by Mark Newman
Police described Arthur William Baxter as a loving family man, a husband, and father to three sons. Friends of the family described him as a true gentleman, a local fisherman of nearly fifty years. One man, who asked not to be identified, said; ‘Arthur didn’t have a bad word to say about anybody, he was the archetypal, jovial Geordie who liked a pint and a bet on the horses and followed his beloved Newcastle United come rain or shine. His tragic death makes no sense whatsoever.’
Police have launched a murder enquiry and are appealing for witnesses to come forward.
North East Regional Crime Correspondent Lindsey Gaskin
Baxter put down the paper. Despite everything, he’d failed. Callaghan had gone after his family, he’d taken out a defenceless old man, and he wouldn’t stop there. Baxter had to get to him before he went after his brothers and their families; he had to warn his mam and get her to a place of safety.
His mind was made up, what choice did he have but to go after Sean Callaghan? He’d have to risk the wrath of Gerry Callaghan, but that could wait. Maybe if he could see how out of control his younger cousin was, he might see reason. Come what may, Sean Callaghan was a dead man. Gerry Callaghan could sanction it or he could choose not to.
That just left Malkie Thompson, the trail had gone cold. He’d gone to ground but Baxter still had a few lines of enquiry to follow up.
Chapter 15
Sean Callaghan sat in his sunken bath smoking a Cuban cigar; he’d sent Baxter a message, one he wouldn’t forget. Now he’d reset the clock. In another twenty-four hours, either he’d get two instalments, plus the interest for the inconvenience caused, or Baxter’s youngest brother was going for a swim. He laughed out loud at the prospect, he thought it would be good if he didn’t make the deadline, he’d gotten a taste for stalking and killing and wasn’t in any rush for it to stop.
Chapter 16
Thompson got word that Billy Kane had received a visitor, one who had hospitalised him, almost scalded his damned feet right off. Some Englishman, a Sassenach who had come north of the border poking his nose in where he shouldn’t. Malkie already knew his identity, Baxter, McAlister’s Geordie contact. The same one who’d put him on to Blake and Edwards, useless pricks they turned out to be.
The fallout from McAlister’s death was making life awkward. Neither Malkie nor his crew could move without Kennedy’s mob in pursuit. Glasgow was fast becoming a no go area. Malkie was beginning to feel like a leper in his own city. The word was out, people were genuinely scared, doors were closing as far afield as Edinburgh. They were being systematically squeezed out. He considered his next move. It wasn’t safe to stay in the city any longer.
Kennedy had issued a separate contract for each of them. Holed up by day, they dared only move under the cover of nightfall; even then they ran the risk of being picked up by Kennedy’s roaming street enforcers.
The price on Malkie’s head was ten grand, Frank and George equal at five grand apiece. Billy Kane a mere two grand. Malkie had a choice, he could either take Kennedy on, go head to head, or he could run.
That still left the other problem unresolved, what to do with Baxter? He was an outsider, a freelance contractor, should he disappear he wouldn’t be missed. Malkie just had to figure out how to get to him. Then there was Billy Kane; Malkie couldn’t be sure what information he’d given Baxter, had he ratted him out? They had a shared history; that had to count for something. The question was could he take the risk?
Billy had managed to drag himself on his elbows and forearms from his house out into the street. A passing taxi driver had slowed, hesitating before deciding whether or not to play the Good Samaritan. His Christian morals had won out over common sense as he’d bundled Billy into the cab and driven him to the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. The A&E doctors had assessed him, patching him up as best they could and decided there and then to keep him in for observation, despite his protestations.
Whatever happened, Malkie couldn’t risk leaving Billy behind. Kennedy would be looking for any opportunity to pick them off. Going for the weakest link made perfect sense, it’s what he’d do; break the link then move on to the next.
He expected Kennedy to have ordered round the clock surveillance of the infirmary. Maybe he’d even be putting in a personal appearance once he knew Billy was on Ward forty-five. That left the remainder of his crew free to scout the city and the estates, keeping their eyes and ears to the ground for any news.
There was no other option; they had to get to Billy before Kennedy did.
Frank entered the hospital through the fire door and made his way to the burns unit.
He ascended two-flights of stairs and entered Ward forty-five, stopping at the reception to speak with the staff nurse. Although it was out of hours, Frank managed to charm his way in, claiming to be Billy’s older brother.
Billy was sleeping soundly, doped up to the eyeballs on morphine to combat the pain. His feet were wrapped in a yard of bandages and gauze, the rest of him, from what he could see, looked untouched, except for a couple of scratches, and some light bruising to the face, nothing major. Frank went to his bedside and plonked himself down in the chair. He told the nurse he’d just sit there for a while to see if Billy woke, but he wouldn’t disturb him otherwise.
