by Ian Todd
“The Mankys?”
“Whit aboot them?”
“You tell me.”
“Look, Tiny, Ah’ve warned ye. Ah’m busy, so either start talking or get walking. Hurry up.”
“Ah’m serious. The last Ah heard, ye’d allowed yer main suspect, Peter Paterson, tae walk fae the Honest John McCaffrey investigation.”
Silence.
“He never walked. He wis wasted,” Jean reminded him.
“Ach, well, whitever. And the rest ae them? Whit ur they up tae jist noo?” he asked, ignoring the bleat.
“Jist the usual, Ah suppose,” she replied, shrugging.
“Ye suppose?”
“It’s Christmas. They’re jist back fae their break.”
“That’ll be a first,” Buster said, lighting up a fag.
“They’d gone tae ground efter their two pals wur done in. Pretty natural thing tae dae in a place like Glesga, if ye’re targeted.”
“And who dae ye think’s targeting them?”
“Is this gonnae go oan aw day? Youse eejits sitting there, questioning us as if we’re a pair ae simpletons?”
“Look, we’re jist trying tae lay the tracks here, so we know whether we’re oan firm ground or no. We might hiv something ae interest…” McCall admitted, before being interrupted.
“Bit, then again…” his partner said, screwing his face intae a semi-frown.
“Jean?” Wilma asked, inviting her tae start aff.
“Well, ye know that Paterson and Johnston goat wasted oan Christmas Eve. Baith funerals hiv been and gone. In between the murders and the funerals, The Mankys appeared tae be laying low, although their wee manky troops wur still active during the festive period, shifting aw sorts ae swag like fags, booze and hash. We’ve heard that there’s a fair amount ae coke circulating in the toon centre at the weekends noo…according tae Charlie Bingham in The Drug Squad, they’re in there somewhere. Last Monday, three armed robbers, wae another wan sitting in a Mark Three Cortina, held up two security guards delivering wages up tae Stobhill Hospital. The boys in The Flying Squad reckon it wis Ben McCallum, Pat McCabe and Simon Epstein that tackled the security guards, before getting away in the car, driven by Baby Huey.”
“Aye, we heard aboot that.”
“Wan ae the security guards goat a fair wee dunt efter hesitating, before his security cash box wis taken. They whacked the poor basturt oan the side ae the knee wae a baseball bat, so they did. Seemingly, he drapped like a sack ae shite. He’ll be walking aboot oan crutches fur a wee while. Goat aff wae jist under eleven grand, so they did.”
“Arrests?” Tiny asked, as Wilma raised a cynical eyebrow. “Ah’ll take that as a naw then.”
“Why ur ye talking tae us and no The Flying Squad? That’s their department. Anyway, although the robbers wur clocked by a few people oan the go at the time, the descriptions provided by them widnae staun up. Everywan across here knows fine well that it wis The Mankys due tae the music blasting oot ae the speakers ae the car they sped aff in. Route 66 by The Stones,” Jean said stony-faced.
“Fuck aff!”
“Ah’m telling ye…get yer kicks oan Route 66, wis blasting aw the way doon Balgrayhill Road at seventy miles an hour, so it wis,” Jean shouted at him, as they aw aboot pissed themsels laughing. “They usually shout ‘It’s a stick-up,’ bit they didnae this time. Seemingly Baby Huey is intae The Stones, big time, so he is.
“Ah heard that there’s a sweep-stake amongst The Flying Squad boys oan who they’ll mange tae shoot first,” Buster mused.
“Aye, well, Ah don’t think any ae them wur carrying shooters up at the hospital. Try explaining that wan tae the internal investigation boys,” Jean sniffed.
“Whit aboot The Hoosewife’s Choice?”
“Honest John McCaffrey? We hid two witnesses that wur prepared tae turn Queen’s Evidence…even signed statements, so they did,” Wilma replied, sobering up, getting everywan back oan track.
“So, whit’s the score there then?”
“They wur the wans that blagged the 250cc red Kawasaki fae the dealer’s shoap oot in Kirkintilloch the day before the shooting, efter delivering it tae Paterson. They also disposed ae it efter the job, by setting it alight. Jean still wants tae hit them wae a conspiracy tae murder charge, seeing as the deal we agreed wae them wis based oan them gaun up oan the stand and gieing evidence against Paterson.”
“And you?” Buster asked Wilma, lighting up another fag.
“If we’re seen tae renege oan a deal, then the next time we try and offer wan up, we’ll be telt tae fuck aff,” Wilma replied, shrugging.
