‘Strachan even has that planned to the last detail: we come in the Ibrox gate because Strachan knows exactly who’s on duty at what gate and when. God knows how, but he did. We get in and we drive up the main boulevard of the exhibition. I can’t tell you how weird it was … all of these futuristic buildings and fountains and towers. It was like pulling a job in ancient fucking Egypt or on Mars. Anyway, there’s nobody there now except staff and they’re beginning to leave. We turn into the avenue that leads to the amusement park restaurant and park up, tucked in the shadow of the Palace of Engineering, where we have a clear view of the main drag. We kill the lights and wait. Strachan balaclavas up like the rest of us and, right on time, the security van comes up the main boulevard, heading for the exhibition bank office.
We wait till it makes the pick-up and is on its way back, then Strachan pulls out and blocks the way and we’re out and got the van surrounded. The security men inside are shocked but not too worried, because they’re inside an armoured car, until Strachan shows them that he has a grenade in each hand. He tells them to get out of the van or he’ll start rolling pineapples under it. They know that the van’s not armoured underneath, and even if it doesn’t kill them, they’re going to lose legs or balls or both, so they get out. The Lad gives the driver a hiding, really quick but really thorough, just to prove we mean business, and the other guy opens up the goodies for us. We’ve got the armoured car open and the cash sack transferred to our van all inside fifty seconds, just as Strachan timed it.
‘Then this copper turns up. He’s just a kid in a uniform that’s too big for him, but he comes running over with his truncheon in his hand. I mean, I’ve got a sawn- off, Murphy’s got a sawn-off, Johnnie Bentley’s got a Lee-Enfield rifle and Strachan and the Lad have both got army revolvers. And this kid comes running up clutching fifteen inches of fucking wood. So Strachan shoots him. One shot, right in the forehead. No warning. No shouting for the copper to stop. Fuck all. Then Strachan turns back to us as if nothing’s happened and tells us to get in the van.
We do what we’re told but we see Strachan and the Lad over by the security car men, who we’ve got spread-eagled on the ground. They tell the security men that they’ll have to kill them because of what they’ve seen and take aim at their heads. It’s all show, but the security men believe it and us sitting in the van believe it because of what we’ve just seen. Strachan says he’ll let them live, but if he hears that they’ve told the police anything useful, they’ll be getting a visit. Ten minutes later we’ve dumped the van, transferred the cash into the back of Strachan’s car, and we’re dropped, one at a time, at different places in the city. I end up in the Gallowgate, stuffing my balaclava into my pocket and standing completely fucking dazed, wondering if what happened really happened.’
‘What did you do?’
‘The only thing I could think to do, and it was totally against Strachan’s orders to lie low: I went to the pub where Johnnie Bentley had arranged our first meeting, hoping that the others would have the same idea.’
‘And had they?’
‘Aye. If a copper had come in he would have sussed us right away. Four of us as white as fucking sheets, whispering to each other and looking as if we already had an appointment with an executioner. We talked as well as we could. This really changed everything. Strachan had put a noose around our necks and the only way we could dodge the drop in Duke Street would be to turn King’s Evidence. Now we all knew that Strachan would have worked that out too, so we had no choice. We either went straight to Saint Andrew’s Square and spilled our guts, meaning we’d dodge the hangman but spend thirty years each in the Bar-L, or we kill Strachan and his psycho Lad.’
‘So no choice, in other words.’
‘Instead of turning up at the usual intervals, we all go to the meet at the Railplane a full hour ahead of schedule, and together. We don’t have the weapons we had for the robbery ’cause Strachan was supposed to dump them in the Clyde after we split up, but Johnnie has a Great War Luger that he brings along and I have my own sawn-off. Strachan turns up half an hour after us and we get the drop on him. But there’s no money with him. We’ve got him at gunpoint and the bastard just laughs at us. He tells us that he knew we’d try to pull this so he’s stashed the cash where no one knows about it except him. Stalemate. Johnnie tells Strachan that he’s going to torture him, shoot his balls off one at a time, but Strachan knows we’re not made of the same as him. He could do that kind of thing, but not us. We’re fucked. We can’t kill Strachan because if we do, we’ll never get the money and, anyways, we’re all a bit squeamish about committing murder and Strachan knows that. The bastard knows everything.
