One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

  “Ye’re too vulnerable lying there,” Simon hid added.

  Seemingly, there wisnae any immediate danger, bit if things goat a bit ropey, Tony wanted him where he’d hiv some sort ae protection. Revenge comebacks and settling auld scores in a place like Glesga didnae always involve the key players. Secondary targets wur always better than nothing and wae him lying in a ward, it wis jist too risky. Despite the money pouring in, The Mankys hid started tae slow doon a wee bit. Simon taking care ae Honest John McCaffrey, while justified, meant they hid tae be extra careful. Honest John hid sons and son-in-laws who wur nae mugs. He turned and looked aboot the room. He wis glad they’d left him oan his tod wae a bunch ae Beatles albums sitting under the record player. Tony and Simon wurnae stupid. They knew fine well that as soon as Senga heard that he’d discharged himsel, she’d be up tae the flat like a shot. He smiled tae himsel. He hidnae needed tae tell them tae vacate the premises. She wisnae oan duty, so he hidnae expected tae see her up at The Royal until the efternoon, which hid gied him time tae get up and oot ae the ward un-noticed, withoot a scene. The plan wis tae phone her aboot twelve o’clock tae tell her where he wis. She’d be bloody well wild at him.

  “Right, ye look like death warmed up. We’ll leave ye tae it before the storm arrives,” Tony hid said, as the baith ae them hid grinned. “We’ll gie ye a shout later.”

  And wae that, they’d left him tae it. He didnae know the streets aboot where the flat wis situated other than Senga wis near and Peter and Jean’s flat wis somewhere oan the other side ae the river in Montague Street, while Pat and Paula wur jist roond the corner in wan ae Tony’s other flats. Seemingly, Harper Harris hid been up the day before, replacing the locks wae mair secure wans. The cupboards and fridge in the kitchen wur full tae the gunnels wae food. Tony hid tried tae explain the difference between a run-ae-the-mill flat and the luxury wans him and Donna The Prima Donna wur renting oot tae the moneyed sons and daughters ae the wealthy, who wur attending Glesga University jist up the road.

  “Cannae keep up wae the demand,” he’d bragged.

  Although it wis in an auld sandstone tenement building, he knew that the interior ae the wan he wis noo staunin in wis luxurious by any standards. Beautiful big rooms wae high ceilings surrounded by ornate cornices. The tiles in the closemooth oan the way up the stairs tae the his flat wur a work ae art.

  “It’ll probably be a bit ae a hassle gaun up and doon the stairs tae start wae, bit wance ye’re better, it shouldnae be a problem. Ah thought aboot a ground flair flat, bit ye’re better up here. The security angle won it plus there’s a shower as well as a bath,” Tony hid explained. “Efter getting used tae being withoot a bath in the jail, Ah’ve never been back in wan since…apart fae when Kim Sui drags me in beside her.”

  He’d initially been annoyed when he’d heard that Senga hid been trying tae track Tony doon fur a confab. He should’ve anticipated that wan efter he’d telt her that he wisnae moving intae her and Lizzie’s flat. At least Tony’d hid the decency tae ask him if he should meet her.

  “Well, don’t go fucking upsetting her noo, Tony. Ah’ve enough oan ma plate, so Ah hiv,” he’d warned him.

  “Me?” he’d laughed.

  He needed tae get fit, get better. As much as he loved Senga, he needed space tae get his heid roond things. He’d telt Tony and Simon how he wis feeling, bit it hid been like water aff ae wan ae the ducks’ backs that he’d been watching doon oan the river.

  “Ah’m no yer gatekeeper. If ye don’t want visitors, then phone them yersel,” he’d come oot wae, as Simon hid picked up the newly installed phone, checking tae see if there wis a dialling tone coming oot ae it.

  It hid been good tae find oot whit wis happening wae The Mankys, even though he didnae feel ready tae be in amongst them again. Listening tae Tony and Simon speaking, it sounded as if everything hid been gaun jist fine and dandy. Simon wis fair chuffed wae himsel efter he’d, at long last, managed tae square up wae Honest John.

  “Blasted the basturt tae kingdom come, so Ah did. It’s a pity the basturt widnae hiv felt a thing,” he’d moaned, bit Johnboy could see he wis fair chuffed wae himsel. “It wis a long time coming, so it wis,” hid been Simon’s last word oan the matter.

