The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  ‘No. Don’t Tuck. Just leave it wide. Now. You asked Tam Fraser about that colour, didn’t you?’

  Auld Faither was shaking his head at the sight of the whole of the Calton reduced to a scale model; knowing well that neither Tobago Place nor the old Meat Market would be rebuilt. So already, the Calton had changed for ever. Big Joe was scratching his chin when Tucker answered:

  ‘Oh aye. I did. Several times. An’ he says that through his time in Glasgow City Council he’s seen about seven or eight re-development projects in various parts of the city.’

  ‘All with scale models in white?’

  ‘Oh aye. He said that they always build these models in white cardboard. After work begins, they sometimes colour things; but the City Engineers do that and only to show the progress they’re makin’ or some problem area. Tam says he’s never seen anythin’ like this. I mean tae say, it’s like bloody Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  There on the screen was Tucker’s point writ large. The whole of the Calton had been meticulously built in white cardboard model form and then it looked like Heaven above had sent raining blood to soak the whole District. All five men had seen the picture before, but never sitting as a team like this. No-one dared speak for fear that whatever spell had been cast over their beloved Calton might come alive, right there in front of their very eyes. It was Auld Faither who dared to shake a bony finger at the thing and ask:

  ‘Show us that bit you were talkin’ aboot, Tucker.’

  Tucker spread his fingers twice over the screen and swiped the image across until he focused in on one address. There was a corner tenement known so well to all at these tables that no mention of its location was necessary. While the rest of the model remained well-glued together so that every pavement rise, every gable end and even every storm drain in the streets was picked out in detail, one corner stood slashed and stabbed, ragged and falling down.

  Arab shrugged his broad shoulders at Tucker. Big Joe looked Auld Faither in the face and shook his head. McLane dropped his chin into his hands and peered down into the screen from only a few inches off the table. But no-one had a word of explanation. After quite a long silence, McLane asked the air around them:

  ‘Why? Why our tenement? Joe. Any ideas? Anything at all?’

  Big Joe Mularkey pressed his lips closed, shook his head and blinked so fast that his emphasis was made without words. Auld Faither leaned back and slung an arm up over McLane’s shoulder:

  ‘What dae you think Brogan? Is that damage deliberate? Or has this model thing been dropped on the way up tae this Randal’s office? Maybe that’s how the damage happened and we’re worried about nuthin’. I don’t mean nuthin’ really, I mean … Och, ye know what ah mean.’

  Tucker waved the palms of both hands over the screen: ‘No way. Tam says the thing was intact when it was first delivered tae Randal’s office. He saw it soon afterwards and says Randal would've had a fit if something so important as this had been damaged on delivery. Naw. One day it was alright and the next night it was like this. So it could only have been Randal who did this.’

  Auld Faither leaned in with his finger raised: ‘Ah but that’s maybe the point. Maybe he knocked it off the desk or dropped somethin’ on it. Maybe he damaged it.’

  Big Joe took a long close look: ‘Tucker. How dae I make this thing even bigger?’

  Reaching for the screen, Tucker spread his fingers taking the zoom to its maximum. From his jacket pocket, Big Joe slipped on his new reading glasses and once again leaned in, examining the image. Leaning back up and pointing his finger at the middle of the screen, Big Joe was quite emphatic:

  ‘Nope. There are two clear marks. A slash and a stab, if ever I saw them. I’d say there’s no way that damage is accidental. No sirree. Somebody, and right now the favourite is this Randal guy, had a model made of the whole Calton but chose to stab at the very tenement close where Brogan and I were brought up. For my money, that’s no accident. What do you say, Brogan?’

  The very fact that everywhere else was intact while the gable end of the tenement where he and his blood brother had grown up was hanging in tatters was enough for McLane. If this was an Exhibit in a trial, any jury in Parliament House would've had their suspicions and be sitting there silently demanding an explanation. After checking over his shoulder, McLane leaned in and four heads followed his:

  ‘I’ve been wracking my mind but I’ve come up a blank. Joe, I’m sure you’ve been doing the same, as will the rest of you. Have we got anything? Joe. Maybe it has something to do with one of your BioMass deals gone bad down in the Med. Has it got something to do with somebody you’ve pissed off years ago when you were, shall we say, less of a prominent Glasgow business man than you are today? For Christ’s sake. Anybody? Tucker. Have you ever delivered one of your old fashioned rat’s tail messages to somebody called Randal? Who the fuck is this guy? Why is he so keen to demolish the Calton and what’s he got against me? Or is it us? God alone knows.’

