Random

by Craig Robertson

  ‘I don’t know. Who knows what people are capable of doing? I’m sure the police will catch him eventually.’

  ‘Eventually? Eventually? How many more are going to die before that happens?’

  Two more. And you are glad it has happened. You are glad they are dead. We both know that.

  ‘I’m sure they will get him soon. Don’t worry about it. You have to stop thinking about it. Isn’t your soap opera on the other side?’

  ‘Can’t watch that. Not now.’

  Her eyes were wide. As if I’d suggested she go swimming at midnight or walk to London. She was glad.

  ‘Well, I’ll get you a cup of tea then.’

  ‘No, no tea. I don’t want tea. Do you, do you think he . . .’

  She rarely mentioned him by name.

  ‘Do you think he was picked somehow because of what he had done?’ Her words trailed off quietly.

  ‘Don’t know,’ I mumbled.

  ‘But you’ve thought about it. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You have. Do you think that was why he was picked?’

  Yes, of course it was. It was why he was killed. It was because of what he did that they were all picked. Why they were all killed.

  ‘No, it was just coincidence. Police have said so.’

  ‘Too much of a coincidence. That Thomas Tierney was a drug dealer. Maybe that’s why he was picked out.’

  She was glad.

  ‘Not what the police say. Anyway, the others hadn’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Well, not as far as we know. Might all have sinned.’

  Everyone sins. Stop talking like that. You are glad. Admit it. Thank me. You are fucking glad.

  ‘There has been nothing in the papers about any of the others doing anything wrong,’ I said. ‘What about that dentist? What did he do?’

  She looked at me in despair. Reaching for an answer.

  ‘I’m going to take my other pill. Should have had it by now. Getting late. I’m tired.’

  She was glad. She was glad he was dead. She was glad they were all dead.

  Within fifteen minutes the questions had stopped. Another quarter of an hour and she was going to bed.

  I was left alone again, safe from her conversation and her worries. No more theories or guilt trips, no more pretending. No more talk of sin or reason or knowledge. No more fucking words. Just give me the silence of the room and the night and the road and the city. Give me peace.

  Give me fucking peace.

  CHAPTER 35

  My boss, Cammy Strang, ran a legit taxi operation. As legit as a private hire firm gets in Glasgow anyway. Cammy was ex-army. He would look after himself and his drivers and sometimes that meant hurting people. But an occasional swing of a baseball bat didn’t make Cammy a bad guy. Not compared to some.

  Bribes and bungs, threats and lies, punters hijacked and flyers taken down. That kind of stuff was just business. It was what you had to do to survive, what was needed to turn a profit but it didn’t make you a crook. Not compared to some.

  He’d started out with just one cab, driving it himself. Established private hires tried to put him out of business but Cammy wasn’t having it. He paid a couple of late-night visits and made his point.

  He bought more cars and took on more drivers. Ended up with a fleet of eight, made himself a bundle.

  Working for Cammy was a good deal. You could work hours that suited you both and he’d be straight with you. No need to worry about all your money being there or that he’d take someone else’s side over yours. Play fair by Cammy and Cammy would play fair by you. Above all, if you got a call for a job from Cammy then you knew there would always be someone in the taxi. Sounds obvious enough but elsewhere, other firms, that wasn’t always the case. Plenty of them ran ‘drops’.

  The driver would get a call, pick up a package rather than a passenger and deliver it. No chat from the back of the cab, no tip. Door-to-door drugs. Class A all the way. There had never been drops in any of Cammy’s cabs. He held a hard line on drugs, would have nothing to do with them.

  But the wolves were out there, getting closer. Three other private hire firms had been bought out in the past few months alone. Word was that all three of them now did drops. Word was one guy was playing monopoly.

  The more cab firms that were taken over, the less chance of getting a job with another company. Less chance of another job, less scope for saying no when asked to do a drop. Just business.

  Cammy knew that the guy was coming and knew he could do nothing to stop him. Cammy had one baseball bat, the guy had a whole team.

