Run Johnboy Run: The Glasgow Chronicles 2 (37 page)

  “It’s no the same though, is it?  Ah wanted tae see her face, the cow that she is.”

  “Liam, Ah’m starting tae get annoyed noo.”

  “You’re annoyed?”

  “And another thing.  Ah don’t want any ae youse running aboot the Toonheid, chasing they wee fuckers.  If wan or two ae them manages tae leg it during the ambush, let them go.  We’ll soon catch up wae them later.”

  “Bit...”

  “If ye nab them bang oan ten o’clock, ye’ll probably be in time tae see yer pal getting sentenced.  Ah’ll speak tae JP tae take her up efter twelve.  How’s that?”

  “Fine, ye should’ve said that in the first place then.”

  “Hello, Sean.  My, my, you look fine and dandy with all that shiny braid on your smart uniform.  Did you find me alright?” Sir Frank Owen asked Chief Inspector Sean Smith.

  “Oh, aye, Ah jist looked fur the biggest hoose in Newton Mearns and heided in that direction.”

  “Yes, I was just saying to Marion only the other night there that we must look at downsizing.  Who needs twenty four rooms when there’s only the two of us?  What can I get you?”

  “If that’s cognac Ah see, Ah’ll hiv wan ae them.”

  “Good choice.”

  “So, Sir Frank...”

  “Come on, Sean, there’s no need for formalities.  You and I go back too far for that, eh?”

  “...how are we gonnae resolve oor wee problem then?”

  “Your little problem, Sean.”

  “Okay, ma wee problem then.”

  “You tell me.  Here, have a cigar.  They’re Cuban,” Sir Frank said, haunin him a big fat cigar and cigar cutter.

  “It’s really pretty straight forward…Frank.  Wan ae yer wee journalists, wae yer blessing, as Ah understaun it, his been snooping aboot the city, trying tae stir up trouble fur some of ma officers o’er the death ae a young boy in a pigeon dookit fire.  Wid that be right?” The Chief asked, taking a puff and exhaling, disappearing in a cloud ae blue smoke.

  “Go on.”

  “As we understaun it, that journalist, your journalist, is oan the payroll ae wan ae Glesga’s major underworld gangsters, who is paying him a substantial fee, untaxed, tae undermine the forces ae law and order in this city.  Noo clearly, this cannae and wullnae be tolerated.  Therefore, ye’d be daeing us aw a favour by picking up that phone sitting o’er there and telling Hamish McGovern, yer editor-in-chief, tae pull the leash in, before it aw turns nasty, wae nae winners oan either side at the end ae the day.  That way, we kin then enjoy another wee snifter ae this beautiful French brandy.”

  “I think it’s a well-known practice within journalism that very few of our top journalists are tied to the one master, Sean.  You should know that.  If this journalist, whoever he may be, is breaking the law, then the paper would clearly wish to help the police with their enquiries in any way we can.”

  “Ah’m glad tae hear that, Frank,” The Chief said, reaching o’er wae his glass ootstretched, as Sir Frank sloshed a fairly liberal soak ae France’s finest intae it.

  “However, I must say, from what I have heard…small titbits, here and there, that there may be merit in letting our readers decide whether there is any smoke without fire…if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  Silence.

  “And yer journalist oan the payroll ae a notorious gangster?”

  “I think I made The Glasgow Echo’s, as well as my own, views on that quite clear, Sean.  There would perhaps be a few raised eyebrows, my own included, but I’m sure we would still be able to march forward with our integrity intact, in the fight for freedom, free speech and justice.  Don’t you?”

  “So, ye’re planning tae run wae the story then, despite the lies and the injustice tae the brave men who patrol oor streets at night tae ensure that the freedom ye mention is maintained fur us aw tae enjoy?”

  “Oh, come on, Sean.  You and I know that this will all blow over and we’ll be back here again in the future, discussing something more important than this.  Admit it, man, the paper has got you and your Irish bog-trotters by the short and curlies this time.  It’s not the end of the world, for Christ’s sake.”

  “So, anything Ah say the day will no make any difference or change yer mind oan this wan?”

  “As far as The Owen Publishing Group are concerned, this story will be the leader in The Sunday Echo this weekend.  It’s out of my hands, I’m afraid,” Sir Frank said smugly, proffering another brandy, which wis gratefully accepted by the figure in the cloud ae blue cigar smoke sitting opposite him.

  “So, Frank, that problem that ye’ve been hivving wae yer van drivers then?  How dae ye think that’s gonnae affect The Owen Publishing Group?”

