59 Minutes

by Gordon Brown

  The rear is not much better but, as with every break-in I’ve ever been involved in, the obvious routes are always the best and the most obvious is the tiny window that sits next to the back door.

  Unlike the door it is protected by a wire grill not a steel shutter, but it is sturdy and the window is re-enforced mesh glass. It looks too small to let a man through but you would be amazed at what you can slip through if you have to.

  Tomorrow I’ll suss out the other two and then it’s down to the hard bit.

  Chapter 30

  Monday January 21st 2008

  I’ve hit a slight problem. Although the Castlemilk Credit Union is a doddle, it’s almost a mirror of the one in Easterhouse and, better still, the window at the back has no grill, relying instead on the wire mesh that runs through the small pane — Drumchapel is a different kettle of fish altogether.

  For a start it is inside a new shopping mall with all the attendant security that that now entails. It sits near the south entrance but when the mall is locked down it’s patrolled by security guards and is heaven for CCTV junkies — there has to be a couple of dozen that I saw and I probably missed half. To make matters worse the Credit Union has a steel shutter and there is no rear access to the shop.

  I’ll start with Castlemilk and if it’s a blank I’ll try Easterhouse. If I’m still none the wiser to the key’s secret I’ll need to figure a way to crack Drumchapel.

  Castlemilk is on for tonight.

  Chapter 31

  Tuesday January 22 nd 2008

  A dud and a bad dud at that. I arrived at the row of shops in Castlemilk after 11.00pm and almost got myself in a fight straightaway as I stumbled on a gang of lads glugging MD 20/20 in the lane behind. Four or five bottles to the good and the six of them were up the far end of the lane.

  At first, I thought I could break in and leave them be but, as I walked down the lane, I was spotted and they started towards me. I did the manful thing and retreated, waiting for half an hour before I chanced my arm again.

  This time they were sitting outside the Credit Union back door and starting to kick up some nonsense. One of them was balancing on the wall that bordered the lane and was trying to back-flip like a beam gymnast. It was never going to end well and he crashed to the ground to the amusement of his mates.

  I watched them fanny around for twenty minutes and when they cracked open another bottle I considered walking away but, just then, I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could move I was slammed into the wall as ten or twelve boys hurtled past screaming and shouting. The next I knew, there was the battle of Bannockburn going on in the lane and, by the sounds of things, the new gang were no less the worse for wear on the alcohol front than the gang they were attacking.

  I watched from the relative safety of the end of the lane as the fight geared up. Ten minutes in and the police siren on the wind told me someone had dialled 999. I turned, sprinted across the road, dived into a close in the tenement opposite and waited for the police to arrive.

  Three patrol cars cruised up to the entrance of the lane — blues and twos now in quiet mode. They pulled up out of sight of the lane and seven policemen got out. There was the faint buzz of a radio and then they disappeared around the corner and into the lane. Seconds later bodies started streaming out of the lane entrance. The police emerged a few minutes later with five of the boys in tow. They were thrown into the back of the cars and it was over before it really had a chance to begin.

  I heard a door open behind me and turned to see a figure emerging from the dark.

  ‘Whit the fuck are you doing?’

  The voice sounded heavy with drink. Does every fucker drink round here?

  ‘Just avoiding the nonsense out there,’ I said, pointing to the entrance of the close.

  ‘I don’t give a shit. Piss off or I’ll break your legs.’

  Outside the police were still tidying up and I needed to be part of that scene like a hole in the head.

  ‘I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.’

  The stranger was now in sight, lit by the glow of the streetlights from outside and oozed wee man syndrome in a big way. I’ve seen it all before — men shorter than they want to be, making up for it by being aggressive unreasonable shits. Trying to add inches to their height by acting the big man. It stinks and can be a pain in the arse but I was fucked if I was going to let some little shit with a vertical complex piss on me.

  He had brave pills going on and stepped in close. I could smell the booze as the vapour wafted up my nose — his head barely up to my shoulder.

  ‘You’ll be out of my hair right fuckin’ now.’

  I turned to him and, as the car doors were still shutting behind me, I lifted my right knee, grabbed his mouth with my good hand and sunk a knee deep into his bollocks. My hand caught the scream. I pushed his head back and caught his leg with my foot and sent him to the ground.

  Dropping to my knees I grabbed his head and slammed it onto the concrete with as much force as I could muster. His head bounced and he groaned. I balled my fist and slammed it into his gut and stood up. He wasn’t out cold but he was well fucking gubbed. I looked out of the close and was rewarded with the sight of retreating tail lights. I gave one glance at the stranger and exited. It was good to know I could still handle myself if needed. Even if it was against a midget drunk.

  I crossed the road and entered the lane with no thought that my victim would be after me. I was sure the wee man would gather himself up and head home. Calling the police would be the last thing on his mind.

  I reached the back door of the Credit Union, took out a small torch from my pocket and played it around the edge of the window. I was looking for the tell tale shadow of a tremble alarm but if it was there it was well hidden. That was a surprise. I had expected a tougher gig than this. After all this was all but a bank in name.

