Ways to Die in Glasgow

by Jay Stringer

  ‘You think someone’s hurt his dog?’

  ‘I think someone’s hurt him.’

  ‘Uh, Sam, all you’re doing is making a good case for us not being here. Either the cops will be coming, or the people who did Rab will be coming. We need to be somewhere else.’

  He was right.

  The obvious thing to do was to call Andy. The grown-up thing to do was to call Andy. The thing my dad would probably have done was to call Andy. But I was sick of running away, sick of asking for help. At least not before having something solid to hand over, an actual case that everyone would say I made. I picked up the letters with the other address on them. It was in Copland Road, only a few minutes away.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Let’s be there, instead.’

  Twenty-One

  Copland Road was across from Ibrox subway station. One side of the road was lined with council-run tenements that had been recently renovated, but as we drove down the road, counting the house numbers, we found ourselves looking at the other side of the street, with tired-looking houses and overgrown front yards. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the football stadium and not far from one of the busiest stretches of motorway in the UK, but it might as well have been in another world.

  I half-expected tumbleweed to blow by.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Phil said.

  ‘You don’t like anything.’

  The address off the letter was halfway down the road, a faded white house sandwiched between two boarded-up buildings. The house’s small front yard was hidden by an overgrown hedge. The hedge would give us some privacy, but the path was a short one, with the front door only a few feet from the pavement, and two of us would draw attention.

  ‘Stay in the car,’ I said to Phil. ‘I’ll be less noticeable on my own. Keep your phone out, and I’ll call if I need anything.’

  ‘There’s a shop back there.’ He nodded further down the opposite side of the road. ‘I’ll go get some chocolate. Want anything?’

  ‘Cornetto?’

  I shut the car door and walked down the short path to the house. I pressed the doorbell and waited, but there was no answer. Once I was sure there was nobody in, I pulled out the keys I’d lifted from Anderson’s flat and started trying them in the door.

  On the fourth key the tumbler turned and clicked, and I swung the heavy wooden door inwards. The hallway was dark and cold, and the silence of an empty house echoed around me. The inside was better kept than the outside, but still wouldn’t win any awards. The walls were painted a deep burgundy colour, and light fittings were halfway up, with dimmer switches below them. The wooden floor had been sanded and varnished, and my footsteps sounded out around me.

  Why would Anderson live in a tenement flat if he had a house?

  Doors lined the left-hand side of the hallway, and I could see a staircase at the end and another door, presumably to the kitchen if this house followed the normal design. I opened the first door, to what I assumed would be the front living room, and found a bedroom. The room itself was painted a dull blue. It had a sink in the corner, a small coffee table, and a double bed. That was it; there was nothing else that marked it out as a home. I pulled the door shut and tried the next one, and found an almost identical bedroom. The only difference was that the walls were a dull red.

  I turned and climbed the stairs, each one creaking slightly as I went. At the top I found that the first door I came to was a cramped bathroom, and the door next to it was another bland bedroom.

  I stood on the landing and sucked my lower lip for a moment while I thought.

  What the hell was I doing here?

  Why was every room a bed—Ah.

  ‘Well done, Captain Obvious,’ I told myself. ‘You’ve found a knocking shop.’

  I decided to try one last door, just because it was closed and I was curious, and promised myself I’d leave after that and go find Andy. I placed my hand on the doorknob of the front bedroom but paused. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and something felt wrong. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was decorated with the same blue paint as the first one I’d seen downstairs. There was the same double bed and even the same coffee table.

  But someone had gone to the trouble of adding a few extra features.

  There was blood splashed across the wall above the bed, and the sink was full of something clotted and fleshy. The sheets had been pulled back from the mattress, and a damp red stain ran diagonally across it and down to the floor.

  Something horrible had gone down here. I dreaded to think what the person who lost all of that blood was looking like, or where they were. I pulled out my phone, and my fingers hovered over the buttons, inching towards Andy’s number.

  Get the hell out.

  Get the hell out.

  I heard someone whistling out in the street, a lilting tune that I didn’t place at first. ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’ Something about that tune had always scared me, and now wasn’t the time to be hearing it. I headed for the top of the stairs but then froze.

  The whistling was getting closer.

  The tune paused for a second, and I heard someone messing with keys. Then the front door opened, and I wasn’t alone in the house any more.

  I stepped back into the bedroom and pushed the door shut as quietly as I could, easing up on the door handle so that it shut with a muffled click. I stared at the phone in my hands again and started to dial Phil’s number. The whistling had started again and I could hear someone taking slow, heavy steps on the staircase. I heard whoever it was step into the bathroom, then the plastic sound of a bucket being placed in the bath, followed by running water. I looked around me at the blood and realised it was clean-up time. I became conscious of how loud the phone was in my hand as it rang out, and how long Phil was taking to answer it. I killed the call.

  The whistling came towards me down the hallway.

  I looked around the room. The bed was too low to get under, the windows were nailed shut, and there were no closets or cupboards.

  I listened to the tune and watched the door handle turn.

