“All right boss? You’ll be wanting a word with our friend in the back?”
“Open the doors and keep him in place; then maybe I can make Mr Johnson understand what it means to break his word,” ordered the Range Rover’s incumbent.
With the stinging April rain falling horizontally, the car park and the countryside it gazed over were empty, except for the two newly arrived vehicles. The immaculately dressed driver jumped out in one languid movement.
Resplendent in a bespoke suit, with his sandy red hair reaching almost to his shoulders, Declan Meechan made his way to the rear doors of the Transit. Inside a male, his arms bound behind him and his mouth gagged, was pushed into a kneeling position on the floor of the Transit, in line with the doors. The second male in the Transit, topped in a white baseball cap and wearing jeans and an Adidas tracksuit top, removed the gag from the captive’s mouth.
Meechan stood opposite his prey and glowered:
“I trust you know why you’re here, Johnson? Treacherous you maybe but stupid you are not. Or do I have that one wrong as well?”
The captive could not help his voice betraying the fear wracking his body and soul:
“You have it wrong, Declan, believe me. There’s only been a delay in the supply, no more. I know better than to cross you.”
Before the sentence could be finished, Meechan’s right hand slashed down in a vicious motion that harked back to a past obsession with the sweet science. The blow crashed off Johnson’s jaw and his body went limp. The black cap snapped Johnson’s head back to meet the merciless gaze of Meechan’s slate grey eyes. Eyes with no soul.
Blood trickled down the side of Johnson’s jaw and a tooth dropped out of his slack mouth as the captive regained consciousness. As he did so the sound of liquid became audible, as urine darkened the tormented drug dealer’s trouser leg.
Meechan’s grin was feral.
“Fear has a way of focusing minds, I always find. When I enter into a business agreement with anyone, I must be able to trust them. When that trust is broken, the relationship ends.”
A pause, to let the ramifications of such an ill-starred course of action sink in, Meechan added:
“I find myself forced to make an example of my betrayer so that future business relationships are not similarly blighted. Do you understand me, Johnson?”
Johnson nodded in the affirmative but did not trust himself to words. Meechan continued his summation of where it had all gone wrong:
“You guaranteed me that a month’s supply of the product would arrive in Glasgow to the agreed inlet without fail. This is April the tenth and we are still waiting for the March consignment. You made your excuses for the delay in March, but you have now run out of them, and time, in April. Your dear brother has; sorry, I should say ‘had,’ a mouth on him. It is your misfortune, Johnson, that you can choose your friends and not your relatives. I have always made it my golden rule of practice when it comes to business to trust neither friends nor family.”
Johnson’s face crumpled in a mix of pain and surprise as Meechan’s left hand came up in a hook that seemed to almost snap the captive’s recoiling body in two. Johnson doubled up and vomited, gasping for air, his midriff constricting in convulsions of agony.
The thin smile etched across Meechan’s face was, for a moment, replaced by a frown as he observed a trace of vomit spattered over his gleaming Peter Barker shoes.
Meechan reached into his raincoat and pulled out a leather glove from an inside pocket before fitting it with painstaking meticulousness over each finger of his right hand. From his other pocket came the handgun.
Reaching into the outside left pocket, he pulled out a cylindrical metallic object and fitted it onto the barrel of the gun. Raising the handgun to the left-hand side of Johnstone’s head and pausing to savour the raw fear in his prey’s eyes, Meechan said:
“How does it feel to know that the last thing you will see in this life is the face of the man who made you rich, and yet the one you betrayed for your own greed?”
Again the pause.
“Naw …” was all Johnson had time to scream and then there was a dull thud as his life was extinguished and his body dropped onto the Transit floor. A dead weight.
Tossing the gun to the Transit driver, Meechan rapped:
“Destroy it. Dump the body in the reservoir and then torch the van. No fuck ups, just do the job.”
Meechan added in the direction of the Transit driver:
“So tell me, Frankie, did our copper friend get a fright on the Kingston Bridge yesterday?”
