Blood City

by Douglas Skelton

Knight phoned from a call box to get one of the lads in Baird Street CID to have a quick look at the voter’s roll for a Sylvia McGuigan in Parkhead. There was only one person with that name listed and the street was near the football ground, just as Rab had said. He next called his wife to tell her he was still working. She didn’t ask any questions; seldom did. They had been married for four years and she thought he was a dedicated copper, which in a way he was. By rights he should have gone home to bed, but there was no way he was going to let one of those lads on the day shift accidentally track down Tracy. This was his lead and he was determined to follow it through. Sleep was over-rated anyway. He could get by with a couple of hours later that afternoon. He’d be fine.

  When he clapped eyes on Sylvia McGuigan, he really couldn’t see what Tracy saw in a boiler like her. But then, maybe he wasn’t the answer to a young girl’s dream himself. She wasn’t up for telling him anything at first, apart from the fact she’d not seen Tracy for a while. Knight had a philosophy, though – they had the right to remain silent, but he really didn’t advise it. After some firm reasoning, she soon managed to recall the name of one of Tracy’s mates, a boy they called Tony Rome. She couldn’t remember his real name, she told him through clenched teeth as Knight crushed the fingers of her hand in a powerful grip, they called him that because of his dark complexion. ‘Like a Tally, ‘cept he’s no one,’ she said. On further pressing, she told him Tony lived with his girlfriend in the Red Road flats.

  Knight left her a tenner and headed for the Red Road.

  * * *

  Joe the Tailor lived in a detached house in Riddrie, not quite in the shadow of Barlinnie Prison, but it was perched above him like Castle Dracula in the vampire films. The Big House on the Hill, they called it, and Rab could never comprehend why Joe chose to live so close the place. To Rab it would be a constant reminder of where someone like him was destined to end up. He had never done time in the Big House and he never wanted to either. Borstal had been bad enough.

  Rab was never comfortable in Joe’s home and it wasn’t just because he could sense the high walls of the Bar-L leering down at him. The room in which they sat was like a study, its walls lined by book-filled shelves. He wondered if Joe had read them or if they were just there for show. These books were all hardback, many bound in leather, and they looked old – Charles Dickens and stuff like that. Rab let his gaze roam over the rest of the room. A glass cabinet in one corner housed delicate-looking Chinese figurines and the hardwood floor was covered with three Chinese rugs. A dark wooden desk sat beside a long window which ran from floor to ceiling, looking out onto Joe’s back garden, which was green with early summer’s bloom. There was music playing on Joe’s fancy stereo. Rab didn’t recognise the singer but he knew it was one of those old guys that Joe liked so much – Sinatra or Dean Martin. Rab couldn’t say which because he had a hard time telling them apart. To his ear they all sounded the same. One wall opposite the desk had a few framed photographs, mostly of people Rab didn’t know, people from Joe’s past, he assumed. Another showed Joe with Frank Sinatra, both smiling at the camera, both with drinks in their hand and Sinatra’s arm around Joe like they were bosom buddies. Rab might not be able to pick out his voice, but he at least knew what Sinatra looked like, having seen his films.

  The Tailor had told all his boys that if they heard anything about the murder of Norrie Kennedy they were to let him know immediately. So even if he hadn’t been intending to come over that Sunday anyway, Rab would have made his way out to Riddrie to tell him that Knight had quizzed him on Andy Tracy – and that Tracy might somehow be connected to the McKay killing. Of course, he didn’t mention his new arrangement with the cop.

  When Rab finished telling his story, Joe sat quietly for a few moments. When he finally spoke, it was of Davie’s brush with Boyle and Sinclair, rather than Rab’s conversation with Knight . Rab was neither surprised nor hurt. Davie was Joe’s favourite, he knew that.

  ‘And how is David now?’

  ‘He’s alright, Joe. Ribs hurt a wee bit, and his face isn’t as pretty, but he’s walking. I think he’s learned a wee lesson from all this.’

  Joe nodded. Rab was under no illusions. He knew the old man was fond of him, but he loved Davie like a son. As he had listened to the description of the beating Davie had taken, Rab had seen Joe’s face tighten and he sensed a cold rage building. Someone would pay for what had happened the night before. But not yet, for Rab’s other information had to be digested and dealt with first.