  I took out a curled up piece of cloth from under my jacket and laid it on the ground. I unfurled it and, in the half light, selected a ball and preen hammer along with a small punch. I placed the point of the punch at the bottom left corner of the mesh window and struck it with the hammer.

  The punch went through and the glass spidered. I repeated the operation until the bottom corner was a maze of cracks. I turned the hammer over, using the preen to finish driving a hole in the corner.

  Grabbing the busted glass I levered it away from the window. Putting some welly into it I pulled again and the rest of the window peeled away like Blu-Tac on a warm day. I forced the window to bend up into the top right corner. The mesh held the glass together and the whole window now hung from the frame like a bent and twisted shutter.

  I cleared away the sharp edges around the frame with the hammer and shone the small torch into the room beyond. It was stacked full with boxes and in one corner there was a small table with a wooden chair in attendance. High up in the top corner was a small white box. An infrared passive detector.

  In my day such technology was the domain of the rich and powerful. Nowadays it was available from Tesco’s and would almost certainly be linked to the local police station. I wasn’t worried. I had no intention of being inside for more than a few minutes.

  I had spent the last few days getting to know the layout of all three jobs in intimate detail. As my cell mate for the first four years inside had said to me on more occasions than I cared to remember — planning is everything. The fact he had been caught during an opportunistic house breaking seemed to pass him by.

  Beyond the room was the main shop — an open area that served the public. No counters. No wire cages. Open plan was the order of the day and the safe was in the room next to this one. A bottle of Glen’s vodka, that I could ill afford, and a long term customer that I had befriended in the local pub had given me the low down — to the smallest detail. She had once worked there and knew the layout inside out. Yes, she had told me, there were some safety deposit boxes but only half a dozen and they were rarely used. She didn’t know if there were any that hadn
’t been touched in years but she told me she wouldn’t be surprised.

  All I had to do was exit the door from the room I was looking at, turn left, enter the next one and I was in the safe room. My friend had assured me that the door to the safe room wasn’t strengthened and the plan was simple — in and out as quickly as possible.

  I pulled up my hood, heaved myself onto the window and, as I slid through the gap, the red light blinked and the alarm went off. I rolled on the floor and, kicking boxes out of the way, I rushed through the door and into the shop.

  But my friendly snitch had either lied or was out of date with her info. The other door was locked and it was a heavyweight son of a bitch. I’d had visions of kicking the thing in but given the CCTV cameras I hadn’t dared enter the building to check it myself. Mistake. It took me ten minutes to crack the lock and I knew that the police were on their way but the fact they had just lifted five of the gang gave me hope that they might be light on back up.

  The ten minutes seemed like ten hundred and my ears were only listening for one sound — sirens.

  The door opened and I pushed inside to find a mother of a safe door on the right and a dozen boxes on the left. I whipped out the key and in sixty seconds knew that I had drawn a blank. I exited, head down to the camera and I was back in the lane in less than a minute. The sirens were on the rise again but I vanished into the scheme before the police could arrive.

  Tonight it’s Easterhouse.

  Chapter 32

  Wednesday January 23 ^rd 2008

  Dud number two. Much easier than Castlemilk though. I knew the boxes were in the room I was breaking into and the wire mesh on the window was a breeze to cut through. I was in and out in two minutes and back in the hostel by one o’clock.

  Now things get tricky. Drumchapel is a bastard. I’ve been over there four times and I’m still clueless. In the old days I would just have walked in with a couple of gorillas and concluded my business. With no back up and no weapon it’s a non-starter. They will also be on high alert. Word will have spread that someone is doing Credit Unions. That will make them twitchy. I need some help on this one and sadly I can only think of one person that might be up for it.

  I’m off to see Martin tomorrow.

  God help me.

  Chapter 33

  Thursday January 24 th 2008

  For the bulk of my incarceration I had always thought that Dupree had taken Martin out after I was sent down. Then I had the pleasure of a new cell mate, a confidence trickster, who shared my cell for a few nights. It meant there were three of us crammed in the room built for one but the prison was bursting at the seams and there was hardly a union rep we could complain to.

  The con was called Gerald Crainey and in some distant part of my brain his name rang a bell. At first he said little but on the third night we were talking football and he came over all gobby. It turned out he had been on the books for Celtic as a schoolboy.

  ‘I could have played for the first team, you know.’

  He loved his football and to hack him off I told him I was a Partick Thistle fan. He took the royal piss out of me but we got into it over the 1971 game and, as I had learned over the years, it was a great way to wind up some Celtic fans.

  ‘Another Partick nutter. Met one not long ago called Martin Sketchmore.’

  I backed him up and asked him if Martin Sketchmore was my Martin Sketchmore.

  ‘Sassenach who thinks he’s Scottish. Balding, likes his rugby and his pros?’

  It was as good a description as I had heard. What intrigued me, on further interrogation, was that the meeting had occurred at a football event that was only a few years in the past. That put Martin on this planet well after I thought Dupree had got to him.

