The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  A black Toyota Yaris pulled up twenty feet away and its headlights cut out, but the engine continued to hum quietly. Screen glare illuminated the interior, revealing two men. Everything went dark again when one of the men placed the phone to his ear.

  Bob’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t answer; he already knew who the visitors were. Stepping around the tree, he approached the Yaris. The electric passenger window came all the way down. A young man with short brown hair and a clean-shaven, slender face stared up at him. “Robert.”

  Bob leaned against the vehicle’s bonnet. “Maurice, long time no see,” he said.

  Maurice Kemp didn’t acknowledge the nicety. Looking past Bob, he eyed Rose’s saloon and then turned his attention to the half hidden estate. “You need to get rid of those cars, Bob, along with the other van,” he said, his voice emotionless. “And you need to do it now.”

  Bob turned his head towards the trees, saying. “You can come out, lads. It’s safe.”

  Regan’s men stepped out and studied the Yaris, then approached carefully, their footsteps tentative, as though they were uncertain about what was happening and why.

  Maurice coughed melodramatically and Bob swivelled back in his direction.

  The young man jabbed a finger at the parked vehicles. “It’s very far from safe, Robert. There’s a lot to get rid of in a very short timeframe. Having all these cars out here is exposing you to unnecessary risk. Get rid of them now. If you make me repeat myself we’re going to turn around and leave you to deal with all this on your own.”

  The Kemps were a fickle family, and risk averse. If they thought Bob wasn’t taking his responsibilities seriously they would leave the area immediately, regardless of what he offered them to stay.

  Bob moved from the bonnet and patted the taller and slimmer of the pair, Malky, on the shoulder. “You take the saloon, lad.”

  Then he turned to the other man, Chas, adding: “And you take the van. Drive them over to Gary Feldman’s place and tell them I sent you, otherwise he’ll try and charge you.”

  “Then what?” Malky said.

  “Then youse go home and forget about tonight. I assume Lee paid you, right?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Then go. Now. And don’t break the speed limit. Take your time.”

  They made off in the direction of their transportation. The engines thrummed into life, the vehicles pulled off the grass, and rushed down the darkened lane until there was nothing left of them but the faint red eyes of their rear lights.

  The Yaris pulled in and Maurice and his father, Sebastian, got out. They studied their surroundings carefully, and then stared at Bob. Both men were five-eight and dressed identically in dark chinos, pale shirts, and dark waterproof jackets that added a little bulk to their slim frames. Had it not been for the flecks of grey in Sebastian’s hair and his saggier jawline the two men could have been mistaken for brothers. Even their temperaments were identical.

  Sebastian nodded in the direction of the estate. “Who’s going to drive the estate?” he asked, his voice as cold and dispassionate as that of his son.

  “D’you need me around at all, lad?”

  Maurice and Sebastian shared a wry smile, as though Bob had shared a joke. “Frankly, it would be better for you to leave now,” Maurice said. “Get as far away from the scene as possible. Establish alibis, just in case. If you can’t establish one, we’ll do it for you.”

  “Then I guess I’m driving.”

  “Are your men capable of taking orders?” Sebastian asked.

  “That’s why they’re here,” Bob replied. “Heavy lifting, cleaning, digging, you name it and them lads’ll do it. They know this needs to be cleaned up fast. Treat them like your men.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Then that saves us from explaining the hierarchy to them.”

  Maurice coughed to get Bob’s attention. “And Regan?”

  “Try and save him if you can,” Bob said. “But if he don’t make it, dispose of him the same as you would anybody else.”

  He got in the estate and wound down the driver’s window. “Owt else before I leave?”

  “The Karagounis brothers.”

  “Don’t worry about them. Jimmy’ll take care of it.”

  Bob turned the key, put his foot down and drove away. A quick glance in the rear-view was enough to see that the Kemps were already on the move – ensuring that nobody would ever find a trace of the massacre.

