The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (2 page)
Chapter Two
Sergeant Paddy McPhee or ‘The Stalker’ as everywan referred tae him as, heard aboot the stabbing o’er the radio. Biscuit Smith, his PC side-kick, and himsel hid jist arrived at wan ae the blocks ae flats oan Balgrayhill, at the tap end ae Springburn, when the call came through tae ask if anywan wis near The Princes Bingo Hall in Gourlay Street. Biscuit responded tae ask if they should divert, bit wis telt jist tae carry oan wae whit they wur daeing. The radio telt them that it looked like nothing mair than a wee skirmish between some ae the local neds.
“Whit? Somewan’s been chibbed and ye’re saying it’s jist a wee skirmish? Over,” Biscuit said intae the radio.
“That’s whit we’ve been telt at this end. The wan youse ur heiding tae sounds a lot mair serious. The Inspector his asked ye tae report in wae whit the situation is, wance ye arrive. Over,” the radio replied.
“Right, well, that’s us jist arrived at Viewpoint noo. O’er and oot,” Biscuit said, as The Stalker braked hard tae avoid hitting a four-year-auld who’d shot past the front ae the squad car, daeing a back wheelie oan his bike.
They pulled up in front ae the flats, beside a crowd who wur aw staunin, looking up.
“Right, so whit’s gaun oan here then, hen?” The Stalker asked a wee wummin who wis staunin oan the edge ae the spectators, looking up, wae her erms folded, as a frying pan thudded oan tae the roof ae the squad car, obliterating the blue flashing light.
“Ah think it’s jist a wee domestic, so Ah dae,” she replied, as a soup ladle jist missed Biscuit as he wis coming oot ae the car.
“A domestic?”
“Aye, Ah think he’s a wee bit ae a junkie. Nice couple though, apart fae him,” she replied.
Suddenly, everywan scattered, as a canteen ae cutlery came raining doon oan them aw. The Stalker looked up. The fight wis oan the fourth landing. The screaming and shouting could likely be heard a mile away. The flats wur six storeys high and the exposed gantry landings ran the whole length ae the buildings. The flats hid been built in 1967 as part ae the so-called Springburn Area B Re-development Scheme…a fancy posh name that literally meant ‘dumping ground’. As well as local punters fae Springburn hivving been moved in, there wur people fae aw o’er Glesga who’d been dumped there as part ae the slum clearances. The Stalker hid been working in the Toonheid at the time, bit he remembered reading in The Glesga Echo, jist efter they wur completed, that the flats wur built oan the highest hill in Glesga. Everywan doon at the station hid agreed that, whoever designed the Balgrayhill flats must’ve been a mugger or a rapist in a previous life. At night, they wur badly lit roond aboot the entrances and anywan following ye hame wid jist hiv tae staun in the shadows and watch whit hoose ye went intae. A milkman hid been stabbed three times tae the heid and body up oan the third flair landing at six o’clock wan morning, jist o’er two weeks previously. He’d ended up wae a punctured lung and it hid been touch and go as tae whether he wid survive or no. The surgeon hid said that he’d been lucky as his attacker hid only missed his heart by a fraction ae an inch.
“Right, Biscuit, Ah’ll heid up the stairwell oan the right, you take the wan oan the left and we’ll come at the commotion fae opposite ends ae the landing.”
“Nae problem,” Biscuit replied, heiding intae the dark, as a nice wee broon Wally Dug exploded intae a thousand pieces aff the bonnet ae the squad car, engulfing aw the spectators in a white chalk cloud.
By the time they goat up oan tae the landing, there wis an eerie silence, apart fae the distant sound ae car horns and ambulances whizzing up and doon Springburn Road in the distance. The Stalker put his finger up tae his lips as he looked at Biscuit. They crept slowly alang the landing towards the open door, which lit up the hoosehold debris that wis scattered across the landing in front ae it. The baith ae them wur within six feet ae the open door when a mad-looking fucker, in his bare feet, suddenly appeared, wae wan erm wrapped roond the neck ae a lassie and a butcher’s boning knife in his other haun.
“If any ae youse two basturts make wan mair move, Ah’ll slit her fucking throat, so Ah will,” the madman snarled, looking fae wan tae the other.
