by Mark Newman
Baxter brought the car to a stop adjacent to the call box, applied the handbrake, and sat watching the deserted street, leaving the engine idling. He scanned the immediate area, looking front and rear, checking both wing mirrors and then checking his rear view mirror one last time. It was empty, devoid of human life.
Perhaps he was being over cautious. He wasn’t the target. He’d only seen two cars on the way over, the first a gold private hire Ford Granada Ghia taking revellers home from a night on the town, the other a clapped out white Leyland Mini, it’s rear suspension gone, the rusted back wheel arches sitting dangerously close to the top of the tyres. Neither had given him a second look. There was no tail car hanging back monitoring his progress.
If they wanted him dead, they’d have laid in wait at McAlister’s. He was the cleaner, not a contract killer, he posed no immediate threat. The bodies had been left in situ awaiting his arrival. Over the years, since he’d left the job, he’d worked for many of the different organisations, north, and south of the border. He had no particular allegiance or personal preference as to whom he worked for. Baxter did it for the money, plain and simple.
The killer wasn’t trying to dispose of either of the bodies or cover his tracks in anyway. It was a hit, revenge, or retribution. It didn’t matter; the end result was the same, murder, a gangland execution. Ian McAlister, the strong arm of Glasgow, was no more; some might call it poetic justice or that he’d had it coming for a long time. It could have been down to any number of rivals, McAlister had made many enemies over the years.
Then there were his unsavoury soirees; someone could’ve caught up with him. A relative out for vengeance or even a client who wanted him silenced. Did McAlister keep records, photographs, or videotapes of his guests who attended his private gatherings? There were plenty who had the motive to go after him. The burning question was how many would see it through?
Taking out McAlister would have seismic repercussions. His territory stretched beyond Glasgow towards Edinburgh. There’d be those, namely the McHughs, looking to consolidate their business interests now that he was out of the picture. The more he thought about it, the more questions it raised. None of it really mattered, whatever the reasons, Baxter had to get to the money. The rest of it was a distraction. He’d let the Scots fight it out between themselves. He had to get back across the border, back down to Newcastle, to Callaghan. The clock was ticking and there was no doubt in his mind that Callaghan would honour his promise to do damage to those closest to him if he failed to deliver on time.
He checked the street one final time. The last thing he wanted now was to get in to a confrontation with the local yahoos looking to a pick a fight with a stranger in the wee small hours. He alighted the Volvo, noting that he’d seen similar looking places scattered across the north east of England. The estate reminded him of much of South Shields, but even in the low light, he knew this was far worse.
In the near distance, he could hear an almighty commotion, as though two alley cats were fighting it out. What sounded like a metal bin lid clattered to the floor. He spun round three hundred and sixty degrees following the noise. His eyes fixed on the graffiti scrawled on the wall outside the dental surgery. It read: Welcome to Plean Street home to the drunk the damned the dank and the dour, it seemed that gallows humour made it across the border.
Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, he made his way around the car to the red telephone box and swung the door open, the creak loud enough to wake the dead. The stench of urine greeted him. He caught a lungful of it, making him retch. Baxter was sure there was a law about taking a piss in phone box even in Scotland. Looking on the bright side, the handset was still in one piece. He wedged the door open with his foot, attempting to dilute the heady aroma; removed the handset from the cradle, wiped it, and listened for a dialling tone. It was working. He punched in the number from memory and waited for the call to connect.
On the fourth ring, a gruff voice, the owner’s vocal cords strangulated and parched of water answered. ‘Yeah?’
Baxter inserted the first of his ten pence pieces and waited in silence.
‘Who is this… you any idea what time it is?’
Baxter gave him the code, the one he’d agreed with McAlister to be used should events take a turn for the worse. ‘Switchblade.’ He hung up the phone and waited for the call back. He counted in his head, one, two, three; he got up to ten seconds, eleven, twelve, still nothing, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen seconds, he was beginning to wonder if McAlister had actually passed on the code to his most trusted confidant.
