Random

by Craig Robertson

  I stayed ten and twenty feet back. I watched.

  He was maybe five foot six, with short, spiky hair, weighing twelve stone or so. He turned a couple of times and I caught a bashed face that looked as if it had been in the wars. He looked like a dog with a bad temper.

  He cut a path back up Sauchiehall Street. He had a strange confidence for such a wee guy. No fears. His strut reminded me of Carr. Little men, big egos, yet completely different.

  I didn’t have time to think about Carr. This man was in front of me now. I might never see him again. The time was here and now. However risky, however long it took. If the chance came it would have to be taken or be lost. I knew it.

  The little man passed people who recognized him. Two young guys in near-ned uniforms. They got close and they talked fast. Little Man looked around before shaking his head. He nodded towards the concert hall end of the street. They looked at each other and then they nodded too. They walked away from him.

  Little Man had talked a lot with his hands. His eyes were going right and left, his mouth was tight and fast but his hands were working overtime. He moved on.

  He hit the pedestrianized area and kept walking. When the road crossed with Renfield Street he jinked to the right, causing two girls to move out of his way, and entered a pub, Lauders.

  This wasn’t good. I didn’t mean it to be like this. I chose Sauchiehall Street for my own reasons, but only to identify him. Or her. Not to do this.

  Still . . .

  I walked on past Lauders without breaking stride or looking back. I walked on to the shops under the concert hall, looked in the window of one and pretended to study whatever was there. I stood. A minute. A long minute. I shrugged and turned away. I walked back where I’d come from. I walked into Lauders.

  I knew Little Man would be in there but I didn’t look for him. I went to the bar and asked for a pint of heavy.

  The barman didn’t say anything but poured it. I didn’t say anything but paid him.

  I looked in the mirror and caught myself. Me. Still me.

  I sipped at my pint. I sipped again before I looked round.

  Fat guy. Drunk guy. Old guy. Another drunk guy. Little Man. I gulped my pint and looked away.

  He was sitting on a stool with the two near-neds standing beside him. They were still talking close, fast and quiet. Little Man’s hands were signing for the deaf. There were nods and shakes of the three heads. Little Man jumped off his stool. I was ready to move but he only went as far as the toilet.

  One minute later, one of the near-neds followed him. The other stood looking around, standing guard from outside. I watched in the mirror.

  Two minutes later, the near-ned and Little Man came out. I saw Little Man had a moustache of sorts. A streaky fair line above his lips. He looked like a ferret. A ferret that had eaten a mouse. I didn’t like Little Man.

  I know, I know. I didn’t like Carr. Now I didn’t like Little Man. It didn’t matter. Coincidence. I wasn’t trying to convince myself or make it easier. I just didn’t like them. Little Man had a beaten dog face. Beaten and ready to bite. He had something funny about one of his eyes, a squint or something. He looked like someone you wouldn’t turn your back on but that was OK because I had no intention of doing so.

  He was grinning all over his face, his mouse-eating grin. Little Man knocked back the last of his drink, a vodka and Red Bull, and called for another. He necked it in two seconds flat.

  The near-neds disappeared, huddling close, leaving Little Man to look around the pub as voddie and RB number three or four arrived in front of him.

  It was swallowed slower than the one before but was ended with a shrug and a final slug of vodka. Little Man was finished.

  He got off his stool. Said his goodbyes to the barman and left.

  I sat. Unsure. Unprepared. I needed to wait. I needed to follow. Couldn’t do both.

  Shit.

  I felt my heart racing again. I hated the indecision, the not knowing, the hesitancy of choice. Shit.

  My teeth were clenched. Damn. I could almost feel the beads of sweat start to form. I felt panic and hated myself for it. Every second wasted was a second lost, every second lost was a waste. Make a fucking choice. If I let him get a start then he had umpteen choices of which way to go. If I rushed after him it might look odd. People might look.

  Shit. I was going. I turned and left by the door he had.

  I looked left to the concert hall. I looked right back up the street. I looked up and down Renfield Street.