  All of the questions McLane had flung up into the air came back down unanswered. Auld Faither pursed his lips and shook his head. Arab had been quiet, thinking about big card games where someone had either lost a lot of money or lost an eye or a finger. But he’d drawn a blank. Tucker had questioned Tam Fraser about his boss but that only resulted in what everyone knew about him; which was very little. Tucker had even asked some ‘country cousins’ - those whose territory skirted the city boundary - but nobody had any experience of dealing with anybody called Randal. As far as Tucker could ascertain, the man was a civilian.

  Some five whole minutes later, frustrated at this lack of progress, McLane took the initiative:

  ‘Right Tuck. Go and tell Tam to meet us out in the lane. I think it’s time we danced a wee bit of the old Calton Two-Step.’

  From the Wee Nook, Tam Fraser had very discreetly been watching the huddle. When all five men leaned back and downed their drinks, he could tell his time was coming. Swallowing the last of his beer, he made eye contact with Tucker who merely dropped his head to one side as he seemingly passed on his way to the toilets at the back of the bar.

  Leaving by the back way, when he pulled closed the old door Tam Fraser stood in pitch darkness. Nevertheless, even when he felt Big Joe’s hand on his elbow he felt oddly safe. With a little light from Tucker’s tablet illuminating only McLane and Big Joe Mularkey, Tam felt further re-assured when Mr McLane spoke in his soft lawyer’s tones:

  ‘Tam. I want to thank you again for all you’ve done. However, there are two more things you could do that I’m sure will be a big help. You could call it a wee bit more of the same as you’ve done before.’

  Narrowing his brow, Tam Fraser whispered: ‘I’m sorry Mr McLane. I don’t quite follow.’

  Laying his fingertips lightly on Tam’s forearm, McLane leaned forward: ‘Tam, tell me this. Are there any more of these models in this guy’s office? Or anywhere in Glasgow City Council Chambers?’

  ‘Any more? No. The model of the Calton is huge. You’ve seen the pictures. It takes up nearly the whole ante-room. Wha’da you mean, more? Why would there be more?’

  ‘I mean maybe a different model somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe not even in his office. Have you ever seen anything like that?’

  Tam Fraser thought for a moment but gently shook his head. Right in front of him, Mr McLane had screwed up his face and looked away into the darkness, when Tam remembered something:

  ‘There’s maybe one thing. I can’t be sure. Not at all. But it might be.’

  All five men leaned in, forming a tight circle around their new friend: ‘What? What is it? Anything might be a help.’

  Giving Tam a little breathing space, they listened in silence: ‘Well, I remember one mornin’, about two or maybe three months ago, something that wouldn’t fit in my trolley and I had to be sure I didn’t damage it on the way up in the lift.’

  ‘Was it a model?’

  ‘No. But it must have been plans. Rolled up in a big thick cardboard tube. It had plastic
ends on it with something like electrical tape round the end caps. It didn’t have an address on it or a reference number. I’ve taken plenty of drawings up to him before. From the City Architect’s office or the City Engineer himself. But this thing was bigger than our standard Glasgow City Council drawings. And it had been hand delivered. So it definitely didn’t come from our internal system. I remember now, I had it under my arm in the lift.’

  ‘Really? Well that sounds promising Tam, but it doesn’t actually take us anywhere. It could’ve been anything from anyone.’

  Tam Fraser shrugged in acquiescence to the point, but he had one more shot at knocking down the opposition: ‘I take your point Mr McLane, but there’s one more thing that strikes me as a wee bit odd, now that I think about it.’

  It was Auld Faither who couldn’t contain himself: ‘For God’s sake man. Out wi’ it!’

