The Mattress: The Glasgow Chronicles 4 (49 page)

  “It’s aboot aw this carry-oan up in Possil this morning, sir,” The Stalker hid said, efter taking a deep breath as The Assistant Chief Constable stoapped and turned tae look at him.

  “Hold fire a minute, Smith,” The Assistant hid said tae his driver.

  “It’ll only take a couple ae minutes ae yer time, sir,” he’d pleaded, looking aboot, expecting Daddy or Billy Liar tae appear oan the scene tae apologise oan his behauf.

  “You mean in private?” he’d asked, looking The Stalker up and doon and glancing across at Bumper sitting in the car, who’d turned his face in the other direction, in case he wis recognised.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Look, Smith.  Why don’t you go and join Sergeant McPhee’s colleague in the car over there,” he’d said tae his driver, surprising The Stalker that he knew who he wis.

  “Speak,” The Assistant hid said abruptly, when he’d got intae the back seat and The Stalker hid slipped intae the front passenger seat and turned tae face him.

  The Stalker hid related a chequered history ae the feud, as he knew it, between Tony Gucci’s manky mob and The Simpsons, gaun back fifteen tae eighteen months.  He’d admitted that a lot ae whit he wis telling The Assistant wis patchy, because trying tae get solid corroboration hid been extremely difficult, which wis highly unusual in itsel, given the amount ae grasses that him and Bumper hid oan the ground.  He’d then explained whit himsel and Bumper hid been daeing during the previous two weeks, since the death ae Joe McManus, and the frustration that hid been overpowering him because ae the lack ae support and time gied tae his theories and suppositions.

  “We know fur a fact that Gucci’s manky crowd wur asking aboot Tam Simpson’s movements only last week.  Surely that says something?”

  “On the word of Eddie The Eel?  An exposed and disgraced proven paid agent provocateur, used by the police to fit up innocent criminals?  As you say yourself, McPhee, a lot of what you are spouting is supposition, without solid evidence.  Sergeant Priestly couldn’t say for certain whether Gucci and this McCabe exited from Hillend Road on Wednesday morning for sure.  It’s been confirmed that a friend of Gucci’s, who goes all the way back to his childhood, was being cremated that morning.  Turning up to a friend’s funeral is not a crime, is it?”

  “Two cars wur blagged fae the Sighthill Freight Terminal in the early hours ae this morning, belonging tae a couple ae the nightshift workers.  As yet, the cars hivnae been traced and if ma hunch is right, they probably won’t be either.  The fact that the cars will probably no be traced shouts oot tae me that the cars wur probably used in the murder.  Gucci lives roond the corner fae where the cars wur taken, in Petershill Road.  It’s jist too much ae a coincidence.”

  “I spoke with Superintendent Jackson earlier.  He stated that in the last month, twenty seven cars were abandoned in Springburn after being stolen elsewhere.”

  “Bit, given the turn ae events, dae ye no think that it’s mair than jist a coincidence that oan the same morning as Tam Simpson gets assassinated, two cars wur lifted through the night fae aroond the corner fae Tony Gucci’s flat?”

  “If Gucci is as smart as you seem to give him credit for, why would he be so stupid as to shite in his own nest?  Surely he would have lifted the cars from elsewhere...like one of the town centre car parks, for instance.”

  “Ah don’t know, sir, bit as Ah’ve said, why wid somewan like Baby Huey O’Hara turn up in Springburn in the past two weeks aw ae a sudden?  And who is Baby Huey’s boss?  Wan-bob Broon.  Wan-bob Broon is Freckles Kelly’s uncle and wid’ve been at the funeral.  That’s the key connection here.  If Gucci wis gonnae take oot Tam Simpson, there’s nae way he wid’ve done something like that withoot the go-aheid fae Pat Molloy, who we know is currently in Spain.  Wan-bob Broon, who’s jist come back fae Spain, is The Big Man’s main bogeyman in the north ae the city.  The Big Man…Wan-bob Broon…Shaun Murphy, wid’ve goat themsels a professional shooter if they wurnae gonnae take oot Tam Simpson themsels.  That’s how they operate, like typical gangsters.”

  “And Blaster McKay?”

  “There’s absolutely nae intelligence tae suggest that there wis any falling-oot wae The Simpsons.  Ah know Blaster McKay, sir.  Even if he wanted tae, he’d never go up against The Simpsons.  They’ve always worked haun in haun, even though they dae their ain thing.  If there wis even a whiff ae bother coming oot ae Milton, Ah wid’ve picked up oan it long before noo.  Nae question aboot that, sir.”

