But he didn’t think that was possible.
Marty Bonner’s face looked like a character in The Broons with the mumps. He had a bandage wrapped around his head, holding a thick piece of gauze in place over the wound left by Dickie Himes. It stung like buggery, the painkillers weren’t worth a damn, and he wanted to rub it but he was frightened to touch it, even through the dressing. His girlfriend, Sonya, sat across the living room from him, a women’s magazine on her lap, but she wasn’t looking at it, she was looking at him, her face still worried. He had told her the story of how he and Stewie Moore had been caught by three lads up Sauchiehall Street and she had bought it. There was no way he would tell her where he’d really got the sore face. Sonya was brand new about stuff, but she would not accept him being involved in a murder, no way. Even though he’d really had bugger all to do with it, apart from being there. That was enough, though.
Marty froze when the doorbell rang, Sonya too. They both looked towards the square-shaped hallway beyond the living room as if they could see through the wooden front door. It rang again and Sonya rose without a word to answer it. Marty felt his muscles relax when he heard Stewie’s voice and then his mate appeared. He looked pale, nervous, as if he hadn’t slept. Join the club, Marty thought.
‘Cuppa tea, Stewie?’ Sonya asked, always the first words out of her mouth when they had company.
‘Just the job, Sonya, hen,’ said Stewie, his voice light, breezy even, but he didn’t fool Marty. They’d been pals for too long. He knew Stewie was worried shitless. Sonya gave him a small smile and stepped into the kitchenette, which was little more than a cupboard off the living room. Marty heard the transistor radio being switched on and the sound of Bruce Springsteen walking through ‘The Streets of Philadelphia’ rumbled out. Sonya knew they wanted to talk and she knew she didn’t want to hear what was being said. She was a good girl.
‘They’re deid, Marty,’ said Stewie, his voice low, hoarse. ‘Both of them.’
Marty nodded. He’d heard it on the news. Dickie Himes and that lad who just happened to get in the way. A double murder.
‘Fuckin Scrapper,’ said Stewie, for what was perhaps the thousandth time since the night before. Fuckin Scrapper. ‘It was all down to him. We was only there for back-up while he gave Dickie a slap or two.’
‘Aye,’ said Marty, ‘but we were there, that’s the point. We’re just as guilty as him.’ Marty felt his own self-denial evaporate as soon as the words were spoken. We were there. Just as guilty. That’s all there was to it.
Stewie fell silent and Marty saw his eyes begin to water. He was always the weak one, never a hard lad. Marty had protected him more than once, but he couldn’t protect him from this. ‘Scrapper’s nuts, so he is,’ Stewie said, the words trembling. ‘Total fuckin bananas. He had no call to plunge the boy like that, cut him a bit, aye, because he had to be punished for what he’d done, especially after he opened your face, but he didnae need to go and slice the poor bastard to pieces.’
‘That’s Scrapper,’ said Marty, as if that was all the explanation that was needed. They’d both heard him say it often, never leave a job half done.
Stewie nodded and said softly, ‘And that other bloke…’
Marty closed his eyes, as if against the pain from his jaw, but really it was to try and block the memory of what happened. But closing his eyes didn’t do the trick, because he saw once again the guy stepping in their way and Scrapper swinging his blade, automatic-like, because his blood was up, and then the boy’s hands were at his neck and there was blood spurting everywhere, Marty and Stewie had to dodge away to avoid being splashed with it. There was a lassie screaming and they saw her in the shadows behind some big wheelie bins, her face lit up by the flickering light. Scrapper would have done her too if Stewie hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him away. For a minute Marty really thought Scrapper was going to plunge Stewie, too, but he came to his senses and the three of them legged it along Buchanan Street.
It was a mess. A right royal mess.
Fuckin Scrapper.