“Whit’s yer problem, son?” Biscuit asked him, as the tear-stained face ae the lassie, who looked aboot thirty, bit who wis probably only in her late teens, pleaded wae her eyes fur them tae dae whit they wur telt.
“It’s goat fuck aw tae dae wae youse, so it his, so fuck aff and leave us alane.”
“Look pal, we’re no interested in yer wee domestic situation. We’re jist here tae warn ye tae keep the noise doon. The neighbours ur complaining aboot the racket. There’s people aboot here needing tae get up early fur their work in the morning,” The Stalker said, measuring the gap between himsel and Jim Bowie.
“Ah’ve telt ye, it’s goat fuck aw tae dae wae youse, or any ae they basturts,” he snarled, nodding oot intae the night. “This is between me and her. Noo, get tae fuck and leave us alane.”
“Aye well, ye see, ye’ve put us in a difficult position noo, hivn’t ye? We jist came up here tae tell ye tae keep the noise doon and here ye ur, staunin there wae a chib in yer haun. Noo that we’ve seen that, we hiv tae decide whit we’re gonnae dae aboot it,” Biscuit said tae him, pulling oot a twenty packet ae Embassy Regals and lighting wan up.
“Aye, bit it could’ve been worse. At least ye’re jist oot oan yer ain landing, and naebody seems tae hiv noticed the blade,” The Stalker said, in a conspiring whisper tae the knifeman, wishing the neighbours behind Biscuit and him wid fuck aff back intae their ain hooses.
“Ah’m warning ye, Ah’ll slit her fae ear tae ear if ye take wan mair step. See if Ah’m fucking kidding or no.”
“Look, here’s the story. As Ah’ve jist said, son, ye’ve put us in a wee bit ae a sticky situation. Put the chib doon, and we’ll go and hiv a wee cup ae tea. Ah’m sure we kin sort it oot withoot the whole ae Springburn lugging in. How dis that sound, eh?” Biscuit asked him.
“Youse basturts don’t know whit it’s like fur us. Who the fuck ur youse tae try and tell me how tae sort ma life oot, eh? Whit Ah dae aboot here is ma ain business.”
“Listen, Ah used tae be an alky masel, so Ah wis. Noo look at me? Hivnae touched a drap in ten years,” Biscuit said, exhaling a straight blue line ae smoke.
“Ah don’t drink.”
“Naw? Well, at least that’s something positive tae be getting oan wae, bit the point Ah’m making is, if ye think ye’ve goat problems, ye should’ve seen the mess that Ah wis in,” Biscuit said cautiously.
He shrugged they shoulders ae his at The Stalker, as if tae say, ‘Well, you come up wae something better,’ efter seeing The Stalker moothing, “Whit the fuck ur ye oan aboot?”
“Hoi, ya fucking moron, ye! Jist cut her bloody throat and get oan wae it. We’ve aw goat oor work tae go tae in the morning, ya selfish prick, ye,” a voice yelled fae somewhere in the flats.
“Don’t listen tae him, son. He’s jist a selfish basturt who disnae gie a shite aboot anywan bit himsel. Thank God we’re no aw like him, eh? Right, hiv ye goat milk? If ye hivnae, Ah’ll go and get us some,” Biscuit suddenly announced.
“Whit?” Jim Bowie demanded, looking confused.
“Milk? Fur the tea? Ye jist agreed we’d aw sit doon and hiv a wee chin-wag tae sort aw this oot,” Biscuit said, looking at him as if he wis daft.