  Everywan knew fine well that that it been like a festering sore wae Simon ever since Honest John hid ripped him aff o’er a carpet deal a few years earlier. Although there wis always a danger ae a comeback fae Honest John’s extended family and associates, the deed hid been done, so everywan could move oan. So far, nowan seemed tae hiv made the connection between the fat basturt’s demise and The Mankys. Even though Senga and Lizzie wid be called up as witnesses fur The Crown at Wan-bob and Charlie Hastie’s trial, baith Tony and Simon didnae think they wur in any danger. The contents ae The Stalker’s notebook wis noo well known and Lizzie Mathieson’s role in lugging-in tae whit Haufwit Murray hid telt The Stalker that night up in Stobhill wis jist a filler fur whit hid come oot later. The danger at the time wid’ve been the initial knee-jerk reaction fae Wan-bob oan finding oot that The Stalker hid information that could’ve taken him doon. That meant any witnesses, and there hid been a few, wid’ve been first oan the hit list. He wisnae too sure whit he wis gonnae tell Senga when he phoned her. He’d wing it, he’d jist telt himsel, when he heard a chap oan the ootside landing door. It wis quiet, bit he felt himsel stiffen. He stood looking across at his living room door. There wis supposed tae be a buzzer doon at the entrance fur people wanting in. An entry system, Tony hid called it. There it wis again. He wondered if he should ignore it. He wished noo that he’d stood his guns and insisted that Tony and Simon tell people he wanted a wee bit ae time tae settle in before they started tae invade his space. He glanced across at the assorted wee bottles and packets ae pills sitting oan the end ae the coffee table, wondering if he should dump them intae a drawer, as he slowly made his way towards the living room door. He hesitated and looked alang the lobby, as another wee knuckled chap clipped aff the panel ae the door. It wisnae a frantic, aggressive bizzy knock and whoever wis oot there, hid decided against using the letterbox. The haun behind the knock wisnae heavy. He’d been in the jail long enough tae sense the difference. Despite the obvious danger, curiosity goat the better ae him.

  “Senga?” he exclaimed pleasantly, at the clearly pissed-aff expression oan the face staunin there in front ae him. “In ye come,” he invited, staunin aside, allowing her tae stomp past him alang the lobby, in the direction ae the living room.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  “Mr Portoy, ye’ve arrived at last,” Wilma said in welcome, as Jean shut the door behind them and joined her oan the other side ae the table fae Graham Portoy and his client, Peter Paterson. “And you ur?” she asked the young lassie sitting tae the left ae Paterson.

  “This is Miss Clark, one of my assistants,” The Brief answered before the lassie could reply.

  Of course, Wilma remembered. Graham Portoy wis the only brief in the toon, as far as she knew, who took alang wan ae his note-takers tae his interviews that involved charges where his clients could end up daeing some serious time. She knew that it annoyed some ae the auld timers, as it usually gied the defence team the upper haun oan the witnessing ae whit hid been said or no. It wis a total noise-up tactic oan Portoy’s part as it meant the officer leading the interrogation hid tae decide whether tae go oot and find somewan else tae come in tae balance oot the numbers.

  “Miss Clark will be assisting me with my notes.”

  “Ah don’t hiv any objections, dae you, Sergeant Moffat?” she asked Jean, knowing fine well that even if she did, they couldnae get shot ae the pretty wee lassie fae the room, even if they wanted tae.

  Wilma glanced at the wristwatch that she’d goat fae that cheating basturt ae a husband ae hers oan her last birthday.

  “Right then, we may as well get started. Ah’m Inspector Wilma Thain and this is Detective Sergeant Jean Moffat and Ah’ll be conducting this interview which his, fur the record, started at exactly nine
thirty-five a.m. oan Thursday, the twentieth ae November, nineteen seventy-five,” Wilma informed them. “DS Moffat here will be taking notes, bit may also ask yer client any number ae questions throughout the session. So, who we hiv sitting here is Peter Paterson, aged twenty-wan, born oan the twelfth ae December, nineteen fifty-three and noo residing at sixty seven Montague Street, St George’s Cross, G-four. Wid that be right?”

  “Is my client under caution, Inspector?” Portoy interrupted.