As soon as the nurse left the room, Frank placed his hand over Billy’s mouth, he slapped him hard around the face trying to rouse him. His eyes opened, his vision foggy and glazed. ‘Billy, you hear me? It’s Frank; getting you out of here, need you to work with me. You listening?’
Billy tried to answer, his words nothing more than a slur. ‘Ye…Fra..’
‘Kennedy’s boys are on the way. We don’t move you’re as good as dead. Can you move?’
Billy tried to answer; he couldn’t form the words, the effects of the morphine too strong for conversation. He tried to move his head side to side to indicate his answer was No. His eyes closed as he lost consciousness.
Frank slapped him again, once across each cheek to bring him back round. ‘Stay with me, Billy.’ He looked around the single occupancy room, his eye caught a vacant wheelchair lying idle in the corridor, all he had to do was get him to the chair. Frank left the bedside and moved to the door, checked for the duty nurse, the ward was quiet, he made his move, grabbed the chair and wheeled it back in to the room. He unhooked Billy from his drip feed and bundled him in to the chair.
‘We get stopped, I’m taking you for a piss, got that?’
Billy’s pain receptors were alive and burning, the movement from the bed to the chair jarring his tender wounds. His eyes ablaze. He pointed to the plastic urinal under the bed and cleared his throat. ‘They make me piss in that.’
Frank rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing’s ever simple. So we tell them you need me to wipe your arse, okay?’
Frank wheeled Billy down the corridor towards the male toilets. Out of sight of the ward reception, he made for the lift, jabbing two fingers in to the call button. The screeching of the hydraulics and cables, in need of oiling, kicked in. Frank kept watch; his eyes darting left and right. The corridor was clear. ‘So what did you tell the Sassenach, Billy?’
Billy swallowed hard, his eyes wide and fearful. His answer slow and deliberate, careful not to slur his words. ‘Nothing, Frank, I swear. Why I’m here, wouldn’t talk, he burnt me.’
Frank looked down at Billy, nodding his head. ‘Save it for Malkie.’
The lift arrived, Frank wheeled Billy’s chair straight in and stood with both hands on the handles, ready to make a dash for the door.
Kennedy and two of his boys entered the ground floor main reception, flowers in hand, asking for Billy Kane.
The receptionist tried explaining that visiting hours had long since passed, but Kennedy wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘Listen, darling, I’m here to see my wee, baby brother, he’s had a nasty accident, you’re not gonna send me packing, not when I’ve come all this way?’
The receptionist sighed and repeated the standard response. ‘As I�
��ve already tried to explain to you, sir, visiting is only up until eight-thirty pm, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow. You can visit from one-thirty pm onwards.’
The lift pinged, announcing its arrival on the ground floor.
Kennedy casually glanced over his shoulder; the lift was empty, save for an abandoned wheelchair. He looked back to the nurse, then flipped his head back double-taking the empty lift chamber. ‘Save it, darling, another time. Garvey, Henderson, with me now.’
Kennedy ran towards the lift doors. ‘Take the stairs, check the lower floor, basement, and car-park, bastard’s down there somewhere.’
Chapter 17
Baxter watched, secreted in the shadows of the supermarket’s recessed doorway as the last of Callaghan’s entourage exited the site, padlocking the steel shuttered gates behind them. He was alone and boxed in, there wouldn’t be a better chance, it had to be now. From his position across the street, he could see light filtering through from the back office that doubled as an apartment. He was the last person Callaghan would be expecting at this hour; even then, he’d be thinking that he was coming to honour his debt.
He watched as the taillights disappeared over the brow of the hill at the end of the street. Now it could begin.
He returned to his Volvo 240, retrieved a fresh unopened pack of white paper coveralls, a new pair of gloves, and elasticated shoe covers. He was almost ready. He took hold of his Sig Sauer 9mm, placing it in the top of his kitbag and made his way towards the steel gates.
Baxter checked the street for civilians, he glanced up at the CCTV cameras mounted on the lampposts, unconcerned, knowing them to be purely aesthetic. Callaghan would never risk his movements being documented. The cables had been severed months ago, ongoing cut backs to the council budget ensured they were never going to be repaired.
He took out his bolt cutters, the jaws snapping through the chain on the first attempt. He pushed the gate open and advanced towards the metal stairwell, thirteen steps separating him from the porta-cabin entrance.
He entered the reception room, greeted by the residual noise of a lone TV, emanating from the back room, where the light was filtering from. Callaghan was out back, meaning he’d be relaxed, which was good, he’d maintain the element of surprise. He proceeded to the connecting door that led into the apartment, pushed down on the handle, and eased the door open. Behind him, he heard the flush of a toilet. He spun round, looking for a place to hide. Callaghan entered the room, cursing under his breath. Baxter swung forward, his telescopic cosh smashing in to the side of Callaghan’s skull. The force of the impact sent him crashing against the grey, metal filing cabinet. Callaghan was dazed but still conscious. Instinctively, he raised a protective hand to the side of his head. Pulling it away, he could see it was covered in his own blood. The force of the blow splitting his ear open, the stinging sensation lighting up the side of his face.
‘Fucker…this how you repay your debt?’
Baxter stood silent, trying to calm himself. He wanted to let loose, to give in to the urge to take out the Sig 9mm and empty the chamber into Callaghan’s face.
‘What, you got nothing to say, Baxter, you lost your mind?’
He answered by smashing the cosh full pelt in to Callaghan’s mouth, taking out the top three front teeth and shattering the bottom row, the force knocking him to the floor.
Baxter stepped forward, the cosh held loose in his grip. He wanted to finish it, but willed himself to restrain. ‘Get up.’
Callaghan cupped his right hand to his jaw, trying anything to alleviate the pain. ‘You’re finished, Baxter. I’ll see to it personally’
Baxter hit him again; he swung the cosh crunching it in to the kneecaps. Callaghan, went down, clawing his way in to the shadows, but they offered no protection. Baxter pursued, bringing the cosh down hard against Callaghan’s shoulders, working his way down the spine, inflicting maximum damage. He kicked him over onto his side so he could target the ribcage, the cosh fracturing and splintering two at a time. He continued, lost in the rage of bereavement.
External noise from the yard down below cut through his rhythm. He went to the window and peered out through the slats in the venetian blinds. Two vehicles cut their engines, and then he heard the sound of boots on the metal staircase.
Callaghan rallied; he spat blood, managing to raise his head from the floor. ‘Now you’re fucked.’
The outer door swung open, Baxter turned to face the threat, his grip tightening on the cosh.
Gerry Callaghan’s bulk filled the doorway; he entered the room, followed by two minders, their weapons drawn. He ignored Baxter and walked over to Sean’s beaten carcass, observing the damage already inflicted. Then he moved to Baxter, his white coveralls bloodstained, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked him up and down, assessing the potential adversary, a mental note for the future. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
Baxter remained stationary and kept his grip tight. Whatever was about to go down he was ready.
Gerry Callaghan signalled for the minders to enter the cabin and close the door. Baxter breathed deep, in through the mouth, out through the nose, widening his stance, anticipating the attack.
‘Relax, they’re not here for you.’
Baxter held his position.
The smaller of the two minders stepped forward, holstered his weapon, and offered an envelope towards Baxter. Gerry Callaghan put it in context. ‘For your trouble.’
Baxter stared at the outstretched hand, not daring to reach out and snatch the envelope. Gerry Callaghan took it from the minder and thrust it into Baxter’s chest. ‘Take it…can see you need it. I understand your reluctance. Think I’m trying to buy you off. Maybe I am. Either way, I need to know when you step out of here that we’re good. If it makes you feel better donate it to charity.’
Gerry Callaghan stuffed the envelope in to the front of Baxter’s bloodstained coveralls then gave the signal for the minders to retrieve Sean from the floor. ‘Family sorts family, Mr. Baxter… I’m sorry for your loss.’
Baxter made his way back down the metal staircase, across the yard and out on to the street. Reaching his Volvo, he changed out of his coveralls and slipped them into a bin liner ready for the incinerator. He looked back up at the porta-cabin window, the light flickered then dimmed. Family sorts family.
Inside the car, he placed the brown A4 envelope on the passenger seat. Should he open it or not? Now wasn’t the time. He just wanted to put some distance between himself and the Callaghans. He gunned the engine of the Volvo 240, his destination unknown.
Chapter 18
Malkie stood on the balcony of the high-rise safe house and lit a cigarette; he inhaled deeply and looked out over the city. He’d spent his whole life in Glasgow and for what, to end up living like some sewer rat? That wasn’t his way. He couldn’t take them all on and win. Like a good general, he had to know which battles to stand and fight and when to call a tactical retreat.
They were locked down, Glasgow a no-go area and the McHughs wouldn’t be offering the keys to the city of Edinburgh any time soon. To the northeast lay Aberdeen, too cold even for his Glasgow bones. So the decision was made, they were due south, over the border. It was time the English were acquainted with the name of Malkie Thompson.
He took a long pull on his cigarette and held it deep in his lungs. Whatever he did, it was still there, like a rash under the skin, just waiting to be scratched. He’d tried telling himself it was paranoia, it didn’t change the facts. His gut instinct told him Billy had talked. Ratted them out. One way or another, he’d hear it from Billy’s own mouth. Bonded or not, the truth would out, he’d be in for the kill.
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