Frankie Brennan’s indelicate mean features were temporarily masked in a smile.
“Aye boss, that’s a copper who knows he’s lucky not be finishing his days at the bottom of the Clyde. I’d say the polis’ garage would have a fair bit of work to do on Thoroughgood’s motor into the bargain!”
Reaching for his wallet, Meechan removed a fifty pound note and, extending his arm, stuck it behind his huge underling’s ear. Turning his gaze to white baseball cap, Meechan tucked another fifty pound note inside the top of his henchman’s tracky top.
“You do well for me, boys,” Meechan said, “and you will enjoy health, wealth and happiness. You let me down and I will take the type of personal interest in your welfare that will make purgatory seem like a holiday camp.”
“Tomorrow the papers will be full of the corpse in the reservoir story. That corpse will be dismembered. Finish your jobs, boys.”
Pulling his raincoat collar tight around him to protect from the driving wind and icy spray, Meechan climbed back into the Range Rover and took the cell phone from its holder.
“Yes boss?” said the voice at the other end.
“I want you at the office in one hour, Tommy. I have work for you.” ordered Meechan.
Sitting back in the luxurious leather interior, Meechan surveyed the scenery unfolding across the valley, from the eyrie’s view afforded by the reservoir car park. The temporary setback caused by the mixture of personal greed and treachery that had let to Davie Johnson’s untimely demise had cost, Meechan estimated, around a quarter of a million pounds in cocaine and heroin. But the islander’s brother, whose loose tongue had led to the end of both himself and his elder sibling, had ensured that business should resume as normal in April.
Yet Meechan was concerned that not all the loose ends had been tied up at the far away end of his business empire, the beautiful, rugged and windswept Western Isle of Barra.
Meechan’s main office was situated in Dumbarton Road, opposite the Western Hospital, the irony of which had not been lost on Meechan himself when he took over the former Exchequer bar premises. Split over two levels, Meechan’s personal office was located on the first floor. As he sipped his latte, the buzzer on his massive mahogany desk crackled.
“Mr Rankin for you, Mr Meechan.”
Meechan’s office door opened and in stepped Tommy Rankin.
“Afternoon, boss. The trouble sorted to your satisfaction?”
“Very much so, Tommy. What concerns me now is making sure there is no repeat. That means you need to be taking the first available flight up to Barra.”
Rankin smiled and nodded his head in affirmation.
“I’ve never been up in the Western Isles, but they say if the weather is good they’re beautiful. No worries, Declan. A flight from Glasgow Airport in one of those Twin Otters only takes an hour anyways.”
Meechan quickly continued: “It’s time we used the softly, softly approach with our island associates. Make them aware how beneficial it will be if they continue with our relationship. I want you to offer them a five percent increase in their cut. I think a sweetener would be wise to help avoid a lingering bad taste in the mouth after the passing of their two fellow islanders.
“If you have any doubts, tell them we’re pulling the plug and leave them with a permanent reminder of what happens when they fuck with Declan Meechan. I don’t give a sweet FA if there is some of my family’s blood flowin
g up there. You make them aware that nothing gets in the way of business, Tommy.”
The scar down the left-hand side of Rankin’s face appeared to offer a second smile from his chiselled features. Rankin swept a hand over his bald dome and tapped an index finger on the gold tooth at the centre of his mouth.
“Aye boss, you have it right as usual. Do you want me to take an interest in every aspect of the island operation?”
Meechan nodded. “I want to know everything, but most importantly of all, I want to know that when you come back from Barra there’ll be no more trouble for us up there. I’ll expect a call from you on my mobile by early evening tomorrow night, with your initial impressions.”
Rankin nodded. “Consider it done, boss.”
No sooner had Rankin departed than Meechan’s buzzer sounded again. Jimmy Gray, the man he nominally called ‘boss,’ was on the line. Meechan took the call and a gravel-sounding voice crackled into life at the other end:
“Aye Dec, is that you? Call me back mobile to mobile.” Meechan returned the call immediately.
