The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (18 page)

Chapter Twenty Three

  “Whit’s yer thinking then, Tony?” Pat asked, looking aboot, as the bell behind the bar clanged and the lights flickered fur last orders.

  “It’s better hearing it live than listening tae it oan record.  The last time Ah heard ‘Geordie’s Byre’, Ah wanted tae become an arsonist, so Ah did.”

  “Naw, Ah’m no talking aboot the music, Ah’m talking aboot the no-show wae that prick, Harper,” Pat said, as another wraith-boned lassie, who looked like a junkie, started screeching aboot some bonnie lad fae the isles, who went aff tae fight, bit never returned.

  “Jesus, ye’d need tae bloody-well drag me back screaming if Ah knew Ah wis gaun back tae that voice ae hers.  Right, the same again, Pat?” Tony asked, finishing aff his pint and staunin up.

  “Ah don’t feel comfortable in a place like this.  Aw these beards and silent lassies wae big eyes gies me the willies, so they dae,” Pat grumbled, as Tony disappeared and returned wae a couple ae pints ae lager.

  “Believe you me, Pat, they’re probably aw thinking the same aboot yersel, sitting there in yer Ben Sherman shirt, Levi Sta-Prest troosers and black Crombie coat, looking like something oot ae ‘The Untouchables.’  Fuck, ye even make me feel uncomfortable and Ah know ye.”

   “If Ah wis supposed tae be collecting a hunner quid, Ah’m sure Ah’d be here early.  Where the fuck is he?” Pat wanted tae know, getting a few disapproving glances fae the hushed and respectful faces who wur soaking up the words ae another miserable tale fae the skinny lassie.

  “So, tell me aboot Harper Harris then, Pat?”

  “There isnae much tae tell.  He screws anything that isnae nailed doon, although it’s maistly fae hooses.  He started tae build up a good wee customer base fur quality stuff a few years back, before he goat intae a wee tangle wae Tam Simpson.  Ah don’t really know him masel.  He wis jist getting oot ae the quality end ae the market when Ah done a few deals wae him.  It wis mainly rings, brooches, necklaces…that kind ae stuff.  Aw tap quality stuff and then it dried up.  Ah goat asked tae supply a necklace wae matching earrings through Peter.  He’d said that some rich guy fae oot in Bearsden wis looking tae gie his wife a fancy anniversary present oan the cheap.  Peter hid been hassling me fur ages, and Ah asked Harper tae see whit he could come up wae.  It wis aroond aboot that time that Tam Simpson snapped his fingers in hauf, and efter that, the quality stuff dried up.”

  “Did ye manage tae get the stuff fur Peter’s guy?”

  “Oh, aye, eventually.  Ah goat a nice matching set, including a brooch, oot ae a swanky place across in Queen’s Park.  Hivving somewan like Harper close by wid’ve been fine and dandy though.  Ah never dealt wae him efter that.  He went back tae dealing in shite like kettles, cameras, cutlery sets…the usual stuff that nowan wae any sense wants.  Whit a waste, eh?”

  “Well, it disnae look like he’s gonnae show up noo.  Ah wonder whit’s gaun oan?  Whit ye’re saying aboot him being nervous as fuck stauns up.  He wis shaking like a leaf when Ah met wae him.  He couldnae wait tae get oot ae the door ae Jonah’s when he haunded o’er the ring.  He practically threw it at me and then fucked aff as if the bizzies wur awready oan his trail.  Ah thought he wis setting me up at first.  Ah asked Senga Jackson tae haud oan tae it fur me and then collected it later oan that night.  Ah hauf expected the polis tae nab me when Ah left the pub.”

  “So, whit’s happening wae Johnboy and Silent then?  Ah heard they’ve ended up in the digger.”

  “Aye, the stupid basturts,” Tony scowled, taking a sip ae his lager.  “Ah bloody-well warned that Johnboy no tae fuck aboot before him and Silent wur sent doon.  He fucking knows how serious aw this shite wae The Simpsons is. He never listens tae a bloody thing Ah say.  Ah heard that him and Silent put glue in aw the cell doors ae the wing they wur in and ended up losing seven days’ remission as well as being banged up.  That’s aw we fucking need jist noo.  If that pair ae diddies make it oot ae Polmont oan Hogmanay, it’ll be a bloody miracle, so it will.”

  “If he’s in the digger, then that should keep the daft basturt oot ae trouble.”

  “Aye, well, Ah widnae put money oan that… wid you?”