  ‘I never saw it again. That’s what’s so odd. Usually these things … the internal ones … get bounced around the Chambers like a cork in the ocean. Somebody will see it and write a note on it, or clip on a Memo. Then I’ll be called to deliver it. For paper Memos we just use the old government style brown envelopes with the last person to receive the contents taking a pen through their name and writing the name of the recipient in the next box down. You know the kind of thing. But for plans in tubes, we use a specially printed sticker which is on the tube. This one had no sticker. It must have come into the building with his name on something like a note or a separate letter. The lads in sorting know I’m the only one who serves Randal, so it would just have been laid next to his box … Ah no, I remember now. It was propped up against the wall under his box. I delivered it and thought nothing more about it.’

  ‘Until now. That’s good work Tam. Very good work.’

  ‘Och, Mr McLane, as I said. It might be nothin’ at all. I can’t promise anything.’

  Shaking his head, McLane saw the increasing value in this secretive tube which obviously contained architectural plans and now, as though in the Discovery stage of a case, he had it centred in the cross hairs of his legal mind. At length he let out a deep sigh and nodded towards Big Joe. Turning back to Tam, McLane asked:

  ‘Tam. Could you do the old Calton Two-Step for me?’

  The euphemism wasn’t lost on this man who’d lived in Bridgeton nearly all his life but who’d been born in the Calton: ‘You mean you’d like me to let Tucker back in?’

  ‘Precisely, Tam. And quickly. I don’t want you to endanger yourself, but do you think you could do that sometime in the next six days?’

  By way of understanding the question and half replying in the affirmative, Tam Fraser dropped his head to one side: ‘Well actually Mr McLane, the best time to do that would be right now. It’s late on a Saturday night. The place will be empty and we could do it exactly as we did before.’

  Putting out his hand, McLane was a man deeply relieved by that suggestion. Taking the hand of Baron McLane of Calton and gripping it tightly, Tam Fraser felt a surge of adrenalin fire through his body. This was truly a night to remember. The night when he returned to the place of his birth and became trusted by some of the most feared and respected men in the city. Full of pride, Tam Fraser imagined in years to come telling grandsons about the day he’d returned to the Calton Bar.

  But McLane wasn’t finished: ‘That’s great. Really good of you. But there’s one more favour I need to ask, if that’s OK?’

  Still feeling high on the adrenalin, Tam Fraser’s rely came out a little too loudly for the liking of the band of brothers in the lane. But it was immediately forgiven as just being pride in helping out:

  ‘Anything, Mr McLane. Anything you say.’

  McLane slapped Tam lightly on the top of his arm, as though an officer would to a private who’d just done the officer some personal favour:

  ‘Good. Good man. After you’ve done the business, would you mind if Tucker went home with you tonight? Separately, of course, and not all night. You see, I want him to set up a time-lapse camera so that we can see everything that happens in that rear car park of the Bridgeton Orange Lodge. For say, about the next six nights. He’ll be very discreet so you can rest assured that no-one will see that camera. Would that be OK, Tam?’

  Watching Tam Fraser and Tucker make their way down the dark damp street towards the City Chambers, McLane took out his car keys and beeped the door locks of the Range Rover across the street. Big Joe Mularkey didn’t need to ask, knowing that now Tam was out of the way, McLane would tell him what he had in mind.

  Blowing out his cheeks, McLane’s relief at this important development was palpable and felt by all who remained. Auld Faither’s wide eyed face looked a good ten years younger. Arab’s whole demeanour took on the shine it always did right before Brogan would send him on a job. Big Joe Mularkey gripped his blood brother by the shoulders:

  ‘Good work, my man. Very good work. Just like the old Brogan, if Ah may say so.’

  Looking deep into Big Joe’s eyes, McLane knew he’d turned a corner and it felt like just in time: ‘Good. That does feel like real progress. But I’ll feel a lot happier when we know who’s coming and going to that fucking Lodge in the next six days. OK. Now I’m going back to Edinburgh to write something up. I’ll do it at home, I won’t go to Parliament House. It’s a legal Petition called Judicial Review of Administrative Action. If I can, being an emergency, I’ll have it in court in under seven days.’

  Auld Faither wasn’t quite following this part and tapped McLane on the arm: ‘Ah didnae quite understand a’ that, Brogan son. Could ye’ explain it tae me in words an auld Calton man like me can understand?’