  “Well, that aw depends oan how co-operative yer client is, Mr Portoy,” she replied, before continuing. “Ah’m in charge ae investigating the death ae Mr John McCaffrey, who wis shot and murdered at approximately eleven-twenty, oan the morning ae Friday the twenty-fourth ae October ae this year. Mr McCaffrey wis sitting in his stationary silver Rolls Royce Shadow, at the corner ae Arlington Street and Woodside Road when a two-fifty CC red Kawasaki motorbike drew up behind his stationary vehicle. The pillion passenger oan the back ae the bike goat aff and walked up tae the driver’s side ae the car and shot Mr McCaffrey twice in the heid before reaching in and making aff wae a wee broon leather pouch or bag, believed tae hiv contained an undisclosed sum ae money. We believe your client may be able tae help us wae oor enquiries. So, tae get back tae ma original question, ur you Peter Paterson, aged twenty-wan, born oan the twelfth ae December, nineteen fifty-three and noo residing at sixty-seven Montague Street, St George’s Cross, G-four?”

  Silence.

  “Aye,” Paterson eventually replied, efter getting a wee nod fae his brief.

  “Thank you. Noo, that wisnae too painful, wis it?” she said pleasantly, before continuing. “Kin ye tell us where ye wur between ten forty-five and eleven forty-five oan the morning ae the 24th ae October?”

  “Dae you know where ye wur at that time, oan the morning ae the twenty-fourth ae October?” Paterson replied.

  “Ah’m the wan that’s asking the questions here,” she informed him.

  “Well, kin ye?” he challenged, a wee smirk appearing at the side ae the cocky basturt’s mooth, as Jean shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside her.

  “Look, Ah’ve asked yer client politely tae co-operate,” she said tae The Brief. “We could spend the whole day here gaun roond in circles or we kin conclude the questioning as soon as possible.”

  “On what charge?” Portoy came back wae.

  So it wis like that, Wilma thought tae hersel. At least they’d let her know where they wur coming fae this early in the interrogation.

  “Ur ye asking me tae repeat the question or ur ye informing me that ye’re no prepared tae voluntary assist us wae oor enquiries, Mr Paterson?” she asked him, staring him straight in the face.

  “Ah don’t recall me volunteering tae come doon tae the station,” he replied, shrugging they shoulders ae his.

  “So, ye’re no prepared tae answer ma question?”

  “Ah wis at hame.”

  “And that kin be corroborated?”

  “Aye.”

  “By who?”

  “Ma other hauf.”

  “And that wid be?”

  “Ma seven months pregnant partner, Jean Maguire.”

  “Who’s yer current girlfriend?”

  “Fiancée.”

  “Bit ye’re no married?”

  “It’s funny ye should ask that, bit the banns ur getting posted the day or the morra, so they ur. We’re getting married oan Friday the sixth ae January…if the arrival ae the wee bundle ae joy disnae interrupt oor nuptials that day, that is,” he replied, only this time his wee smirk hid turned intae a smile.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Wilma cursed, again conscious ae Jean shifting aboot beside her. In other words, Jean Maguire couldnae be called up as a Crown witness against her husband. She couldnae be challenged up in court under Scottish law. Whit clever basturt hid come up wae that wan? Talk aboot injustice.

  “Ah understaun that oan Tuesday the twenty-second ae October, a pair ae white, full-face motorbike helmets came intae yer possession. Wid that be right?”

  “Aye. They wur a pair ae Bell ‘Star’ full frontals,” he replied. “A bit scuffed, bit still usable.”

  “Hiv ye still goat them in yer possession?”

  “Naw. A bought them aff ae Slinky Willie…Willie John, the motorcycle dealer doon oan London Road. He wis hivving a clear oot and Ah picked them up fur pennies,” he replied confidently, letting her know that he knew exactly where her information hid originated fae.

  “So, where ur they noo then?”

  “Ye’ll need tae ask Barney Bubbles, that’s Brian Scott tae youse. He’s ma main man in charge ae the three stalls Ah own and operate doon The Barras. Fae whit Ah kin gather, they went that first Saturday, within minutes ae being laid oot oan the stall. Why, ye don’t think they could’ve been used by the shooters ae Honest John, dae ye?” the impertinent basturt asked, feigning shock.

  “Three stalls? That’s a lot ae merchandise tae be shifting. Why wid ye know that the helmets went so quickly? Whit’s so special aboot them that they’d stick in yer mind.”

  “The sound ae dosh ker-chinging intae a biscuit tin is whit sticks in that heid ae mine. Everything sold aff ae the stalls is marked doon in a ledger. Ledgers don’t lie…at least, mine don’t.”

  “And where kin Ah get a haud ae the ledger tae corroborate whit ye’ve jist telt me?”

