Bad Men

Allan Guthrie

For JT Lindroos, Charles Ardai and Alison Rae

First published in Great Britain in 2006 under the title
Hard Man

by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

Copyright © Allan Guthrie, 2006

Cover design: JT Lindroos

Cover photo: Randy Robertson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

Allan Guthrie has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Visit the author's website at:

http://www.allanguthrie.co.uk

Visit Criminal-E, Allan Guthrie's ebook crime fiction blog, at:

http://criminal-e.blogspot.com

Version 2-1-3

Another hot day
in July. That was four in a row. Pretty good for Scotland.

Not so good for the corpse in the boot.

Jacob Baxter put his hand over his nose to mask the smell, forgetting for a moment that his nose was broken. He gasped with pain.
Time to take some more paracetamol, but he couldn't swallow the pills without a glass of water. He'd have to wait till he got back home. Why the doctor had refused to give him something stronger, he didn't know. But the doc just told Jacob to come back when the swelling had subsided and only then could he—how did he put it?—determine the extent of the damage. He assured Jacob that his nose wasn't broken, but Jacob wasn't convinced. He didn't have much faith in the medical profession.

He
looked up from the corpse. His two sons kept their eyes on it, even when Jacob began to speak. "We have to stop Wallace," he said, "before May gets hurt."

"
We'll try again," Flash said.

Jacob said, "Aye, right."

Two nights ago, although it felt a lot longer, the three of them had gone down to Trinity where Wallace lived alone in the cramped split-level one-bedroom flat he'd shared with May for only a few months. Jacob noticed that Wallace had boarded up the basement windows recently and wondered if he'd heard they were coming. Might have been a wise safety precaution, since the windows were at street level, and easy to kick in, but it wasn't windows they wanted to smash. Anyway, there was no way Wallace could know they were coming. It wasn't as if they'd phoned ahead. No, chances were the windows had been broken already. Somebody else Wallace had provoked, or threatened, or beaten up. Plenty of candidates. Or maybe it was just a bunch of drunken louts at the weekend. This was a much sought-after area of the city, but it was only a stone's throw from Wardie, which wasn't.

Jacob had glanced at his sons, nodded, then rang the doorbell. He slapped a wrench against his open palm while he waited for an answer. Oh, aye. They were all tooled up, they'd handle Wallace no problem, reputation or not. He was only one man against three, and those three were Baxters. Admittedly Jacob wasn't a huge threat by himself, cause, well, he was sixty-six years old and not as fleet of foot as he once was. Flash, to be fair, was even less of a threat: skinny, small – not to be cruel to his younger son, but the word Jacob was looking for was ‘weedy'. Rodge was a different story. Hard to believe those two boys had the same parents. Rodge was a big lad, weighed over twenty stone, gripped that hammer proudly in his massive fist, and Jacob felt pretty safe standing next to him. Rodge was a bouncer. He was used to this kind of thing. And the suit Rodge insisted on wearing all the time worked in his favour. Aye, Rodge meant business in more ways than one.

Jacob was sure Wallace would cower in front of their combined might. So when Wallace opened the door, all baby-faced and clean-looking and innocent, Jacob confidently pointed his wrench at him and said, "Stay away from May. Stay away from my family."

Wallace took his glasses off, slipped them in his shirt pocket. He immediately looked more like his twenty-six years. "She's my wife."

True, but she was a poor wee misguided headstrong lass. Jacob said, "She's only sixteen."

"
Fucks like a woman twice her age," Wallace said. "Must be all the practice she gets."

There was no need for that. Blood pounded in Jacob's temples. There was no talking to this animal. Wallace only understood one thing. Jacob pulled back his wrist and swung the wrench.

And missed.

No, worse than missed. Missed and got caught. Wallace had grabbed Jacob's wrist, and was twisting it. Jacob couldn't hold on to the wrench any longer. He let it go with a howl, but had the presence of mind to punch Wallace with his free hand. Pick on an old man, would he? Jacob hit nothing but air. Again.

You
'd hardly believe it, but Jacob was out of breath, felt his chest tighten.

What on earth were his sons doing? They should have jumped in by now. Knocked Wallace to the ground. Started kicking him.

Jacob
turned, suddenly realising his wrist was free, saw Wallace standing in front of Rodge. Wallace wouldn't be so brave now. Somebody nearer his own age. Somebody bigger than him. Aye, somebody who'd rip his limbs off, one by one. Somebody who'd teach him not to mess with the Baxters.

But, no. Jacob straightened up and saw that Wallace was smiling.
Rodge held his hammer aloft, not smiling back. Wallace held up the wrench he'd taken from Jacob. Still smiling, he dropped it. Deliberately. It clanged onto the path. Rodge opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out.

"
Come on, then," Wallace said. "Let's see what you've got, big guy."

