The Lost Boy and The Gardener's Daughter: The Glasgow Chronicles 3

by Ian Todd

  “Ah think ye’ll find that if ye cast yer rich spoiled brain back, we discussed, as equals, whit the score wid be when we hit the road. Ah never heard ye bleating then, so why the hell ur ye bleating noo?” he snarled, drapping doon intae second as he took a steep right haun bend.

  “It’s your manner, the way you talk to me, the disrespectful way you speak to me and that’s not to mention your foul language.”

  “And ye think that’s because ye’re a wummin?”

  “What I’m saying is that you just assume that you’re in charge and the rest of us...”

  “Us?”

  “...One-eye and I will jump at your every command.”

  “Well, fur a start, he’s a bloody dug, so he’s supposed tae jump at ma command. As fur yersel, ye’re getting yer knickers in a twist because Ah won’t stoap at a poncie fucking castle so ye kin hiv a gander at it and compare it wae the wan ye’ve jist ran away fae. Ah’ve telt ye, stoap acting as if ye’re oan yer school holidays. Ah thought ye wur sick ae castles anyway? Why the hell did ye run away fae wan, only tae whinge at me tae stoap at another wan tae see whose auld man his the maist windaes between them?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” she snarled at him. “Stop treating me as if I’m your maid.”

  “Aye, well ye’d know mair aboot how tae treat maids than Ah ever wid,” he hit her wae, as Wan-eye’s heid swivelled roond fur the response tae that wan.

  “You’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?”

  “A girlfriend? Noo, whit the hell’s that goat tae dae wae anything?” he snapped back at her, totally bamboozled aboot where she wis coming fae.

  “You just don’t know how to treat the opposite sex…like an equal…with equal respect…do you? You’re culturally and emotionally destitute.”

  “And you’re a bloody pain in the arse.”

  “There you go. Insulting people is just your way of avoiding responsibility for your actions. You’re permanently in denial. You’ll never be able to settle down because you’re too busy avoiding who you are.”

  “That’s rich coming fae the likes ae you. Who ur you running away fae, eh? Daddy, who gied ye everything then goat it slung back in his face? Mammy, who’s running aboot shagging aw the guys that ye fancy yersel? Ye’re mair fucked-up than Ah’ll ever be,” he sneered.

  “How dare you!” Saba howled, slapping Paul oan the side ae his face.

  “Right, that’s it. Ah’ve hid enough ae this shite,” Paul snarled, slamming oan the brakes.

  “I’m sorry, Paul, I shouldn’t have done that,” Saba wailed, covering her mooth wae her offensive weapon.

  “Too fucking true, ye shouldnae hiv. Oot!” he barked, haudin open her door efter storming roond tae her side ae the Landy. “And you jist sit where ye ur, Wan-eye!” he commanded, as the dug sat back doon oan his seat.

  “But, I, er...”

  “Never mind apologising, Ah’ve hid enough ae you. Get oot, and take yer baggage wae ye,” he shouted, yanking open the back door ae the Landy and grabbing her bag.

  “But, you can’t leave me here…in the middle of nowhere,” Saba pleaded, looking aboot, appalled.

  “Fucking watch me,” he sneered at her, throwing her bag as far as he could intae the field beside the road, before getting back intae the Landy and driving aff.

  Chapter Fifty Eight

  “I know you find this difficult, your Ladyship, but the more publicity that’s generated, the more likely someone will spot her and hopefully lead us to her whereabouts,” Inspector Cotter pleaded wae the Duchess.

  “Riddrie said there’s a throng of reporters,” The Duke said.

  “As well as the BBC and Scottish Television, there are reporters from The Press & Journal, The North Star, The Northern Times, The Glesgie Echo and The Ross-shire Journal. I also understand that journalists from The Glesgie Evening Times and Citizen are on their way too, your Lordship.”

  “Look, why don’t we get this over and done with, dear?” The Duke asked The Duchess, haudin oot his haun tae her.

  The flashbulbs and clicks ae the cameras erupted as soon as The Duke and Duchess entered the room, followed by a barrage ae questions.

  “The Duke and Duchess of Kyle will be happy to answer your questions if you conduct yourselves in a proper manner, ladies and gentlemen. May I ask you to be sensitive at this distressing time and show some respect? Now, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Inspector Cotter and I have been asked to officiate at this press conference. Right, who’s first? You, sir?” Cotter said, pointing tae a reporter.

  “Jock Paterson, Aberdeen Press and Journal. I wonder if The Duke or Duchess could tell us if their daughter, Lady Saba, left a note saying she was leaving home?”