  90. – Stanton

  THE CAR turned the corner in a wide arc and veered to the right. We ran behind it in the crouched position, staying close to the bumper. My brother found it difficult to keep up, because he had much further to crouch, and his face reddened with the exertion. As the car closed in it drifted until it stopped beside the four-wheeler.

  Moving to our right, we dropped on our knees and scuttled beneath the rear window of the 4x4. Kandinsky must have wound down his window, because he shouted, “Excuse me,” repeatedly at the occupants of the four-wheeler until I finally heard the whirr of an electric window motor.

  “Whaddaya want?” a gruff voice replied.

  “I’m lost, mate. You wouldn’t happen to know where Shipton Street is, would you?”

  I pulled out my gun and checked it. One in the chamber, ready. My brother did the same. We nodded at each other and rounded the vehicle carefully, shuffling forward on our knees.

  “Christ, that’s nowhere near here, fella.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. You’re really lost.”

  We edged towards the driver’s door. I watched the wing mirror carefully; all I could see was the back of the driver’s bald head, which was turned towards Kandinsky, who asked:

  “How far away is it?”

  “‘Bout half a mile, back towards Yarm.”

  “Shit, that far?”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  My brother gripped the door handle gently, ready to pull it open. I peered down the gun sight and lined it up where the driver would be sitting. My brother held his breath and waited for a signal.

  I gave him the nod.

  He pulled at the handle, yanking the door open.

  I rushed at the driver, who turned his big shaved head in my direction and gawked at the silencer. His gaze travelled up the length of the barrel and finally settled on my face.

  “Dennis?” he said carefully.

  “Can it wait?” the passenger replied. “I’m occupied.”

  “Then get unoccupied.”

  “That might be difficult,” Dennis said, holding his hands in the air.

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause I’m staring down a fuckin’ gun barrel.”

  The driver allowed himself a sardonic smile. “Then that makes two of us.”

  I pushed the end of the silencer against his face. “Who’s inside?”

  “I dunno what…”

  I jabbed his right cheek with the gun, drawing blood. “There are two fuckin’ ways this can go,” I said. “The easy way or the way that involves you crying tears of blood. How d’you wannit?”

  The driver’s lips went tight and thin. “The easy way.”

  “So who’s inside?”

  “Alan’s inside with four heavies.”

  “Tooled up?”

  “Whaddayou think?”

  “I don’t think owt,” I replied. “I’ve got no fuckin’ imagination. Explain it to me.”

  “They’re tooled,” he said. “Automatics, silencers, and Al’s carrying a couple of blades.”

  I nodded and thought about how to get in the house and rescue our money. Through the front gate seemed the ballsiest way to do it, but also the one that Piper would least expect.

  “You’re gonna take us inside,” I said.

  The driver shook his head. “How?”

  “You got a mobile?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then use it. Ask if you can come in and use the toilet. Make it convincing.”

  I took a few steps
back. Taking his time, the man reached into his right trouser pocket and extracted his phone. He touched the screen a few times, then put it to his face.

  “Boss. Open the gate, will ya? I need to use the bog.”

  An inaudible reply droned out of the phone.

  “That’s all and well and good, but I dunno a man alive who can shit in a plastic bottle,” he said. “And I’m not taking a fuckin’ dump in the street like a dog.”

  The phone droned again.

  “Dennis can watch the gate,” he said. “Don’t even know why you’ve got two of us watching the fuckin’ thing anyways. Aw come on, man, I’m fuckin’ dying here. The thing’s worming its way outta me arse as we speak.”

  Another murmur emanated from the mobile.

  “Christ, no need to get shirty, boss. Fine, see you in five.”

  The man pressed the screen again and turned it off. I told him to throw it on the pavement, get out of the car, and put his hands in the air. He did as he was told. My brother picked up the phone and put it in his jacket pocket. I jammed my gun into the man’s ribs and rummaged through his pockets with my left hand. A gun was wedged against his back, held in place by his tight waistband. I pulled it free and put it in my left jeans pocket.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Remembering the set of keys in my pocket, I wondered if I could use the key fob to get inside. “You got an electronic fob?” I asked.