Rodge
looked at Flash. Mistake. Jacob saw it coming, and cried out, but too late. Before anybody could react, Wallace had whipped towards the big fella, smacked him at least twice in the stomach, brought him to his knees, swiped the hammer out of his hand, and gave his brother a blow in the gut with it.

Rodge
and Flash stared at each other, gasping for breath.

Jacob's gaze returned to Wallace. Had that just happened?

"
I told you lot to mind your own business," Wallace said, kicking Flash in the face and knocking him over. "I wish you'd pay attention." With the back of his hand, he punched Rodge in the mouth and blood sprayed across the path. Rodge didn't topple over, though. Kneeled there like a tree stump.

"
Okay," Jacob said. "Enough."

"
I don't think so," Wallace said, and Jacob's nose exploded with pain. "Dad."

Jacob's eyes streamed. Through his tears, he saw Wallace taking his mobile phone from his pocket.

Before he dialled, he grabbed Jacob by the hair and bent over. Despite the blood starting to trickle down his left nostril, Jacob could smell Wallace's sweat. Or maybe it was his own. Wallace said, "I'm going to make your sick family wish it never existed."

Sick? Jacob's family? Jacob would have laughed if his nose hadn't hurt so much.

Wallace let go of Jacob and spoke into his phone. "Police. Yes. I'd like to report an assault. I've just been attacked. Huh? Outside my own house, would you believe."

The three of them had spent a night in the cells. The indignity of it. The first time in Jacob's long life.

Rodge
had to have a couple of stitches in a cut just above his upper lip. They were being removed next week. Flash got away with body bruising and a sore chin.

Wallace hadn't broken sweat. All that ju-jitsu training May had warned them about. They should have listened, but when you're angry, you don't pay attention, do you?

Ah, well. Here they were, wondering what they should do now.

"
He's
loco
." Flash slammed the boot shut, cut off the stink. "He's gone too far this time."

Rodge
picked at some crap on his suit. "What we going to do now?"

"
I don't want to think about what this means," Jacob said.

"
We have to," Flash said. "This is a fucked-up situation."

"
I mean," Jacob said, "what'll he do next? He made threats against the family."

"
As long as May's safe," Flash said, "I don't care."

"
But is she?" Jacob said. "How do we know this'll be an end to it? It's her he's riled at."

"
Speaking of May," Rodge said, running his finger over some grime on the boot, "who's going to tell her that Louis's dead?"

Pearce wondered why
a hulking blue-suited figure with a stitched upper lip was framed in the sitting room doorway.
His
doorway. The fucker was in
his
fucking house and Pearce had just got out of the shower, only a towel wrapped round his waist. "Who the —?" was all he managed to say before the stranger grabbed hold of his wrist, dragged him over the threshold and spun him towards the settee.

Pearce was really unimpressed with himself. Should have been quicker, sharper. As he was spinning he noticed a second guy, skinny, lurking in the corner. The second guy hadn't been invited either.

Pearce landed on his side and sank into the cushions
. Braced himself to block a flying fist. He was alert now, prepared. But nothing happened. The big guy apparently wasn't about to trade punches. Pearce's towel had flown off, dropped to the floor. He relaxed. Well, as much as he could, given that he was bollock-naked in front of a pair of strange men. Young men. Who clearly weren't here to ask after his health. At least they weren't naked, too. That would have been really uncomfortable.

Pearce's dog, a three-legged Dandie Dinmont terrier, poked his nose round the doorframe, had a quick look, and hopped away. Little bastard was wise beyond its years. Pearce would have to have words with him later. Surely a warning bark wouldn't have been too much to ask for. Pearce ought to take him back to the Cat & Dog Home, see how he liked that.

Pearce levered himself upright and rested his arm on the back of the settee. Faced the big guy. The fat bastard was in deep shit, even if he did look capable of bench-pressing three hundred pounds without breaking sweat. He was lucky he'd caught Pearce off-guard. Another day, if Pearce hadn't been distracted, Fat Boy would have been in pieces all over the floor.

Fat Boy's tongue tracked over his stitched upper lip. He was holding a knife in his big paw.

Pearce was still damp under the scrotum, in the arse crack and between the toes. If he couldn't have a fucking shower and dry himself off in peace, he might as well still be in prison.

He didn't like being reminded of prison.

He glanced at the other guy. Slim was bony-faced, dressed like a prick. The arse of his jeans hung down to his knees, thick gold chain round his neck, trainers with the laces untied, trying to look cool as he scraped his chin stubble with his knife. Yeah, both of them had knives, the weapon of choice amongst Edinburgh lowlifes. Slim's was very nice. The serrated blade was seven, maybe eight, inches long. The hand holding the knife trembled slightly. Slim might be trying to look cool, but Pearce knew he shouldn't be here. Could tell he was out of his depth.