Twenty-three seconds passed before the payphone began to ring, Baxter picked it up, this time he spoke. ‘Took your time.’
The caller broke in to full rant. ‘Who the fu...?’
Baxter cut him short. ‘You got twenty minutes. The dental practice on Plean Street. Be there.’ He terminated the call and left the phone box. He made his way back to the car knowing full well the caller wouldn’t make it to the destination on time.
Kennedy pulled on his jeans and moved through to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Switchblade, what the fuck?
His girlfriend, Lorna, came in, unsteady on her feet. Sleep still winning out over full consciousness. On autopilot she placed the toilet seat down and plonked herself down to urinate. ‘Why you up so early, it’s the middle of the night?’
‘Gotta go check on something. Back before you know it. Go on back to bed now.’ Like an obedient sleepwalker, she got up from the toilet, wiped herself, and pushed down on the handle to flush. Kennedy followed her from the bathroom, slapping her naked arse as she thudded back to the bedroom.
Baxter drove on to Kennedy’s home address. He pulled up on the opposite side of the road, giving himself a one hundred and eighty degree view of the front row of terraces. He watched Kennedy leave by the front door, noting that he was unarmed. Kennedy looked jittery, checking the street left and right three times before making for his car parked five houses down from his own front door. Baxter slunk down low in the front seat of his Volvo 240 to avoid detection. Kennedy jogged to his Audi Quattro and sped off in the direction of McAlister’s. Despite the risk, he was going to check it out for himself. Just as Baxter had predicted, he had to see it for himself; he had to be sure.
Baxter set his watch and waited a further five minutes before getting out of the car. He needed the house to be sleeping, he couldn’t be sure how many occupants he was likely to encounter. He wasn’t looking for a confrontation; he needed answers, information, something to go on, not a firefight.
He headed straight for the front door. The lock was easy enough to pick, he gained entry within twenty seconds. The door opened with a whine; he grimaced at the sound, waiting for a light to illuminate the upstairs or a voice to call out into the darkness. The house had the smell of the night before, curry, beer and the lingering after smell of marijuana.
Baxter stood silent, listening for any telltale signs of movement from the upstairs. He counted to thirty before making his way down the hall towards the internal door, which he guessed led on to a back room or kitchen. The smell of curry increased as he neared the door, his theory confirmed. He closed the door behind him, and felt along each side of the doorframe trying to locate the light switch; he found it protruding from the rough plaster at chest height six inches in, away from the frame.
He flicked the switch and blinked several times, letting his eyes adjust to the strip lighting as it flickered and buzzed four times before illuminating fully. He looked around; a well-used large saucepan stained yellow and tan housing the remnants of the chicken curry sat prominently on the stove. He scanned the area, making a mental note of everything in the place, discarded beer cans and two cheap, supermarket own brand empty white wine bottles populating the honey coloured pine table. Alongside it, a saucer doubling as a makeshift ashtray overflowing with roaches. Baxter picked one up and held it to his nose; he recognised it as Moroccan Black
Leb, or at least a derivative of it, potent stuff. That went some way to explaining Kennedy’s confused state when he’d answered the phone.
He carried out a rudimentary fingertip search, checking cupboards, drawers, and along the top of the units, he found nothing. Shit. What had he expected a Tesco’s’ plastic bag full of used notes or a stash of Class A that he could sell on?
He could have been standing in any house on any sink estate, but this was the home of Neil Kennedy, Ian McAlister’s quartermaster. The man with access to the money, the drugs, and the armoury, he wasn’t stupid enough to use his own home as a storage facility. Baxter knocked the light off and took up position sitting behind the pine table. He placed the Sig Sauer 9mm on the table in front of him; closed his eyes, and waited.
Forty-two minutes later, Kennedy returned home, the sound of his key connecting with the Yale lock alerting Baxter to his presence. He picked up the gun and aimed it towards the door.