‘So we’re just standing there shouting at each other ’cause no bastard knows what to do next when we realize that the Lad’ll be there at any moment. So Johnnie, who’s kind of taken everything over, sends me out with the shotgun to wait for him arriving. No squeamishness about killing now. We all know that the apprentice is an even greater danger than the master, if you know what I mean, so I’m ready to blow the fucker’s head off if he turns up. So I’m outside and don’t know what the fuck is happening in the hangar and by now it’s getting dark and there are no lights at the site. I’m standing there in the dark with the Bennie Railplane above me and only four shells for the shotgun.
‘I see the shape of someone coming my way from the main road. More of a silhouette than anything else but I can tell from his build that it’s the Lad. But I have to wait till he gets really close. A sawn-off is useless at anything more than a few feet. He’s still far too far away when all hell breaks loose inside the hangar. There are a whole load of shots fired and Johnnie and Ronnie come running out, shouting for me to make a run for it. Johnnie’s shouting “He’s dead, he’s fucking dead”, but I don’t know if he’s talking about Strachan or Mike Murphy. The Lad starts running away too and I chase, firing one barrel at a time, but just for show because there’s no way I could hit him, but I guess he’s unarmed and I don’t want the bastard coming after me.
‘End of story? Four men run off in opposite directions, never to meet again, without a penny from the robbery in their pockets. Three of them are going to have to keep running. Who’s dead in the Railplane hangar? It could be Joe Strachan, it could be Mike Murphy, it could be both. All I know is that years later I read that Johnnie Bentley and then Ronnie McCoy meet with tragic accidents.’
‘You never saw them again?’
‘Naw. We all did a disappearing act. I even used a fake name for a while, but after a time I thought it was safe and, anyway, I met the wife and had to get married under my legal name. But I never heard another word from the others and I didn’t go looking for them, so I’m stuck not knowing if it was Strachan or Mike who’d been killed.’
‘The body …’ I said. ‘Surely the police found a body?’
Provan shook his head. ‘Not that I heard about. And believe me, I checked. Every day, all the papers.’
We both fell silent for a moment.
‘And where did you get the money for this?’ I gestured vaguely to indicate the bungalow we sat in.
‘I pulled a few jobs on my own. A couple in Glasgow and a few in Edinburgh. I’d learned a lot from Gentleman Joe and I decided that all of my jobs would be big takes. Strachan always said that robbing fifty quid carries the same risk as fifty thousand. When I had enough to keep me going, I gave the business up. Went straight. Even got a job for appearances’ sake and actually did well for myself.’
‘That night, when the Lad approached the Railplane site … he won’t have had a balaclava on then. Did you get a look at him?’
‘No. Or not enough to ever recognize him again. Like I said, it was as dark as a coon’s arse that night and he didn’t get close enough for me to get a decent squizz at him. But he was young. Younger than I thought and a lot younger than me.’
I took another few sips of the whisky but decided not to drain the tumbler, unless I wanted to see dual carriageways th
rough Glasgow again.
‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked.
‘Believe me, Lennox, I’m open to suggestions.’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘Aye. In the garage.’
‘Then I suggest you get packed. Right now. And get in your car and drive. Lock this place up, empty your bank account and drive. South. England. Don’t tell me where, just go. And I suggest you stay there for a few weeks, or until you hear that this is all over.’ I handed him a business card. ‘Telephone me every Monday morning at ten a.m. I’ll tell you what the state of play is. Call yourself Mr French when you call and if you hear anybody’s voice but mine, hang up. Got it?’
He nodded, but had a strange expression. Not suspicious, more confused.
‘Why are you helping me?’ he asked.