Chapter Twenty Four

  The Rat wis jist coming tae the end ae the second page ae the report that he’d convinced Tom Bryce tae let him hiv fur longer than whit wis originally agreed, when he noticed he’d dribbled the milk aff ae his spoonful ae cornflakes doon the front ae his tie.

  “Aw, fur Christ’s sake!” he cursed under his breath, staunin up and scurrying across tae the sink in his bedsit fur a cloth tae wipe it aff before it dried in.

  He returned tae the table, lit up a fag, and continued fae where he’d left aff.  There wisnae much tae go oan, although it wid’ve made a good front page fur The News Ae The World.  Paper magnate pumping Lady X, efter haunin o’er a sapphire and diamond encrusted ring as a token ae his lusty love, even though the baith ae them wur awready hitched.  He picked his nose wae the pinkie ae his left haun and let oot a snigger.  The report said that, although the polis wur aware that there hid been a break-in and that the ring hid been stolen, nae official complaint hid been made tae them as a result ae the said break-in.  He could jist imagine Daddy Jackson and they other plods scrambling aboot, trying tae find oot where the hoose wis and whose ring it wis that hid been nicked.  The report in his haun wis obviously a copy and the name ae the private dick who’d carried oot the initial quick investigation hid been redacted oot.  He held the page up against the light fae the windae tae try and see if he could see the ootline ae a name at the bottom ae the page, bit whitever hid been used tae block the author’s name oot hid worked.  He’d tried tae get the name ae the private dick fae Tom Bryce, bit he’d denied he knew who it wis.

  “Bit, Tom, it wid save me gaun o’er auld ground if Ah could talk tae whoever it wis that did the initial report,” he’d whined.

  “Look, Sammy, Ah’ve telt ye.  Ah don’t know who the fuck it wis.  Whit ye’ve goat is whit Ah’ve goat.  Ye’re getting paid tae find oot who took it and tae get it back pronto.  The reward is bound tae come up wae something that’ll help ye oot.  Christ, this should be a walk oan Glesga Green fur somewan ae your stature and reputation, so it should.”

  “Why the hell wid they leave the names ae the love-bird victims involved, bit black oot the investigator, eh?” he’d asked.

  “How wid Ah know?  Obviously whoever took the ring wid’ve known who they wur, no furgetting the private dick who’d hid tae interview the baith ae them.  Who cares?  Go and get the bloody ring back, insteid ae polluting up ma good office, fur Christ’s sake.”

  He’d been tossing and turning aw night in his kip, trying tae work oot his starting point.  The job hid come his way jist at the right time.  He wid tackle the situation using a two-pronged approach.  The first thing tae dae wid be tae blanket his loose contacts...put oot the word tae the wans that might pick up something like a passing comment in a pub, or who might know somewan who knew somewan, who wid know something...fur a price.  The second approach wid be tae go through his contact list ae definites...shady fuckers who wur involved at street level and who hid their lugs tae the ground, who knew whit wis gaun oan and mair importantly, wid be able tae tell him who’d be able tae pull aff a job like this.  How many crooks could there be oot there who could pick a lock?  His search wid involve legwork and plenty ae it, bit if he wis lucky, he’d pick up a trail by the end ae the day.  He looked across at the clock beside his unmade bed.  It wis twenty past eight in the morning.  He’d jist started tae make up his two pub lists when he heard the knock doon at the front door at the bottom ae the stairs.  He strained his ears, bit couldnae make oot whit wis being said.  He heard auld Mrs Cookson’s voice and then two male voices.  He stood up and walked across tae the windae and peered through the net curtains that hid clearly no been washed since they’d been put up, forty tae fifty years earlier.  He heard footsteps…two sets…climbing the stairs, pausing briefly, before walking towards his door at the end ae the landing.  He felt his sphincter stretch as he stumbled backwards, grasping the wee round knob oan the painted wooden windae shutters tae steady himsel, as he watched the moving shadows ae the feet in the gap between the flair and the bottom ae the door.  The knock, though quiet, sounded like bell hammers ringing in his ears.

  “Ah don’t think Mr Elliot is in jist noo.  He’s usually up and away by this time ae the morning,” he heard Mrs Cookson, his landlady, telling them fae the bottom ae the stairs.