  There. Was it? Maybe a hundred yards down Renfield. Yes. Was it? I was sure of it. A short, spiky head bobbed and pushed among those next to it. Little Man.

  I started to rush after him but slowed myself. Fucking CCTV. I made sure I was quicker than him but no more than I needed.

  Thirty yards. Yes. Twenty yards. Definitely. Him. Number thirty-six. Number three. Little Man. My man.

  He went into two other pubs. Five vodka RBs. One more toilet visit. Lots of hand speak, lots of mouse-eating grins. I hated Little Man.

  He pushed his way out of what turned out to be his last pub and made his way back up towards the bus stop on Hope Street across from Molly Malones. He went into the chip shop there and came back out, supper in hand, swaying a bit waiting for his bus.

  I was behind him, clinging to the wall of the Savoy Centre and hoping for shadow. I’d wait. Unprepared but ready.

  Bus came. Destination Baillieston. Little Man got on. So did three old women, two old men, two kids. And me.

  I sat and watched the back of his head. His scratchy, weaselly head. His cocky, smart-arse head. His bullying, strangely confident, ugly head.

  Out of the city centre. Some people got on that he knew. Some got on that knew him. I could see that.

  He nodded at some, waved at others, sneered at some more.

  Give me one chance. It had to be a safe chance. I wouldn’t take unnecessary risks but I would take a chance. Oh I would.

  It was dark now. Not very dark but dark enough and getting darker.

  Edge of Baillieston. Little Man got out of his seat and stood. He shouted.

  ‘Next stop, big man.’ Little Man wanted off the bus.

  The bus slowed, three others got off and at the last minute I got up too and jumped off. It wasn’t the way I wanted it but who would notice or care?

  He walked one way, I walked the other. Not far obviously. First chance I got, I turned and headed back. There was Little Man, cock of the walk, arrogant little bastard, maybe a hundred yards ahead but clear in view.

  Some kids ran to him. Slowed him. From where I was, the boys looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. Little Man stuck his hands in his pockets, he brought something out and acted the Big Man. They disappeared.

  So did Little Man shortly. Into a pub. The Brig Tavern. I didn’t go in. There was no way I could go into somewhere like that and not be noticed. Alarm bells would go off as soon as I entered and I couldn’t have that. I walked in large circles, hunched and hopefully unseen.

  On turn three I saw him emerge from the pub. He was staggering and that pleased me.

  He turned a sharp right from the pub onto a bit of scrub ground behind it. A short cut. There was rough ash, broken glass, rogue shopping trolleys, dog shit and trees. Fifty yards of darker darkness before the near light.

  Chance.

  I shouted. The voice came out of me before I knew it.

  ‘Hey, wee man.’

  He slowed then stopped. He looked over his shoulder, wondering who had the cheek to call him wee, obvious as it was. He looked me up and down and saw no threat. He also looked curious. I guess I wasn’t what he expected.

  I took money out of my pocket. A hunch. Little Man looked around and came closer. He wanted to be much closer.

  I held it nearer to me as if hiding it. He liked that. He came on. He came to me.

  I walked to the edge of the scrub, seeking the shadows. Little Man liked that too. He was within five feet of me. I could see
his eyes and he could see mine. He grinned. That mouse-eating grin.

  I looked around. He thought it was me being safe and it was. He was warmed by that but he was wrong.

  He reached for the money. I smiled and shook my head. I beckoned him closer. I put the cash in my inside pocket. He came closer. So close.

  He grinned. I smiled.

  I reached inside and pulled out the knife. I reached in and drove it into him. Again. Again. Again. I pulled him right onto me and plunged it in deep. Little Man wasn’t so big now. He did look at me though. Surprised.

  Dead.

  I pushed him off me and watched him fall back flat.

  I slashed at his neck twice and then wiped the bloody blade across his face. His eyes were open and so was his mouth. That was strange. Well, unexpected anyway.

  I reached into my pocket and took out the secateurs. I cut off his finger and pocketed it.