  He shook his head again. “Nah. Someone’s gonna let me in.”

  That put paid to that idea.

  “Then I guess we better go and wait.”

  91. – Owden

  BOB PULLED up outside a tall electric gate and put the vehicle in neutral. He alerted Gary Feldman by text message and waited. On the radio a local talkshow host cajoled one of his callers into a dyspeptic rant about job stealing immigrants. Bob decided engine sounds were preferable to listening to local idiots whine about their problems and turned the radio off.

  The gate rolled right and a short middle-aged man, dressed in army surplus fatigues, with a shaggy mop of dark hair and a pale, toad-like face scuttled towards the driver’s side of the car. Bob rolled down the window. The man bent forward and looked through the gap.

  “Bob,” he said, patting the car roof. “Not your usual type of ride.”

  “It’s rubbish,” Bob replied. “Drifts all over the place.”

  A smirk slanted the man’s thick lips. “These models are notorious for that. Good thing you’re getting rid of it.”

  “Where’s them two lads I sent over?”

  Gary’s smirk became a wonky grin. “Your two lads have already been and gone.”

  Bob gritted his teeth. “I told them idiots to stick to the speed limit.”

  “I don’t think your advice was heeded,” Gary said, the grin widening. “They dropped their cars where I told ‘em, shouted that you sent ‘em, and took off as fast as Jamaican sprinters.”

  Bob stared through the open gate. Tall columns of car shells creaked and groaned with the wind. He put the car in first and drove carefully through the high metallic maze. Petrol stench burned his nostrils and the reek of burnt rubber made his eyes water. He rolled up the car window, turned a few corners and was finally in the center of the maze. Two large cranes – one with a claw, the other a magnet – were positioned in front of a prefab office and an industrial crusher that was busy turning Regan’s van into a dense cube.

  He parked beside the magnetic crane and got out of the car. He bent down and touched his toes, then shook his legs to get rid of the pins and needles. Gary walked over to the estate and leaned against it as Bob went through his stretching routine.

  “Much as I love to watch you do your calisthenics,” he said. “I think we should get to work on making your car problem disappear.”

  Bob raised his hands above his head and did one last bone-cracking stretch. “There might be some weapons to dispose of, too. Later”

  “Permanently? Or would you like me to work on the barrels so you can put them back into circulation?” Gary said.

  “Permanently.”

  Gary’s eyebrows arched. “It’ll cost you more.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re racking up quite the total here, Bob.”

  “Again, doesn’t matter. Not like I can’t pay it.”

  “Speaking of that…”

  “You’ll get paid tomorrow, lad, no matter what.”

  “Any bodies coming my way?”

  Bob shook his head.

  Gary smirked. “I expect the pigs’ll be getting a good feed tonight, then.”

  Bob turned his cold gaze on the scrap merchant. “I wouldn’t know owt about that.”

  Gary held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Course not.”

  Bob’s phone rang. He held a finger up for Gary to hold that thought and put the phone to his face. “Yes?”

  “Guess who we just found in the woods, tied together?” Jimmy said.

  Bob didn’t have to think very hard to remember that there were six people in Eddie’s entourage. “Barry and Gay Pete?”

  “Bingo,” Jimmy said. “Whaddaya want us to do with ‘em?”

  “What’ve they seen?”

  “Fuck all. Somebody knocked ‘em out and tied them up before all the action started. Once they came round, they started screaming their heads off. Hard not to hear them from where we were.”

  “You sure they’ve not seen owt?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then let ‘em go,” Bob said. “Rough ‘em up a bit. Make some threats. Tell them to leave town and not come back. Ever.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a slight pause. “And the Karagounis brothers?” Jimmy asked, his voice low, as though he wanted to avoid being overheard.