“Well, Ah’m glad ye didnae listen tae her, because we’ve goat a wee interesting hypothesis that youse might want tae consider, and they two talking clocks ae yours might jist come in handy,” the acting inspector announced, scowling across at Jean, as Buster gied her a wee playful skelp oan the heid.
“Ouch!”
“Diddy,” Buster sang, bending o’er and taking some typed sheets oot ae his briefcase as Jean patted her hair back in place and Wilma sat up in her seat.
“Whit we’ve goat here is a list ae names ae some ae that younger McGregor Clan,” Tiny said tae them, looking doon at his copy, before haunin it across tae the inspector.
“So?”
“Recognise any ae them?” Buster asked.
“Ah don’t,” Wilma said, shaking her heid. “Jean?”
“Nope.”
“The name at the tap ae the list? Chic Campbell?” Buster asked again, getting blank stares back.
“Okay, whit aboot him?” Jean asked, the first tae bite.
“He went missing oan Christmas day night, so he did.”
“Holidays?” Wilma suggested, being ignored.
“The second oan the list, Seb Grey?”
“Oh, wis he no the wan that wis set alight across at The Cross?” Jean asked.
“That’s the wan. Him and Campbell ur, wur, inseparable. Ran aboot wae each other since they wur wee ragged-arsed toe rags. The baith ae them worked under Victor Ruth…”
“Who’s married tae Betty McGregor,” Wilma finished fur him.
“Right.”
“Next?” Jean asked, looking up fae the sheet.
“The next two, Danny Wilson and Chazza Hamilton, wur dragged oot ae their fancy Beamer doon in St Vincent Street a week or so before Christmas and knocked fuck oot ae.”
“By The Mankys?” Wilma interrupted.
“There wis a serious assault doon in Union Street a hauf an hour later,” Buster continued, ignoring the question, as he nodded across at their sheets. “Danny Chisum, the next wan doon. Tried tae get away by jumping oot the back escape windae oan a bus doon oan Union Street, before being caught and set-aboot. Wis in The Royal fur a week.”
“Aye, Ah think Ah remember reading aboot that in the Pat Roller column in The Glesga Echo.”
“There wur others. Davie Kidd, fractured Skull ootside The Dial Inn, oan West Regent Street. Hid a pal wae him, Tam Haze, who managed tae get away. Bob Sinclair, or Bob Spot as he’s known, broken nose and hauf his rib cage caved in doon in Jamaica Street. Alistair Thompson, known as Tomboy, another fractured skull and a broken erm. Davie Sheriff, set aboot at a taxi rank doon in Queen Street alang wae Peter Bell, wan ae The McGregors’ cousins. Billy…”
“Aye, well, Ah think we’ve goat the message, Tiny,” Wilma interrupted him.
“So, here’s whit we’re thinking…it’s no aw there, bit ye kin tell us whit youse think,” Buster interrupted, getting the excuse in early.
“We think the come-back fae Wan-bob Broon against The McGregors his awready kicked aff,” The Acting Inspector beamed, as him and his partner sat back, looking as if they’d jist slurped aw the cream.
“Eh?” the two wummin chimed thegither, baith startled.
“Aye, see? Ah knew that wid get yer attention,” Tiny beamed. “We think The Mankys hiv been daeing a clearing up job fur Wan-bob in the toon centre.”
“Fur whit reason
?”
“We believe that Chic Campbell and Seb Grey took oot The Goat…doon in Renfield Lane.”
Silence.
“Dis John Henderson know…Ah mean, hiv youse spoken tae him?” Wilma asked, looking at the pair ae them.
“Er, no as yet.”
“Whit dae ye mean, no as yet? He’s yer boss, in charge ae the bloody murder squad across in the south. He’ll hiv yer hee-haws, if he finds oot that ye’re keeping something like this fae him…even if it dis sound like something oot ae Alice In Wonderland,” Wilma scoffed dismissively.
“Ach, don’t listen tae her. She’s still pissed aff that he insisted we put Teddy Bare up oan a reduced charge, fur murdering that wife ae his, Lesley,” Jean said.
“Teddy? How’s he daeing?” Buster asked.
“Don’t you bloody well start,” Wilma scowled at him.
“Anyway,” Tiny said, interrupting the pleasantries. “Who in their right mind wid hiv a go at The McGregors, even if it is only the young wans? Also, look whit happened tae Victor Ruth and Harry Tinto, fae The Flying Squad? Ye’re no telling me that this is aw jist a coincidence, ur ye?”
“Tiny, Ah’m no telling ye anything,” Wilma reminded him.
