Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  BAD MEN

  Allan Guthrie

  For JT Lindroos, Charles Ardai and Alison Rae

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 under the title Hard Man

  by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

  Copyright © Allan Guthrie, 2006

  Cover design: JT Lindroos

  Cover photo: Randy Robertson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Allan Guthrie has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Visit the author's website at:

  http://www.allanguthrie.co.uk

  Visit Criminal-E, Allan Guthrie's ebook crime fiction blog, at:

  http://criminal-e.blogspot.com

  Version 2-1-3

  A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE

  Another hot day in July. That was four in a row. Pretty good for Scotland.

  Not so good for the corpse in the boot.

  Jacob Baxter put his hand over his nose to mask the smell, forgetting for a moment that his nose was broken. He gasped with pain. Time to take some more paracetamol, but he couldn't swallow the pills without a glass of water. He'd have to wait till he got back home. Why the doctor had refused to give him something stronger, he didn't know. But the doc just told Jacob to come back when the swelling had subsided and only then could he—how did he put it?—determine the extent of the damage. He assured Jacob that his nose wasn't broken, but Jacob wasn't convinced. He didn't have much faith in the medical profession.

  He looked up from the corpse. His two sons kept their eyes on it, even when Jacob began to speak. "We have to stop Wallace," he said, "before May gets hurt."

  "We'll try again," Flash said.

  Jacob said, "Aye, right."

  Two nights ago, although it felt a lot longer, the three of them had gone down to Trinity where Wallace lived alone in the cramped split-level one-bedroom flat he'd shared with May for only a few months. Jacob noticed that Wallace had boarded up the basement windows recently and wondered if he'd heard they were coming. Might have been a wise safety precaution, since the windows were at street level, and easy to kick in, but it wasn't windows they wanted to smash. Anyway, there was no way Wallace could know they were coming. It wasn't as if they'd phoned ahead. No, chances were the windows had been broken already. Somebody else Wallace had provoked, or threatened, or beaten up. Plenty of candidates. Or maybe it was just a bunch of drunken louts at the weekend. This was a much sought-after area of the city, but it was only a stone's throw from Wardie, which wasn't.

  Jacob had glanced at his sons, nodded, then rang the doorbell. He slapped a wrench against his open palm while he waited for an answer. Oh, aye. They were all tooled up, they'd handle Wallace no problem, reputation or not. He was only one man against three, and those three were Baxters. Admittedly Jacob wasn't a huge threat by himself, cause, well, he was sixty-six years old and not as fleet of foot as he once was. Flash, to be fair, was even less of a threat: skinny, small – not to be cruel to his younger son, but the word Jacob was looking for was ‘weedy'. Rodge was a different story. Hard to believe those two boys had the same parents. Rodge was a big lad, weighed over twenty stone, gripped that hammer proudly in his massive fist, and Jacob felt pretty safe standing next to him. Rodge was a bouncer. He was used to this kind of thing. And the suit Rodge insisted on wearing all the time worked in his favour. Aye, Rodge meant business in more ways than one.

  Jacob was sure Wallace would cower in front of their combined might. So when Wallace opened the door, all baby-faced and clean-looking and innocent, Jacob confidently pointed his wrench at him and said, "Stay away from May. Stay away from my family."

  Wallace took his glasses off, slipped them in his shirt pocket. He immediately looked more like his twenty-six years. "She's my wife."

  True, but she was a poor wee misguided headstrong lass. Jacob said, "She's only sixteen."

  "Fucks like a woman twice her age," Wallace said. "Must be all the practice she gets."

  There was no need for that. Blood pounded in Jacob's temples. There was no talking to this animal. Wallace only understood one thing. Jacob pulled back his wrist and swung the wrench.

  And missed.

  No, worse than missed. Missed and got caught. Wallace had grabbed Jacob's wrist, and was twisting it. Jacob couldn't hold on to the wrench any longer. He let it go with a howl, but had the presence of mind to punch Wallace with his free hand. Pick on an old man, would he? Jacob hit nothing but air. Again.

  You'd hardly believe it, but Jacob was out of breath, felt his chest tighten.

  What on earth were his sons doing? They should have jumped in by now. Knocked Wallace to the ground. Started kicking him.