Kennedy barged through the kitchen door, flicking the light switch as he entered, proceeding in to the darkness towards the refrigerator. He needed a drink, the image of McAlister’s corpse still fresh in his mind. He didn’t have to guess too hard at who was responsible. He cursed McAlister for his stupidity. He always said he’d given him way too much leeway from the get go, and now he was lying there dead, two gunshots to the chest. But that wasn’t all; the killer had left his calling card, the pliers.
He opened a can of McEwan’s Export, downing three-quarters of it before taking a breath. He took another greedy hit.
Baxter, his Sig Sauer trained on the centre of Kennedy’s torso, announced his presence. ‘Thirsty work.’
Kennedy choked on the last remaining mouthful, spraying the refrigerator with a mixture of saliva and second-hand beer. He dropped the can to the floor and wiped at his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. His eyes furtively checking out the kitchen for any potential weapon within easy reach.
Baxter anticipated his thoughts. ‘You’ve got the cutlery drawer to your right; the chopping knife with the red handle would be your best choice. But you still need to reach round, pull the drawer open, reach in, grab it, then turn and throw. Even if you’re a great shot, which I doubt, I still have more than enough time to shoot three rounds in to you. One would be enough, but I like to be sure, just to be safe. Or you could go for the pan, lob it in my direction, who knows, you could get lucky, a decent strike straight between the eyes might be enough to knock me out. Then maybe you’ve got a chance’
Kennedy stood, his adrenalin pumping, his chest heaving up and down, considering his options. ‘Who the fu…?’
Baxter sat, waiting with an amused look on his face. His 9mm casually poised, ready for any sudden moves. ‘So, here’s how I see things. Somebody got to your boss, that’s too bad, sorry for your loss. Makes no difference to me though. I came to do a job, take out the trash. Pick up and disposal is how McAlister phrased it. I’m taking it he wasn’t referring to himself. So I’m guessing the potential victim had other ideas, tell me if I’m right or if I’m way off target here.’
‘You’re a fucking dead man, is what you are.’
Baxter laughed. ‘Even now, staring down the barrel of a gun, you’ve still got time to be making threats, God love you.’
‘Go fuck yourself, English.’
Baxter scraped the chair back across the floor tiles and stood up, moving towards Kennedy at speed, his gun held steady at waist level, ready to shoot him in the gut if he made one wrong move. He stopped, leaving just two paces separating them. ‘I don’t think you’re understanding the situation. Your boss woke me in the middle of the night. I[DA4] don’t sleep well at the best of times, makes me grouchy and pissed off. It’s been a long drive. All I want is my money, then I’m out of here. Easy.’
Kennedy sneered, relaxing a little, leaning his weight back against the base unit. ‘Money, there’s no money for you, Sassenach. You’ve done nowt.’
Baxter kept the 9mm level, snapped his leg forward; a clean shot catching Kennedy in the groin, he doubled over, blowing the air from his cheeks. ‘Bastard, you’ll regret that.’
‘Why don’t we try that again. Now the fact McAlister’s no longer amongst the living isn’t my concern. Doesn’t change a thing, I’ve invested my time, jeopardised my liberty and wasted time having to track you down to this shit hole. So whatever way you look at it, you still owe me.’
Kennedy clenched his teeth. ‘I don’t have your money, he’s got it.’
Baxter narrowed his eyes. ‘And who might he be.’
‘Kennedy laughed, ‘what, you don’t know, Mr Former Investigator, well let’s just say the guy who killed McAlister is the one and same who offed your two pals.’
Baxter raised the gun; taking a step closer he pressed it hard in to Kennedy’s jaw. ‘Why don’t you enlighten me before I decide to put a bullet in you right here.’
Kennedy struggled to move his jaw against the pressure of the 9mm, his words coming out in a garbled slur. ‘Malkie Thompson.’
Baxter relieved the pressure on the Sig Sauer. ‘Who?’
‘Thompson. McAlister’s boy wonder, that’s who you were coming to collect. He’s the one you want, that’s who made it out of there with your money. Find Thompson, you get your money.’
Baxter processed the information. He’d heard rumours about Thompson, a ruthless little bastard who had made a name for himself while serving time in Barlinnie. McAlister had taken him on initially as extra muscle, but he’d risen through the ranks quick enough, too quick for some. Particularly those like Kennedy who’d invested their youth and future with McAlister.