  Job done.

  I was cold and breathing hard but not sweaty. I didn’t like that.

  I cleaned the blade of the knife on Little Man’s jacket, then did the same with the secateurs. I took a plastic bag from my inside pocket and slipped them both in there before putting it back in my jacket.

  My shirt was splattered in his blood. It would be incinerated later but for now zipping my jacket to the neck would cover it.

  I took off the clear surgical gloves from my hands and slipped them away. They too would be burned. So would the jacket.

  It was time to go home.

  CHAPTER 13

  Daily Record. 28 September 2009. Page 2.

  By Keith Imrie. A photograph of the crime scene.

  Police have launched a murder hunt after the body of a known criminal was found in wasteland in the Baillieston area of Glasgow after a suspected gangland slaying. Thomas Tierney was brutally stabbed to death shortly before midnight last night just minutes from his home in Rhindmuir Drive. A full-scale search of the area was being conducted into the early hours and was due to restart this morning.

  Tierney, known locally as Spud, was stabbed several times in what police are calling a vicious attack. As well as multiple wounds to his stomach, chest and abdomen, Tierney was slashed around the face and neck. His body was discovered soaked in blood by regulars from the nearby Brig Tavern on Easterhouse Road.

  One local man, who did not wish to be named, told the Daily Record that he came across Tierney’s body at closing time.

  ‘I’d just left the pub and was heading home. Me and a couple of the guys had only gone about 50 yards when we saw Spud lying there. We almost fell over him. He was covered in blood. Absolutely drenched in it. Somebody’s obviously shanked him.’

  The witness was reluctant to speculate on a motive for Tierney’s murder but it is believed he was the victim of a gangland hit.

  ‘The wee man never did anybody any harm,’ said the witness. ‘OK he was maybe a bit shady but that was it. This is bad. Someone will pay for it.’

  The man who found Tierney confirmed that he had been drinking for around half an hour in the Brig Tavern before leaving around 11.30. The other drinkers left the pub at midnight and it was then that they discovered Spud Tierney’s cut-up corpse.

  Murder squad detectives were on the scene within minutes and a security cordon was set up around the body. A detailed search of the area and door-to-door inquiries were carried out last night. Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey said that investigations were at an early stage but that she urged anyone with information to come forward.

  ‘Strathclyde Police were alerted at 00.10 that a body had been found on land adjoining Easterhouse Road in Baillieston. Detectives were quickly on the scene and found the body later identified as 26-year-old Thomas Tierney.’

  Police are appealing for anyone with information to the killing or Thomas Tierney’s whereabouts earlier that day to contact Baillieston police station or Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111. All calls will be treated in confidence and there may be a reward. Police sources last night confirmed that Spud Tierney was known to them and was thought to have been a drug dealer. He is said to have been an associate of well-known Glasgow businessman Alexander Kirkwood.

  I carefully placed the pinkie of the man I now knew to be Thomas Tierney in a padded envelope. I drove to the east end and posted it in a pillar box in Bridgeton.

  With that it was winging its way directly to the desk of Rachel Narey who was doubtless already waiting for the postman with bated breath and forensic scientist.

  Package posted, I turned around and drove to work.

  I did all that with the utmost certainty that things had just begun to go wrong.

  CHAPTER 14

  I had a problem. Potentially a rather serious problem. The little man with the mouse-eating grin was named Thomas Tierney. Known, apparently, as Spud. The papers said so. They said he had been stabbed just minutes from his home. They said police were seeking witnesses to his last movements. They said he had been drinking in the Brig Tavern. They said he had been brutally murdered. They said it may have been a gangland killing.

  Yes. Gangland.

  They said Tierney was a known associate of Alexander Kirkwood. That was the problem. The papers said Kirkwood was a well-known Glasgow businessman. That meant gangster. That meant trouble. In Alec Kirkwood’s case, it meant trouble with a capital F.