‘It’s Bob-a-Job week and I’m a Boy Scout. By the way, you owe me a shilling. I don’t know … I think you’ve been punished enough for your involvement in the robbery. You didn’t get anything out of it and you’ve spent the last eighteen years looking over your shoulder. And whether it’s Strachan or the Lad or someone else, whoever’s behind all of this mayhem has made it all very personal with me, like I told you.’
‘Well,’ said Provan. ‘It’s appreciated. Sorry about …’ He nodded to my blood-stained hand.
‘That’s okay. I don’t feel like I’m me if I’m not bleeding or bruised. Anyway, it’s a souvenir from my encounter with my commando window cleaner.’ I nodded to the kitchen sink. ‘Do you mind if I clean up?’
‘No problem. I’ve got a first aid kit if that helps.’
I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeves up. My right sleeve was sodden with blood. I eased up the dressing and saw that two of the stitches had popped, as I’d suspected and the wound gaped slightly at one end. I took a fresh pad and bandage from the frowning Provan and patched myself up as well as I could.
While I cleaned up, Provan packed a couple of holdalls for himself. He saw me out, locked the bungalow’s door behind him and shook my hand.
‘Thanks again, Lennox,’ he said.
‘Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, keep driving until you’re the only one with a Scottish accent, then drive some more.’
‘Will do.’ He waved and headed into the green-painted wooden garage.
I sat in the Atlantic for a moment and considered my next move. I knew who I had to see. I’d known it for some time now. My guess was that if I didn’t see him, he’d come visit me. And there was Fraser, the solicitor, with whom I had an account to settle. But I decided that before I did anything, I’d have to visit the Casualty Department and get my wound stitched up again. Then I’d visit a sign painter and get the lettering on my office window changed to ‘Lennox. Enquiry Agent and Human Tapestry’.
I could have sworn the whole car shunted sideways. The blast sideswiped the Atlantic and I felt the same stunned paralysis that I’d got during the war every time a shell or a grenade had gone off that little bit too close to me. And as the scars on my face attested, they had gone off too close. I ducked down and hugged my knees and a shower of green painted wood clattered down on the car. After it subsided I turned and looked out of my cracked side window. The garage was gone, along with a lot of Provan’s car. And Provan. I could make out something barely recognizable as a human shape blazing like the rest of the car.
Instinct took over and I sped off, taking the first turning off Provan’s street, hopefully before the neighbours who were coming running from their homes spotted my car or, worse still, my licence plate.
I cursed as I drove. I still didn’t know exactly whom I was cursing, but I cursed colourfully and loudly. Once I was in open countryside, I pulled over to the side of the road and checked the Atlantic for damage. Nothing much, apart from the cracked window on the driver’s side. I brushed what fragments of green-painted wood were left on the roof and bonnet and drove off at speed.
Into Glasgow.
I was left waiting in the Western Infirmary’s Casualty Department for four hours before a doctor deigned to see me. He tutted and sighed until I glowered at him with sufficient menace to change his attitude. Then he and a pretty nurse stitched me back up. I smiled at the nurse while the doctor worked. It is one of the paradoxes of being a man, or maybe just of being a Lennox, that you can be battered and bleeding, you can have just seen someone blasted and burned to death, you can have the most dangerous villains hunting you down, but somehow you still take time to make a move on pretty nurses.
Like the suicidal spawning journey of wild salmon, it was one of the wonders of Nature.
I called Fraser from a pay ’phone in the hospital.
‘We need to talk,’ I said firmly.
‘I’ve been somewhat expecting your call, Mr Lennox. I agree, we do have to talk. I do so hope we can resolve matters between us.’
‘In that case you’ll understand that I’d like to meet somewhere public. The Finnieston Vehicular Ferry, tomorrow morning, the first sailing at six-thirty, if that’s not too early for a lawyer.’
‘I’ll be there. I’ll bring a small bonus for you, Mr Lennox, just as a goodwill gesture. I don’t see that we need to rock the boat.’
I wondered if Fraser was making a joke about the ferry, but decided that that kind of humour would be more alien to him than a little green man from Mars. I hung up.