“Wan-bob Broon and Charlie Hastie ur up oan a murder rap. While their backs ur turned, The Goat cops his whack. Ye’re no trying tae tell me that widnae warrant a massive come-back, ur ye? Unless…unless ye don’t want tae create waves. When wis the last time that pair ae psychos wur being talked aboot in the papers?”
“Ye’ve obviously no read this morning’s front page in The Echo.”
“Aye, we hiv. It spoke aboot two businessmen. Broon and Hastie wurnae mentioned by name, so they wurnae. We think…believe…that it wis Campbell and Grey that took oot The Goat. We also believe that The Mankys hiv been making a come-back, low level, mind ye, oan behauf ae Wan-bob.”
“Think ae it as a taste ae whit’s tae come,” Buster suggested, smiling.
“It’s obvious that Wan-bob widnae want a war tae break oot while him and Hastie are locked up, plus…”
“There’s yer motive fur two ae The Mankys being wiped oot,” Buster beamed again.
Silence.
Wilma felt as if she’d jist been slapped. Tiny and Buster wur a pair ae likeable chancers, bit they wur good at their job. Her and Jean hid heard that it wis them that wur investigating the lamp post murder victim. Bit The Mankys? Where the fuck hid that wan come fae, she cursed.
“So, ye’re saying that ye believe that it wis The Mankys that toasted…”
“Seb Grey and kidnapped Chic Campbell, noo presumed pan-breid?”
“Ah think ye need tae raise this wae John Henderson…or…or Superintendent Bob Mackerel. Fuck, they’ll crucify ye if this turns oot tae be true and ye hivnae said anything. Hauf the polis in the city ur running aboot o’er here trying tae make a connection between Wan-bob and aw the stiffs that hiv been turning up,” Wilma warned the pair ae them.
“And say whit? Oh, by the way, we’ve goat a wee hunch? As ye’ve jist pointed oot, where’s the evidence?”
“So, whit ur ye efter fae us?”
“Whit we’re efter, is that when youse ur oot and aboot oan yer travels, trying tae track doon who done in Peter Paterson and Snappy Johnston, keep whit we’ve jist telt ye in the back ae yer heids…”
“And under yer hairnets…fur the time being, that is,” Buster interrupted.
“Whit dae you think, Jean?”
“Correct me if Ah’m wrang here, bit ur youse pair suggesting that The Mankys goat shot ae this Grey and Campbell fur blasting The Goat doon in Renfield Lane oan behauf ae Wan-bob, or in retaliation, because it wis Campbell and Grey that goat shot ae Peter Paterson and Snappy Johnson as a comeback fur aw the hidings they’d been dishing oot?”
“Ur ye sure ye don’t want tae retire fur that wee drink roond in The International, Wilma?” Acting Inspector Tiny McCall asked the two shocked faces sitting across fae him, as the bizzies fae the south’s murder squad sat back in their seats, smiling broadly.
“See? Ah telt ye it wid take a while, bit we’d get there in the end,” Buster turned and said tae his boss.
Chapter Twenty
She’d waited until she wis sure that the main body ae those attending the meeting in the Sally Army Hall oan Stirling Road, wur in and seated. She’d joined the few stragglers that hid arrived oan foot or wur running late, due tae parking their cars. She’d been hoping tae sneak in, up the back, withoot being spotted, bit Mrs Purple Arse hersel, who’d goat that big sergeant-at-arms wan tae evict her fae her fancy office doon in The Kremlin, clocked her straight away and gied her a withering, disgusted look. She looked aboot. There wur mair than a few ae the wummin still wearing their uniforms. Probably come straight fae their work at The Royal alang the road, she surmised, lighting up a fag, efter opening her wee lined notepad at a fresh page. Those sitting at the tap table, waiting tae get started, basically mirrored the wans that hid been leading the charge at the last meeting she’d attended in the hall before Christmas, except there wurnae any black African wummin up there wae yellow, green and black flags draped behind them. Insteid, a banner proclaiming that this wis a gathering ae the ‘Justice Fur Rose Bain Campaign Group’ wis spread across the wall behind the heid honchos. It hid been a shite day aw roond and it didnae look as if it wis gonnae be getting better anytime soon either, she’d reminded hersel, looking aboot the smoke-filled room tae see if she recognised anywan.
“Whit the fuck, Sammy, er, Mr Elliot?” she’d yelped groggily, efter being startled awake by his arrival, before everywan else in the Crime Desk office, apart fae the skeletal night crew, hid turned up that morning.