  “Come on, Sean.  Everybody knows we got rid of the militants from the union and the ones that are left are happy to collect their special bonuses every spring, summer, autumn and Christmas.  They won’t upset the apple cart, believe you me.  If there was any trouble brewing, then I would have picked it up well before now.  Nice try, though,” Sir Frank said, tipping his glass towards the cloud ae Havana’s finest.

  “So, when Ah tell ye that, as ae first thing Saturday morning, ma officers in Glesga and across the West ae Scotland, will be stoapping and searching every Glesga Echo and Sunday Echo delivery van that they come across, tae ensure that they’re no transporting stolen property, it won’t come as a big surprise tae ye then?”

  Sir Frank, despite his best efforts, tried unsuccessfully tae remain calm in the storm that hid jist kicked aff in they smug posh baws ae his.

  “But, but, but...” he spluttered, no knowing whit the fuck hid hit him.

  “Aye, efter an extensive investigation, we hiv reason tae believe that the vans that deliver yer newspapers ur also being used tae transport stolen goods and merchandise.  That wis wan ae the things Ah wanted tae talk tae ye aboot the day.”

  “Stolen property?  What stolen property?”

  “Wigs.”

  “Wigs?”

  “Sometimes referred tae as hair pieces, or hair extensions in the trade, so Ah wis telt.  They’re no yer wee cheap chats either.  These wans ur made oot ae pure human hair.  A wee hair stylist friend ae mine telt me recently that the human wans ur the maist sought efter due tae the fact that ye kin hot style them, whitever that means, as long as they’re dry when ye apply the heat.  Is that no an interesting piece ae useless information, eh?”

  “Sean, you’re pulling my leg.  Admit it, we’ve got The Irish Brigade by the short and curlies and you know it.”

  “Earlier oan this year, a European vehicular transporter, an articulated truck tae you and me, hid its contents ae 20,000 high quality, wummin’s wigs hijacked oan the A-wan in Northumberland, while it wis heiding fur storage in Newcastle.  These expensive wigs ur believed tae hiv been transported tae Glesga and ur currently being sold and distributed oot ae the back ae the vans belonging tae yer family-owned company.  Noo, while we widnae fur wan minute even think ye hid anything tae wae this dastardly, international crime, we wid probably still need a wee keek ae yer books, jist tae eliminate ye fae oor extensive enquiries.  As fur the impounding ae the vans?  Well, it wid be a sheriff or a High Court judge ye’d need tae appeal tae, tae get them released...if it ever came tae that, that is.”

  “Books?  Vans impounded?”

  “Obviously we wid want tae cause as minimal a disruption as possible, under the circumstances...Frank.”

  “You know, Sean, the problem with you is that you still carry the smell of the dog shite in your nostrils that you stood in as a child,” Sir Frank muttered, hivving managed tae regain his calm and collected manner.

  “And the problem wae yersel, Frank, and people like you, is that ye cannae smell the dog shite aff the heel ae yer shoes because ae the smell ae the roses sticking oot ae they arse holes ae yers.  Noo, if ye’ll excuse me, Ah hiv tae get back tae ma wee unimportant job in the city.  Oh, and thanks fur the cognac and the lovely Juan Lopez cigar.  If it’s awright wae yersel, Ah’ll take this wae me, and finish it aff later,” The Chief Inspector said, waving the cigar at Sir Frank, as he disappeared oot between the portcullis doors.

  Helen hid been mortified bit chuffed at the same time.  By the time she’d arrived fur the efternoon recreation period, Big Pat hid goat aw the lassies, minus Gina, lined up oot in the yard.  As soon as Helen hid sat doon oan the grass, they’d aw burst intae their Dusty Springfield number.  Because they’d been singing it aw week, maist ae the other lassies who wur walking roond in the circle, knew aw the words, so hauf the wummin in the place hid been chanting away, quite the thing.  Anywan looking doon intae the yard that day, wae the sun splitting the trees, wid’ve been furgiven fur thinking that none ae them wur in a jail, miles away fae Glesga and their families.  The screws hidnae disappointed anywan, either, staunin aboot, scowling, as usual, at the sight ae happy wummin wandering roond in circles, singing.  The banter in the wee group, huddled in the centre ae aw this merriment, hid been a bit subdued, due tae the fact that they hidnae heard whit the situation wis wae Gina.  When the usual shout hid come fur the wummin tae go inside, there hid been wan last big group hug before aw the wummin in the circle hid heided towards the barred gate tae the hall.  Wummin that Helen hid written letters hame fur hid come o’er and hugged her and said thanks.  Helen hidnae wanted tae greet, bit hidnae been able tae haud back the tears.

