59 Minutes (14 page)

‘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 there.

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.

I walked into the house and was swallowed by an
idyllic cottage - layout replete with large open hearth fire, overstuffed
armchair and bright chintzy curtains over lattice windows. The floor was stone
with a large rug dead centre and a couple of two seat sofas sat at right angles
to each other. The ceiling was low and stripped with beams that made ducking a
necessity for anyone over two feet tall. The walls were rough hewn sandstone
and, opposite the fire, was a monumental sideboard and display cabinet. Just at
that moment a grandfather clock chimed.

All of this would have been perfectly normal if it
wasn’t for the fact that I was standing in one of a small row of ex-council
nineteen sixties, breezeblock homes. It was hard to fathom the dichotomy of
exterior and interior but Martin resolved it in seconds.

‘I bought it like this. The previous owners were in
their eighties. They always wanted a farmhouse but couldn’t afford it. So they
did this. You should see the bedrooms. Drink?’

I almost missed the offer but the sound of glass on
glass as Martin whipped two tumblers from the drinks cabinet meant we had moved
on from tea to something stronger. I nodded my head. Martin waved at one of the
sofas and I sat down. He chinked and clinked until a four-finger measure of
whisky and ice appeared over my shoulder.

‘
Highland Park
. Or have you changed.’

I hadn’t had a glass of
Highland Park
malt whisky since
the day before I was arrested. I gave a non-committal grunt and took a slug.
Nectar slid down my throat and I realised how far I had fallen.

Martin sat down in the other sofa and sipped at a
whisky that was half the size of mine. He kicked out his feet and let rip with
a sigh that would have brought a tear to a glass eye.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t start off by kicking my head
in,’ he said.

‘So am I.’

‘A lot of questions?’

‘Sorry.’

‘You’ll have a lot of questions?’

‘No shit.’

‘Fire on.’

This was not going in any shape or form the way I had
planned it. For a start Martin was supposed to be quaking in his boots at my
reappearance. At the moment the only quaking going on was the rumble of the
double decker buses and trucks that occasionally went past his front door. I
took another swallow and realised I had drained the glass. Martin pulled in his
feet, stood up and took the glass from me. Clink, chink and it was full again.

‘You must have been thirsty?’

I ignored the jibe.

I wasn’t sure where to start. Did I get into the whole
trial and betrayal thing? Did I ask how he had survived the coming to power of
Dupree? Would an opening gambit be to ask about the key? Did I ask him if Partick
Thistle were doing well or did I ask after his other love - rugby?

‘How’s Clarkston RFC doing?’ I said.

‘They aren’t. They vanished years ago. Merged and
changed names a few times and are now known as GHA. Still in the same place but
a health club bought some land off them and, as part of the deal, they had a
new stand and clubhouse built for them. Good deal really.’

‘Do you still go to see them?’

‘Most weekends when they are at home. Occasionally on
the road but only if they are close by.’

‘Any of the old school still there.’

‘A couple. Jimmy Naismith still pulls the odd stint on
coaching but he has a place in
Spain
and is more there than here. Donald Grier is club
secretary but I am a bit persona non gratis with him. What with me and his
daughter.’

I couldn’t help laughing. Mary Grier had been an
on/off girlfriend of Martin’s for the last few years before I was sent down.
Although she lived in
Glasgow
, Martin would fly her down for long weekends and then
some. This seriously pissed of her dad – a lay preacher of the fire and
brimstone variety. Donald was none to happy at his ‘takeaway’ daughter. His
phrase not mine – ‘You’re like a bloody Indian takeaway. He calls and you
deliver.’

Inevitably it had ended in tears when Martin, tired of
the old man’s complaints, found that Donald was badmouthing him to anyone that
would listen. Donald had even been known to bring Martin’s name into some of
his sermons. Martin reacted by sending four of the lads to have a quiet word.
Donald got the message but some people just don’t scare well and he continued
to slag off Martin. Only the intervention of his daughter saved him a more
serious kicking.

‘Do you still see Mary?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Meaning.’

‘I see her when I pick up
Tara
.’

‘Who’s
Tara
?’

‘Mary’s stepdaughter.’

‘Why would you be bothered about Mary’s stepdaughter?’

‘We’re an item.’

‘You and Mary’s stepdaughter. No shit?’

I didn’t ask her age. I could guess. Martin was just
too weird for cheese.

The conversation drifted and was taking on a strange
glow. Not just as a result of the whisky but, although we’d had our ups and
downs, because we had always been able to gab just fine. The years were
slipping away and my desire to lay into him was waning with the bottle.

‘Hungry?’

I realised I was ravenous.

‘Kind of.’

Martin reached for a cordless phone that sat next to
his sofa and dialled a number from memory.

‘For delivery please. Martin Sketchmore. Hi Ajmal.
How’s business? Good - can I have a Lamb Korma, Chicken Tikka Masala and two
fried rice? Add in a garlic nan, a regular nan and a bottle of Diet Coke’

He hung up.

‘Not Chinese?’ I said.

‘Had one last night.’

We jawed about next to nothing for half an hour before
the doorbell went and we were in Indian food land. We ate in silence and when
the dishes were cleared away and my glass refilled we sat down to some serious
talk.

‘The courtroom. Why?’ I asked.

Martin rubbed his stomach and belched.

‘Dupree had me by the nuts. I grass on you or my
family/friends/acquaintances/colleagues/people I met when I was three and have
never seen since - don’t see the next morning. He threatened to kill mum, gran,
Joan, Colleen - even little Brian. All of them and then some. What would you
have done?’