Picking up, Gray cut to the chase: “Have you sorted things with our friends from the Islands, Dec?”
Gray was the only man who Meechan allowed the implied familiarity of the shortened form of his Christian name. Meechan replied,
“Yes, Jimmy, both Johnson brothers have been suitably rewarded for their disloyalty and greed. Tommy Rankin is taking a couple of the boys up to the Western Isles on the first flight tomorrow to make sure there will be no repeat. It’s vital we can trust these bastards not to make an arse of things second time around.”
“That’s good, Dec. We can’t afford any weak links in the operation. This business is just too lucrative and the more we make from it, the more property and business ventures we can diversify into, all of which will take us one step further away from the prying eyes of the polis. But tell me, what happens if Tommy Rankin goes up there and doesn’t like what he sees?” queried Gray.
“You could say that Tommy has been briefed on how to respond to all eventualities.”
Gray may have been in his seventh decade but his mind, if not his hunger, was still in full working order.
“Now, I am going to be taking a wee break for the next fortnight. Me and Senga are heading off to the villa in Mallorca. I just wanted to make sure you were on top of things. But remember, you jeopardise fuck all. If the Western Isles’ business is dodgy at all, we pull out. There’s no way I am risking everything because these island fuckwits can’t see the bleedin’ woods for the trees. You understand me, Declan?” Gray demanded.
“Take it as read, boss. You takin’ the clubs with you?” Meechan attempted some banter.
“Aye well, that’s the only fuckin’ way I’ll be gettin’ any birdies when I’m over there. Goodbye Dec.” The mobile went dead.
Meechan smiled with satisfaction. He’d known all along that Jimmy Gray was intent on a short break to his Mallorcan villa. The one thing he took pride in, above all else, was having informants everywhere, including his boss’s office. Jimmy, dear old Jimmy, I probably know when you want to take a piss before you’ve arrived at the bog!
Chapter 8
Friday morning, nine a.m., and the rain pissed down once again. The black Range Rover pulled into its bay in the car park outside Meechan’s office, and the crime boss jumped out of his vehicle. The clock was already ticking and Meechan had just a fortnight to put his plans into action and settle a series of scores that would place him virtually unchallenged in Glasgow’s underworld circles on the north side of the river Clyde.
But Meechan had problems closer to home that needed dealing with some immediacy. Encroachment on his turf was something that could not be tolerated, and had to be put down in the most compelling fashion. Examples must be made.
It had also come to his attention that a doorman at one of his city centre clubs, by the name of Franny Hillkirk, had been peddling drugs, firstly without his permission, secondly from a supply that was not in-house. Hillkirk’s overzealous ejection of a student had hospitalised the latter and brought the unwanted attention of the cops. This had granted Meechan the excuse to terminate his services and his life with immediate effect. Unfortunately, the enquiry had also brought the figure of the copper Meechan hated with a most personal ferocity, DS Gus Thoroughgood, back into the crimelord’s stratosphere.
The two had first crossed swords in the mid-nineties when Meechan had been graduating from his school of hard knocks and Thoroughgood had been bursting his arse to make Detective from the Dumbarton Road beat of Strathclyde Police’s old ‘B’ Division, a.k.a. ‘the Marine.’ The first time the two met had centred on a beating Meechan handed out to a drunk around the back of the Volcano nightclub.
The young Meechan had been doing his best to catch the eye of the West End’s unchallenged criminal overlord, Jimmy Gray, by turning a financially haemorrhaging boozer-come-nightclub with a dodgy clientele into one of the West End’s most happening hangouts. The fractured skull suffered by the lowlife had seen Meechan ending up in the dock at the Sheriff Court for Attempted Murder. Thoroughgood had been the reporting officer. Needless to say, Meechan had escaped when the victim developed a timely bout of amnesia in the dock. The little jolt Thoroughgood had been given at the beginning of the week would serve as a reminder to the copper that he hadn’t forgotten about him.
Meechan’s mind had already prioritised his most pressing business.