  Time to retire, Cammy told us. Tenerife for him and the missus. An offer he couldn’t refuse. We knew.

  Who’s taking over the firm? asked one of the boys. I held my breath.

  ‘Guy named Arthur Penman,’ Cammy said. I breathed again. Sometimes it’s better the devil you don’t know.

  Cammy didn’t say goodbye. The handover was to be on the Wednesday and he went home Tuesday night as per usual. Wednesday came and there was a new face behind the desk and a couple of new faces in the cabs. Handover done, Cammy and Jean halfway to Santa Cruz.

  Penman was a lanky guy with glasses and a nervous cough. Studious looking. I recognized an accountant when I saw one. Penpusher not drugs pusher.

  Penman wasn’t the man.

  Our jobs were safe, he said. Business as usual, he said. Even giving us a couple of new drivers. He owned other cab firms, he told us, so he wouldn’t be there all the time. He’d pop in regularly though, just to keep us on our toes. The radio controller would do the rest. And the new drivers, Tobin and McTeer. He knew them already and they’d help things tick over when he wasn’t around.

  Nobody said much. Wasn’t much to say.

  The radio controller was new too. A grumpy big guy with close-cropped hair and an angry, pock-marked face. Old Annie had gone into early retirement. Tollcross for her, not Tenerife. Spending the rest of her days smelling the McVities biscuit factory. Which was a bit ironic really.

  Penman’s new drivers were sullen and sure of themselves. They only spoke to each other, seemed to drive when they felt like it and spent a lot of time holed up in the cab office with crabbit Robert the new controller.

  A week went by and nothing much changed. I still drove a cab with passengers in it and Penman’s was the only name above the door. There were moans and mutterings amongst the drivers. I dodged most of the gossip because there were things I didn’t want to know. A name I didn’t want to hear.

  Then on the third Wednesday, two weeks after Penman first showed up in the office, he was back.

  I heard the sound of laughter as I went in. Penman was sitting on the edge of the desk, long legs crossed in front of him and arms across his chest. He was listening like everyone else, a smile on his face.

  A few feet from him, a man with his back to me was holding court. All I could see was a smart suit stretched across broad shoulders, neatly cut hair and arms going. He was tugging at his cuffs as he spoke, then arms open wide. Inviting. Including.

  The guys were laughing, lapping up the routine. They liked this guy. Funny man. Stand-up comic, stand-up guy. Written all over their faces.

  I didn’t want him to turn round. Didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want him to see me.

  I sidled round the side and joined the edge of the group. Stood next to Tobin, one of the new guys, who turned and took me in with a slow look, saying nothing.

  The suit was still talking, winding up his spiel now. Saying how pleased he was to be an associate of Mr Penman, saying how things could go on as they were under Cammy, maybe be even better. Maybe more money to be made.

  He threw in another couple of jokes and started glad-handing the troops. He shook hands with them, beginning at the other end of the line and working his way along. Chatting with some, listening to others as if they were saying the most interesting thing he had heard in his life, laughing at the funniest jokes he’d ever heard.

  Eventually he got to me. Alec
Kirkwood reached out for my hand and looked into my eyes, a smile playing on his lips. He didn’t say anything, just nodded. Placed his other hand over the one that was holding mine. Felt like I was being blessed by the Pope or measured for size by the Devil.

  Held my hand. Held my eye.

  All sorts of thoughts. Most of them bad.

  I had been on the edge of Kirky’s world and that had suited me fine. Knowing people who knew people who knew him had been close enough. Now he was in my world and me in his. Glasgow’s two scariest men, some would say. Face to face, hand in hand.

  Except I wasn’t scary. Not in my head. Not in my scary head. I was just me, doing what I had to do. He was a professional psychopath. He was in front of me and in my way. I was in front of him and in his sights.

  Kirkwood had taken my hand with a knowing smile and released it the same way. All the time I wore my best dead look. Cold eyes, corpse expression. Nothing inside, nothing to read.

  Still, he smiled and nodded as if I was an open book.