  ‘So – this police officer… what was his name again?’

  ‘Knight.’

  Joe nodded, filing it away. ‘Yes, Knight. A detective?’

  ‘Aye, he was one of the bastards that interviewed us after Kennedy got done.’

  ‘Yes. And this Knight, did he intimate that he had any firm intelligence as to young Mister Tracy’s whereabouts?’

  ‘He hasnae a clue, Joe. I sent him over to see Tracy’s old burd, that Sylvia one. She’ll no know where is he is neither. Tracy’s a funny sort, you remember him? Bananas, he is.’

  Joe nodded, for he did indeed remember Andy Tracy. He remembered him very well.

  14

  DESPITE HIS LOOKS, the closest Tony Rome came to being Italian was eating tinned spaghetti. A couple of calls from another public phone box told Knight that his real name was Anthony O’Brian, a former choirboy from Possil. Like Tracy, he was strictly small time. Unlike Tracy, he had his head screwed on the right way. Old Sylvia had been right – he moved around a lot but not, as Knight had at first suspected, for nefarious reasons but because he worked with a travelling fairground. Tony Rome was the guy who kept the waltzers waltzing and the dodgems dodging. Knight had to concede he was a good-looking bugger and would lay money on the luck he had with the ladies. His dark complexion was complemented by thick, dark hair while his brown eyes shone with good humour. Knight, no ugly bastard himself, quite fancied kicking him in the face.

  He was certainly a lying wee toe-rag, and Knight had a sixth sense when it came to lying wee toe-rags. The lie came off them like a smell. So when Tony told him he’d not seen Tracy for ages, Knight’s copper’s nose detected the unmistakeable whiff of porkies. Still, the bright flat on the 23rd floor was not the place to stage some unpleasantness, not with the boy’s girlfriend sitting in the same room and a baby asleep in a cot.

  So Knight thanked him for his time and left but he hung around at the entrance to the flats. It was a pleasant afternoon, so he waited patiently, puffing on a cigar.

  After half an hour, just as he was beginning to think either he had been wrong or Tony had moved faster than he had expected, the young man pushed through the glass doors. Knight smiled to himself, thinking maybe I should take up reading tea leaves. Tony didn’t see Knight standing to his right as he came out, but he did hear him say, ‘Going somewhere, son?’

  The young man turned around, his handsome features a moving picture first of surprise, followed by shock, followed by a decent attempt at casual. ‘Going out for a wee walk, Mister Knight. You waiting for somebody?’

  ‘Waiting for you, Tony, old son.’

  ‘How? I’ve already told you – ’

  ‘A pack of lies, and we both know it.’

  Tony backed away a couple of steps but Knight didn’t move. He simply stood there, one shoulder leaning against the wall, both hands in his coat pockets. Tony stammered a bit as he said, ‘Honest, Mister Knight, I don’t know where Andy is.’

  ‘Now, that’s just not true, is it?’

  Tony took another couple of steps. ‘It is so true.’

  ‘Tony, son, if you’re thinking of making a run for it, go ahead. I’m too tired to chase you and anyway, you look as if you’re a fit wee fucker. So you go ahead. I’ll just take a trip back up in the lift and pay Mandy upstairs a wee visit. Have a chat, know what I’m saying?’

  Tony’s expression darkened. ‘She doesnae know where Andy is either.’

  ‘You know? I believe you there.’ K
night gave Tony a small smile. It was not a pleasant smile.

  Tony’s eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. ‘You leave her out of this.’

  Knight was impressed with the boy’s show of balls. ‘Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? Where’s Andy, Tony?’

  Tony looked around him, as if searching for allies, but both the main entrance and the space around the flats were empty. Knight could almost hear the thought processes clicking in the boy’s head as he calculated the odds. Tony was trying to decide whether this big bastard cop would really do something to Mandy. Finally, Knight saw the boy’s face fall as he came to the unhappy conclusion that he would.

  When he spoke, Tony’s hard edge was considerably blunted. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘That’s between him and me.’