First things first, thought Meechan as he sat down in his office chair. It’s time to sort the Browns out.
As he picked up his mobile, Meechan’s secretary, Jenny, arrived at his desk with his early morning latte, the steam still rising from the froth. Meechan surveyed the curves of his pretty young employee with personal satisfaction. Handpicked from a city centre agency, Jenny was immaculate in a coffee-coloured silk blouse, a moderately tight and short cream skirt, and heels that were lofty but not ludicrous.
Her blonde hair may have been of the non-natural variety but it was immaculately cut in a bob, and everything about Jenny was perfection. At twenty-four, Meechan had hopes that Jenny might yet grow into a role as something a little bit more than his PA.
“Morning, Mr Meechan,” said Jenny with an understated smile.
“How are you, Jenny? And how busy is my day looking?” replied Meechan.
“There are some papers for you to look over regarding the planning permission for the new club, and then at eleven a.m. you have your meeting with the Council Planning department. Plus there are new contracts to sign.”
“Okay Jenny, that’s fine, leave them here and buzz me back at ten-thirty,” said Meechan before signing off with a wink and then wolfishly appreciating the rear view as Jenny left his office. His mobile went off.
“Boss, it’s Frankie here. Are you okay to talk?” enquired the voice at the other end.
“Go ahead, Frankie,” suggested Meechan.
“Thought you’d want to know Gazza and I have taken care of Johnson. I think the Milngavie punters are going to find they have a bit of a problem with their water supply sometime soon today! But I just wanted to make sure you want us to move on the Browns tonight as planned,” queried Frankie Brennan.
“Aye Frankie, it’s as arranged; text me when both hits are completed, the same when the pub is done. Until then, no contact, Frankie. Do I make myself clear?” Meechan warned.
“Aye boss, by the time we’ve put the lights out on these fuckers there is no one this side of the river who will fuck with you on your ground. Just the way you want it boss. Cheers.” And Brennan was gone.
There was no doubt that Frankie Brennan was a brute, both in terms of his six-foot-five-inch frame, but also in the malevolent enjoyment he seemed to take in “doing ma’ work” as Brennan liked to describe it. With Tommy Rankin despatched to the Western Isles, Meechan was confident he had a more than able deputy for his absent lieutenant, who at the same time was expendable if it all went pear-shaped.
A former full
y paid-up member of the IRA, big Frankie boasted a grandfather who had fought alongside Michael Collins in the Easter uprising, he was also avidly homophobic. But what mattered most was that both Brennan and his sidekick Gaz Reid were ambitious, ruthless and utterly without pity. Meechan had always liked his “boys” cruel and these two, he thought with some satisfaction, were crueller than the grave.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the wall behind his semi-circular desk, Meechan surveyed his own image with some satisfaction. At thirty-four and six foot plus, he showed no sign of piling on any excess pounds. His sandy-coloured hair, parted in the middle and swept down at the sides, almost collar-length at the back, was immaculately groomed.
For today’s meeting with the City Planning Department he had donned a Hugo Boss suit of the most sumptuous quality, lined in pink silk and sporting his initials DAM … Declan Aloysius Meechan. His middle name betrayed his own strong Irish roots and upbringing in Belfast. The sharp white shirt and cerise tie hinted at nothing but the best. His brown Peter Barker shoes were of the softest leather. Meechan could not stop himself looking forward with increasing confidence.
By the time today ends, thought Meechan, the city north of the river will be another step closer to being mine and there will be nothing anyone can do about it.
Twelve-fifteen and Meechan, Celine and Charlie Coyle, the crimelord’s lawyer, in his customary grey double-breasted suit, the epitome of slippery politeness, stood back on the pavement outside the City Chambers. As Coyle had promised, the well-oiled mechanism of the city planning department had indeed been well oiled. Permission had been granted for the redevelopment of one of the handful of derelict churches in the Hyndland area of the West End. The resulting permits would allow it to be converted into an exclusive nightclub, bar and theatre complex that would cost Meechan and Jimmy Gray the best part of ten million pounds.
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