‘What the fuck was that for?’ Wailed Mouthy, rubbing the shoulder.
‘Who the fuck told you to bring a gun?’
‘I thought we might need it. It’s alright, Rab, it’s no even loaded. I never bought any bullets.’
‘We didn’t want any guns on this, Mouthy! It was just supposed to be a quick in and out, nae fuss.’
‘Well, it’s just as well I did, isn’t it? Cos that guy was calling the cavalry and I don’t think he’d’ve been stopped by a sharp look frae me!’
Rab saw the logic in this but was angry nevertheless. ‘And fuckin Barney Cable, for fuck’s sake! This whole thing was tits up frae the start.’
‘It’s no my fault, Rab, neither it is,’ Mouthy whined, ‘I just thought we needed a wee bit of hardware, know what I’m sayin? For insurance, like. Davie? Right? Makes them more pliable, you know? Right, Davie?’
He looked imploringly towards Davie, his eyes signalling an unspoken appeal for support, but Davie could only shake his head. Guns were bad news. Sooner or later they go off and that does no one any good. Mouthy visibly deflated and looked down at the pistol in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. Then Mouthy’s face lightened as he had another thought.
‘Aye, but it’s no my fault that we did a Barney Cable place, is it? You cannae blame me for that. I never planned this job. I never knew this was a Barney Cable place so I’m in the clear there, right, lads?’
‘Mouthy,’ said Rab, looming large over the smaller youth, ‘shut your fuckin mouth and let me think or I’ll take that gun and shove the barrel so far up your arse you’ll taste metal, got it?’
Mouthy looked as if he was going to argue the point but a dark look from Rab made him clamp his jaws shut. A breeze swept up the street and caught the chain gate, making it swing open with a slight clang. Mouthy glanced in its direction as if he was looking for where the wind had come from. But there was nothing there, just the Glasgow night and the fence moving slightly.
‘Right,’ said Rab, ‘get the rest of this onto the van and we get the fuck out of here. We’ve done the job now, and even if we leave the stuff here Barney Cable’ll come looking for us anyway. We might as well get hung for a sheep as a goat.’
Mouthy looked back at him. ‘I don’t think you’re saying that right, Rab. I don’t think it’s ‘sheep for a goat’, I think it’s might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb. Goes back to when you could get hung for stealing they things, you know, so they said might as well steal something big, you know? Cos a lamb is only wee and…’
‘Mouthy…’ Rab shook his head, knowing that the gun was the least of their troubles now. The fact that Barney Cable owned the business was the real problem. Joe would go nuts if he knew what they’d done, but there was no point crying over it now. Rab hefted a box of Embassy Regal and dropped it into the back of the van while both Davie and Mouthy moved to help him with the rest.
‘I was just sayin, Davie, you know?’ Mouthy said. ‘Cos I don’t think he said it right, sheep for a goat…’
Davie smiled and shook his head as he hauled a box of Mars bars to the van.
9
JOE THE TAILOR SHOOK HIS HEAD in sympathy as Barney Cable told him about the robbery. A cup of Luca’s best coffee sat on the table in front of him while Barney had a pot of tea and a scone made by Luca’s wife. Her scones were hugely popular with customers, who had been known to walk the length of Duke Street to sample them. Barney had never tasted them before and, though Sheila did a very decent scone, he had to admit that these were pretty good. But he wasn’t here to talk about baking, he was here on more serious business. The café wasn’t busy – it was still early on a Saturday morning – but even so, Joe hadn’t had the heart to ask Luca to close it again. So he had Bobby Newman sitting at the nearest table to keep prying ears away. Rab and Davie stood outside, watching the street and, in Rab’s case for all the world was concerned, enjoying a casual smoke.
‘They found the van burnt out down Parkhead way,’ said Barney. ‘It’d been nicked from round there, too. That’s why I’m here, Joe. I thought you could put the word out, you know? Help me find these wee scroats.’
Joe nodded. ‘Of course I will, my friend. This sort of behaviour cannot be tolerated.’
Barney nodded gratefully and popped the last bite of his scone into his mouth. Joe was a good man, an honourable man, and he would help him out here. They wee bastards were as good as caught.