   “So, what is it you want, McPhee?”

   “Ah don’t want tae gie ye the impression that Ah’m disloyal and oot tae undermine the command above me, sir.  Ah think that it’s fair and proper that Pat Molloy’s team get well investigated, and that goes fur Blaster McKay as well.  Whit Ah’m asking ye, is tae keep an open mind, because investigating the Molloys, Simpsons and the McKays ae this world will be difficult, especially tae get solid evidence, given their past history…bit Ah don’t think ye’ll get anywhere oan the Tam Simpson murder if ye leave Tony Gucci and that wee crew ae his oot ae the equation.  Ah know he’s young, bit believe you me, he’s yer man, sir.  Unless we put the time in tae curbing Gucci and his wee manky mob’s activities jist noo, the northern part ae the city is gonnae hiv another Pat Molloy or Tam Simpson that’ll suck the lifeblood oot ae the community fur generations tae come.  If ma instincts ur right, and Ah believe they ur, then whit Gucci dished oot this morning tae Tam Simpson will hiv gied him the strength and cockiness tae go tae the next level.  Pat Molloy, Tam Simpson and Blaster Mackay, although dangerous basturts, ur fae another era.  The new generation ae gangsters coming through…wans like Tony Gucci…will be even mair lethal and ruthless, so they will.  The Molloys and The Simpsons made their ain way tae get tae where they ur.  They wrote the rulebook because there wisnae really anywan organised before them.  It’s tickets like Gucci that hiv always been wan step above and in front ae yer typical wee Glesga ned and hiv tried tae emulate whit they think a gangster should be.  They’ve watched the big boys since they wur weans and hiv always aspired tae be them.  Somewan like Tony Gucci should’ve been working fur somewan like Pat Molloy by noo.  The fact that he isnae and his still been allowed tae develop unhindered speaks volumes tae anywan who his an ounce ae savvy aboot them and who knows anything aboot the Glesga gangster scene.  Ah know this will sound wacky, bit Ah think that prevention his a big part tae play in crime and that if we invest in nipping up-and-coming tickets like Gucci, it’ll be wan ae the best investments the city could make.  If we pass this young thug by, we’ll look back in ten or twenty years fae noo and kick oorsels fur sitting back and watching him rise tae the tap ae the game.  Gucci his naewhere else tae go.  Him and that manky mob ae his hiv set up shoap in that part ae the city since the Toonheid goat torn doon.  They widnae be allowed tae move in anywhere else withoot causing a war.  If we kin clamp doon oan their activities up in Springburn, then there’s a good chance we kin at least get the community back tae where it belongs.”

  The Assistant Chief Constable looked at his watch.

  “Your minute was up almost forty minutes ago, Sergeant McPhee.  It’s been very interesting listening to you.  I can still remember when I was a young sergeant, many moons ago.  Hunches were and still are important in our work, especially in complex situations like this and one shouldn’t dismiss them...even though they can come across as fanciful.  Here’s what I am going to do.  For a start, I’m not prepared to undermine the investigation being carried out by competent experienced officers, who are giving their time to what is and will certainly become, a complex and difficult case...even more so with the involvement of this damn prison governor’s wife.  I want you to go back to the station in Springburn and await a call from headquarters.  Under no circumstances are you to relate this conversation between us outwith this car.  I wish to see you in my office in St Andrew’s Square at exactly five o’clock later today.  Have you got that?”

  “Er, yes, sir.”

  “Right, then, perhaps you’ll vacate my car.  I may be able to grab myself a sandwich before what is going to be a very difficult press conference at three o’clock.”

  “Ur ye sure ye didnae mention ma name, Paddy?” Fin asked fur the umpteenth time, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Ah telt him that the reason Ah wanted tae speak tae him wis because ye made me and that Ah wis scared tae refuse because ye’re a well-known basturt, who’s renowned fur running people o’er in polis cars, so Ah did,” he said tae Bumper.

  “Aye, Ah widnae put it past ye, either, ya basturt, ye,” Bumper said, drapping a gear as he heided up the High Street, past the traffic lights at Duke Street and George Street.

2.50. P.M.

  “Paddy, ye’re wanted oan the phone.  It’s Daddy,” Happy Harry, the desk sergeant, said, popping his heid roond the door.

  “Ah warned ye that it widnae be good news tackling Tipple, so Ah did, Paddy,” Bumper reminded him again, watching him heid fur the door.