Baxter took a step back, keeping the 9mm aimed at Kennedy’s gut. ‘Why don’t you start with Blake and Williams?’
‘Aye. I see it now; this is all news to you. Well see now, Thompson offed your pals at the depot and fled with the cash. We were sent to bring him in, limber him up a wee bit for McAlister. He tried to bullshit his way out of it, said the job had gone to shit, and that all he did was clean up the mess. Convenient eh?’
‘So what happened?’
‘He took a beating, mouthy bastard right to the end. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up. I had to stick a rag down his gullet to quiet him.’
‘And?’
‘And what? I already told you, we were just the warm up act. McAlister took the pliers to his fingers, one by one. But Thompson wouldn’t give it up. Granted, that’s one stubborn bastard. If I’d had my way we’d have finished it there tonight. But McAlister knew best, sent him on his way with Johnston, who knows where the fuck he is now eh? Dead and buried I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘As soon as Thompson was out the door, McAlister called you, sent me home.’
‘Why not stay. Surely he’d want you around, you’re his right hand?’
‘No way that was happening. McAlister knew how I felt about Thompson. If I’d been there, I’d have been tearing him limb from limb. See, I never took to the scrawny wee shite. He started worming his way in from the beginning. He made sure two of my pals, good guys who had worked with us a few years; well Thompson planted the seed of doubt in McAlister’s mind. Said they were skimming the takings. That they bragged about it behind his back and made him a laughing stock. So McAlister gave in. Thompson had the green light – they disappeared.’
Baxter narrowed his eyes. ‘Had you been there tonight, you’d be dead.’
‘Fuck that, I’d have gutted the bastard before he could make a move.’
‘Where do I find this Thompson?’
Kennedy jutted his head forward, raised his finger, a prodding motion towards Baxter. ‘He’s mine, this is local business. You’d be wise to get your English arse back over the border and maybe I might just forget about our meeting here tonight.’
Baxter whacked the Sig Sauer into the side of Kennedy’s head. ‘You’re not listening, Kennedy; I’m getting paid whatever happens here tonight, got that? Going home empty handed isn’t
an option.’
Without warning, Kennedy slammed his weight forward, taking Baxter off balance, knocking the 9mm from his grip. Kennedy lurched for the saucepan, swung it round in a wild arc, catching Baxter side on, the pan connecting with his lower jaw and neck, rattling a few teeth in the process. For a moment, his vision blurred, turning to blackness punctuated with small rivulets of light. He shook his head, opening his eyes in time to see the saucepan crashing down on him in a two-handed attack. He raised his forearm in defence, countering with a snap kick, hoping to find his target. He heard Kennedy’s yelp and felt him flinch; he’d caught him in the kneecap, dislocating it and crunching into the cartilage. Kennedy slumped to the floor.
Baxter retrieved his Sig Sauer 9mm from the kitchen floor, wiping the curry from it with his hand, flicking it off back on to the floor. ‘Maybe it’s time we asked your girlfriend about Thompson, bet she knows where to begin.’ He advanced towards the kitchen door, leaving Kennedy writhing in pain. ‘Time she found out a few home truths about McAlister’s little get togethers, and just how much you like to partake.’
Kennedy, his face blotchy, both hands clutching at his ruined knee. ‘Go anywhere near my woman, I’ll slice you up and feed you to the dogs, I promise you that.’
Baxter, his hand resting on the door handle. ‘You got one chance, and then I’m bringing her down. I’ll put a bullet in each of her knees for starters, just so she can feel your pain, we can go from there.’
Kennedy spat the words out, saliva running from his chin. ‘Billy Kane, find him, you’ll get to Thompson.’
‘Who’s this Kane?’
Kennedy tried pulling himself up, he slid across the curry stained floor, managing to prop himself up against the kitchen cupboard, wedging his back in place to sit upright, two-handed grip comforting his shattered kneecap.