‘And how is the lovely Sheila?’ Joe asked. ‘And Melanie?’
Sheila was Barney’s wife, Melanie his daughter, and he doted on them. ‘Both fine, Joe, thanks for asking.’
‘She is a beauty like her mother, your Melanie, no?’
‘Aye, gives me all sorts of headaches, that. The boys frae the scheme are always round her. I’ve had to give a couple a wee slap, just to get them to mind their manners.’
Joe smiled. ‘Just so, it is not easy being the father of girls, I would imagine, but the father of a beautiful girl…’ He ended with a shrug to show how difficult that must be.
‘Aye but she’s a good girl, is Melanie. Bright, you know? She knows she’s better than most of they scumbags. I don’t need to worry too much.’
Joe nodded, sipping his coffee, and Barney knew there was something more on the man’s mind. He had known Joe Klein for 20 years, always as a friend, never a rival. He was only a few years older, but Barney looked up to him and the Tailor, despite being a Jew, was unofficial godfather to Melanie.
‘You have heard from Johnny Jones, I assume,’ said Joe.
‘Aye, that weasely wee fu– ’ Barney stopped himself. He knew Joe deplored foul language and he always did what he could to moderate it around him. It was hard work; swearing came as easily to Glasgow’s gangland as shit on a sewage worker’s wellie. ‘Anyway, he’s a wee slime ball.’
‘Are you joining his venture?’
‘I’ve not even spoken to the bas– to him. He’s sent me a couple of messages and I’ve got the gist of what he’s up to from some of the boys, but I can’t bring myself to even talk to him.’
‘Will you take part?’
Barney thought about it for a moment. ‘There’s cash. I hear someone out Edinburgh way is making millions. Brings it in himself from Afghanistan, or Pakistan – one o’ they places that end in ‘stan’. Got a whole network – runners, couriers, the lot. Glasgow’s kinda wide open for it. And if we don’t do it, someone else will. I’d be daft to knock it back. The only thing is, I don’t like Johnny Jones, don’t trust him. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him, the lanky fucker… sorry, Joe.’
Joe inclined his head. Barney was forgiven. ‘I have already turned down his offer.’
Barney was surprised. ‘Knocking back a lot of cash, Joe.’
‘I know, but I, too, have reservations about joining forces with Johnny. And I have problems with dealing in drugs.’
‘Aye, I know what you mean, but it’s gonnae be big, Joe. Maybe you should get in now.’
Joe sighed. Barney leaned forward, and though they hadn’t been talking loudly and there was no one at any of the tables beside them, he dropped his voice further. ‘You think Johnny had Norrie done?’
Joe shrugged. ‘I have no firm evidence…’
‘But you think he did it, don’t you?’
Joe shrugged again. He had no desire to falsely accuse any man, not even Johnny Jones, of murder.
Barney sat back again. ‘If it was Johnny, he won’t stop there. Had Norrie knocked him back?’
‘I have no idea. Mister Kennedy and I were not on speaking terms but I believe he had reservations. If you have not yet responded to Johnny’s offer then I must also caution you to be careful, my friend.’
Barney smiled. ‘I can handle Johnny Jones, don’t you worry.’
‘It’s not Johnny that worries me.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The scheme to import this product is, on the face of it, a fine scheme, well planned, well thoug
ht out. I do not believe Johnny Jones came up with it.’
Barney considered this, then nodded. ‘Know what you mean. He’s a sly bastard – sorry, Joe – but he’s no mastermind.’
‘There is another player behind Jones, someone far more intelligent than he. You are right, Jones we can handle. But a mysterious backer – and one sufficiently ambitious to concoct something of this magnitude? That, my friend, is what worries me. Whether you join the venture or not is, of course, your decision. But until we know who this person is, we must be on our guard…’
* * *
Rab glanced through the café doors at Joe and Barney Cable in conference. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other. ‘You think he knows it was us?’
Davie pulled the corners of his mouth down to show he didn’t know.
‘We shouldnae’ve torched the van in Parkhead, should we? Too close to home.’
Davie shrugged to say, who knew?