Marty opened his eyes and saw Sonya standing in the doorway to the kitchenette, two mugs of tea on a tray with some biscuits. Chocolate digestive. Always chocolate digestive. He saw the concern on her face and that made him feel good, despite everything. He looked around their neat wee living room. She had moved into his one-bedroom flat near Saracen Cross six months before and had done wonders with the place. Before she came, it was pretty much a shithole, but she had redecorated and replaced his old scabby three-piece suite with a new one, second-hand, sure, but it was far nicer than the old one. It was a home now, thanks to her. She wanted to get married, which he wasn’t sure of, he didn’t know why. After all, she was living with him, what harm would a slip of paper do? He already had responsibilities, so getting hitched was only a formality. He’d have to get a job, too. Couldn’t work for Scrapper and his family for the rest of his life, no future in that. He didn’t have a scooby what he would do, but he knew for certain that he’d have to put distance between him and the Jarvis clan, especially after last night. That’d please his granddad, who didn’t like him mixed up in The Life, not that he had much say in it, though. Course, if he did give it a chuck, it would mean he wouldn’t see much of Stewie, who he’d known since school, but there’s a price for everything. Yeah – it was time, Marty decided. What happened in the club was a wake-up call. Pity the two boys died, but maybe some good would come out of it after all. Last thing he wanted now was to end up in the jail. His granddad had done thirty years for something he didn’t do, Marty didn’t want to follow in his footsteps.
But when the doorbell rang again, he knew in his heart that nothing good was going to be standing on the other side. Stewie’s face blanched even further, too. And when Sonya showed in the two men, they both knew instantly they were cops. One of them, big dark-haired bastard dressed like he’d just fallen out of Burton’s the Tailors, smiled at him. Marty knew his face, was certain he’d worked Saracen police office at some time.
‘That looks like a right sore face you’ve got there, son,’ said the cop. ‘Cut yourself shaving?’
The other cop, the one not dressed so niftily and looking like he’d done an overnighter, cleared his throat and asked, ‘Martin Bonner?’
‘Aye.’ What was he going to do, deny it in his own flat? Sonya stood there looking from the cops to him, her eyes strained, red- rimmed, like she was about to cry. He wanted to get up, cross the room and give her a cuddle, tell her everything was alright. But he would’ve been lying.
‘DS Frank Donovan, Stewart Street.’ He held up a leather wallet, showing them his card. He didn’t bother introducing his mate. ‘Need you to come with us, son.’
‘What for?’
‘A few questions.’
Sonya said, ‘Is this about Marty and Stewie getting jumped? You got the guys that did it?’
The big, dark-haired cop smiled at her, looking her up and down like she was a piece of meat. Marty felt heat growing in his cheeks and he shot a protesting glance at Donovan. He’d seen his mate giving Sonya the once-over and he didn’t like it, but didn’t say anything. Cops, thought Marty, always sticking together.
‘Aye, hen,’ said the dark one, ‘it’s about last night.’
Marty sensed danger from this cop but he still said, ‘You frae Stewart Street, too?’
‘I’m just here to observe.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Marty felt his anger rise. The look the guy had given Sonya had really pissed him off. He raised two fingers. ‘Want to observe this, then?’
The big cop lowered his head and glared at him from under dark brows. His smile was still in place, but Marty felt it was more a show of teeth than anything else. The other cop, Donovan, cleared his throat again. ‘Don’t make things worse, son. Go get your coat.’ He swivelled his head in Stewie’s direction. ‘Who you, son?’
‘Who’s askin?’ Marty almost smiled. Stewie always picked the wrong time to try to get tough.
&nbs
p; The cop studied Stewie. He wasn’t as dangerous as his mate, but his brown eyes didn’t miss much. ‘We’re the polis, son. And here’s how it works, we ask, you answer. Now, let’s try again – who are you?’
Stewie swallowed, all pretence of bravado gone. ‘Stewart Moore.’
Marty saw the big cop’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Saved us a trip then. We need a wee chat with you, too.’
Stewie swallowed hard and Marty could tell he was close to breaking down. Stewie was no tough guy, no matter how hard he tried. He was okay in a crowd, but get him on his own and he would greet like a kiddie. Marty hauled himself to his feet, keeping his eyes on his mate, waiting for him to look in his direction. When he did, Marty saw the terror in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Stewie,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘We’ve no done nothin. Just keep the heid, we’ll be fine.’ Marty hoped Stewie understood what he was saying – say nothing. The big cop certainly cracked the code, because he laughed.
