The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  Thinking back to that desk in Glasgow Sheriff Court and the idea rolling around in his head at the time, McLane again went quiet.

  ‘Brogan! Brogan, are you there? You keep going quiet. Lenny’s back. Do you want to speak to him direct?’

  ‘Yeah. Put him on.’

  ‘Brogan. Yeah, it’s me. Look, Big Jessy Muldoon’s just come in. She says people are seeing Glasgow City Council vans and their men moving furniture out of Tobago Place. And … wait for this … There’s two massive low-loader lorries in the Crownpoint Road. One has a crane with a wrecking ball on it and the other has a bulldozer. A big one, they’re saying.’

  Walking round in circles sixty miles away outside Parliament House in Edinburgh, McLane felt like a fool. Instead of just winning in Glasgow Sheriff Court, he should’ve been straight back to Edinburgh to get a Parliament House injunction. And then the penny dropped.

  Once again, he heard Big Joe barking into the phone: ‘Brogan! Brogan! What the hell do we do? Can you get into a court at this time of night, or get a judge to issue an injunction? They’ve got a fuckin’ bulldozer waitin’ in the Crownpoint Road. It’s started! What can we do?’

  Defeated and downcast, McLane ran his fingers through his hair and turned away from a few people leaving for the night:

  ‘Joe. There’s no point in trying that. I could get the night judge back here - there might even be one who hasn’t left Parliament House yet - and argue that the Council is acting ultra-vires … sorry, that means ‘beyond its powers’ as a local government.’

  ‘Yeah! That sounds right. Can you do it?’

  ‘Joe, man. You’re not listening. I said I think there’s no point.’

  Big Joe Mularkey was now furious at more of this second prize talk and didn’t hold back: ‘For fuck sake, Brogan, you have to do somethin’ man. You can’t just do nothing. You can’t!’

  But McLane knew better and waited till his blood brother calmed down a bit:

  ‘Joe. The reason I don’t think a legal challenge would work, is that Tobago Place has been a wee Protestant enclave for several years now. They did swapsies with … who was it? I forget. Anyway, don’t you see? The Arthursons. The Grahams and the Connors. They’re all Protestants. And that’s not all. Think about it. All that cash and talk of going to new houses. No. We’re fighting evictions, but these families weren’t evicted. I think they went voluntarily - after a big cash incentive, of course.’

  Big Joe had listened, but didn’t have his blood brother’s powers of rational analysis. Big Joe would fight until the last breath left his body. That was his only way. So with his last gasp into the phone, he asked:

  ‘Brogan, please. Is there no legal loophole you can get through? Some law that says they have to wait?’

  Invisible to Big Joe, McLane shook his head: ‘I’m sorry Joe, but there isn’t. What makes me feel worse is that I think I handed them this on a plate.’

  ‘What! What in God’s name do you mean?’

  ‘Oh Joe man, it’s complicated, but the thing is, I’d bet every penny I have that the square area of Tobago Place is just under a thousand square yards.’

  ‘Eh? I don’t understand. What’s a thousand square yards got to do with anything?’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 29

  As a young man, Tucker had once been in Glasgow City Chambers; to deliver a personal message from one Councillor to another. It was a simple ‘brush’ job: but he’d had to get a haircut and borrow a suit and tie so that he could blend in. All he had to do was brush past the man on his way out to an official car and pick his office key from his pocket. Then make his way to the man’s office, let himself in and release the rat in his bag with a note tied to its tail through the office letter box. Kids’ stuff.

  Tonight there would be no need for picking keys from pockets. Tam Fraser had seen to that. Standing under an overhang at the front door of the old City Post Office HQ on George Square, the flashes of sheet lightning that seemed to stretch for miles and the rolling black thunder clouds were Tucker’s friends. Fingering the key in his coat pocket, Tucker watched. Together he and Tam had been over the floor plans several times. Had it been a fine night, they’d have had to think of something more elaborate. But as it was, the security guys wouldn’t think twice about people wearing hats and shaking umbrellas as they passed the cameras.

  Dead on time, with an umbrella over his head and wearing that unmistakeable World War Two raincoat, Tucker’s mark strode across the square. It was uncanny that he took exactly the number of steps and the exact route that Tam predicted.

