “Down to business, I like that,” he said. “So, I’ll do the same for you. You tell me what I wanna know and you get to live. Nowt more harm’ll be done if you tell me what you know. But if you lie or omit owt important, you’re going in the ground in pieces after some long, slow torture. Understood?”

  The man nodded, flicking blood spray.

  “Your boss has been bringing in new girls, mostly Soviet and eastern European.”

  The man nodded.

  “How’s he bringing them lasses in?”

  “Twuckfff.”

  “Whose trucks?”

  “We… onefff… corrected… girlfff... form… Horriff Haurage.”

  Bob’s guts twisted and tightened into a dense ball that felt heavy as lead, and his balls retracted painfully into his body. Nervous energy made goosebumps of his flesh and his small hairs stood to attention. He crouched before the man. “Just the once?”

  The man nodded.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Fear widened the man’s eyes. “Nuff line… Wafff a… one offf. Eddie ufully… corrected thhem.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Fix monfff ago… Ah finkk.”

  Hollis had been going behind his back for some time and a lot of money had slipped through his fingers because of the man’s greed and ambition. He needed to know how much money was being lost, and who exactly was involved.

  “Who were there the night you collected them?”

  “Horriff, Don Wevver… McGarvey… Eddie waff away… procurring girlff.” The man groaned; every word took its toll on him.

  “Gupta Patel?”

  The man shook his head.

  “You sure, lad?”

  “Ah knuhh… what thhat… lil bathtard… lufff like.”

  “Just girls, or were there drugs, too?”

  “Jufff girlff.”

  Bob patted him on the shoulder and stepped away. He gave Barney a brief nod and he grabbed the man’s head, holding it tight. The man screamed why? and called Bob a fucking lying old homo. He choked on the last of these words as the big pimp slit his throat. Blood gushed in spurts, the man thrashed and fought until he lost too much blood and his heart finally gave out. Bob stared at the corpse and the blood glistening on its torso, then directed his gaze at Barney.

  “Did anybody see you grab him?”

  Barney shook his head.

  “You’re positive, lad?”

  “One hundred per cent.”

  “Then cut him up and take him to the farm. Feed him to the pigs. Burn everything else.”

  Bob left the same way he came in and went back to the car. He sat beside Jimmy and let out a long sigh. The hitman looked at his boss’ bloodstained hands and clothes.

  “I take it he talked?”

  Bob nodded.

  “Where to next?”

  “Home to clean up, then we’re paying Don Webber a visit.”

  61. – Stanton

  THE NEXT morning I woke up to the sound of loud explosions. A couple of familiar American voices called each other motherfuckers over a pounding orchestral score.

  This wasn’t how I’d imagined starting the day. I went downstairs, brewed coffee, and went into the living room carrying three mugs on a tray. My brother and McMaster sat on the sofa watching a past-it American actor try to run away from his enemies. The old fellow was fooling nobody – he moved like a seventy-year-old with a false hip – and the younger actors chasing took pity by moving like they were wading through treacle and peppering everything but the star with their bullets.

  McMaster and my brother didn’t pay any attention as I placed the tray on the coffee table, seemingly unable to tear their eyes away from all the excitement. Finally, my brother picked up one of the coffees and turned towards me.

  “Didn’t hear you come back in last night,” he said.

  “Got back late.”

  McMaster also picked up a drink. “How’s my car?”

  “Shot several speed cameras. Couple of car chases with the police. Turned it doing a hundred on one of the corners.”

  McMaster grinned. “So, a usual night then?”

  “Summat like that.”

  My brother got up and looked out of a window towards the car port. When he got back to the sofa, he caught me glaring in his direction.

  “Really?” I said with a sigh.

  My brother shrugged as he sat down. “Sometimes you can be all subtle about that sarcasm shit.”

  “Did you sort out what you needed to sort?” McMaster asked.

  “It’s sorted, and the plan’s in place. Kind of.”

  “So who’s our back-up?” my brother inquired.

  “Mickey.”

  A gleam of anger appeared in his eyes and he sat forward. “Dunn?”

  Rage twisted his face the way a barman twists a damp rag. It wasn’t that he disliked Mickey, as such; he just thought all substance abusers were liabilities and hated working with them.

  “That’s the one,” I replied.

  “Not being funny, like, but he can barely fuckin’ function without a drink.”

  “He was functioning fine last night.”

  My brother let out a disgusted laugh. “You’re gonna put our lives in the hands of a gadgie who can’t even deal with his own?”

  “He’s been clean three months.”

  My brother chewed his bottom lip until it bled. “Swear down? No bullshit?”

  “No bullshit.”