Marty reached for a jacket draped over the back of an old wooden kitchen chair by the window. Sonya had found the chair on a skip and had stripped it of its decades of varnish and buffed it up to a polished light wood. She’d done a good job, so she had. He’d hoped she’d be able to strip away the shit that had built up on him over the years, too, but there was always another layer.
‘He’s no well,’ Sonya protested. ‘Can you no talk to him here?’
‘No, hen,’ said Donovan, ‘best down at the station.’
Sonya was going to argue the toss, but the big cop gave her another of his looks, up and down, taking in every part of her. She took an involuntary step back and crossed her arms protectively over her breasts. Tears flooded her eyes and she looked at Marty.
‘It’s okay, love,’ he said. ‘I’ll no be long.’
He gave her a hug and she clung to him like it was the last time they would be together.
Scratchy felt safer here. Tucked up in the old shed. Scratchy would be safe here for a night, no longer than that. They’d be there the next day, the people who worked the allotment, they’d chase him out. They’d come back, snow or not. He’d seen them, the weekend gardeners, sitting in their sheds, drinking tea. They’d be back on Sunday, no doubt about it. Snow or no snow. Then they’d chase Scratchy out.
Scratchy wanted to stay away from the usual places. The hostels. The well-known skippers. The bothies. Scratchy knew they’d find him there. Scratchy didn’t want to be found. He couldn’t be found.
Outside he heard the wind making the trees of the park creak and sigh. He pulled the fabric of his coat tighter to ward off the chill. Scratchy was cold but he was safe. They’d never find Scratchy here.
Scratchy slept.
SUNDAY
Detective Sergeant Colin Malone popped an extra strong mint in his mouth, his eyes never leaving the opening to the tenement block. He sat in the passenger seat of the white transit, heater going full blast. Behind him, another five plainclothes officers waited with varying degrees of patience. The operation had been hastily thrown together, but it would be a relatively simple swoop and lift job. He didn’t know these guys, the bulk of his Drug Squad mates being involved in a larger operation between Liverpool and Glasgow, also set to go down that day, so they’d drafted in some assistance from C Division. The van was parked a good 100 yards from the target tenement, in a street not far from Saracen cop shop in Barloch Street, which the drug squad officers thought was a bit cheeky. They’d been given names and they’d been given the address and they’d been told there was a mini factory in there. All they had to do was wait.
Around them, locals went about their lives, some clearing away the last vestige of snow from the pavement outside their homes, women heading out to the shops, all unaware that their street was being used by scroats up to no good. This time tomorrow, it’d be the talk of the steamie, DS Malone thought as he sucked on his mint. He wished he’d brought a flask of coffee, too.
He straightened in his seat when a flash BMW slowed to a halt at the close and a face he recognised got out. Here we go, he thought.
‘That him?’ DC Crowther was in the driver’s seat. Young cop, one of the lads from the Maryhill office.
‘Aye, but let’s give it a minute or two, we’re waiting for two more. No point in going off half-cocked.’
Two extra strong mints later, a second high-end vehicle cruised up and two other faces climbed out, each carrying bulging black bin bags. DS Malone knew his men were waiting for the word, but he wanted to give the targets time to get in and get started. Finally, he said, ‘Okay,’ and climbed out.
They charged along the pavement, reaching the close just as an unmarked car came to a halt and a further four plainclothes officers piled out, one carrying an enforcer, a battering ram that could be wielded with ease by a single officer. They pounded up the stairs to the second-floor flat and halted at the door on the left of the stairs, but didn’t bother to knock. The enforcer was swung with precision at the lock and the door burst like kindling. The police officers surged through the gap, identifying themselves, issuing orders, all at a shout, a bellow, for intimidation was as vital here as surprise.