  PART THREE

  ‘What scares me is that you’re starting to enjoy this.’

  —Phil

  Twenty-Two

  Sam

  The handle turned and the door started to open. I had seconds to think of something, but my mind was blank. Did I mention I was new to all of this? I wondered how big the guy on the other side of the door was, and if I stood a chance. What weight could I throw into a punch? I’d never done it before. I could probably outrun whoever it was, but that was only useful if I was on the other side of him.

  Time stood still.

  The front doorbell rang.

  You could be in a strange house anywhere in the world, and yet you’d instantly recognise that sound. The door in front of me stopped opening. I heard a grunt, and then the floorboards creaked as whoever was on the other side shifted their weight, deciding whether to go and answer the front door. Then the bell rang again. There was another grunt, and the person on the other side walked down the hallway, and soon I heard the creak of the stairs.

  I opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, placing my feet at the sides, hoping to avoid the creaking floorboards. There were two buckets and a mop placed by the door. One of the buckets was full of warm bleached water; the other was dry but full of sponges. I made it to the top of the stairs and peered down, but I couldn’t see the front door. The angle of the staircase kept it out of sight.

  I heard the door open, and then I heard Phil’s voice.

  ‘Hello, sir.’ He spoke loudly, doing a half-arsed impression of Brian Blessed. ‘Could I talk to you please about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ?’

  There was a grunt, the same one that had just been inches away from me, and a hoarse eastern European voice said, ‘Eh? No. I th
ank you.’

  I heard the door start to close, but something stopped it. I imagined it was Phil’s foot. ‘Really, sir, He loves you. He loves me too, though He’s not so much a fan of what I get up to in my spare time.’

  This caught the man’s attention.

  ‘Excuse?’ the foreign voice said. ‘No understand.’

  ‘No, well, me neither. Seems the all-powerful Creator of all things only likes one kind of sex between two set groups of people. Anything else is strictly forbidden. Unless it’s done by very old people in the Bible. Those old guys can marry as many people as they like and have sex with anybody. The rest of us? Nope.’

  The foreign voice stammered again, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  Phil didn’t give him time. ‘Seems he’s quite a forgetful god, all told. Or maybe just clumsy. He lets people like me who want to be with other men run around. He lets herbs that we’ve decided are illegal grow in the ground, because I guess God doesn’t know nature like we do. And he also can’t ever seem to keep hold of money. He’s always asking for a loan.’

  ‘Well—’

  I tested the weight of the top step, but I felt it starting to flex, and pulled back before I risked it creaking. There was no way to make it down without being noticed, and I would still be on the wrong side of the cleaner. I pulled out my phone and sent Phil a text.

  Keep him talking.

  ‘See, what I wonder, sir’—Phil kept on going—‘is why he would want it all that way? And then—oh, excuse me, I’m sorry, this might be important. No, it was nothing. My apologies. So where were we? Oh yes, have you ever seen Transformers: The Movie? I mean the cartoon from the eighties, not the recent one. It has a great soundtrack. All cheesy power ballads and soft metal. Do you like metal?’

  I stepped into the bathroom. The door was open, and I thought closing it might draw attention when the cleaner came back up. He might remember the way he’d left it. I stepped into the bath and pulled the shower curtain over a little, keeping me from sight. I sent Phil another text telling him to go and get the car engine running.

  ‘Tell me, sir, where do you stand on zombies? Should they run? Do you prefer the shuffling ones? I bet you’re a modernist, am I right? You like the new ones, the ones who run. I have this film idea, about the zombie Olympics and—hang on again; sorry.’ I heard him checking his phone a second time. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, sir. You have a nice day.’

  ‘Uh, yes.’

  The door closed. Footsteps came back towards the stairs, then climbed them. I held my breath and waited. The cleaner stopped outside the bathroom door. Had he heard something? Could he see me? He didn’t move. I realised holding my breath had been a stupid idea, because I would make noise when I drew in another. I kept my mouth closed and held in what little air I had.

  There was a soft laugh. ‘Zombie Olympics.’

  Then the cleaner walked on towards the end room.

  I heard a car starting up out in the street. I leant around the shower curtain and peered down the hallway. The cleaner was short and square, facing away from me as he knelt down in the bloody room, inspecting the far wall. I stepped out of the bath silently and then took a step forward.

  The floor creaked.

  The cleaner turned and saw me. His skin was olive coloured, with creases across his face and white stubble on a large jaw. His eyes grew wide as he looked at me. Then he rose to his feet, lifting a hammer in his right hand.

  A hammer? Who carries a hammer?

  Fuck it.

  I ran. I took the stairs three at a time, then skipped the whole bottom half. I landed awkwardly and stumbled, but stayed upright and made it to the front door. I fumbled with the latch, which was stiff and needed to be oiled. I heard the cleaner on the stairs. He was heavier and slower than me, and not willing to try the jump. It gave me the seconds I needed. I got the door opened and ran out into the street. Phil had already pulled away from the kerb and was idling the car in the middle of the road, with the passenger door open. I slid into the seat and pulled the door shut. The cleaner barrelled out of the house towards us, with his hammer raised.