  “Ye’ll need tae speak tae Barney. Ah cross-check the ledgers wae the income when Ah pick the sales money up oan a Monday. He hings oan tae them the rest ae the time, apart fae when the accounts ur being audited and they’re wae the accountants.”

  “So, ye kin provide an address fur Mr…Mr Scott then?”

  “Ah could’ve if ye’d asked me that question this time oan Monday. Ah think he’s moved oot ae that wee tap flair flat ae his, at number forty-eight Gourlay Street. He won’t be far away though. He likes Springburn. Alternatively, ye’ll get him doon at The Barras oan Saturday morning, first thing, flitting aboot between the stalls oan London Road and the Gallowgate end.”

  “Whit dae ye think, Jean?” she asked her partner, rubbing her face and eyes wae the palm ae baith hauns.

  “Whit dae Ah think? Ah think a conger eel his nothing oan that slippery, forked tongue, basturt.”

  “Ah wis talking aboot Peter The Runner, no Graham Portoy,” she retorted, as the baith ae them burst oot laughing while staunin watching the three ae them through the windae, getting intae Portoy’s big fancy BMW oot in the frost covered car park.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Senga lay oan her side, baith her hauns clasped thegither between her face and the pillow, watching him closely. His breathing wis even noo. The exertion ae them making love, wae his injuries, hid clearly taken it oot ae him.

  “Ah’m sorry, hiv Ah hurt ye?” she’d screamed, stupidly attempting tae sound normal wae her concern, while in the throes ae an orgasm, efter he’d yelped in pain when she’d dug her finger nails intae the healing knife wound oan his back.

  “Is that no supposed tae be ma line?” he’d panted back, as they baith burst oot in hysterical giggling, while still gaun at each other.

  She smiled, looking at the sleeping face. At least they’d crossed that bridge. She’d been dreaming and fantasising aboot being in bed wae him fur years…and no jist his jail years either. Despite his tender wounds, it hid been as passionate and intense as she’d dreamed and hoped it wid be. When Geraldine Baker hid phoned the flat fae The Royal tae tell her that he’d signed himsel oot, she’d drapped the phone in shock.

  “When?” she’d gasped, trying tae control her emotions.

  “Aboot an hour ago.”

  “Bit…”

  “Margaret Connelly telt me there wis two ae them came in tae pick him up.”

  She hidnae needed tae ask fur a description. She couldnae believe how much she hated Tony Gucci. Despite trying, she couldnae fathom oot whit Tony hid hinted at in the Atalian restaurant aboot helping oot, apart fae the bit regarding her and Lizzie’s association wae Johnb
oy affecting the possible ootcome ae the trial if they lived thegither. It seemed tae make sense, even if she didnae trust him. According tae Tony, Wan-bob and Charlie Hastie’s trial hid tae start within a hunner and twelve days fae when they’d been charged. They wur booked oan the twenty-fourth ae October. It wis noo the twentieth ae November. When she’d asked him if he thought the corrupt polis officers and the gangsters wid be found guilty, he’d been his usual evasive self.

  “It’ll aw depends oan whit they’ve goat oan them,” he’d replied.

  “And me and Lizzie?”

  “Jist go up there and tell the truth. Don’t try and lie or add anything. Explain whit ye baith know and get oot ae that dock and up the road and get oan wae yer lives.”

  “Wae Johnboy.”

  “If that’s whit he wants,” he’d shrugged.

  She’d hesitated before chapping oan the door ae the flat. She’d been so busy raging inside, that it hid never dawned oan her until she’d reached his door, that he might awready be in bed recuperating or sitting wae Tony and Simon. If they’d been there, she wisnae too sure whit she wid’ve said. The first thing she’d spotted in the living room efter she’d stormed past him, hid been the phone.

  “Why did ye no phone me at the flat?” she’d demanded tae know, hinging her coat across the back ae his couch, trying tae calm hersel doon before she blew it.

  “Ah wis gonnae, bit ye beat me tae it.”

  “Johnboy, why?” she’d cried at him, looking aboot, bewildered, trying tae stoap hersel fae bursting oot greeting, noticing the various medication sitting oan his coffee table. “Why?”

  “Ah didnae feel comfortable lying there.”

  “Bit, ye’re awright? How ur ye feeling? Why ur ye no in bed?”

  “Ah’m fine.”

  “Believe you me, Johnboy, ye’re anything bit fine…efter whit you’ve jist been through. Ah’m jist surprised they allowed ye tae leave,” she’d snapped at him.