  “There was no note. My daughter’s disappearance was quite unexpected and sudden,” The Duke replied.

  “Begging your pardon, but do you believe there was a boyfriend involved in Lady Saba’s disappearance?” Sandy Ferguson fae The North Star enquired.

  “Certainly not, sir! My daughter was about to celebrate her fifteenth birthday with her mother and father. She’s a sweet and innocent child who has shown no interest in boys,” The Duchess exclaimed, wiping a tear fae her eye wae a silk handkerchief, emblazoned wae the Kyle ae Sutherland coat ae erms.

  “Harty Field, Ross-shire Journal. It’s been said that there may be a link with a young ruffian who moved to the Kyle from Glesgie, your Lordship. Do you think there may be a connection between the boy and the disappearance of her ladyship?”

  “You would need to address that question to Inspector Cotter,” The Duke replied, looking across at the Inspector.

  “Well, as you are aware, Ross and Sutherland Constabulary, who are leading the investigation into the disappearance of Lady Saba, have not ruled that possibility out, although at this time, we are still following that line of enquiry.”

  “Mary Marigold, Glesga Echo. Is it true that the force up here in Ross and Sutherland hiv hid tae draft in a mair experienced investigative polis officer fae Glesga?”

  “Ross and Sutherland Police contacted Glasgow Police and requested assistance…I repeat…assistance…to help us with our line of enquiries. This came about at the request of our own intrepid investigating officer, Swein McTavish, who can’t be here today because he is out attempting to resolve this mysterious disappearance.”

  “Given Sergeant McPhee’s rank, inspector, dis that mean he’s the senior investigating officer and that PC McTavish will be taking orders fae him then?” Mary Marigold pressed, notebook and pencil in haun.

  Inspector Cotter looked as if he’d jist been skelped across that grey face ae his wae a wet, broon trout.

  “Swein McTavish was recently promoted to the rank of sergeant, well before Lady Saba disappeared. He’s well known in the Highlands and beyond for ‘always catching the fox,’” Cotter replied, gulping.

  “Is that what they call McTavish, Inspector?” John Turney, fae The BBC News asked.

  “What?”

  “The Fox?”

  “Obviously, as professionals, we do not go in for that sort of nonsense, but I do believe that Sergeant McTavish has been referred to by that name in certain underworld quarters, up here in the Highlands.”

  “Angus Ross, Highland News. If you could speak to your daughter now, your Lordship, what would you say?”

  “I would ask her to keep her chin up, and to remember that she is a MacDonald and to hold tight. Mummy and Daddy will be coming for her very soon. I would ask that if anyone knows the whereabouts of our darling daughter, then please contact us or the police as soon as possible.”

  “His there been a demand fur a ransom?” Swinton Maclean, fae The Glesga Evening Times shouted oot, still panting, efter jist arriving oot ae a taxi fae Inverness.

  “We haven’t received any demand,” a shocked Duke ae Kyle replied, as The Duchess broke doon in tears and aw the bulbs in the cameras in the room started popping in her direction.

  “Right, ladies and gentlemen
, that will be all for today. Ross and Sutherland Constabulary will issue a briefing statement later today unless anything new comes to light before then. In the meantime, his Lordship has requested that you all leave the estate and do not re-enter the main gates unless invited,” Cotter shouted, as Riddrie and him escorted the grumbling press towards the door.

  Chapter Fifty Nine

  Swein McTavish felt sick and his guts wur still gieing him gyp. He’d awready been tae the toilet twice since breakfast. He didnae know whit the hell tae dae next. When he’d looked oot ae his bedroom windae when he’d goat up, the Landy and The Dignity sitting oan the trailer behind it hid disappeared. He didnae think he’d been spotted, although he couldnae be sure. He hidnae expected the pup, Wan-eye, tae be sitting in the back ae the Landy. His heart hidnae slowed doon fur aboot an hour efter he’d goat into his ain Landy and sped back tae the hotel. Should he tell the Sarge? Whit if McPhee asked why he hidnae telt him before noo? Whit the hell wis Innes up tae? Why wis Paul McBride sitting in Lochcarron wae Innes’s boat? Wis Lady Saba wae him? McTavish hid tae find oot exactly whit wis gaun oan, bit how? He felt terribly disloyal, bit he didnae trust McPhee. There wis an underlying edge tae him. He sensed the violence lurking jist under the surface.