“Bit, Ah never s…”
The Stalker flew across the six feet that wis separating them, jist as the haun gripping the blade tae the lassies throat relaxed and withdrew a few inches. Baith ae The Stalker’s hauns clamped the blade wrist. Meanwhile, Biscuit pulled the lassie free wae his left haun. He grabbed Jim Bowie by the hair wae his right wan and smashed his forehead against the door jamb when he turned tae see who it wis that hid a grip ae his haun. The lassie disappeared intae the hoose and The Stalker followed in her footsteps. The place looked as if a bomb hid gone aff in it. He winced oan hearing the sound ae crunching glass underfoot as he slowly made his way fae room tae room, finally stoapping at a closed door at the end ae the lobby. He turned the haundle and gently pushed it slightly ajar, wary, oan guard and no sure whit tae expect. The light bulb, which wis dangling doon fae the ceiling in the lobby, withoot a shade oan it, lit up hauf ae the bare flairboards in the room, exposing a pair ae knees that wur skinned and bloody. The lassie wis sitting oan the edge ae a bed, clinging oan tae two wee weans, who couldnae hiv been mair than two or three years auld. The wee wans didnae move or make a sound, and he could jist make oot three pairs ae white, wet, shiny, frightened eyes, looking oot ae the darkness across at him in the doorway. He pushed the door open and slowly walked across and lifted wan ae the weans oot ae the
lassie’s erms and sat doon, putting his erm aroond her and drawing her and the weans heids closer tae him. Within a few seconds he felt the lassie’s trembling transform intae shudders as she began tae sob.
“Why? Whit hiv me and the weans ever done tae deserve this?” she wailed, as The Stalker sat staring intae space towards the open door.
Chapter Three
The Stalker hidnae gied much thought tae the stabbing at the bingo hall doon oan Gourlay Street due tae the fact that they’d hid tae get an ambulance fur the madman wae the knife. As well as splitting open his foreheid, which required eighteen stitches, the hospital hid discovered that he’d a fractured skull fae where Biscuit hid skelped his heid aff the sharp edge ae the doorframe.
“Ye mean he might croak it?” Biscuit hid asked the doctor hopefully.
“No, I think he’ll survive…this time,” the doctor hid replied, clearly disapproving ae the polis tactics in arresting his drug-crazed patient.
“Aye, ye’re back, Paddy,” Chick Thompson, the inspector said, breaking intae his thoughts, as The Stalker lifted his mug ae tea up tae his lips.
“Aye, Ah’m jist hivving a wee quick wan while Ah get the chance, before nipping up tae Stobhill Hospital, tae pick Biscuit up.”
“That’s a wee turn-up fur the books, eh?”
“Whit is?”
“That murder...the stabbing doon in Gourlay Street earlier oan.”
“Murder?”
“Aye, the McManus boy. Ah thought he wis well oot ae the game noo,” The Inspector replied, before being dragged aff tae the phone.
The Stalker followed The Inspector oot tae the front desk, tae make sure he’d goat the name right ae the stabbing victim, bit efter waiting patiently fur hauf a minute, he gied up and heided oot ae the door. Happy Harry, the desk sergeant wis surrounded by a group ae Hari Krishnas, wearing orange robes and sandals. They wur demanding tae know why they’d been arrested at hauf wan in the morning, jist because they’d been banging their tambourines,
chanting and singing at the tap ae their voices oan their way doon Hawthorn Street
towards Possil.
“Ah’ve tried tae tell them that they wur committing a breach ae the peace, bit they won’t take a telling,” Happy Harry, the longest serving desk sergeant in the division, bleated tae him, as the group burst intae another rendition ae ‘Hari Rama Hari Krishna.’
The street wis empty, apart fae a couple ae squad cars and the white incident caravan that hid jist been drapped aff as The Stalker arrived. Aw the lights ae the bingo hall wur still oan, including the big ‘Princes Bingo’ neon wan ootside. He nodded tae a couple ae the forensics boys and went across tae wan ae the murder squad.
“So, whit’s the score, Bobby?” The Stalker asked.
“Aye, aye, Paddy boy, Ah wis wondering when yersel or Fin wid grace us wae yer company and gie us a wee haun aboot here.”
“Ah wis trying tae persuade some madman no tae cut his wife’s throat up in Balgrayhill earlier oan and Fin finished his shift at ten. Ah heard it oan the radio at aboot a quarter tae ten.”
“So, whit kin Ah dae ye fur?”
“Chic Thompson
jist telt me that it might’ve been that young Joe McManus that goat murdered,” The Stalker said, peering across at the large pool ae black blood, congealing oan the front step ae the foyer.
“Oh, there’s nae might aboot it. It wis wan ae yer angels wae dirty faces, right enough.”
“Bit that disnae make any sense, Bobby. He’s a bloody cabbage, so he is.”
“Wis a cabbage.”
“Aye, awright, bit the point Ah’m making is that he’s been oot ae the game fur well o’er a year noo…maybe longer. Whit the fuck wid anywan want tae go and stab somewan like him
fur?”