  Crossing to the south side of the Chambers, Tucker got lucky. Grabbing the big brass handle before the side staff door closed, the woman leaving was more concerned about her umbrella becoming tangled with Tucker’s than the rule about making sure the door was fully closed before walking away. Bowing his head and letting the rainwater dribble off his hat to the side of the tiled corridor, Tucker passed camera number 1 and turned towards an old criss-cross iron shutter above which the faded grey painted sign said ‘Goods Only.’

  Tam and Tucker were about the same height and build, so they agreed that the best way to get this done was for Tam to forget to run his electronic pass through the reader; which meant that as far as Security knew, he was still in the building. Now in a brown messenger’s cotton coat, as he passed camera number 2, Tucker tried to imitate Tam’s walk.

  At the door to Mr William Randal’s office ante-room, Tucker slipped in the key and turned the finely made old brass lock with ease. Carefully stepping around the cardboard model, Tucker pulled the thick drape across the window. He had time, so he took a second to peek down across the courtyard; but saw only darkness and rain bouncing off the office windows opposite.

  Slipping out his iPad from his deep inner coat pocket, Tucker tried to get the thing to balance the little light in the dark room; but it was hopeless. He’d have to take the chance and put on the overhead light.

  Once on, he had no time to waste. Taking first wide shots and then close-ups of landmarks, he worked quickly. Then something that looked like a flaw or an accident caught his eye. Taking about six shots from every angle he could, was the work of only a few seconds; and he was done.

  Certain that the ante-room door was exactly as he’d found it and with no Council property on his person, Tucker turned the key and made his way quickly back to the Goods lift. In a flawless repeat of his entry, Tucker exited out into the wild windy night.

  From the top of a bus back to the Calton, Tucker pressed number 1 on his speed-dial:

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It went fine. No problem. Kids’ stuff really.’

  ‘Good. Now, as I said, Brogan must not be told about this. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Aw Joe, for God’s sake man. You’ve been tellin’ me that since I was a boy. Gimme some credit, will ye’?’

  ‘OK. Sorry Tuck. Now you’re absolutely sure you didn’t leave anything behind.’

  Chuckling a little to himself, Tucker sighed: ‘Well, I left a wee puddle of rainwater on the floor of the Goods lift. But the whole building is roasting hot inside, so that’ll be long gone by the morning.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 30

  As they filed in, for quite a lot of the older ones, memories came flooding back. The old Meat Market had once officially employed hundreds of local people with hundreds more from further afield dependent on making early morning or later ‘leftover’ deals on its outskirts. Tonight the thunder and lightning in the skies above could not chill them, nor could the departure of three family groups who’d never really become part of their community dent their enthusiasm. Good riddance to bad rubbish seemed to be the attitude most people were taking. After the wrecking crew had done its job, the locals moved in; collecting good quality doors and brass knockers, roof slates still intact and wooden roof beams that would nowadays cost a small fortune to buy were carried away shoulder high by lines of burly lads. The old iron fireplaces too we
re known to fetch good money if sold at a Sunday Market in the West End to posh people refurbishing houses just because they felt like a change.

  With the help of several kids led by Danny McMahon, Arab had re-arranged the two hundred seats left by Glasgow City Council after their hasty departure following Jean and Bella’s outburst. Behind an old gaffer’s weighing table he’d put out seats for Auld Faither, McLane and Big Joe. Arab had then dragged out the old roasting furnaces which were now burning brightly at a safe distance. The word had gone round faster than hot chicken soup to hungry bairns, that at tonight’s meeting they’d be as warm as toast because the furnaces were blazing with broken-up timber from Tobago Place.

  Calling the second meeting of the Calton Residents' Association to order, McLane stood up and began:

  ‘Friends, it’s been a bit of a roller coaster few days, but I’ve asked you to come here tonight because I have a question to ask each and every one of you. However, I’ll ask that question at the end. Right now, I want to catch you up with what went on in Glasgow Sherriff Court and share a few thoughts of my own about the future.

  Well, it was no surprise that Lord Sunnybrook lived up to his reputation as being ignorant of the law and something of a bully when on the bench. As many of you know, I managed to put a stop to mass evictions and …’

  Drowned out by the cheering and clapping from over three hundred grateful residents, McLane’s throat choked up and he had to drop his head for a moment.