  Jacob turned, suddenly realising his wrist was free, saw Wallace standing in front of Rodge. Wallace wouldn't be so brave now. Somebody nearer his own age. Somebody bigger than him. Aye, somebody who'd rip his limbs off, one by one. Somebody who'd teach him not to mess with the Baxters.

  But, no. Jacob straightened up and saw that Wallace was smiling. Rodge held his hammer aloft, not smiling back. Wallace held up the wrench he'd taken from Jacob. Still smiling, he dropped it. Deliberately. It clanged onto the path. Rodge opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out.

  "Come on, then," Wallace said. "Let's see what you've got, big guy."

  Rodge looked at Flash. Mistake. Jacob saw it coming, and cried out, but too late. Before anybody could react, Wallace had whipped towards the big fella, smacked him at least twice in the stomach, brought him to his knees, swiped the hammer out of his hand, and gave his brother a blow in the gut with it.

  Rodge and Flash stared at each other, gasping for breath.

  Jacob's gaze returned to Wallace. Had that just happened?

  "I told you lot to mind your own business," Wallace said, kicking Flash in the face and knocking him over. "I wish you'd pay attention." With the back of his hand, he punched Rodge in the mouth and blood sprayed across the path. Rodge didn't topple over, though. Kneeled there like a tree stump.

  "Okay," Jacob said. "Enough."

  "I don't think so," Wallace said, and Jacob's nose exploded with pain. "Dad."

  Jacob's eyes streamed. Through his tears, he saw Wallace taking his mobile phone from his pocket.

  Before he dialled, he grabbed Jacob by the hair and bent over. Despite the blood starting to trickle down his left nostril, Jacob could smell Wallace's sweat. Or maybe it was his own. Wallace said, "I'm going to make your sick family wish it never existed."

  Sick? Jacob's family? Jacob would have laughed if his nose hadn't hurt so much.

  Wallace let go of Jacob and spoke into his phone. "Police. Yes. I'd like to report an assault. I've just been attacked. Huh? Outside my own house, would you believe."

  The three of them had spent a night in the cells. The indignity of it. The first time in Jacob's long life.

  Rodge had to have a couple of stitches in a cut just above his upper lip. They were being removed next week. Flash got away with body bruising and a sore chin.

  Wallace hadn't broken sweat. All that ju-jitsu training May had warned them about. They should have listened, but when you're angry, you don't pay attention, do you?

  Ah, well. Here they were, wondering what they should do now.

  "He's loco." Flash slammed the boot shut, cut off the stink. "He's gone too far this time."

  Rodge picked at some crap on his suit. "What we going to do now?"

  "I don't want to think about what this means," Jacob said.

  "We have t
o," Flash said. "This is a fucked-up situation."

  "I mean," Jacob said, "what'll he do next? He made threats against the family."

  "As long as May's safe," Flash said, "I don't care."

  "But is she?" Jacob said. "How do we know this'll be an end to it? It's her he's riled at."

  "Speaking of May," Rodge said, running his finger over some grime on the boot, "who's going to tell her that Louis's dead?"

  Pearce wondered why a hulking blue-suited figure with a stitched upper lip was framed in the sitting room doorway. His doorway. The fucker was in his fucking house and Pearce had just got out of the shower, only a towel wrapped round his waist. "Who the —?" was all he managed to say before the stranger grabbed hold of his wrist, dragged him over the threshold and spun him towards the settee.

  Pearce was really unimpressed with himself. Should have been quicker, sharper. As he was spinning he noticed a second guy, skinny, lurking in the corner. The second guy hadn't been invited either.

  Pearce landed on his side and sank into the cushions. Braced himself to block a flying fist. He was alert now, prepared. But nothing happened. The big guy apparently wasn't about to trade punches. Pearce's towel had flown off, dropped to the floor. He relaxed. Well, as much as he could, given that he was bollock-naked in front of a pair of strange men. Young men. Who clearly weren't here to ask after his health. At least they weren't naked, too. That would have been really uncomfortable.