  His face relaxed and he sighed, but he still looked tense. He wiped away the blood on his bottom lip with the back of his hand and studied the stain. “You’re taking a serious fuckin’ risk, like.”

  “Tell me summat I don’t know.”

  “He’s let us down too many times before.”

  “If you can name me a better shot you’re welcome to rope him in.”

  “How much is he costing us?”

  “Eight grand.”

  My brother sighed and threw his hands up towards the ceiling. “Eight grand? Is that the going rate for pissheads these days?”

  “Five for him, three for his partner. And that’s pretty cheap considering the amount that’s on our heads.”

  My brother shook his head and turned back to the screen.

  “Fancy roping in anybody else while you’re at it?” he asked. His hands curl
ed into claws that raked across his jeans. The sound of fingernails on denim was loud enough to hear over the wheezes of the ageing action hero as he gasped exposition at his much younger leading lady. My brother pursed his lips until they resembled a baboon’s arsehole and ground his teeth from side-to-side to show me just how angry he was about forking over the money.

  “Funny you should ask that,” I replied, turning to McMaster. “You got Mark Kandinsky’s number on your mobile, by any chance?”

  62. – Owden

  BOB DROVE along a quiet country road and pulled into a driveway that stopped at a tall wooden gate. He looked at Jimmy in the passenger seat and nodded in the direction of a communication panel that was fixed into the left gatepost. As Jimmy was opening the door, Bob grabbed his shoulder and told him to stay in the car. Deciding on a less diplomatic approach, he reversed the vehicle, put his foot down on the accelerator, and smashed into the gate. It came off its hinges with a loud crunch and crashed down on the bonnet. Bob picked up speed, then screeched to an abrupt stop. The door slid off the bonnet and skidded along the path until it finally came to halt. Bob drove slowly over the gate, listening as it cracked beneath the wheels, then he grinned with satisfaction.

  Jimmy looked less impressed. “My fuckin’ car.”

  “Quit your mithering, lad.”

  They went up a long, tree bordered driveway, into a circular courtyard with a water feature roundabout. The tall structure resembled several brushed-steel breast implants stacked in a random pile. Water dribbled from the top mound and trickled down into the marbled pond at its base. Bob pulled in next to the feature and got out of the car.

  Jimmy rushed around to the front of the vehicle. Grasping his head in his hands, he groaned at the dented bonnet and deep scratches in the paintwork that looked like hasty scribbles. Ignoring the hitman’s grumbling, Bob walked towards a large, ugly mansion that looked like the work of a bipolar architect. The left half had a classical appearance, all sash windows and ivy covered red brick, but the other was a gleaming structure of glass and steel, like a huge conservatory. The halves made him think of two ugly women having a fight over who was the prettiest.

  A burly man with a big shaved head and a grey suit that was too tight for his frame stepped around from the conservatory and made his way in Bob’s direction.

  “Whoa there, old-timer,” he said. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

  Moving quickly, he positioned himself between Bob and the front door and placed his right hand on Bob’s chest to halt his momentum.

  “I asked you a question,” he said.

  Bob’s anger flared for a brief moment before settling back to a dull throb. He stepped back and relieved the pressure of the man’s hand on his ribcage. “I’m going to the front door, lad,” he replied. “And you’re gonna step aside.”

  The man’s dark, raisin-sized eyes studied Bob for signs of a threat. “Is that so?” He had the face of a former fighter, consisting of old scar tissue and badly healed nose and cheekbones. Exuding danger and sublimated anger, he shuffled his shoulders, ready to throw a right hook.

  “That is so.”

  “I can’t allow that, fella,” he said.

  Bob took a step back, readying himself for violence. “You can. And will.”

  The man’s stare went hard and mean. “That so?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  Bob and the man sized each other up in silence until their eyes locked and they both waited to see who blinked first.

  It was a sharp intake of breath that did it. Bob heard the man wheeze, gearing up for violence, and sidestepped left. He felt the breeze from a fast right that missed his chin by inches. The swing threw his opponent off balance and he staggered forward into the space that Bob had just vacated. Owden kicked out hard, smashing his heel against the man’s right knee. It gave with a loud crack and bent to the side.

  The man shrieked and went down in a heap. Bob gave his opponent no chance to recover and followed it up with a kick to the face, which squashed the man’s nose. Then he made sure the heavy stayed down for good. He stepped in close, raised his right foot off the ground and stamped on the man’s face, again and again, until he was certain that he wasn’t going to get up any time soon.

  Then, as quickly as it had happened, the violence stopped. Bob stepped away from the damage he’d done, turned, and looked at Jimmy, who was watching the situation open-mouthed. Bob clicked his fingers and pointed at the injured man. “Don’t just stare, lad. Put him in the boot. You can let him out when I’m finished with Don.”