  “They tortured Rose and Emily, didn’t they?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then you can do what you want with them after they’ve taken us to the money. Had no intention of letting them live anyway.”

  92. – Stanton

  OLLIE STOOD at the gate with his hands behind his back, waiting. Fat beads of sweat rolled down the back of his head and disappeared beneath his collar. He shuffled uncomfortably and cast an occasional glance at my brother, standing to his left, using a large gatepost as a hiding place. My brother held a silenced automatic where Ollie could see it. Every few seconds he squeezed the handle tightly until his knuckles whitened, then he unclenched.

  Leaning against the other post, I looked at the 4x4. Dennis leaned back in his seat and tried to appear nonchalant, which was probably difficult considering Mickey was crouched in the driver’s footwell, just out of view, pointing a gun at his chest.

  Kandinsky waited around the corner for our signal. He was our secret weapon in case things went wrong.

  Leather soles clacked down the driveway and scuffed to a stop on the other side of the gate. An electric motor whirred and after a couple of seconds delay the gates pulled away from each other with a sudden jerk and rattled noisily. I made myself as flat as possible against the gatepost.

  My brother hunched his shoulders, ready to pounce.

  A voice I didn’t recognise said: “Peter’s well pissed wi’ you, matey. Shoulda took your shit before you got in the fuckin’ car, shouldn’t you?”

  A tall, well-built man in jeans, T-shirt and fashionable leather jacket emerged through the gate. He stood close to Ollie, going nose-to-nose. “You fuckin’ hearing us, matey? Ow, daft cunt, you fuckin’ mute, or summat?”

  My brother rushed forward and made a grab for the man. He must have seen the movement from the corner of his eye, because he sidestepped left. My brother stumbled into the space he had vacated and collided with Ollie, sending him off balance. Ollie took a few knock-kneed steps back and collapsed on his stomach in front of me. I put one of my feet on his back and pressed down hard, so he wouldn’t make the stupid mistake of trying to run away.

  Turning on his heels, th
e stocky man swung a vicious left hook. My brother ducked beneath it and moved to his right, dropping his gun.

  The stocky man was fast on his feet and made a grab for the weapon. My brother was wise to it and planted his right boot into the man’s gut. He went oof, stumbled backwards into the street and rolled on the tarmac. He was nimble enough to get back to his feet as my brother approached. He threw a fast right that caught my brother’s cheek and knocked him to the left. Stocky man saw his chance, sprinted forward, and geared up to swing his left at my brother’s face.

  My brother dropped on the ground and swung his right foot, which caught the onrushing man’s ankle and swept his legs from beneath him. He landed on his side with a yelp. Then my brother drove his boot heel into the man’s face again and again, until I heard the wet crunch of breaking bone. The man groaned and cupped his hands over his face. Thin rivulets of red poured through his fingers.

  Sensing the opportunity to finish his opponent, my brother scuttled across the tarmac, grabbed the man by the throat and threw a series of hard rights into his face. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to deflect the blows, but my brother kept hitting him until he stopped moving, then pushed the man away and got to his feet.

  My brother dragged his opponent through the gate, behind some tall, dense shrubs that bordered the drive. He bound the man’s hands and feet with zip ties and gagged him with his own socks. Then he picked up his weapon and texted Kandinsky to let him know that we were inside.

  My brother looked back at me and nodded in the direction of the house. “Let’s go get our money,” he hissed. “I wanna get the fuck outta here.”

  I took my foot off Ollie’s back and told him to get up. Using the wall as leverage, he clambered upright and looked at me for further directions. I pointed through the gate with the silencer. Ollie let out a sigh of frustration, slumped forward and trudged through the gate with me gently prodding him in the back with the gun to remind him of what was at stake.

  Kandinsky walked through the gate and immediately noticed the unconscious man on the floor, despite the fact he’d been well hidden. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Nowt I couldn’t handle,” my brother replied.