“And where the hell hiv you been since yesterday?” he’d squealed at her accusingly, hinging up his auld dirty raincoat, before scurrying behind that desk ae his.
“Look, Ah’m sorry, Ah hiv tae go and wash ma face and hiv a pee,” she’d replied, leaping up aff the auld, cracked, leather couch in the corner, heidin oot ae his office tae the lavvy.
“And whit hiv Ah bloody well telt ye, Pearl? Too much information,” he’d shouted at her back, as she hauf ran past the two snoring hacks, who wur slumped back in their chairs, wae their erms folded across their chest, snoring contently tae themsels.
“Right, explain yersel,” he’d demanded, glaring impatiently wae they beady eyes ae his, as she dragged the chair fae behind his door across tae the front ae his desk.
“Should that no be ma line?” she’d accused him, no being able tae contain hersel.
“Don’t you sit there and get stroppy wae me, hen. Ah eat wee cheeky hairys like you fur ma breakfast every day ae the week, so Ah dae,” he’d snarled at her. “Where the fuck hiv you been? Ah wis turning the toon upside doon looking fur ye yesterday efternoon and aw last night, so Ah wis.”
“Ah wis trying tae track doon Susan McFarlane before Ah ended up hinging aboot in a pishy smelling car park, alang in Montrose Street until wan o’clock this morning, so Ah wis.”
“Look, furget that shite. We’ve aw been there. You’ll hiv read this morning’s heidline?” The ratty basturt hid the cheek tae ask her, clearly expecting a big gushing accolade.
“Aye. Ah also saw ma name underneath the heidline tae. Whoever wrote that piece ae shit should’ve been sacked oan the spot, so they should’ve.”
“Ah wrote it.”
“Oh, er, right…well, ye hid nae right tae associate the contents wae me.”
“Pearl, ur you jist plain stupid, as well as daft? Ur you really wanting tae be oot ae a job at the end ae this month?”
“The investigation intae Rose Bain’s death his hit the skids? Whit the hell wis aw that aboot? The poor lassie wis bloody run o’er and killed in a deliberate hit-and-run, so she wis,” she’d sniffed indignantly.
“And yer point is?”
“How insensitive kin ye be? Ah’d never hiv written that kind ae shite in a million years, so Ah widnae.”
“Pearl, hen, you’re no
gonnae be writing anything in the next five minutes, never mind a million years, if ye continue tae sit there, pontificating oan how good ye ur tae somewan that’s actually won awards and been a respected journalist fur the past twenty-five years,” he’d growled at her.
“Bit…”
“Naw, no bits. Ah bloody well warned ye tae keep in touch. Ah telt ye Ah wis jist nipping roond tae The Horseshoe Bar tae meet an, er… informer. Ye’ve clearly nae idea how much Ah’ve put masel oot fur you wae they sabre-toothed sharks up there oan the tap flair, and aw ye kin dae is sit there bleating aboot poor you. Where’s the thanks?”
“Thanks?” she’d scoffed, exaggerating her wonder, looking aboot the room tae see if it wis jist her that hid heard right, forgetting who she wis talking tae, folding her erms across her chest, pouting her displeasure across at him, wae wan eye shut tae emphasise her point.
“Aye, bloody well thanks. While you’ve been oot there gallivanting, fannying aboot aw o’er the place, Ah’ve been carrying ye, saving that wee ginger arse ae yours. You’re gonnae hiv tae start bucking up yer ideas, so ye ur, Missy,” he’d ranted. “There’s bloody chaos oot there oan Dirty Street…the corrupt practices ae the wans who’re supposed tae be upholding law and order in this mucky shithole ae a city ur running rampant, and aw you’re bloody concerned aboot, is how a wee bit ae poetic licence might affect yer journalistic reputation…the reputation that ye’ve still tae earn,” the yellow buck-toothed rodent hid hid the cheek tae shout at her. “Noo, listen up, and listen up good. That phone is jist aboot tae start dancing the auld fandango oan that desk ae mine when aw they corrupt basturts oot there finally waken up. Your job is tae keep yer heid doon and oot ae sight. And that means no slinking hame tae yer pit, bit tae get back oan the street tae track doon that Irish Brigade who took advantage ae they poor wee innocent poliswummin. There’s yer glory. That’s the route tae a permanent job in here…even though ye clearly don’t appreciate everything Ah’ve done fur ye. It’s jist as well Ah’ve goat faith in ye, because no other fucker in this building his.”
“Bit…”
“Ur you still here?” he’d snarled, as that black phone ae his jist aboot leapt aff his desk, the outraged shrill jist aboot deafening the pair ae them.