  He walked away at speed, opened the front door, and entered the building.

  63. – Owden

  BOB WALKED into a large entrance hall with a floor that resembled a giant chessboard made of black and white marble, only instead of chess pieces, the squares were decorated with monochrome objet d’art. A grand curved staircase swooped up and around to form an upstairs mezzanine, where a woman in her late fifties gawped at him, her mouth making an O. Had she been able to form expressions she might have looked angry, but her skin was so stretched and botoxed she was unable to show any kind of emotion at all. Instead, she coughed to show her displeasure. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, you can tell me where Don is.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” she said, her voice haughty even though her blank expression didn’t change. “And who might you be?”

  “I might be the man who slaps some expression back into that mug of yours if you don’t tell me what I wanna hear.”

  A slight tightening of her features gave the suggestion of shock.

  “I’ll phone the police.”

  Bob smiled. “Good luck with that, lass. I own most of them anyway, so it’ll be fun watching them cart you off in the back of a bacon wagon.”

  The woman’s eyebrows twitched. She came towards the bottom of the stairs.

  “Where’s Gary?”

  “He won’t be joining us.”

  The woman’s expression didn’t change, but she hesitated briefly.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Through the gate.”

  “The gate is lo…”

  “Through the gate.”

  “Oh,” she said after a brief pause. “Don won’t be pleased.”

  “Too bad,” Bob said and moved towards the stairs. “Now where is he?”

  The woman angled her head up towards the right side of the mezzanine and hesitated.

  “He’s not well,” she said.

  “Then my little visit should perk him right up, lass.”

  The woman looked over Bob’s shoulder at Jimmy, who came into the hallway carrying a holdall that clanked whenever he moved. He handed the holdall to Bob, who pointed at the woman. “Don’t let her leave.”

  “I won’t be kept prisoner in my own home.”

  “Then how’d you like to be kept prisoner in the boot of his car?” Bob replied, hitching his thumb at Jimmy.

  Her face went rigid again and she shook her head.

  “You’ll do well to keep your gob shut and make James here a cup of tea, like a good lass, eh?”

  The woman took several hesitant steps down the stairs and stopped between the two men. Bob couldn’t see the fear on her face, but he knew the woman was afraid when she wrapped her arms around her chest and made herself as small as possible. She looked at him for a moment, then shifted her blue gaze to Jimmy and nodded at a door to her left.

  The hitman placed his hand on the woman’s elbow and she flinched, shook her head, and kept her body tight. Jimmy told her it was okay, wrapped his other arm lightly around her shoulder and led her out of the room. Bob watched them go, then ascended the staircase. He turned right at the top and went through the first door he came to.

  A fifty-something fat man with orange skin and an elaborate three-way combover sat on a King-size bed watching a movie. His face went tense when he noticed that somebody had entered the room. He opened his mouth to shout abuse, but when he realised wh
o he was looking at his expression fluctuated between bemused and afraid. “Long time no see, Bob,” he said, trying to sound brave. “Always nice to see a fellow Yorkshireman round these parts.”

  “Is it now?” Bob replied and put down the holdall.

  The fat man heard the bag clank against the parquet flooring and craned his head to get a better look. Then he attempted to turn the television off. Initially, he tried to do it with his left hand, but it was swaddled in a fat white bandage, so he cursed and switched it off with his right.

  “What’s in the bag?” he said, craning forward for another look at the holdall.

  “A good friend of mine.”

  Fear tightened the man’s features. His brows came together in a frown, and his voice began to break. “Must be… a small friend.”

  Bob gave him cold eyes. “You’d be surprised, Don.”

  Don Webber puffed up his chest and tried his best to look brave.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Through the gate.”

  “I… told Mary not…”

  “Through the gate.”

  Don huffed. “That were a five grand gate. That were bespoke. Where’d you get off…”

  Bob moved with a grace and speed that belied his years, grabbed Don by the throat and pinned him against the headboard. “Where’d I get off, lad?” he said. “Where do you get off, smuggling in drugs, girls, and God knows what else without my say so, without cutting me in?”

  “I dunno… what… you’re… talking about,” Don said, struggling to get the words out.

  “Gupta told me about the drugs,” Bob replied, getting close enough to smell that morning’s fry up on Don’s breath. He released the man’s throat and walked back towards the holdall.

  Don rubbed at the red handprint on his throat and let out a loud, hacking cough. “That Tandoori twat dunno what the fuck he’s talking about. He’s lying.”

  “Then earlier this morning, I spoke to a pimp who saw you picking up fresh meat for the corners. Eastern European lasses, if I’m not mistaken.”