  “Ah’m sorry,” she’d sobbed apologetically.

  “Don’t be daft, Helen.  Ye’re a star, so ye ur.”

  “Ah’ll never furget whit ye did fur me and ma weans, Helen.  Thanks,” the big blonde lassie hid said tearfully, gieing Helen a hug.

  “Right, you lot, oot ae ma way.  It’s ma turn,” Big Pat, the walking autograph book, hid shouted, before proceeding tae take the wind oot ae Helen’s lungs in a bear hug.  They’d then walked, haun in haun, across tae the grilled gate thegither.

  “Paterson, get yer haun aff lover girl and get yer arse o’er here.  Ye’re wanted.” Martha Hairy Chops hid scowled.

  “Who?  Me?  Whit hiv Ah done?” Big Pat hid asked, looking worried.

  “Jist dae whit ye’re telt and get o’er here.  Hurry up, Ah hivnae goat aw day.”

  “Maybe ye’ve goat a visitor,” Helen hid said tae her.

  “Well, that’ll be a first.  Fuck, Ah hope everything’s awright at hame.  Listen, Helen, ye’ll dae fine the morra.  Ah’ve goat a good feeling aboot this wan.  Ah only wish Ah could dae mair tae help ye.”

  “Don’t ye worry aboot me, Pat.  Ah’ll be fine, whitever happens.  You jist look efter yersel and when ye dae get oot, mind and heid doon tae Montrose Street.  Ye’ll always hiv a warm welcome in ma hoose…if Ah’ve still goat wan, that is.” 

  The air wis thick wae blue smoke by the time Colin arrived and sat doon.  Everywan hid their buff folders sitting in front ae them, unopened.  At the tap ae the table, Sean Smith, the chief inspector, sat wae his elbows oan the table, hauns thegither like he wis saying a prayer, tapping his two thumbs thegither under his chin.  Aw The Irish Brigade - Pat Curry, Daddy Jackson, Bobby Mack, Billy Liar, Mickey Sherlock, and Ralph Toner wur in varying stages ae fidgeting wae their hats, buttons, badges and hair.

  “Right, lads, before we start, Ah thought masel and Colin wid bring ye up tae date wae that wee problem that surfaced recently up in the Toonheid...it’s noo been resolved amicably, Ah’m glad tae say,” The Chief Inspector announced, as everywan began slapping the table-tap wae their hauns.

  “Ah must admit, fur a wee while there, Ah thought we’d lost control ae the situation,” Colin said, relief in his voice.

  “Ach, ye’re too pessimistic, Colin.  This wisnae gonnae go anywhere.  Ah never doubted it wid resolve itsel,” Ralph Toner said, shooting a well-formed smoke ring oot ae that mooth ae his towards Billy Liar.

  “Nae thanks tae that pair ae eejits, Thompson and Stewart.  How the fuck did they manage tae become sergeants, that’s whit Ah’d like tae know?” Daddy Jackson said tae nobody.

  “So, it’s done and dusted then, Colin?” asked Billy Liar.

  “There’s a few wee odds and ends tae be cleared up the morra, bit other than that, aye.”

  “So, whit’s the score wae that Harry Portoy?  Ah must admit, that sphincter muscle ae mine nearly snapped like an elastic band when Ah heard he’d resurfaced.”

  “Ah widnae worry aboot him.  He’s well fucked.  Hiv ye seen the photo ae him that we goat fae Maggie o’er in Gateside?  It’s in yer folders,” Pat Curry said, as they aw opened the folders.

  “Fucking hell, where did he get that outfit?” Bobby Mack exclaimed, tae the sound ae guffaws aw roond.

  “A la Paddy’s Market.”

  “Is that plus fours he’s wearing?  Surely they’re no meant tae look like that?”

  “Naw, Charlie Chatter telt me he couldnae help himsel when The Rat wis confused aboot Portoy’s height in Paddy’s Market the other day.  He telt him that Portoy wis only five feet tall,” Ralph replied amid the howls ae laughter.

  “Ah love it.”

  “Aye, he’s goat a sense ae humour, his Charlie.”

  “So, he’s no representing that bitch, is he?”

  “Naw, Maggie said he sat and babbled a heap ae shite fur aboot two hours tae her and then telt her he couldnae represent her.”