  Pearce's dog, a three-legged Dandie Dinmont terrier, poked his nose round the doorframe, had a quick look, and hopped away. Little bastard was wise beyond its years. Pearce would have to have words with him later. Surely a warning bark wouldn't have been too much to ask for. Pearce ought to take him back to the Cat & Dog Home, see how he liked that.

  Pearce levered himself upright and rested his arm on the back of the settee. Faced the big guy. The fat bastard was in deep shit, even if he did look capable of bench-pressing three hundred pounds without breaking sweat. He was lucky he'd caught Pearce off-guard. Another day, if Pearce hadn't been distracted, Fat Boy would have been in pieces all over the floor.

  Fat Boy's tongue tracked over his stitched upper lip. He was holding a knife in his big paw.

  Pearce was still damp under the scrotum, in the arse crack and between the toes. If he couldn't have a fucking shower and dry himself off in peace, he might as well still be in prison.

  He didn't like being reminded of prison.

  He glanced at the other guy. Slim was bony-faced, dressed like a prick. The arse of his jeans hung down to his knees, thick gold chain round his neck, trainers with the laces untied, trying to look cool as he scraped his chin stubble with his knife. Yeah, both of them had knives, the weapon of choice amongst Edinburgh lowlifes. Slim's was very nice. The serrated blade was seven, maybe eight, inches long. The hand holding the knife trembled slightly. Slim might be trying to look cool, but Pearce knew he shouldn't be here. Could tell he was out of his depth.

  Zero threat.

  Pearce ignored Slim and asked Fat Boy, "What are you doing in my house?"

  Suit, tie, gleaming shoes. Fat Boy even had a briefcase. Thug, or accountant? Bit of both? Definitely not the hard man he was pretending to be. Pearce wouldn't have been surprised if Fat Boy cut himself with his knife. Maybe that's how he got the sore lip.

  Jesus. Pearce was pissed off with himself. If he'd been paying attention when he'd opened the door, he could have splattered Fat Boy all over the carpet. Now he'd have to wait and time this right. Pearce chewed the inside of his cheek. He'd slipped up. He was getting casual, and that would never do.

  Fat Boy said, "We believe you might be able to help us."

  Poncey language. Could be a lawyer, right enough. "I doubt it," Pearce told him.

  "Well, we thought we might stay a while. Have a little chat."

  "I don't feel like talking."

  "Just listen, then."

  "I don't feel like listening either."

  "Now, that's really too bad. We were hoping you'd cooperate."

  "You finished?" Pearce asked him.

  "Finished?" Fat Boy said. "Haven't even started." He turned to Slim. "Flash?" he said.

  Flash? What kind of name was that? Some kind of street name? Pearce should get one of those. What could he call himself? He couldn't think of anything. ‘Pearce' would have to do.

  Flash marked the end of his dry shave by tossing the hunting knife into the air. It landed point first, puncturing a floorboard. That was the kind of pansy-arsed showy bollocks that might have impressed a three-year-old. Probably been practising it for days, too. But if you wanted to create an impression, you didn't lob a knife in the air and watch it fall. No purpose in that. Flash watched the blade quiver for a bit, smirking. "I've heard you're a pussy, Pearce," he said. "Went soft when your mummy died."

  How fucking stupid was this scrawny prick? Mother of Christ.

  "Heard you got shot in the stomach," Fat Boy took over. He was much bigger than his friend, but he certainly wasn't any smarter. "Didn't have any appetite for violence after that." He grinned, looked at Flash. "Get it? Shot in the stomach. Lost his appetite."

  "Nice one," Flash said. "That's very funny. Don't you think so, Pussy?"

  Pearce said nothing. He had no idea why they were trying to provoke him.

  "I asked you a question," Flash said.

  Pearce stared at him and said, "You're a dumb fuck."

  "Hear that?" Fat Boy said. "Pussy's mad."

  "Better watch we don't get scratched, huh?"

  The pair of buffoons were so busy laughing they didn't react when Pearce dived off the settee. At arms' stretch he clawed at Flash's knife, managed to grab the handle and pluck it out of the floorboard before Flash took a step towards him and said, "Hey!" But by then it was too late.