  I pumped Gerald for everything he knew but it wasn’t much. He had met Martin at a Celtic supporters’ do that was being held in Murrayfield — the home of Scottish rugby. They had got to talking at the bar. The inevitable subject of 1971 came up and then Martin had told Gerald that he always wanted to go to an Old Firm game but had never gotten round to it. Gerald happened to have two tickets for the main stand at Hampden for the upcoming Rangers v Celtic game in the Scottish Cup. The game was a sell out and tickets were nowhere to be found — not for love nor money. A few drinks later and they were soul mates. A few more and Gerald invited Martin to the game.

  Gerald and Martin had drunk themselves stupid at the game but parted ways with no exchange of details. Martin had been a stranger to Gerald ever since. But it was enough for me. If Martin was alive someone would know where and I intended to find out.

  It took me months of favours and back-handers to track him down. In truth it wasn’t difficult, just agony when you are trying to do it from prison. My lack of friends made everything expensive, painful or slow.

  I found out he was back in Glasgow and now part of the law abiding citizenry. He had a job in a city lawyers, as a ‘by the hour’ detective. His job was to dig up dirt and his old contacts had made him a bit of a winner at the gig. I knew he lived in Eaglesham — a small satellite village south of Glasgow. I didn’t have an address but with a name like Sketchmore I reckoned he wouldn’t be too hard to find.

  I took the bus to the village. A long haul by any accounts, and, when I arrived, I realised this might be harder than I first thought. The village, although small, was still big enough to cause me some grief and as I alighted the bus and stood next to the bus stop I thought — where now?

  The pub was the obvious start point and I entered the Eaglesham Arms with some hope in my chest. Ten minutes later I was back on the street.

  The bar staff had looked at me with the sort of blank expression reserved for non locals and people who weren’t buying. The two customers I quizzed gave me even less than that. If I’d had a mobile in my pocket I could have given directory enquiries a pop but I could hardly afford the bus fare, never mind a mobile phone.

  I wandered back up the main drag and headed towards the shops the bus had passed as it had entered the village. On my left I found a Chinese restaurant and a light bulb went on. Martin was big on his Chinese food. His tastes might have changed but I didn’t think so.

  The restaurant was small but welcoming. It was too early in the day for a crowd but there were still a few tables buzzing with chat. A matronly looking Chinese woman appeared to take my order and I had to disappoint her. I explained that I was a friend of Martin’s just back from the big smoke and that I’d had my bag stolen on the train north. I knew he lived in Eaglesham but I didn’t have his address — could they help?

  She drew me a blank and I thought I was out on my backside but one of the diners had ear wigged the conversation, and beckoned me over. The Chinese lady threw him a look of disdain but he either missed it or didn’t give a rats. He told me that Martin didn’t live in Eaglesham but in a smaller village up the road called Jackton. He didn’t know the address but he described the house and with thanks I was gone.

  Jackton turned out to be a fair walk but its size made finding Martin’s house easy and I stared at the front door for an age.

  A decade earlier I would have envisaged myself kicking the door in and confronting him. I had envisaged myself beating him within an inch of his life. Dark night after dark night I dreamed of this moment — and then some — but now I just wondered what the hell I was doing here. Did I really need his help to crack the Credit Union? After all wasn’t it just a toy town bank? The answer was no — it wasn’t and I was scraping the bottom of a fairly deep barrel. One that had given up everything but Martin. After this I was a busted flush.

  I stared at the door and thought — this is the bastard that had put me away for the best part of fifteen years. This is the man that had hung me out in a way that was hard to fathom.

  I could still see him in the dock spouting forth — me open-mouthed as he spat out every tiny detail. He never looked at me once. Not even the swiftest of glances. He fixed his eyes on a spot behind the prosecuting lawyer and kept them th
ere.

  Not that he couldn’t feel my gaze. It was a laser burning into his head — a laser loaded with all the hate I could muster. Yet he was an unblocked dam of information that flooded across the courtroom and drowned me.

  As I stood at the door and looked at my watch I thought about all the time that the bastard had taken away. Every single second that could never be handed back. How he had walked free from the court and I had walked away in handcuffs. Him to a future outside prison walls. Me to one inside. And what would this visit achieve? After all he had sent the letter. Whatever lay in the safety deposit box was surely known to him. Yet there lay the intrigue. If he did know, then why give it to me? Bad news seemed the most logical conclusion. I was to be set up again. Was that it? Am I supposed to open the box and the contents lead me straight back to prison — or worse? Why else would he lead me to the key?

  I know the bastard well. Is this his back up plan? His security blanket. Send me right back in. Go straight to jail — do not pass go. But why? He must have known I would look for him now I was out.

  Before the Castlemilk and Easterhouse jobs I’d considered tracking him down, but it chewed my gut like cancer to think about it. Now I had no choice. Whatever lay in that box was going to be revealed. Either right now, right here or, with Martin’s help, after I did Drumchapel.

  I kicked the door. One way or another the mystery ended here. At least that’s what I thought at that moment. As it turned out life is far from that simple.

  The door flew open and Martin stood before me. Less hair, stooped and a good four stone heavier but it was Martin. If I expected shock at my presence it wasn’t to be. He smiled as recognition took hold and, standing back, asked if I still took two sugar and milk. It was far from the response I had been expecting.