  He moved on into the cab office and Tobin followed him. He too looked at me as if he knew something.

  But they couldn’t. OK, they could but if they did then why slow-play their hand? Why not string me up and electrocute my bollocks or whatever they did? Maybe Kirkwood was being cute, wanted to be sure, wanted to flush me out. He knew where I was – right where he wanted me. I wouldn’t, couldn’t go anywhere. He was trying to unnerve me, break me.

  Shit, if that was his game then I was playing right into his hands. Get a grip.

  Kirkwood had been buying up private hire firms all over Glasgow, it was obvious he was the monopoly wolf. No surprise then that he bought out Cammy. Coincidence. And all he had done was smile at me. No more than shake my hand and look at me. Get a grip.

  If Kirkwood knew then I would be dead. He was my boss now and I was on his radar as well as his payroll but that was it. Grip. Stay calm, give nothing away and it will all be OK. Being crazy wasn’t helping.

  Yet all the time, a voice called to me, telling an old joke that wasn’t funny. Being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  CHAPTER 36

  The Daily Record. Saturday, 4 April 2010. Page 4.

  Calls for Cutter cop to stand down

  By Keith Imrie, Chief Reporter

  There have been calls for the officer leading the hunt for The Cutter to stand down from the investigation. DS Rachel Narey is coming under severe pressure to excuse herself from the hunt for the five-time killer who is terrorising Glasgow. It is believed that DS Narey’s bosses have already asked her to consider stepping aside for the good of the investigation and the force. A source close to the case said that officers are openly questioning her ability to lead The Cutter hunt and are asking why a detective sergeant continues to run an inquiry which is now the biggest in the history of Strathclyde Police.

  ‘No one is saying that DS Narey is incompetent but they are wondering if she is in over her head. We are getting nowhere with this case and maybe it is time for more experience or someone with fresh ideas to be taking the lead.’

  Demands for DS Narey to stand aside have also come from families of The Cutter’s victims. Agnes Hutchison, widow of bookmaker Billy Hutchison, said yesterday that she would welcome a change at the top of the investigation.

  ‘It is nearly a year since my husband was killed but the police are getting nowhere. It is over a month since anyone from Strathclyde Police even talked to me or my family. I don’t think that’s good enough.

  ‘I have grandchildren asking me when the man who killed their papa will be put in jail. What am I supposed to tell them?

  ‘I am sure that Ms Narey is doing her best but there must be plenty of officers in Strathclyde with a lot more experience that could take this on. It wouldn’t be about her if someone else took over. Catching this killer is the only thing that matters.’

  A spokeswoman for Strathclyde Chief Constable Andrew Chisholm would not comment on whether DS Narey’s position was under threat but did say that the entire case was constantly under review.

  ‘We do not comment on operational matters of this kind nor on the role of individual officers within an investigation. However, every case, particularly one of this importance, is continuously reviewed and monitored. We always have an open mind on the direction it will take and are completely aware of the level of expectation of the general public in catching this killer.’

  DS Narey would not comment on the issue of her being replaced when contacted by the Record yesterday.

  CHAPTER 37

  Funny thing. The newspapers were going on and on about the whole of Glasgow being terrified of the man they were calling The Cutter. All except me.

  Me? I was getting scared of a man called Alec Kirkwood.

  I hadn’t expected fear. Had thought that was an emotion that had gone along with others. I’d told myself that I was already dead inside, that he couldn’t kill me. He’d hurt Jimmy Mac badly but that hadn’t worried me too much. He’d done worse to Hutton than kill him and Hutton hadn’t done anything. What would he do to me?

  I was getting some hints. There’s a pub in Royston called the Star Bar. I’d passed by it often enough but had never ventured inside. Probably just as well. It’s the kind of pub, once you get out of the city centre, that Glasgow specializes in. The sort that if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably take one look and think it had been closed down. The windows were boarded up even though they also had bars on them. Belt and braces Royston-style.

  No bouncer on the door. None needed.