  Pearce brought the blade up between Flash's legs. Straight through the seam of his low-slung jeans, thrusting the blade through a good few inches. Almost hit home. It was close. Fuck, yeah, it was close. Pearce reckoned there'd been a fair chance of him screwing up. But life was all about taking chances, wasn't it?

  "What was that about getting fucking scratched?" he said.

  "Ah, shit." Flash looked down between his legs, his face turning pale green.

  Unusual, but Pearce had seen it once before. Happened in prison to an eighteen-year-old who'd wanted to show what a big man he was and ended up smoking more skunk than he could handle. His face may have turned green, but everyone called him Whitey after that.

  Flash shouted, "Dad?"

  Crying for his daddy now, poor kid. Pearce wondered if he shouldn't just let go, get out of the way before Flash spewed all over him. Nah, fuck it. He'd take the chance, but there was no harm in issuing a warning. "Puke over me," he said, "and I'll get really pissed off." He applied a little more upwards pressure. "You wouldn't like that." Then just a bit more.

  Flash yelped.

  Touching skin now.

  "Lose it," Pearce said to Fat Boy.

  Fat Boy looked at his hand in surprise as if the last thing he expected to see there was a knife. He glanced around, bemused. "Where shall I put it?"

  Jesus Christ. "Over there," Pearce said, indicating a safe area away from himself and his hostage.

  Fat Boy tossed the knife. "Let my brother go," he said. "Then we'll tell you why we're here."

  "Not interested," Pearce said, wondering how these two could possibly be brothers.

  Fat Boy said, "Dad!"

  Jesus, they were both at it. Pearce tensed his arm and Flash squeaked and Fat Boy shut up. "I'll deal with you in a minute," Pearce said to Fat Boy. Looked up at Flash, said, "Ever wondered what it feels like to have your happy sack sliced in two, Flash?" He paused to give Flash a moment to think about it. "Course, I might miss. Not get the middle of your ball-bag. End up cutting one of your nuts in half. That'd hurt, don't you think?"

  Flash was making a mewling noise. Pearce was tempted to ask him who the pussy was now but he restrained himself.
r />   Fat Boy's jaw had descended. Poor fucker looked like he'd been hit in the face with a stiff cat. Repeatedly.

  Flash looked even more likely to throw up. And threats weren't going to stop him. Sod it. Pearce raised himself onto one knee and eased the knife out of Flash's trousers. A look of relief spread across Flash's face. His cheeks looked less green in no time. The transformation was short-lived, though.

  Pearce balled his fist and slammed it into Flash's crotch.

  Flash bent over, wobbled, toppled to the floor. After a second, he made a gagging sound and his cheeks puffed.

  Pearce left him heaving while he strode over to Fat Boy.

  Fat Boy hadn't moved an inch. Still wore that stunned look. Pearce placed Flash's knife on the floor, sure he no longer needed it, and smacked Fat Boy as hard as he could on the side of the head. Fat Boy rolled to the side, hovered on the edge of the settee, then hit the deck like the useless fucking fat sack of shit he was.

  Pearce glanced at Flash, but he was no danger. Thumping a man in the gonads usually knocks the fight out of him. The skinny wee shite had dragged himself into the corner where he was curled up, moaning. He caught Pearce's eye and cried out for his daddy again.

  Pearce picked up his dropped towel and draped it round his waist. He grabbed Fat Boy's briefcase and snapped it open. Inside was a picture. Nothing else. Full-length body shot of a blonde teenage girl: shades, cropped top, bit of a belly on her but that was okay, shorts, sandals, arms folded under ample breasts, pierced ears, nose, bellybutton and God alone knew where else. She wasn't Pearce's type, but he could see how Fat Boy might find her attractive. She was young, though. Probably no more than eighteen.

  On the back of the photo was a phone number.

  "Excuse me," said a new voice. A man's voice, mature, local accent. "Mr Pearce?"

  Pearce smiled. There he was again. Not paying attention. He turned to look at the man who'd stepped into the sitting room. Did a double-take. This guy had a piece of raw meat where his nose should be. Which maybe wasn't quite so bad, since it drew attention away from the wrinkles crosshatching the corners of the old man's eyes, the grooves chiselled into his leathery cheeks and the lines running from the corners of his mouth to the point of his chin.