  ‘You gonnae hurt him?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. But I’ll hurt you in a minute if you don’t start playing the fuckin white man.’

  Tony considered his options and came up with only one solution. ‘I cannae tell you where he is, cannae describe it to you, you know? It’s away up out of the city. I’d need to show you.’

  Knight stepped away from the wall. ‘Then lead on, MacDuff…’

  * * *

  The white van steamed up behind Barney Cable before he and his driver, Peter Morton, knew it. They were on a narrow country road north of the city, heading for Summerston. It took them miles out of their way but Barney liked to get away from the world of grey concrete that seemed to be his life. It was a lovely morning, and though they glimpsed the city through occasional gaps in the hedges, it still felt like a day trip.

  Peter was driving, and he swore as the van barrelled up close behind them then veered out to overtake, almost clipping their wing mirror. Barney shook his head as it sped ahead, scraping against the hedges on the driver’s side.

  ‘What a dick,’ said Peter as he steered the car as far away from the van as he could.

  ‘Did you see him coming?’

  ‘No, bastard steamed up right behind me there.’

  ‘Some folk shouldnae be behind a wheel…’

  ‘White Van driver, what can I say?’

  ‘Is it one of they Pratna vans? Wherever you go, there’s a Pratna van.’

  The two men smiled together as they watched the van speed ahead before vanishing around a bend. They were comfortable with each other, their friendship based on mutual trust, which was something rare in The Life, where loyalty was on the World Wildlife Fund’s endangered species list.

  Peter’s smile faded and a frown took its place as he edged round a bend and saw the white van sitting in the middle of the road, blocking their way. Peter slowed the car down and said, ‘What the fuck are they doing now?’

  Barney felt something cold rifling the hairs on his back. He knew this was not right. He sat upright and said, ‘Back up, Pete.’

  The doors of the van flew open and two figures jumped out. They both had balaclavas over their heads and one waved a sawn-off shotgun while the other aimed a pistol.

  Barney yelled, ‘Back up!’ Peter did as he was told, throwing the gear stick into reverse and jamming his foot on the accelerator. The engine screamed as the car backed away, tyres churning dust from the road. Barney punched the glove compartment open just as he heard both barrels of the shotgun blasting at the car. He heard rather than saw the windscreen crack and shatter, showering them both in tiny fragments of glass as Peter tried to keep the car steady on its backward trajectory. Barney’s hand scrabbled inside the glove compartment until his fingers found the pistol under the various documents.

  ‘Fuck!’ spat Peter and came to a screeching halt. Barney twisted round in the passenger seat to find a Vauxhall Chevette blocking their way and a third shooter standing in the road, waiting for them. Barney’s heart sank. He knew they were sitting ducks inside the car. Their only chance was to get into the open.

  ‘Make a run for it, Pete,’ he said, throwing his own door open and tumbling out. The sky was dotted with screeching black crows, startled from a stand of trees by the shotgun blast. Barney straightened with the gun in his fist and loosed off a shot but it went wide. The shooters threw themselves to the ground anyway and the one with the shotgun dropped his weapon. He heard Peter getting out and trying to run across the road, but the guy behind them fired three rounds. Barney swore he heard the bullets hitting Peter’s flesh, a kind of soft splashing sound, and his mate’s body jerked a couple of times before pitching forward like a puppet with the strings cut. Barney didn’t need to get any closer to know Peter was dead.

  Barney yelled, ‘Bastards!’ The two in front were still kissing the tarmac, so he whirled to fire at the third, who had ducked down behind the rear of Barney’s car. ‘Bastards!’ He screamed again, and fired another two rounds in the direction of the van. Neither shot connected but careened off the road, spraying them both with dust and making them flinch. He spun again and loosed off another round as the bloke behind the car poked his head up. The bullet thudded into the boot and he dropped out of sight again. Barney took the chance to dart across the verge towards a gate to his left. If he could get over that and into those trees just a few feet beyond, he had a chance. That’s all he had to do, just get over that fence, and in another five or six feet he’d have some cover. That’s all, another few feet and he was in the clear…

  The first bullet caught him between the shoulder blades as he put his foot on the bottom bar of the fence. The second bullet bit into his arm and the gun slid from his fingers.