  The Rat stood frozen tae the spot.  He clamped the cheeks ae his arse thegither as he felt his stomach churn and a rush ae wind heiding towards his puckered arsehole.  He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, bit tae nae avail.  He’d jist heard whoever wis ootside the door turn and start tae walk away, when his arse let oot a sound straight oot ae a piccolo flute.  It wisnae that loud, bit loud enough fur the shadows under the door tae stoap deid in their tracks and a pair ae feet walk back tae his door, and knock louder.  The sweat wis pouring aff ae him by this time. 

  “Please, God...please God,” he murmured quietly, looking up at the heavy black clouds in the sky through the dirty glass, hauns clasped thegither like the Pope.

  Efter wan mair final knock and a slight hesitation, the feet aboot-turned and heided back tae join the other set.

  It only took The Rat four minutes tae pack his shoulder bag and auld suitcase, before he wis oot ae his room and doon the stairs, leaving the ootstaunin rent he owed Mrs Cookson oan the page ae her Glesga Echo that wis sitting open at the Green Fingers section.  He nipped through the kitchen and oot the back door before slinging his bags o’er the red brick wall at the back and following them two seconds later.

  Fifteen minutes later, he wis sitting in The Savoy Cafe, up in the Coocaddens.  His stomach hid settled and his sphincter felt comfortably relaxed and back in place.  He poured the milk intae his cup first, before topping it up wae the strong tea.  He took a sip while returning tae ponder oan the problem in haun.  Who the fuck wis it that hid appeared up at his digs?  Who knew he wis back in the toon?  And even if somewan did know that he wis back, how the hell did they know where he wis bunking?  He’d deliberately chosen the bed and breakfast across in West Graham Street because ae its run-doon nature and oot ae the way location.  It wis far enough oot ae the toon centre bit within easy walking distance ae whit wis gaun oan in the pubs and clubs at night.  There hid been two ae them, he thought tae himsel.  The only people who went aboot in twos and who’d turn up unexpectedly at people’s doors at odd hours, wis either the polis, or heavies.  He ruled oot the bizzies.  They usually stayed well clear ae the likes ae him due tae the paranoid nature ae the inspectors and superintendents, who’d come doon oan the pavement pounders oan the beat like a ton ae bricks if they suspected that stories wur being passed oan, oot ae school, tae hacks like him.  That left the heavies.  He tried tae think ae who they might be.  He ruled oot the McGregor’s fae across in Govan as they tended tae stay oan their ain side ae the Clyde and only came intae the toon fur social occasions.  If they needed something, they tended tae leave word aroond the pubs fur him tae pick up.  They wur well-in wae the bizzies, so tended no tae use him unless they wur really stuck.  The Simpsons, up in Possil?  Maybe, bit it hid been aboot two years since he’d hid any dealings wae them.  If it wis them that wur trying tae get a haud ae him, then he’d need tae look at his situation carefully.  The last time he’d spoken tae Tam Simpson hid been tae thank him fur hauling that mad wanker ae a brother ae his, Toby, aff ae him.  He’d provided them wae a few names that they could deal wae at The Corporation, doon in George’s Square.  They wur stellar contacts and wid sell their granny’s gold teeth fur a few bob.  Unfortunately fur The Simpsons, the officials hid awready been under observation by the polis, as part ae the big corruption clean-up in the city at the time, and a couple ae The Simpsons’ bears hid goat trapped in the net.  By that time, he’d awready been paid fur his assistance, bit Toby hidnae been happy and hid demanded their back-haunder back.  Tae assist him in seeing their point ae view, Toby hid ladled intae him using a length ae electrical cable that hid been lying near tae haun, before attempting tae strangle him wae it.  Thank fuck Tam hid been present at the time or he wid probably hiv ended up buried in a field somewhere.  He shuddered, thinking aboot it.  He’d passed back the fifty quid through a third party, and that hid been the last time he’d seen or heard fae The Simpsons.  That left only The Big Man, Pat Molloy.  Pat hid eyes and ears everywhere.  The Rat hid done quite a bit ae work fur him o’er the years when he wis working wae the various newspapers in the toon.  Some ae the work hid jist involved passing oan gossip fur a few bob, while the mair detailed stuff hid involved investigative research, which hid usually meant that some poor basturt wis oan the receiving end ae being toppled fae their perch or wid suddenly find themselves wae a new business partner.  Failure tae respond positively meant the victim ended up in a scandal story, usually written by himsel fur wan ae the papers.  Wan ae the strangest jobs he’d done fur The Big Man wis tae connect a couple ae bizzies wae the death ae a young boy who’d goat himsel burned tae death in a pigeon loft up oan Parly Road in the Toonheid in the mid-sixties.  He’d been tasked wae persuading some mad wummin tae get hersel and her pals, including the wee boy’s maw, tae gie statements that implicated the local bizzies in the harassment ae the boy and his pals.  It hid been a nightmare because she wis a walking disaster and hid refused tae play ball unless it wis oan her terms.  The stupid tart hid ended up in the jail fur assaulting the bizzies, efter organising a picket ootside a tenement where a warrant sale wis being held.  He wis supposed tae hiv done a story oan the evils ae warrant sales fur her, in exchange fur the evidence fae them oan the alleged harassment ae the young boy by the local pavement pounders o’er the summer holidays ae that year.  Before The Rat could get his story and make the deidline, she’d ended up in Gateside Prison, oot in Greenock.  By that time, The Glesga Echo hid goat interested in the story and hid paid him, through the back door, tae hire a lawyer, Harry Portoy, tae defend her.  The only problem at the time, wis that Harry Portoy hid been drunk since the late fifties and wis shacked up in The Tontine Hotel, as a fully paid-up jakey and hidnae practiced law in years.  She’d eventually goat aff wae the charge and he’d goat the story, only tae be telt by Pat Molloy oan the wan haun and Tom Bryce, the sub-editor, oan the other tae drap it like a hot brick.  There hid been nae explanation fae either side other than the instruction tae move oan.  He remembered his heid hid been minced at the time, wae aw the skulduggery that wis gaun oan roond aboot him.  He tried tae remember the name ae the mad bitch, bit her, alang wae her name, wis lost in the mists ae time.  Taylor...Helen Taylor...that wis her name.  A right foul-moothed hairy that should’ve been incarcerated in a looney-bin.  And tae think that somewan like her hid ever been allowed tae bring up weans, as well?  He’d never met her man, bit he could jist picture him...wee, timid and scared fur his baws.  He wondered whit hid become ae her.  She’d been something else, he wis thinking tae himsel, when a well-known voice broke intae his thoughts.