  ‘Thanks. Thanks a lot, but there was no need for that. I’m always glad to help. I’m sure you all know that. Now, I’ve made it known - in crystal clear terms - through a certain QC who was instructed to oppose me in court, that if Glasgow City Council tries anything like this ‘Piece by Piece’ scheme again, then I will Petition in Parliament House that, as a public body, they are engaged in a scheme which is called Malfeasance in Public Office. In other words, they’re using public money and their public officials to bribe people: and that’s an illegal purpose which should be stopped by the court. So I hope we’ll see no more of their scare tactics of shutting off streets so that cranes and bulldozers can move in.’

  McLane was clearing his throat when someone called from the dark crowd in front of him: ‘I heard they got a grand for every tenancy. A thousand pounds and relocated to Sunrise House. That’s a lot to turn down Brogan. Wouldn’t you say?’

  Shielding his eyes from the bare light bulb which Arab had strung up above the table, McLane strained to see: ‘I can’t see you, but that sounded like Seamus Kelly. Am I right?’

  ‘Aye Brogan, it was me.’ came the call back.

  ‘Well Seamus, I understand that you’d like to see your grandchildren in a nice cosy house in a newly refurbished high rise block with a great view of the river. They’ve got a line a mile long of people from every part of the city who want to be re-housed in Sunrise House. No Seamus, I don’t think there will be any more of us going there. That was just the taster. I too heard the traitors got a thousand pounds in return for moving out. And by the way, I don’t think that amount or its source will ever be proved in a court. I have reason to suspect that money came from a Swiss bank. And whoever it was who flashed that cash, they won’t be doling out that kind of money again. Don’t kid yourself that they will. No. The demolition was a scare tactic. They were hoping for a flood of applications, but as far as I know, they’ve had none. So I’m very proud of you all for sticking together.

  Moving on, it was put to the court during argument that the Calton as an ‘economic entity’ is no longer viable. What that means in everyday language is that Glasgow City Council gets less in rents than it costs to keep up repairs, take away our rubbish bins and supply street lighting etcetera. That may be the case: but if it is, there’s another way to solve that problem. Friends, think back. How many years, decades, how many generations of you have paid rent to Glasgow City Council? Three? Four? Five? Well I say we’ve paid plenty. You may think it’s alright for me. Yes. I live in Edinburgh on what a busy QC makes. But I still pay Bella’s rent as Big Joe beside me does for Jean. So what am I saying? I say we should make Glasgow City Council an offer: to buy our houses at one pound each.’

  Gasps of astonishment went around the room faster than a meat cleaver in skilled hands could decapitate a chicken. These were simple people who’d never owned anything worth having in their lives. The idea of suddenly becoming a property owner was alien and would take a while to digest. Unblinking, McLane let his words hang in the air until what he’d just said sunk in.

  ‘But don’t worry, my friends. The approach would be made through the Calton Residents' Association and all the legal work on our side would be done well for you. It’s a job for an experienced office lawyer and, if that day ever comes, I’ll make sure that a good one is chosen. And so with the thought that having paid rent for over two hundred years, it’s time to buy and renovate your own homes, I bid you all goodnight.’

  Well before the last of them had filed out, weaving his way through the crowd, Tucker Queen got inside and shook the rain off his coat. Big Joe Mularkey was deep in conversation with a nodding Auld Faither and hadn’t seen him come in; but McLane did. While gathering some papers together, McLane waved him over:

  ‘Tuck, man. You missed it. Where’ve you been?’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 31

  Within a minute of the encrypted message popping up, Ababuo had checked the website and thought the place looked very cool. It had only been open for a week but already one of her friends had been there and said it was the best. Exactly like the ones she’d seen when her parents took her to the States, hired Harleys and they did the whole Route 66 trip. With bright neon red and white lighting and striped red leather booths, it was a real 50s American diner called Fat Moe’s like that one in the DeNiro movie. They even had a drive-up with a big concrete curb that looked American and a bright red, long winged Cadillac parked right outside.