I went to the hospital canteen and had a coffee, more to wash down the antibiotics I had been given to fight infection than anything else. I noticed my hand shook as I held the cup and the image of Provan’s burning silhouette kept pushing its way to the front of my mind.
After I’d calmed down a little, I made my way out to the car park. There were two men waiting at the Atlantic. One was a wiry, hard-looking Teddy Boy. The other was sitting on the wing of my Atlantic and I was seriously worried about permanent damage to the suspension. He stood up as I approached and the Atlantic bounced.
I knew them both.
‘Hello, Mr Lennox,’ said the giant, in a baritone that bordered on the bottom of the human hearing range. ‘We’ve been re-quest-ed to furr-nush you with conney-vey-ance to see Mr Sneddon.’
‘I was kind of expecting that, Twinkle,’ I said. ‘I see you have Singer with you. Hello, Singer.’
Singer nodded. Which was all he could do. I thought of quipping ‘I see I’m in for the silent treatment’, but joking about Singer’s affliction was something I never did, for some reason I didn’t fully understand.
Singer was mute. He was also the meanest, most vicious life-taker you could encounter. But I owed him: he had saved my life once and, as far as I could tell, he had some kind of regard for me, as did Twinkletoes. I liked Twinkletoes. He was a great one for self-improvement and worked tirelessly at improving his word-power, mainly through study of the Reader’s Digest. The funny thing was that, despite this, Twinkletoes managed somehow to speak English, his native tongue, as if it were a second language.
This endearing image of Twinkletoes was the one I tried to keep at the forefront of my thinking as he escorted me into the back of the Jaguar they had parked behind my Atlantic. The alternative image was of the psychopathic torturer who handed you your toes one by one while reciting ‘This Little Piggy’.
I looked back at my Atlantic. I had stashed my gun in the boot before heading into Casualty.
‘Need to get something, Mr Lennox?’ asked Twinkletoes.
‘No …’ I said thoughtfully. I just had to play this hand with the cards I’d been dealt. ‘No, it’s okay, Twinkle.’
Singer drove and Twinkletoes sat in the back with me, which meant I was squeezed into one corner.
‘Still doing a lot of work for Mr Sneddon, Twinkle?’ I asked conversationally.
‘Oh cunt-rare …’ said Twinkle. ‘That’s French for on the contrary, by the way … Mr Sneddon is currently in a process of commercial diversy-fey-cation. But he’s finding other things for me to do and I’m still on full pay, but.’
‘That’s
good …’ I said, hoping this trip fell under the category other things. I watched out the window. We were heading for the docks. Maybe Sneddon’s corporate office, which would be a good sign. But we took several turns into the quayside and were soon surrounded by the black hulks of quayside warehouses. Not so good.
Twinkletoes fell silent and stopped smiling. Which was worse. We pulled up at a warehouse shed and Singer got out, opened the doors, then drove inside. It was dark inside and it took me a while to adjust to the gloom. Twinkle got out, walked round to my side and hoisted me out by the arm. I was frogmarched past some empty office compartments, through double doors and into the vast hall of the main warehouse area. It was completely empty except for the heavy steel chains that dangled like jungle creepers from the roof, and for the single tubular steel office chair in the middle of the space.
Willie Sneddon, dressed in a sharp suit as always and with a camel coat draped over his shoulders, was sitting on the chair. He nodded across to Twinkletoes and a train hit me in the kidneys.
‘Sorry, Mr Lennox,’ said Twinkletoes genuinely as I vomited up my breakfast. And my spleen. Yellow dots danced in front of my eyes and I was only vaguely aware of being dragged across the floor and something cold and hard being wrapped tight around my wrists. I was suddenly hoisted up and my feet left the ground. It took me a moment or two to realize I was suspended by one of the chain hoists I’d seen dangling from the roof. I felt a trickle of blood run up my arm to my shoulder. There go my stitches again, I thought, and wondered if it would be better to get a zip fitted the next time.
The Deep Dark Sleep l-3 Page 25