  “Well, well, look whit the cat’s jist dragged in,” Swinton Mclean, crime hack wae The Evening Times announced tae everywan in the cafe, sitting doon at his table.

  He wis accompanied by Harold Sliver fae The Evening Express.

  “Ur ye coming or gaun?” Harold asked The Rat, nodding tae the shoulder bag and suitcase sitting oan the flair beside his chair.

  “Ah’ve jist arrived and Ah’m jist hivving a wee quiet cup ae tea before heiding aff tae get masel some digs...or Ah wis.”

  “Aye, glad tae see ye tae, Sammy,” Swinton said, ordering up another, bigger pot ae tea.

  “So, Sammy, is that ye back fur good?  The last Ah heard, ye hid a fancy job wae The Boston Globe.  Whit happened?”

  “Nothing happened.  It wisnae fur me so Ah took the opportunity tae travel aboot the States, picking up bits ae work here and there.  Very interesting it wis tae.  Ah feel Ah’ve learned a lot wae the break and noo, Ah’m back here in Glesga, ready tae impart aw that good experience intae the journo scene here.”

  “So, ye’ve goat a job then?”

  “Naw, naw.  Ah’ll probably take ma time and jist dip ma toes in the water first.  Ah’ll maybe work freelance fur a while till Ah get the lay ae the land.  So, whit aboot yersels then?  Whit’s the latest?”

  “Ach, same shite, different day.  Ye know whit it’s like?  Stabbings, mair stabbings, and then there’s stabbings.  Every noo and again, there’s a worthwhile story tucked in-between another stabbing story, usually concerning a strike when the union boys end up in a pitch battle wae the polis ootside the factory gates or there’s a big bank or post office robbery, bit that’s rare these days.  We play a game ae who kin regurgitate and gloss up aw the same shite that nowan wants tae read aboot and put it across as being different fae the crap that wis in the paper the day before.  Ur ye sure ye’re glad tae be back, Sammy?” Harold asked him.

  “So, whit’s the story aboot this fancy ring that goat blagged oot ae a swanky hoose then?” he asked them, glad tae hiv it confirmed that they hidnae heard that he’d been back in the toon fur a while.

  “It depends oan who ye ask.  Some people think it’s aw made up by yer auld boss, Tom Bryce, tae gie the readers a wee break fae another stabbing story.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, the polis don’t know anything aboot it.  Who the fuck wid announce, oan the front page ae The Glesga Echo, that some big shot’s five grand ring hid gone walkies, bit no report it tae the polis, eh?” Swinton asked, looking at Harold fur confirmation.