   The Stalker hidnae been feeling good.  He’d realised he’d fucked up the minute he’d hit reality back in the station.  Whit the hell hid goat intae him, he’d kept asking himsel.  Who the fuck in the world wis gonnae accept the shit he’d spouted tae The Assistant Chief Constable?  Certainly no Jack Tipple, that wis fur sure.  Ten minutes efter himsel and Bumper hid arrived back, Chic Taylor, the inspector, hid heided oot ae the front door ae the station intae a car that hid obviously been sent fur him.

  “Where’s he aff tae then?” The Stalker hid asked Happy.

  “Somewhere where ye’re no wanted,” wis aw he’d goat oot ae Happy.

  “Aye, Daddy,“ he said intae the receiver, haudin his breath and shutting his eyes.

  “Ah don’t know whit the fuck ye’ve been up tae, McPhee, bit Ah’ve jist been telt tae tell ye that, as ae noo, ye’re the new inspector fur Springburn.”

  “Eh?”

  “Aye, Tipple his shifted Chic oot tae a wee cushy number o’er in King’s Park, tae fill the vacant slot efter Monkey McCartney died ae boredom.  Ye’ve been promoted.”

  “Bit, Ah, er...”

  “And efter ye pick yer arse up aff ae the flair, ye’ve tae get doon tae St Andrew’s Square by five o’clock sharp.  Tipple wants tae speak tae ye, so he dis.”

4.35 P.M.

  “Ah’m no convinced,” Erchie The Basturt said tae his brother, Mad Philip.

  “Here then?”

  “Hmm, nah.”

  “Here?”

  “O’er tae the left a wee bit...right, stoap...left a bit...perfect!”

  Mad Philip came and joined his brother, who wis staunin facing the coonter at the bottom ae the steps in the basement, looking at the glass and mahogany case that Mad Philip hid jist screwed up oan the wall.

  “Whit dae ye think then?” Erchie asked him.

  “Dae ye no think we should get a wee placard or something?”

  “Fur whit?”

  “Well, the last time Ah wis oot at The Kelvingrove Art Gallery, Ah remember they hid wee placards beside aw the stuff in their display cases, telling ye aboot the history ae the things that wur oan show, so they did, they did.”

  “Oh, right, that sounds like a good idea.”

  “Aye, Ah’ll maybe put something thegither using a bit ae shoe leather.”

  “Saying whit?”

  “Ach, jist a wee bit ae history aboot the Poacher’s Retreat and how stupid they fucking bizzies ur in Glesga in managing tae lose their prime evidence piece oan the same day it wis used tae wipe oot wan ae their favourite devils,” Mad Philip quipped, as the baith ae them burst oot laughing, before heiding back up the steps tae the shoap.

5.10.pm.

  Mary Marigold took a seat in front ae Tom Bryce, the crime sub-editor’s desk.  She wis frustrated tae be sitting there as she could hear the buzz and commotion behind her in the crime news section.  Stories wur breaking by the minute and she wanted tae be oot there in amongst it.  It hid been hard work tae get tae where she wis as a journalist.  As a wummin, working in a man’s world, she’d hid tae put up wae a lot ae shit tae prove her credentials.  While she’d never really relaxed aboot her position or taken it fur granted, she felt her position wis secure enough oan the basis ae her output and the quality ae her writing.  She sat waiting impatiently tae hear whit he wanted.

  “Look, Mary, there isnae an easy way tae say this…bit ye’ve being promoted.”

  “Promoted?”

  “Er, aye.  We need a features editor and ye’ve been picked as the best candidate.”

  “Promoted tae being a features editor?  Daeing whit?”

  “Well, that’s the thing.  Ye kin basically choose whit it is that ye want tae write aboot.  Like fashion, fur example.  Ye like yer trendy clobber, don’t ye?”

  “Tom, whit’s gaun oan?” Mary demanded, shocked, tears welling up in they heavily made-up eyes ae hers.

  “Nothing’s gaun oan, Mary.  Why ur aw youse wummin always suspicious when yer worth is recognised, eh?  Upstairs want a section in the paper that’ll appeal tae wummin readers, so they dae, and they thought that a young modern dolly-bird like yersel wid be the ablest person tae deliver that.”

  “Tom, Ah cannae believe this,” Mary exclaimed, mystified by the turn ae events.  “Kin Ah speak tae Hamish?”

  “Mary, Mary-doll...it wis Hamish that took the decision.  He’s in conference wae Lord Frank aw day, wae aw this shooting stuff gaun oan.  The decision’s been made.  Ye’re oot, so ye ur.”