Andy Jarvis was in the kitchen doorway, his hands encased in a pair of Marigolds as if he was doing the dishes. But the rubber gloves were stained with brown powder. He was standing stock still, the speed of the raid freezing him to the spot. DS Malone gave him a cheeky grin and stepped past, leaving Crowther to cuff him. In the kitchen, the other two men sat at a Formica kitchen table, blocks of brown in front of them, each wearing rubber gloves, each with a set of kitchen scales in front of them.
‘Hey, lads,’ said Malone, ‘it’s not Pancake Tuesday already, is it?’
He picked up a bag filled with a white, crystalline substance. Mannitol, a baby laxative. They called it ‘Bash’, because you simply bashed it into a basin of smack. The men had been in the process of cutting the heroin into smaller quantities for dealing on the street, diluting the narcotic with the diuretic. What Malone was looking at here was a batch of brown that would have netted hundreds of thousands, maybe more, if it had reached the streets.
He wondered how his colleagues were faring on the motorway.
They had no idea they’d been tailed from Glasgow to Liverpool and back again. There were four cars in the convoy, all hired, but only two would carry the gear back. The other two, filled with some of Maw’s hardest lads, were back-up should things go tits-up with the Scousers. She did not expect any trouble back in Glasgow, but that was exactly where the trouble lay in wait.
As Detective Inspector Russell Flannery of the Drug Squad would later tell a courtroom, they were acting on information received that a consignment of Class A drugs, namely uncut heroin, was being transported from Liverpool into Glasgow. Their informant had told them when the cars would leave and when they were due back, but they tailed them anyway, two teams of officers in two separate vehicles trailing the hired cars to the city in the south, where they promptly lost them. What they should have done was liaise with their Merseyside colleagues, but they didn’t, and their unfamiliarity with the city meant their quarry, who had made this run before, slipped through their fingers. They picked them up again, though, as they made their way back to the M6 to head for the M74.
But only three cars were making the return trip to the city. Somewhere, somehow, they’d lost the fourth.
Said information duly relayed back to base, the officers were told to stay with the three, which they did, all the way back to Glasgow. The convoy joined the M8 in the east and followed it through the city and on to Port Dundas, where the gear was due to offload in a factory unit.
DI Flannery gave the order to hit them at Speirs Wharf, where the road widened beside the Forth and Clyde Canal. It was Sunday, it was quiet, and if there was any unpleasantness, there would be no bystanders. It was a hard stop – one car jutting in front of them, another screeching behind, while two more skidded to a halt beside them, jamming them in. They had been told these men migh
t be armed, so the plainclothes officers were tooled up themselves and protected by body armour. They swarmed from their cars, screaming ‘Armed Police’ as loud as they could, making sure the guys in the motors could see their short-barrel Heckler and Koch assault rifles and .38 Smith and Wesson revolvers, the police believing that with this crew, there was no such thing as being under- prepared. An extendable baton was swung at the driver’s window of the lead car and the glass smashed.
Detective Constable Rebecca Stephenson, her cut-glass tones betraying her Bearsden background, peered in and smiled. ‘Hello, gents. Someone order a jail term?’
The driver saw her long red hair tied back in a ponytail, heard her voice, saw she was attractive and thought she was a pushover. He reached for the glove box, where he had an automatic pistol, but she rammed the baton into his neck and swung her .38 into his face. ‘Don’t test me, pal.’
She spoke very quietly and the driver knew with certainty that she would not hesitate to follow through. He pulled his arm back slowly. She smiled at him and it might’ve been sweet if it wasn’t for the gun in her hand. ‘Good boy,’ she said. She reached through the window and retrieved the weapon, then jerked her own weapon twice to the side. ‘Now, out you come.’ The driver climbed out, followed by the two men who had been catching some sleep in the back seat. They were still bleary-eyed, but waking up fast.
Weapons trained, they hauled a total of eight men out of the three cars. The bonnet of the middle car was popped and there they found black plastic bags filled with bars of brown heroin. The street value of this haul was somewhere north of five million. DI Flannery smiled at the sight and looked back at the men they’d arrested.
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