‘Maybe we shouldnae’ve taken the gear after all, maybe Barney wouldnae’ve bothered his arse if we’d left it. What do you think?’
Davie bobbed his head slightly from side to side, it could’ve gone either way.
‘Good to talk to you, Davie, you’re always so fuckin reassuring, so you are!’
Davie smiled, glanced back into the café, and said, ‘No point worrying, Rab. Just see what happens.’
‘See what happens? See what happens? I’m shittin bricks here and you say “see what happens”?’
‘Worrying about it doesn’t go any good, Rab. Okay, we did the job and we shouldn’t have, or at least we should’ve done a bit more checking, but what’s done is done, okay? Wait and see what happens, then we react.’
Rab looked into the café again and at that moment Joe looked up and his eyes met Rab’s. Right then, right there, Rab knew that Joe knew exactly what they’d done.
He turned his head away sharply and said, ‘Joe knows.’ Davie glanced at him and Rab looked his way briefly. ‘Joe knows it was us, I can tell.’
Davie frowned and looked over his shoulder at Joe, but the old man’s attention was back on Barney. Bobby, sitting at the next table, saw Davie looking in and he gave him a small wave. Luca was taking cash from a woman at the counter.
‘How can you tell?’
Rab sighed, a deep exhalation that started somewhere down at his feet. ‘I can just tell, that’s all. Joe’s got ways of knowing things. It’s fuckin supernatural, but he knows things sometimes. And he knows we did it.’
‘You sure?’
‘I saw it just now, in his eyes. He knows.’
Davie thought about this. Joe had never bothered about them doing small jobs, as long as they were careful. And even if they weren’t, he had some good lawyers he could call – and some bent coppers. But this time they hadn’t been careful, hadn’t done their homework. Preparation is everything, Joe had always told them, but they had still screwed up.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Rab said. ‘I’ll no wait for him to say anything to me, I’ll come clean. He’d prefer that, I think.’
Davie could see the logic in Rab’s thinking. If Joe did know he would want them to be honest with him. If he didn’t, he’d still want them to stand up and be men. He’d be unhappy, but he would never throw them to Barney, Davie was certain of that. Reparations would have to be made – and knowing Joe’s sense of honour, they would be severe – but no physical harm would come to either one of them or Mouthy.
‘Then I’ll stand with you,’ said Davie and Rab glanced in his direction. Davie looked back and nodded. Nothing more need be said between them. That’s what friends were for.
10
KNIGHT AND DONOVAN were in an unmarked car on the corner of Douglas Street and St Vincent Street watching the young woman plying her trade. Soft rain caressed the windscreen and gently embraced the pavement, but she seemed impervious as she stood with her coat open to show off a full figure under a tight t-shirt. She was red-haired but there was nothing natural about the colouring and her face was heavily made up, Knight knew, to cover the signs of acne suffered during her early teenage years, which was why they called her Plooky Mary on the street. She was a tart, but she was also a tout – and a good one. Knight had a charge of assault hanging over her head which he wielded whenever he needed information, and with very little surfacing on the Norrie Kennedy murder, he needed all the help he could get.
So he and Donovan this damp Saturday night decided to visit The Drag, the network of streets running between Anderston Cross Bus station and Sauchiehall Street, to see if any of the working girls who plied their trade there had heard anything. They’d already hit three of the girls they knew and came up with nothing, so Plooky Mary was their last chance.
They climbed out of the car and walked across the road towards her. She’d clocked them as they drove up, of course, her hooker’s instincts on the alert. She knew the big dark cop too well, but the smaller one was new to her. He looked okay, but you could never tell with police. The Black Knight was a bastard good and proper, though. She’d given another girl an open face with a steel comb the year before but she’d never been charged with it. He had all the statements and an eye-witness, but he said he’d hold it back as long as she did a turn for him now and again. Mostly that meant steering some information his way, but now and again it meant a shag. Generally that was okay by her; if she wasn’t doing it with him it would be someone else, and he always slipped her a tenner or so. But there had been a couple of times he’d taken her to a room and he’d tied her up and slapped her about. He’d been in right dark moods those nights and sure, he’d given her 20 quid each time but that wasn’t enough for being slapped about, not nearly enough.