  I’m told that inside the bar looks like any other dodgy dive in the city. Torn fake leather upholstery, sticky floors, mismatched chairs, a fruit machine and galleries stocked with ‘house’ spirits. It smelled rancid but if you drank there often enough then you didn’t notice. Or if you drank enough.

  Any face that didn’t fit or wasn’t recognized was guaranteed hard stares and would be well advised not to go to the toilets alone. The staff stood for no shite from anyone except friends of the management. They could do what they liked.

  The Star had the worst karaoke in Glasgow. Women in their sixties singing Tammy Wynette and Madonna like drunken cats. Nobody having the heart or the balls to tell them how bad they were. Suggestion like that in the Star is reason enough for husbands or sons to want to stab you.

  Want anything? Get it in the Star. Drugs, a dodgy telly, guns, a house burned down, a new fridge, someone’s legs broken. But don’t ask if you’re not known. That will only get you a doing.

  My info on the Star Bar came from Ally McFarland. He had managed to become a bit of a regular there through his shady mates and was happy to bump his gums about the place. Ally loved the idea that he was in with that crowd. He was someone who knew someone. He did favours for important people. He could get nods back from guys at the bar. He’d get chat.

  Suited me of course that he did. Ally talked, I listened. I asked questions too, almost without him realizing it. With a man like Kirkwood on your tail, it pays to know some of what he knows. Forewarned, forearmed.

  Ally had also told me before about the basement at the Star Bar. Told me what happened sometimes when last orders were called, when the place was cleared of drinkers and the lights in the bar turned off. Ally had been there.

  Sitting on Royston Road, it’s a typical, big Victorian pub. Purpose-built for the job with a basement that had been big enough to take every barrel of ale that a drayman wanted to drop off from his wagon.

  These days it was kitted out for a different purpose altogether. Once a month, groups of men gathered in the bowels of the Star. Under the street, deep down where a century of brick kept in the noise. And there was plenty of noise. The Star Bar was owned by Alec Kirkwood and he used the basement as home turf for dogfights.

  Ally loved it. Not just that it was seriously dodgy and that he had an invite. That would have been enough in itself for Ally to get his rocks off but he actually loved the fights.
He had bloodlust. He’d tell me about what went on in detail that made me squirm.

  I know. Irony.

  It’s amazing, man. You have to see it to believe it. These dugs tear at each other like wild animals. Fierce as fuck. There’s rules though. Got to have rules. The rules go back to like the 1800s. Amazing that, is it no?

  It’s like a code of honour. Marquess of Queensberry for dugs. Kirky is a big man for the rules. It’s like ceremonial, you know whit I mean? And they take it pure serious. They train these dugs like naebody’s business. Have them running on treadmills and everything.

  Kirky’s like aye, let the cops ask me about the treadmills. Nae problemo, he says, just tell them it’s to keep the dugs fit. Says he’ll tell them he got the idea aff Blue Peter. Quality. Train up the dugs’ jaws and all. They have them chewing on tyres and wooden sticks to make them stronger. Crazy, man.

  They look after the dugs proper. They sometimes get some wido vet who they’ll bung to come in and treat them after the fights but most of the time they do it themselves. Have proper kits with staples and drips and all kinds of stuff though. They look after them dugs. People say it’s cruel but the Grand National is much crueller on horses if you ask me. The pit’s about twelve feet by twelve and it’s fenced aff with wooden boards about two and a half feet high. There’s carpet on the floor, General George’s finest offcut, so that the dugs can get a good grip. It’s like the fuckin’ Coliseum, man.

  They weigh them before the kick-aff. Dugs have got to be more or less the same weight. Stands to reason. They agree on a top weight beforehand and if either dug is over that then he’s bombed oot.

  They wash them down before the fight too. Stick a hose on them and give them a right soaking. That’s because some smart bastards have been known to put poison onto their ain dug’s coat so that when the other dug sinks its teeth in it would get a right dose of it. Soon be half asleep and there for the taking. Try anything some of them.