  At only ten minutes after seven, as Ababuo pushed on the long brushed steel door handle the place was still quiet. She could see herself in the glass door and was quite proud of the way she could now do her own hair and make-up. However, after the last time, having woken up with the mother of all headaches and her underwear on the wrong way round, Ababuo was resolved to take it easy on the vodka; though a few wouldn’t hurt, she felt sure. Anyway, Anastasia had been as good as her word. The first time had been that incredible party at the equally incredible home of the Countess. Everything from the chandeliers to the champagne had been the very best. This time however, Anastasia said she had something to ask and would prefer if they just hung out together in the diner.

  Ababuo loved swimming in the warm depth of how Anastasia lived and often, just before sleep, would imagine them together again. She had a Bentley and a driver, all the money under the sun, clothes, shoes and handbags to die for and that cool attitude which presumed she could have anything because everything had a price she could afford.

  Quarter past seven, she’d said. Early enough so that they could talk something over and then go on somewhere else, if she wanted to. Wanted to? Ababuo wanted nothing more. But quarter past had come and gone and it was now nearly twenty-five to eight. Looking as far down the road as traffic allowed, Ababuo stirred the bottom of her chocolate shake and wanted to call directly; but that was out. No way, under any circumstances, was she to call direct. Anastasia had given her a number but absolutely insisted that she’d only ever to use it in dire emergencies. What exactly those might be, she hadn’t specified.

  At quarter past eight Ababuo was checking her phone again and had pushed away her second empty glass when a guy about twenty two or three she thought, slipped off his seat at the counter and laid his coffee on the table in the next booth up. Sitting with his back to her, he propped a tablet on its stand and turned it a little. Reflected in the window of the diner, Ababuo couldn’t see his face, but she could see the screen he’d turned as though on purpose so that she could see it. What was odd w
as that he didn’t seem to be looking at the thing. Checking down the road for the last time, Ababuo was just about to leave when on the guy’s tablet she saw Anastasia’s face appear. But it wasn’t the face of that sleek, high cheek boned Russian beauty. Bloodied and bruised, dishevelled and distracted, Anastasia was lying on a stretcher and being attended by police in hi-vis jackets. In the background, a broken old wooden fence lay smashed to smithereens and about fifty feet below, the Bentley lay crushed and unrecognisable but for the badge on one wheel which had broken off. Across the bottom of the screen a tag line read: ‘Ten wheeled truck hits car into quarry. Driver dead. Young woman in critical condition.’

  Day after day and night after night, McLane had mulled over whether to tell Joanne what he’d heard from his usual guy in the back of that helicopter on Lord Mayfield’s lawn. There was a sound recording and pictures of her going in and out of the Countess’ house, but McLane had refused even to open the envelope. Had it been something about her school work or some boy coming on the scene, then he wouldn’t have hesitated. But a Russian agent and an illegal one at that, duping Ababuo into believing her lies and luring her into a compromising position was something he thought could send Joanne into a spin from which she might not recover. So he decided the whole incident was best kept to himself and those who were watching over Ababuo from afar. Because of all the illegality, the report was classified so there was no chance of the matter becoming public and Joanne finding out. The encrypted messages between Ababuo and Anastasia were being intercepted and so far, there was no suggestion of a repeat performance. The advice tendered from his guy at the time was to wait for developments and only to act if there seemed to be any danger; but to be sure not to leave his study door unlocked when Ababuo was at home - just in case.

  However, that click as he locked and unlocked the study door could be heard upstairs and through in the kitchen and it didn’t go unnoticed. Joanne was first to mention it, but he’d sidestepped her with a glib ‘Oh sometimes they leave me stuff to look over. Locking the door is on page one of the Protocol they gave me. I just have to be careful. It’s nothing.’ But Ababuo was beginning to sense a coolness between herself and her father. He still used ‘darling’ and sometimes ‘sweetie’ but she thought his eye contacts had become less frequent and his cuddles a little less of a bear hug. Tonight it was fortuitous that Joanne was at some neighbour’s house to see her daughter’s new baby. In light of the call from his guy, with no mother to turn to, McLane suspected that Ababuo would be very fragile. She’d come home in a taxi and gone straight up to her room. A sure sign that she was vulnerable. Sensing that now was exactly the right time to see if she’d tell the truth to power, he knocked lightly on Ababuo’s door: