Kingston Bridge

by Ian Todd

  Chapter Three

  “Aw, fur fuck’s sake! Ah thought Ah telt ye aboot yer speed, Victor?” Phil McGregor cursed, looking behind them, as the inside ae the car lit up wae the flashing blue light coming up fast behind them. “Ye better pull o’er…and mind and keep calm,” the passenger warned, bending o’er intae the foot well ae the car and lifting up the wee Berretta, pushing its snub-nose in, under they baws ae his between his legs, while cutting The Sweet aff in mid-stream, jist as they goat tae the chorus ae ‘Fox Oan The Run.’

  “Evening, sir. Is there a problem?” Victor Ruth asked the sergeant, rolling doon the driver’s windae, as the passenger, hauns resting oan his lap, followed the other bizzy wae they eyes ae his, as he bent o’er and inspected the front left tyre ae the car wae a torch before moving oan tae the front right.

  “Are you aware that your back left light is gone, sir?”

  “Gone?”

  “The bulb.”

  “Oh? Ah checked ma oil before we left, bit never thought ae checking oot the lights.”

  “And where would that be from, sir?”

  “Aviemore.”

  “And this is your car, is it, sir?” The Sarge asked, glancing back alang the dark Baikal blue body ae the shiny 2.8 litre Beamer tae its rear, as a lorry whizzed past them. “A business trip, was it, sir?”

  “Fishing.”

  “Do you have your car licence, sir?” he asked, as his PC partner walked past him tae check oot the back tyre wae that torch ae his.

  “Here ye go,” the driver said, haunin o’er the piece ae paper, efter fumbling in his jaicket fur his wallet, as The Sarge slowly unfolded it, shining the beam oan tae the address.

  “Mr Victor Ruth, 284 Scotland Street, Kinning Park. Would that be you, Mr Ruth?”

  “Aye.”

  “Have you any other ID on you…with that address on it?”

  “Ah’m no sure. Hing oan,” the driver replied, leaning o’er and opening the glove compartment. “Here ye go,” he volunteered, haunin o’er an envelope, as The Sarge shone the torch oan tae the address.

  “Govan District Court?” The Sarge asked, shifting the beam ae the torch slightly tae the left, lighting up the sweaty face looking up at him.

  “Reminding me tae pay aff ma fine…rent arrears.”

  “Petrol? There’s a strong whiff of petrol,” The Sarge remarked, sniffing the cauld air.

  “Aye, Ah topped the tank up masel before we left. We wanted tae get doon the road through the night…tae avoid aw the rush hour traffic in the toon in the morning.

  “Would you mind stepping out of the car please, sir?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to have a look in the boot, if that’s okay, sir?” The Sarge asked politely, taking a step back, as the driver hesitated, before exiting the car, momentarily lighting up the inside ae it, exposing the silent passenger tae the other bizzy who wis lingering oan the grass verge, before the driver shut the door o’er, the faint jangle ae his car keys echoing in the night.

  “Well?” the driver asked him, as The Sarge shone his torch intae the interior ae the boot, finding nothing, apart fae whit appeared tae be a fishing bag and two collapsed rods, wrapped up.

  He stretched his haun intae the boot and gied each rod cover a wee squeeze wae his fingers, before withdrawing and staunin up, satisfied, the stench ae petrol stronger noo.

  “You said that you filled the tank up yourself. Where would the can be now, sir?”

  “Ah topped the tank up, tae make sure that it wis full, tae get us back tae the toon. Ah didnae expect tae come across any garages open at this time ae the night. The can is back at the lodging hoose, so it is,” the driver replied, before adding, “If ye don’t mind, could ye lower that beam. Ye’re hurting ma eyes, so ye ur.”

  “Cunts!” McGregor cursed, as the driver followed the marked Tayside polis car heidin south oan the A9 in the direction ae Perth, as Rod The Mod bleated aboot that auld heart ae his fae the car radio.

  Chapter Four

  “Right, Ah’m aw ears,” Tony Gucci said tae Pearl curtly, staunin facing her in front ae the fancy Victorian marble fireplace, wae his hauns in his pockets, as Simon Epstein crossed his legs, sitting back oan the sofa in Tony and Kim Sui’s flat across in the West End.

  “Er, wid ye no be better sitting doon?” she wondered, as Simon sniggered. “Ah mean, ye’re making me dizzy…and nervous, staunin there, clearly oan the defensive,” she replied, pulling oot a wee notepad fae her bag.

  “Don’t tell me that ye’re gonnae be sitting there writing doon whitever Ah say, ur ye?” Tony smirked, clearly finding her nervousness amusing, still anchored where he wis, ignoring her suggestion tae take the weight aff ae they feet ae his.

  “Naw, naw, it’s jist ma notes…jist in case Ah need tae refer tae them,” she replied, swallowing, feeling as if there wis a gobstopper stuck in the back ae her throat.

  “Right, well, before we start, the answer’s naw. And another thing, if ye want tae speak tae me aboot business, come tae me direct and no through somewan like Johnboy. He’s oot ae the game these days, so he is.”

  “Ah never went via Johnboy,” she protested, looking across at Simon, before turning back tae the Atalian. “Ah jist happened tae mention tae him that Ah wis wanting tae hiv a wee word wae ye aboot something tae dae wae ma work, so Ah did.”

  “Simon?” Tony asked, looking tae trip her up fae the start, efter The Carpet Blagger hid reported back whit Johnboy hid telt him in The University Café across oan Byers Road, jist before they picked up Mister Hopkins, Johnboy’s new adopted cat.

  “Hoi, don’t involve me. Ah’m jist here tae watch Pearl trying, bit failing, tae take advantage ae oor friendship, so Ah am. This’ll be good,” Simon declared, a wide grin spread across that face ae his.

  “See, that’s whit Ah mean, so it is,” Pearl bleated, looking glumly at the pair ae them.

  “Whit?” Simon asked, exaggerating his innocence, as the pair ae them laughed at her discomfort.

  “Look, it might better if Ah come back some other time. It’s clear that Ah won’t be getting anywhere the day, so it is.”

  “Change ae tactic,” Tony acknowledged tae Simon, smirking.

  “Whit is?”

  “You. Look, why don’t ye jist spit it oot?”

  “It’s him,” she pouted, nodding across at Simon.

  “Simon, stoap winding her up or we’ll be here aw bloody day.”

  “So, did Johnboy mention tae ye whit Ah wis wanting tae speak tae ye aboot?” she asked nervously.

  “Ah’ve jist telt ye. People like us don’t pass oan messages,” Tony lied, as Simon continued tae smile oot ae eyeshot ae the curly-haired journalist.

  “Ah need a wee favour.”

  “A wee favour? Whit makes me think this wee favour will be a big wan?”

  “Ah’m telling ye, Tony. Jist tell her naw,” Simon interjected, no being able tae contain himsel. “Stick tae yer guns…as agreed.”

  “Bit…”

  “Simon, shut the fuck up. Right, carry oan, Pearl. Ye wur aboot tae try and con me oot ae something?”

  “As Ah’ve jist said, Ah need a wee favour…access tae somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Look, ye’re awready sounding aw defensive, so ye ur. Ah cannae speak if ye’re gonnae keep using that tone,” Pearl squealed in frustration, as the three ae them burst oot laughing. “It’s him. He’s putting me aff, so he is,” she whined, stabbing the air wae her finger in the direction ae Simon.

  “Wid the pair ae youse fucking settle doon. Ah’m supposed tae be meeting up wae Kim Sui in hauf an hour tae check oot the new digs. Right, either spit it oot or ye’re being evicted. Ah mean it.”

  “Glenda Metcalfe.”

  “Eh?” the baith ae them exclaimed, as expected, eyes narrowing in unison, as Pearl looked at them carefully tae see if their response wis genuine. Satisfied that it wis, she carried oan. “Ah need an interview wae her, so Ah dae…five, maybe ten minutes ma
x.”

  “So, phone up and make an appointment then.”

  “Ah hiv, bit she’s deliberately gieing me a body-swerve, so she is.”

  “Aye, well, Ah know how she feels,” Tony muttered. “Carry oan.”

  “Ah’m working oan a story…”

  “The inspector who murdered that wife ae his?”

  “Aye.”

  “So?”

  “So, it looks like he’s gaun up oan a reduced charge.”

  “Wis that wife ae his no a bizzy as well?” Simon butted in, as Pearl cursed inside, hoping that wee negative aspect widnae come up so soon in the conversation.

  “Er, aye,” she admitted.

  “And?” Tony intervened, sounding irritated, gieing Simon another dirty look fur his interruption.

  “Anyway, unless Ah kin speak tae her, the basturt will walk, so he will.”

  “Naw, he won’t. Even if he dis go up oan a reduced charge, he’ll still dae some time, so he will,” Simon came back at her.

  “Naw, he won’t. Aw they suspended colleagues ae his, his pals, hiv aw been lining up tae gie statements aboot how much ae a slutty cow that wife ae his wis. Also, it’s obvious that they’ve been in there, pulling strings behind the scenes.”

  “Fur example?”

  “Eh?”

  “Ye heard me,” Tony replied.

  “Look, it’s a long story, so it is,” Pearl admitted.

  “Well, hurry the fuck up then,” Tony scowled, looking at his watch again.

  “Right, it aw started back in the early 60s, so it did…” she started, taking a deep breath, flipping back the pages ae her wee lined notepad.

  “So, whit dae ye want fae me then?” Tony asked her, forty five minutes later. “We don’t hiv any influence o’er somewan like her. Fuck, she’s jailed aw us mair times than Ah’ve hid hot dinners o’er the years, so she his.”

  “Graham Portoy.”

  “Aw, fuck aff, Pearl! There’s nae chance, so don’t go there.” Tony growled at her.

  “Ah warned ye, bit ye widnae listen,” Simon sang, no being able tae contain himsel again, as Pearl scowled across at him in frustration.

  “Why, Tony?” she cried, in her best distressed cat’s voice.

  “He’s oor brief, that’s why. Ye don’t ask yer lawyer fur favours, so ye don’t. It’s a business relationship.”

  “Look, it’s me that’s sitting here, no a business associate. Ah’m under a lot ae pressure, so Ah am. Unless Ah kin blow aw they rapist pigs oot ae the water...and soon, Ah’m oot ae a job.”

  “So, blow them oot ae the water then.”

  “Ah cannae. Ah still hiv tae put the key pieces ae the jigsaw thegither intae their right place. Ah need yer help…the baith ae youse,” she pleaded, looking at the two ae them. “And another thing. If Ah dae manage tae take the basturts doon, which Ah will eventually, even withoot yer help, aw the lassies will be aw o’er youse like a rash, so they will.”

  “Whit the hell’s this goat tae dae wae them, fur Christ’s sake?” Tony laughed dismissively.

  “Because, apart fae the fact that Michelle discovered that yer lawyer wis shagging the person that wis keeping Johnboy in jail aw that time, Glenda Metcalfe wis the same wan that wis making sure that the contents ae The Stalker’s notebook wis kept fae the Rose Bain Campaign as well.”

  “So?”

  “So, the same polis that fitted up Johnboy…Daddy Jackson and co, ur the same people that ur wangling oan behauf ae Teddy Bare behind the scenes.”

  “And?” Tony continued.

  “And, everything’s interconnected, so it is. This is jist another nail in the coffin tae get that Irish Brigade, so it is…plus, ye’d be daeing me…and the lassies, a big favour, so ye wid,” Pearl reminded the baith ae them, her heart sinking at the bemused, unconvinced expressions oan the two faces looking at her.

  “Look, don’t take this the wrang way, bit Ah’m sorry, Pearl. Ah’m no prepared tae get involved. We hid enough ae aw that crap wae you lot wae Johnboy’s campaign. We’ve goat enough shite oan oor plates jist noo withoot somewan like you adding tae it.”

  “Please Tony…fur me?”

  “Wid ye jist listen tae her? She’s jist back five minutes, efter gallivanting aw oor the Highlands, upsetting people, and noo she’s back tae dae the same tae us,” Tony scowled across at Simon.

  “Ye’re asking a lot here, Pearl,” Simon said tae her, mair gently this time, shrugging they shoulders ae his.

  “Look, Ah swear, nothing ye say will get back tae anywan…please?”

  Silence.

  “Whit dae ye think, Simon?”

  “Whit dae Ah think? Ah think Pearl here’s taking advantage, so she is.”

  “Aw, fuck aff, Simon,” she squealed. “You know fine well Ah’d dae the same fur youse, if the baw wis oan the other fit, so Ah wid.”

  “Right, this is gonnae cost ye…and Ah mean plenty…”

  “Anything,” Pearl panted, sniffing blood.

  “Graham won’t thank ye fur this,” Simon reminded Tony.

  “Fuck Graham. Right, here’s how it’s gonnae work. Yer wages might come fae The Glesga Echo and that wee ratty-arsed fuckwit doon in Hope Street, bit yer loyalty is tae us,” he scowled.

  “Eh…oh, er…”

  “Aw that means is, if we want tae sling oot a few wee juicy, compromising stories noo and again, involving competitors, then we’ll come tae you,” Simon purred smoothly.

  “Oh, bit…”

  “Plus, we’ll nae doubt be able tae help ye oot wae some savoury wee ditties every noo and again that ye kin take advantage ae. It won’t aw be wan sided,” Simon continued reassuringly.

  “Look, as Simon’s jist said, nothing we come tae you aboot wid ever compromise yer position wae the paper. It’ll probably be jist low key stuff…in times ae emergency, bit ye’ll need tae agree tae help us oot, if and when required.”

  “Take it or leave it,” Simon added.

  “Also, if ye’re ever approached…by other people, ye tell them tae fuck aff, so ye dae. We’ll also expect ye tae report any approach, fae whoever, back tae us straight away.”

  “Approach…ye mean fae people like youse?”

  Silence.

  “It’s a deal,” she panted, smiling and no being able tae hide her excitement.

  “Also, irrespective ae the ootcome ae whit Graham comes back wae, ye’ll still help us oot fae here oan in. Ye cannae back oot wance Ah’ve spoken tae Graham.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if Graham tells me tae fuck aff, which is highly likely, oor wee agreement still stauns, so it dis.”

  “Fine.”

  “This is between us three. Nowan his tae know aboot anything we’ve spoken aboot jist noo or in the future…especially the other lassies,” Simon reminded her.

  “And while ye’re here, Pearl, keep oot ae whit’s gaun oan between Johnboy and Senga…things ur complicated enough between them withoot you messing aboot in there, stirring things up.”

  “Me? Bit Ah’m no...okay, fine,” she said, looking at the pair ae them. “Ah get the message. Noo, which wan ae youse handsome hunks is gieing me a lift doon tae Hope Street,” she asked, smiling, putting her wee notepad back intae her bag and staunin up.

  Chapter Five

  “Nice morning if ye’re an Eskimo,” Chief Superintendent Bob Mackerel sniffed tae the faces who’d aw turned and dazzled him wae their torches, looking tae see who the newcomer wis, as he straightened up efter entering the white tent. “So, ur we ready tae start the dig?”

  “Th…th…that’s aw th…th…the lights noo,” the sparky wae the bad stutter announced fae his perch oan the tap ae the step ladder that wis sitting precariously oan the marble gravestone that wis lying oan its side, ae wan William Tell, the sixty six year auld beloved husband ae Sasha, who’d passed away oan the 18th ae January, back in January 1973, as eight flood lamps suddenly lit up simultaneously and everywan automatically lifted their hauns tae shield their eyes fae the glar
e.

  “Oan ye go, son,” Sergeant Skanky Smith said, nodding tae the mini digger driver, who wis sitting there, wae a determined look plastered across his kisser, wan haun gripping oan the bucket lever, the other impatiently fingering the ignition key, imitating Jim Clark’s determined steely look at the start ae the F1 World Championship season back in 1965.

  “Fucking hell!” Skanky shouted, his hasty retreat tae the tent flap blocked, as everywan raced ootside intae the cauld, as the engine coughed intae life and the exhaust pipe shat oot a jetstream ae thick, black diesel smoke fae its arse.

  “Ah think we’re gonnae need some vents in there,” Skanky said in way ae an apology ootside, as the braids stoapped coughing and stood back and watched the dark ootline shadow ae the digger driver sitting oan tap ae the machine, through the wall ae the tent, letting loose wae the teeth ae the bucket intae the solid soil.

  “And who the fuck ur you?” The Super turned and asked the wee guy wae the Hitler moustache, in the trench coat and 1940s trilby hat, staunin there looking like a spare prick at a nun’s wedding, a clipboard and pencil clutched in baith ae they hauns ae his.

  “Er, Ah’m Mr Bogieman, The Corporation’s…er, Strathclyde’s Cemetery Supervisor fur the North ae the city, sir. Lambhill’s wan ae mine,” Adolf screeched at the tap ae his voice while clicking they heels ae his thegither, above the sound ae the digger’s revving diesel engine letting rip.

  “So, how long dae ye reckon it’ll take tae reach the coffin then?”

  “It aw depends, sir. The ground’s frozen o’er, so it is. That’s why we brought in the mechanical digger. There’s no way a shovel and pick wid’ve went doon through that.”

  “So?”

  “Er, so whit, sir?”

  “Ur we talking an hour…hauf a morning?”

  “Oh er, a couple ae hours, at least. We’ll need tae be careful no tae cause any damage tae Mr Tell’s casket. It’s private property, so it is,” he reminded the Chief Superintendent. “Mrs Tell’s threatening legal action if anything’s disturbed that’s no supposed tae be,” Adolph screamed. “Her maw and da ur doon there as well, so they ur.”