“Why wid a hubby want tae slit his nearest and dearest’s throat?”
“Naw, that’s different. This disnae make sense. It’s jist no right.”
“Aye, well, Ah widnae imagine there will be too many people losing sleep o’er this wan, cabbage or no.”
“So, whit’s the score then?”
“Fae whit we kin gather, McManus wis walking up Gourlay Street fae Springburn Road and a red coloured car, make unknown, skidded tae a halt. We know three ae them jumped oot and attacked yer boy, bit we’re no sure whether wan ae them wis the driver or no. The boy tried tae escape, in through the doors ae the bingo hall,” the inspector replied, nodding towards the glass doors tae the foyer.
“Wur they aw carrying chibs?”
“We don’t know at this stage.”
“Witnesses?”
“There wis two auld wummin jist leaving the bingo when it kicked aff. Wan fainted. They’re up in Stobhill. We won’t get much oot ae them the night though. Hopefully, they’ll be able tae gie us good descriptions or recognise who done it.”
“So, where is he noo?”
“Ye’ve jist missed him. He’s oan his way doon tae the slab in the Saltmarket. Why?”
“Er, nothing, Ah wis jist wondering, that’s aw.”
The Stalker picked Biscuit up fae Stobhill. While he wis up there, he phoned Fin at hame. The phone rang fur ages before it wis finally picked up.
“This better be good,” Sergeant Finbar O’Callaghan, known by aw and sundry as Bumper, oan account ae running o’er the legs ae a couple ae toe-rags wae his squad car years earlier in the Toonheid, efter they refused tae stoap when he telt them tae, croaked intae the phone.
“Fin? It’s me, Paddy.”
“Aye, Ah bloody-well know who it is. Who else wid phone me at this time ae the night? Whit ur ye wanting?”
“There’s been a stabbing oan the steps ae the front door ae The
Princes
Bingo Hall in Gourlay Street.”
“So?”
“So, it’s wan ae that manky mob fae the Toonheid.”
“Which wan?”
“Joe McManus.”
“No Gucci?”
“Naw, no Gucci! Christ, ur ye awake or whit?”
“Ah thought he wis a cabbage?”
“He is...wis.”
“So?”
“So, Ah’m heiding doon tae the Saltmarket tae check oot whit the score is.”
“Whit the fuck wid ye want tae dae that fur? Ye’re no oan the murder squad.”
“Fin, waken up, fur fuck’s sake. Dis it no strike ye as odd that wan ae that crowd, who’s no involved in anything anymair, oan account ae hivving being turned intae a cabbage efter getting a severe doing, his suddenly been stabbed tae death in the street?”
“No really. It’s probably some basturt efter revenge, if ye think ae whit aw that crowd hiv goat up tae o’er the years.”
“Aye, that’s whit Ah’ve been thinking, bit who?”
“Paddy, dis any ae this matter? Who gies a monkey’s fuck anyway?”
“Ye’ve missed ma point, ya Irish Mick, ye. Dis it no strike ye as being suspicious that none ae that crowd ever sought a revenge come-back efter wan ae their best pals goat kicked fuck oot ae, so badly, that he ended up wae brain damage?”
“Okay, Ah’m listening.”
“Think aboot it. Kin ye imagine Gucci leaving things at that? No coming back, big style and noo this? Is this no rubbing salt intae the wounds?”
“Whit aboot Gucci, Taylor and Smith?”
“Gucci’s aboot and the other pair ur still in borstal, oot in Polmont.”
“Then, there’s yer answer aboot the lack ae any come-back then.”
“Look, Ah kin tell ye’re no interested, so Ah’ll let ye get back tae sleep.”
“Hoi, Paddy, stoap gaun aff in the huff. Ah never said Ah wisnae interested. Gie me ten minutes tae get ready and Ah’ll see ye doon at the bottom door.”
“Right, Ah’ve jist come up tae collect Biscuit fae Stobhill. Ah’ll drap him aff doon at the station and then Ah’ll come roond by yersel and pick ye up.”
“Stobhill?”
“Ach, don’t worry, it wis some madman we arrested in a domestic earlier who copped his whack,” The Stalker replied, hinging up the receiver.