  “Ah spoke tae ma boss jist before breakfast. He says that yer boss, Cotter, his said that ye’ve tae carry oan assisting me and he’ll see ye when ye get back up the road in a couple ae days’ time,” The Stalker informed him, breaking intae his train ae thought.

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s whit Ah wis telt tae tell ye.”

  “I’ll have to phone the inspector and speak to him myself,” McTavish said, as he turned left oan tae the A87 at the junction where they’d turned back the night before.

  “Ma boss says he’s been in contact wae the guys in Dumbarton. There’s lookoots at aw the main junctions fae there intae Glesga. Ah’m no gonnae mess aboot. We need tae get doon the road a bit tae see whit’s gaun oan. Ah need tae be in the thick ae it when oor man’s sighted or caught, so step oan it. We’ll heid doon tae Crianlarach and see whit the score is doon there.”

  “If we come across a phone box, I’ll need to phone in, despite what your boss says. I work for Ross and Sutherland and I take my orders directly from them. They’ll expect me to make contact. That’s the rules whenever we’re out and about beyond our local boundaries,” McTavish lied.

  “Well, suit yersel, bit the chase takes priority. Ah’m sure we’ll come across a phone box wance we hit Fort William,” The Stalker responded, hoping tae stall McTavish fur as long as he could.

  McTavish wisnae really listening tae Sergeant McPhee, as he’d come up wae a possible solution tae the predicament he wis in. If he could get tae a phone box before five o’clock, he’d be able tae contact Packer at the vet’s in Lairg. If Packer didnae know whit wis gaun oan, he’d get him tae take a run up tae Innes’s and find oot. He felt better. His stomach started tae settle, although he knew he wid hiv tae make a decision soon oan whether tae blow Paul’s cover or no. He still wisnae convinced that the lassie wis in danger or wid come tae any harm…if she wis wae him.

  Chapter Sixty

  Pat Molloy, The Big Man, sat at his usual table in his club, The Carlton, reading The Racing Times, wae his feet resting oan a stool in front ae him. He’d awready picked his nags and Shaun Murphy, his scar-faced right-haun man, hid awready phoned them in tae his bookie, Ned The Nag. Life wis good, he thought tae himsel as he skimmed the pages. Nowan needed tae tell him that he wis the tap dug, the wan wae the biggest baws in the toon. He knew fine well where he stood in the queue. He wisnae really reading the paper, bit hid been using it as a cover tae try and get they brains ae his unscrambled. He hidnae gone tae bed until aboot five o’clock that morning and even when he hid, it hidnae been tae hiv a kip. Efter the club shut up shoap, he wis supposed tae hiv gone tae meet up wae the wee blonde thing that hid started in the club the previous week. Unfortunately, he’d goat delayed oan account ae a wee well-known fly man, who’d made the mistake ae trying tae take the pish oot ae him. It never ceased tae amaze him that there wur still eejits and bampots oot there who wur willing tae bare their arses above the water line. He’d been well-pissed aff at the interruption tae his scheduled date. Hawkeye Campbell, a wee two-faced sleekit basturt fae Possil, hid come tae him, pleading fur a wee bit ae work earlier in the year because he’d needed some dosh in a hurry tae pay aff the Simpson brothers, who wur gonnae nail the prick tae a door fur no squaring up his ootstauning loan tae them oan time. He’d made the mistake ae feeling sorry fur Hawkeye at the time and hid goat Shaun tae haun o’er a van load ae good quality Benson and Hedges fags, fur him tae punt tae some crowd oot in Kirkintilloch. He couldnae bloody believe it when the wee scabby fuck-face hid done a runner. As if that hidnae been bad enough, he’d ended up hivving a major run-in wae Tam Simpson aboot who wis gonnae kill the sleekit wee tadger first. Tam hid demanded first shout at Hawkeye’s baws, bit Pat hid been hivving none ae it.

  “He owed me first, Pat, so Ah want first shout,” Simpson hid growled.

  “Ah don’t gie two fat fucking monkeys. Any prick that lays wan finger oan Hawkeye will answer tae me and Ah don’t gie a shit who they ur or where they come fae. That wee two faced knob-end is mine.”

  Tae keep the peace and tae show that there wisnae any hard feelings, he’d agreed wae the Simpsons that he’d get him first, bit wid leave a wee bit fur them. Tam hid reluctantly accepted, although The Big Man knew Tam didnae really hiv any choice in the matter.

  “Well, make sure he’s no fucking deid by the time Ah get him,” Tam hid grumbled.