  ‘Sheila,’ Barney said, before a third bullet took off the back of his head.

  Barney Cable was dead before he hit the grass.

  * * *

  Tucked away at the edge of a pine forest near Lennoxtown, between the city and the Campsie Hills, the caravan was owned by a local farmer who rented it out with no questions asked. All he knew was that three young lads had been staying there for over a week and that they had been no trouble. He’d been well paid for the rental – cash, which had arrived in the post soon after the booking had been made by phone. He didn’t ask any questions because he really didn’t care. As long as they didn’t shag his sheep, they could do what they liked for that kind of money.

  A small track led from the road through the forest to where the caravan nestled, a stile climbed the barbed wire fence to allow access. It was a pleasant enough situation, isolated enough for privacy, close enough to civilisation for supplies, but the three men had been going quietly crazy here. Two of them were brothers from Manchester by the name of McGuinness and were comfortable in each other’s company, but they didn’t know the other guy very well. They only knew him as Andy, and even in their brief acquaintance, they recognised him as bad news. They had been hired through intermediaries so had no idea who their paymaster was. Andy, though, was a local lad who seemed to know very well who had hired them to make the hit on Cable. They also suspected he was unstable.

  The McGuiness brothers were no strangers to violence, but Andy seemed to enjoy gunning that fellow down the other night. To the Mancunians it was just a job, to him it seemed a distinct pleasure. They didn’t much like being penned up with him in this caravan and longed for someone to tell them it was all clear to go home. They still weren’t clear on why they had to hide out here in what they considered the arsehole of Scotland, but their mysterious employer had insisted on it. So stay they did, listening to Andy telling them stories of jobs he had pulled and men he had killed. They didn’t believe a word of what he said but they let him talk, focussing their attention on the small black and white telly. Soon, Andy just became so much background noise, so much static, and they could filter him out easily. They had obeyed instructions and stayed put, apart from trips into Lennoxtown for groceries. Andy had left them briefly a couple of nights before to make his way back into Glasgow. He missed his pals, he’d told them, and he’d only be gone one night. To be truthful, they had been glad to be rid of him, even if only for a few hours.

 
; Andy Tracy was proud of himself. He’d always wanted to kill a man and now he had – and to cap it all he had some money coming. Okay, he had to spend a few days in the back of beyond with these two English wankers but that was a small price to pay. Soon he’d be back in the big city, spending his cash on burds and booze. And when he ran out of the readies, he’d just take another job. He’d been promised there’d be more work to come. Sibby hadn’t believed him when he’d told him he’d made his bones but Andy, steeped in Mafia lore, knew he’d become a Made Man by pulling the trigger on Norrie Kennedy.

  He heard the car on the track through the wood and went to the window. A black Metro City bounced along the bumpy trail, but he didn’t recognise it. However, when it came to a stop near the style he did recognise the man who climbed out. Maybe this was it, Andy thought, maybe he was going back home, back to Glasgow. Maybe he’s got another job for me.

  The McGuiness brothers were sprawled on the long seats that converted into beds, but they tensed when the newcomer climbed the stile. They looked at Andy, who smiled in reassurance. ‘It’s okay, lads,’ he said, opening the door. ‘It’s the boss.’

  The boss was over the stile and walking towards them. He ignored the brothers and stared straight at Andy.

  ‘You disobeyed me, Andrew,’ he said as he moved closer.

  Andy’s smile froze and then melted from his face. ‘How?’

  ‘You went into Glasgow, didn’t you? You talked.’

  As usual, Andy’s first impulse was to lie. ‘Naw, no me.’

  ‘Do not lie, boy. The police have your name. They are looking for you. They are on their way now.’

  Fear began to gnaw at Andy’s stomach. ‘Naw, I never…’

  The man ignored his protestation of innocence. ‘Did you dispose of the car properly?’

  ‘I never said nothin.’

  The man sighed and looked instead at the McGuinness brothers. ‘Was the car disposed of?’

  ‘Yes,’ said one. ‘You’ve got our word on that. Burned out, tossed down an old quarry. It’s under water now. They’d find it, right enough, if they knew where to look for it.’