  Gathering them all into a circle, McLane felt wholly at home in this dark lane which he’d been in hundreds of times. As eloquently as any submission he’d make to the Parliament House bench, he began:

  ‘Well, I’ve been wondering about this so-called Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018. I’m beginning to think there’s something quite odd about it. Something that didn’t really occur to me until tonight when we were looking at those pictures. And then when Tam mentioned those mysterious plans, I started to see something I hadn’t seen until tonight. You see, I haven’t dealt with a lot of these cases, but there is one thing they all have in common. They’re always the subject of dozens of meetings between the City Council and architects - from both the public and private sectors - politicians from central and local government … all sorts of people. This one isn’t. This Order just seemed to arise out of thin air. And that’s odd. Very odd, for my money.’

  Now it was Auld Faither’s turn to well up with pride at the sound of his favourite Calton son’s clipped, honey soaked tones. He only ever talked to them like this when he was mulling something over in that brilliant legal mind of his:

  ‘Go on Brogan, son. What else are ye’ thinkin’? Ye’r on to somethin’. Aren’t ye? And tell me son, why are the next six days so important?’

  McLane didn’t confirm Auld Faither’s suspicions, but he again nodded deeply:

  ‘Well, I think we’ve been focusing on winning a war and not on winning the particular battles that make up that war. I thought right from the start that we couldn’t win this thing and, to be brutally honest, I’ve had my worries about that all along; until tonight.’

  There were a few gasps of ‘Hold on a minute’ and ‘What did you just say?’ but McLane waved them away with the back of his hand:

  ‘Look. From a legal perspective, there are actually two battles to be fought here. The first is for the land that Glasgow City Council needs to extend the motorway. Now, the odds have to be well in their favour. I think they’ll get their hands on that land. And that means they’ll get permission to demolish the houses they need to build the motorway extension.’

  Once again, there were gasps of: ‘Oh come on!’ and ‘What? You said at the …’

  This time McLane lifted both hands in his defence and once again pushed on:

  ‘Oh yes. They ver
y probably will. Let’s face it. Something as big as a motorway link will have been discussed in London long before it was discussed up here in Glasgow. It’s something of national economic and social importance. But don’t you see? It’s the very essence of that proposition which will defeat them in the second battle.’

  His last words were a bit above the men surrounding him, but he was getting deeper into his thoughts all the time. They loved it when he was at his best like this, so no-one interrupted asking for an explanation. Moving down the lane closer to the street, they could just see each other in the dim street lights that were doing their best to illuminate the Calton through the rain which had started to hammer down with a vengeance. What McLane saw in their faces was that they still weren’t with him one hundred percent. Pulling up his collar, he put his thesis in a way he thought they might appreciate:

  ‘Guys! If I can get my case into the right shape, then I’ll be in a court in Parliament House within seven days. That’s what makes the next six days … and nights … so important to this fight. What I’m trying to do is get the snake that bites us to turn and devour itself.’

  Only open mouthed silence met his new found enthusiasm. It wasn’t so much what he said, as the way he’d said it. Gone was that tone of defeatism. Gone too was his hesitance in firing out forms of words they didn’t quite follow. Now it was obvious to Big Joe, Arab and Auld Faither that they had their own Brogan McLane back and he really was up for this fight. After shaking hands all round and receiving an extra respectful kiss on the cheek from Auld Faither, McLane stepped out into the street and didn’t look back. But he did call out:

  ‘Adios amigos. I have work to do. Goodnight all.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 43

  At the cemetery gate, the flower seller’s eyes always widened when he saw the taxi stop and the tall man in his hat, coat and well-polished shoes step out. Always alone, he always wanted the same arrangement and he always waved away the change. It had been nearly a year now; yes, he thought, next month will be the twelfth. Apart from stating his flower preference on those first and second Sundays, he was a man who never made eye contact and always held the twenty pound note he would take from his coat pocket by one corner; as though to avoid human contact as far as possible. He even turned and crunched up the winding stony walkway at the same pace every month, never saying a word and thus never allowing the opportunity for questions to develop.