  And noo the wee sleekit knob-end hid resurfaced, still skint, bit alive and kicking. The Big Man hid been sitting oan his stool the previous night at the end ae the bar. He’d been watching the punters losing their dosh, haun o’er fist, while at the same time, getting the odd glance ae the wee blonde’s arse, every time she bent o’er tae fill the finger dishes wae nuts fae the box under the bar. Danny Murphy, Shaun’s brother, hid suddenly appeared oan the scene, aw excited, and hid come across tae whisper in his ear.

  “Ah’ve goat a wee present fur ye, Pat. Hawkeye Campbell is tied up in a GPO sack in the back ae ma car, doon in the lane,” he’d beamed.

  “Christ, yer timing could be better, Danny. Ah’m jist aboot tae go aff and get ma Nat King Cole wae that wee blonde thing behind the bar,” he’d grunted.

  “Whit dae ye want me tae dae?”

  “Take him o’er tae the warehouse in Coocaddens. Ah’ll be up in twenty minutes. Ah’ll need tae make ma excuses here.”

  He’d motioned Blondie across. She wis a wee stoater and he tried tae remember her name noo, bit he couldnae come up wae it. Kathy or something like that seemed tae spring tae mind.

  “Listen, doll, wan ae the boys his jist came in tae say ma sister’s been up aw night wae the skitters. Ah’ll hiv tae nip across tae see if she’s okay, bit Ah’ll catch up wae ye later oan. Is that okay?”

  “Of course it is, Pat.”

  “Right, if Ah’m no back before three o’clock, wan ae the boys will take ye o’er tae ma place. Ye jist help yersel, hen, and Ah’ll see ye soon,” he’d said, gieing her arse a wee pat before slipping aff his stool and heiding fur the door.

  It hid only taken Hawkeye two seconds flat tae realise that he wis in trouble…big trouble. Efter hivving been driven aboot the toon in the boot ae a car fur hauf the night in a GPO sack, he’d finally been let oot, blinking like a hauf dud light bulb that wis aboot tae conk oot. He’d clapped eyes oan The Big Man sitting oan a comfy chair, cracking his knuckles, and hid let oot a terrified wail, knowing full well he wis stuck in the middle ae Shite Street and there wis nae escape.

  “Right, Ah’m only gonnae ask ye wance…where the fuck’s ma dosh, ya wee queer, ye?”

  “Aw Big Man, Pat, Ah’m sorry. Gie me another chance, pleasssse!” the hawk-eyed snivelling wee basturt hid wailed.

  “Right, yer time’s up. Ah warned ye, Ah
wis only gonnae ask ye the wance and ye widnae bloody listen,” Pat hid replied, nodding tae the team who’d been staunin in a semi-circle behind the crooked wee schemer.

  Pat reckoned that they’d spent aboot forty minutes oan him. Pat hid goat in there first. The boys hid tied him tae an auld seed-room door that hid sitting leaning against wan ae the walls since the fifties efter ripping the clothes aff ae him. He always knew that sooner or later, he’d come up wae a good use fur it wan day. Pat hid started oot oan that face and rib cage wae a new knuckle-duster that he’d goat recently, although he’d hid tae dump it efter five minutes because it wis too heavy and kept knocking Hawkeye oot. Efter he’d finished wae the knuckle-duster, he’d used Hawkeye’s baws fur penalty practice, before haunin him o’er tae the squad who wur patiently waiting their turn. Shaun hid hid tae revive him aboot hauf a dozen times efter that. They’d placed bets amongst themsels oan who could take each ae Hawkeyes toe and fingernails oot in the wan go wae a pair ae pliers. Peter the Plant hid won it wae three finger and two toenails. The Big Man couldnae believe where the fuck the time hid gone and wis feeling as randy as an auld goat by the time he’d asked Shaun tae gie him a lift hame.

  “So, whit dae ye want done wae Hawkeye noo, Pat?” Shaun hid asked.

  “Ye better deliver him up tae they Simpsons in Possil. Ah widnae want them tae think we wur reneging oan oor wee agreement. Try no tae kill the basturt when ye nail him tae the door, eh? We widnae want tae gie this wee shitehoose an opportunity tae miss the party up in Possil,” he’d instructed them.

  When he’d come intae the club this morning, Shaun hid telt him that they’d drapped the door oan the ground face doon, wae Hawkeye still nailed tae it, when they wur getting him oot ae the van at the Simpsons’ garage at the tap ae Balmore Road up in Lambhill. Toby Simpson hid gone aff his heid at them.