  Glasgow is a village with a city within it. Everyone who lives and breathes in the other city plays by different rules, speaks a different language, lives by different laws. The world is woven inside, under and around the official Glasgow.

  The other city has its own police, its own civic leaders, its own lawmakers. It has its own code of conduct and it all runs perfectly smoothly as long as everyone plays the game. Some people live entirely within the other city and couldn’t leave it if they tried. Some live on the fringes, others make day trips in and out. Some of us can speak the language and know lots of people who live there but try to keep our distance all the same. Except when it suits us.

  Right then, it suited me to trade chat with people who lived closer to the other city than I did. They heard things that I wanted to hear. Things I needed to know. Alec Kirkwood was police, councillor and lawmaker in the other city. Big cheese. Bad man.

  He wasn’t strictly A-list. The very fact that he was even known to the likes of me made him B-list. Big and bad but B-list all the same. No one knew who the A-list guys were but chances are, these days, they were not even in Glasgow at all. Strings pulled from Liverpool and London.

  I knew of Kirkwood but I knew people who knew people who knew him. Guys like Ally McFarland. He knew people but thought he was people. Ally was in his late twenties and not as bad as he liked to make out. He’d sell some dodgy gear and get in a fight when he’d had a swally but that was about it. He was mates with some of the heavies in the Star Bar over in Royston and liked to drop their names in to impress. He also liked the sound of his own voice. And best of all, he liked me.

  I think there was a bit of him that felt sorry for me after what happened. Normally I’d hate that but it suited my purpose. Let him think what he likes as long as he talks. And he talked about Kirkwood when I asked. Kirky was not a happy bunny. He had taken the killing of Spud Tierney as a personal insult.

  Image is a funny thing in the other city. The likes of Alec Kirkwood need to keep a low profile for the public and the press but needs his name in lights as far as the scumbags go. They need to be shit-scared of crossing him. Even the thought of thinking about messing with him should make them pish their pants.

  He made sure everyone knew that if you touched one of Alec Kirkwood’s boys then you were a dead man. Simple as that. I’d touched one, big time. Serious problem.

  The people that knew people said that Kirky had this thing about having a quiet life. He believed that if everybody did as they should then everybody would be all right. Everybody would have money in their pockets and an easy life. Everybody knew the cops wanted a quiet time of it too. They didn’t need to come around
stirring up dirt to see what shit was lying beneath it, they already knew. Everybody was happy.

  Kirky had this line he liked to put about. Everyone behaves and everyone’s fine. But if some muppet shits in the ice cream then the party is over.

  I’d killed Spud Tierney. I’d put the keech in the Häagen-Dazs. Now Alec Kirkwood wanted revenge. He wanted me. He just didn’t know it yet.

  The strange thing is that I’d actually met him once. I was drinking in the Comet in Ruchill, a pub with a certain reputation. I hadn’t been that comfortable even going into the place. It was only the fact that the two guys I was with were locals that I could even be in there without getting my head kicked in. A quick pint and away.

  Then the door opened. In walked this guy and the entire place froze. Got the distinct feeling guys would have jumped through windows if there weren’t bars on them. I didn’t know who he was but there was no doubting that he was somebody. He was no more than five foot ten but gave the impression of being bigger. And that was despite being followed in by four gorillas who were all well over six feet. He reminded me of a game show host. Weird but he did.

  Smart, tailored suit. Corporate hair cut. Always adjusting his cuffs or the knot in his tie. Grinning like a man who knew all the answers. I guess he was good-looking. Ask a woman.

  I’d say he was about thirty-two. Face unmarked, which surprised me even before I knew who he was. There was something about him reminded me of George W. Bush. That wasn’t a compliment.

  Game show host. Businessman. Politician. It was as if he had been on some correspondence course for charisma. He was glad-handing everyone around him. He even shook mine. He would hold people’s gaze with this grin and nod at whatever they were saying as if they were saying the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. Above all, there was a supreme confidence about him. It was an arrogance, a sureness that was almost surreal. It was as if he was running for election but had already got every vote locked away.