‘Mary,’ he said as he stepped onto the pavement, a big smile on his face. She was relieved, no pain from him tonight. ‘Slow night, eh?’
‘It’ll pick up, Mister Knight. It’s early yet.’
He jerked his head to his mate. ‘This is DC Donovan. Frank, this is Mary, one of the best girls on the street.’
The cop called Donovan nodded politely to Mary and she nodded back. She caught him eyeing her up and down, taking in her figure. They all did that, probably weren’t even aware of it. A glance up and down, the legs, the hips, the breasts. They all did it, all men, cops, lawyers, sheriffs, even the do-gooders who tried to help them off the streets. She didn’t mind the looks. She knew she had a good figure and given what she did for a living, a man looking at her was the least of her problems.
‘So what’s the word, Mary?’ Knight asked, lighting up a wee cigar.
‘About what, Mister Knight?’
Knight shrugged, blew some smoke into the air. ‘Norrie Kennedy. I know you’ll have heard something.’
‘Nothing, Mister Knight, it’s really quiet over that.’
‘C’mon, Mary – you’re the ned’s favourite tart. They all come to you for a bit of the old slap and tickle. There must be some sort of pillow talk about the Kennedy thing.’
She had intended to deny all knowledge, but she hesitated. She caught the look in his eyes, and knew she’d made a mistake. He was a sharp bastard, was the Black Knight, and that slight pause and the guilt that had flashed across her face telegraphed that she’d heard something. He smiled, his eyes dropping from her face to her breasts straining against the white t-shirt. She closed her coat self-consciously. Some looks she couldn’t take.
‘Frank,’ said Knight, ‘me and Mary need to have a wee chat in the motor. Go for a walk or something, will you? Around the block a couple of times should do it.’
Donovan opened his mouth to object, but evidently thought better of it. He wanted nothing to do with whatever was going to happen. He pulled his coat collar up against the wet kiss of the rain and walked up the hill.
Knight smiled, stuck his wee cigar between his teeth and reached over to grasp Mary’s arm, pulling her towards the car. ‘I don’t know nothin, honest Mister Knight,’ she said, dragging back a little.
Knight took the
cigar from his mouth and said, ‘Get in the car, hen. Don’t fuck me about.’
Mary looked up and down the street but, apart from the other cop walking away, there was no one. Knight had been right – it had been a slow night and it was only getting slower. He pulled her towards the car and opened the back door, jerking his head to tell her to get in. He slammed the door behind her then walked round the back and climbed in. He twisted in the seat to face her, one arm on the parcel shelf, the other propped against the rear of the passenger seat.
‘Okay, Mary, it’s just you and me. What’ve you heard?’
‘Mister Knight, I…’
‘Mary,’ he said, stopping her dead. He stared at her, eyes boring deep into her mind. Even his eyes were dark, she noticed, deep, dark pools that emitted no light – like those black holes in space she’d read about that suck everything in and don’t let it go again. Knight’s eyes were like that – they took everything in and gave away nothing. She sighed.
‘Sibby Colston,’ she said. ‘Speak to Sibby.’
‘Sibby’s no a trigger man, he’s a wee tea leaf.’
‘Aye, but he knows something,’ she said. ‘He was with me the other night and he said something about Kennedy.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘Some pal of his made his bones with the killing, something like that.’
‘Made his bones? He say that?’
‘Aye, Sibby’s a big reader, into books about the Mafia and that. Made his bones, he said.’
‘He say who?’
She shook her head and Knight shifted in his seat impatiently. ‘Honest, Mister Knight, that’s all he said! See Sibby – he’ll burst for you no problem. He’s no a hard man.’
Knight looked into her face for what seemed like an eternity before he nodded, satisfied that she had told him all she knew. He sat back in the seat and stared forward.
‘That me, Mister Knight? Can I go now?’
He didn’t answer at first, didn’t even move, then he turned to her and smiled. It wasn’t a warming smile. ‘There’s something else you can do for me before you go,’ he said and pulled back the flaps of his coat. She saw his hand moving down and heard the zip of his fly.
Blood City Page 7