  Phil didn’t need me to tell him to drive.

  ‘Nice of you to wake up,’ I said.

  Twenty-Three

  You know what scares me the most?’ Phil looked over at me and waited for me to ask what it was. When I waited him out, he put his eyes back on the road and carried on. ‘What scares me is that you’re starting to enjoy this.’

  I smiled.

  He was right.

  My heart was pumping, and the adrenalin was revving my engine like crack cocaine. Was this why Daddy used to do it? I’d only ever seen him at the end of the day, tired and worn out. I’d grown up convinced that it was only the idea of holding the family together that had kept him going, but was it the thrill of the chase?

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘You’re practically bouncing in your seat. What happened back there?’

  ‘No, you first. How did you know to ring the bell?’

  ‘Not much to tell, to be honest. I came back from the shop and saw him going in the front door. You weren’t in the car. I guessed it was better to assume you needed help than to assume you didn’t, and I rang the doorbell. I hoped an actual plan would come along once I started talking.’

  ‘You talked an epic amount of pish, by the way.’

  ‘Is that a criticism or a compliment?’

  ‘It’s a thank-you.’

  He smiled. We drove through Govan, or what was left of it that arsonists hadn’t torched. We took the Clyde tunnel, taking us across the river. There was a game we’d played ever since we were children, of holding our breath as we went through the tunnel. Phil could never make it, but the advantage of having runner’s lungs was that I could last longer. He punched me playfully on the shoulder as we came out the other end, his way of admitting defeat.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘What happened back there?’

  ‘I’m not really sure, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. There’s a room covered in blood, and I’m not sure there would have been much left in the person who lost it. I think someone’s been killed.’

  ‘By that guy?’

  ‘Maybe. Or by a customer. Might even be Rab’s blood, but that feels too easy, like too much of a coincidence. That place was a brothel. And I think Rab was the person who ran it, him and some woman named Neda Tenac.’

  ‘Neda who?’

  ‘It’s a name that was on some of the mail at Rab’s flat. Some of it was the Copland Road address.’

  ‘So there’s a room full of blood in a brothel and a psycho with a hammer. You know what I think we should do?’

  ‘Call the police?’

  ‘Call the fucking police.’

  We passed a phone box, and I waved for Phil to pull over. Usually if I called something in to the police, I did it through Andy, but he would be in bed asleep. I wanted there to be no way to trace it back to my own phone. I dialled 999 and gave them the CliffsNotes version of what they would find at the house, which was pretty much the only version I had. House, blood, man with hammer, hang up. I had another call to make, but this one would be a charged call, and I couldn’t find my purse. When did I last have it? Had I left it at the flat?

  Oooooooooooh shit.

  I didn’t remember seeing it since the Pit. If they hadn’t given it to Andy, they might have my address. Great. Another thing to add to the list of problems I didn’t have when I woke up this morning. It could wait, though. I was still buzzing with the excitement, the hunt for answers. I could get used to this.

  I slipped back into the car and pulled out my mobile. Then I dialled one of my saved numbers and waited the few seconds it took for an answer.

  ‘Greetings, Crowther & Co. How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘Hi,
Alexei.’

  ‘Sam.’ I could hear his smile down the phone. ‘Did you like my telephone voice?’

  ‘I did. It was very professional. And another new word—you’ll be reading Shakespeare in no time. Is Fran in?’

  ‘Indeed so; bear with me.’

  The line went quiet save for an occasional beep to tell me I was on hold.

  ‘Sam.’ The beeping ended, and Fran Montgomery boomed down the line at me. ‘I’m hoping that you’re calling about the divorce case I gave you and not because you’re still looking for Rab Anderson. I’ve heard his name a lot today. Seems like there’s a lot of people on his trail.’

  I hadn’t told Fran that I was looking for Rab. People must be talking. It was good to know I wasn’t paranoid. I really was in the eye of a storm.

  ‘Still looking. I’ve rattled a few cages. Andy Lambert had to bail me out of a mess in Cessnock. I’m getting a bad feeling, Fran. I was in Rab’s flat, and it felt like someone had cleaned it up a little too much, got rid of evidence. I’m not sure Rab is going to be found. I’ve got one lead left. Have you heard of someone named Neda Tenac? I’d like to track her down—well, I assume it’s a woman.’

  ‘Aye. She’s a woman of sorts, I guess. Listen, Sam, when you say Rab’s not going to be found—’

  ‘I think maybe he’s dead.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you were going to say. Sam, I’ve worked with Tenac. She’s old school, and scary. The wrong word, and she might hurt you.’ Fran rarely let something like that slip. He kept his opinions on his clients to himself, so it carried extra weight when he shared them. ‘This is going to sound patronising, and I’m sorry, but I think you should walk away now. Tenac isn’t safe. None of these people are safe. This isn’t a case for you.’

  His apology only made me feel more patronised. I was sick of being written off, sick of being patted on the head and underestimated. Mostly it was out of guilt, because I’d spent so long doing it to myself.