The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  It was small and pokey with sloped ceilings and a floor that consisted of wide wood beams and foam insulation. A large dark bag rested on a beam in the far right corner. Bob crossed the beams and picked it up one-handed. He dropped the bag through the scuttle hole and climbed down after it.

  Once Bob had put everything back as he’d found it, he unzipped the bag. It was crammed with fat, tight bricks of fifties and twenties that had been shrink wrapped in plastic to stop the mice and rats from smelling them. He refastened the bag and allowed himself a moment to smile. Then he reset the alarm, locked the doors and threw the bag in the boot of the car.

  When he got back in the passenger seat, Jimmy looked at him with a quizzical expression.

  “We good?”

  Bob grinned. “We’re very good. Best I’ve felt all evening, lad,” he said, staring at the Karagounis brothers in the rear-view mirror. “Let’s go and get the next one.”

  96. – Stanton

  MY BROTHER pressed Piper’s hand around the butt of Kandinsky’s automatic and rested his finger against the trigger. His fingerprints were now on two guns, along with several of the bullet casings from Kandinsky’s clip. This was enough to tie him with two murders, plus I’d already taken photographs of the corpses with my phone. We also had the hard-drive with Bethany’s home movies on it, along with videos featuring several other girls.

  I slapped Piper hard. He blinked repeatedly as he adjusted to his surroundings and even stared open-mouthed at his wounded forearm and hand. As soon as he tried to move, Piper felt the pain of his injuries. His brain stopped playing catch-up and he retreated back into the armchair, drawing his knees up to his chest. He gazed at us over the top of them.

  “Whaddaya gonna do?” he said.

  “You’re smart. You figure it out.”

  “Look, fellas, I only did what any of youse woulda done with the roles reversed.”

  “That’s fair enough, like,” my brother said, nodding.

  Kandinsky looked at my brother and shook his head slowly. I just glared in his direction. Realising that neither of us agreed with his point of view, my brother coughed and laughed. “Was being sarcastic, weren’t I?”

  “I’d be more likely to believe you if you understood what sarcasm means,” I replied.

  “Fuck you. I know what it means.”

  “Well, go on then,” Kandinsky said. “Explain it.”

  My brother’s face went blank and his blinking eyes scanned the ceiling, as though the answer might be lurking somewhere in the cracks. When he realised that he didn’t have the answer, my brother flicked a V-sign at Kandinsky. “There’s me explanation, in a nutshell. Now go fuck yourself, before I explain a fuckin’ coma to you with me fists.”

  Kandinsky stiffened slightly. For a brief moment it looked like he might be stupid enough to go toe-to-toe with my brother, but then he slow-clapped his hands and said: “Brilliant.”

  My brother’s eyebrows knitted together. He turned in my direction for an explanation.

  “Sarcasm,” I said. “In a nutshell.”

  “You can both fuck yourselves,” he said, huffing loudly, as he left the room and went into the hallway, probably to take it out on Ollie and the fat man.

  I turned my attention back to Piper. “If the roles were reversed,” I said. “I wouldn’t have betrayed you for the money.”

  He sneered. “Bullshit.”

  “We worked for you for years, breaking bones, chasing debts, and listening to you get all misty-eyed over your latest conquests. We had plenty of chances to steal from you, but we didn’t.”

  “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

  “You’ve never been grateful a day in your life, Al. Don’t expect you to start now.”

  “Then what?”

  “Since going freelance, we’ve had plenty of chances to raid you,” I said. “‘Cause you sure as fuck aren’t under Bob Owden’s protection. But we never did. You know why?”

  “No. And I don’t fuckin’ care, neither.”

  “‘Cause we don’t raid our friends.”

  Piper blinked repeatedly, and made his bottom lip tremble. It was a bad actor’s rendition of what crying looked like. “Aw, I’m touched. I have a friend.”

  I wrapped my hand around his forearm and squeezed hard. Piper screamed until I finally let go. Then he gave me puppy dog eyes in an attempt to get my sympathy. Had I been one of his women it might have worked, but I wasn’t and it didn’t.

  “You had a friend,” I said. “Not any more.”

  He stopped trying to get my sympathy, and a big grin spread across his face. “I betcha thought I was letting youse two stay in this gaff outta the goodness of me heart, right?”

  “Summat like that.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I was always gonna clip you, Eric,” he said. “As soon as you’d dealt with Eddie I was gonna deal with you and keep the money for meself. Had it all planned out, but Bob kinda fucked with the plan when he told us about the bounty. I got sloppy because I knew you’d be running tonight.”

  An expression of surprise must have registered on my face.

  “Well, well, well, you look genuinely fuckin’ shocked. Finally, somebody pierces that cool fuckin’ façade. Wish I had a fuckin’ camera for that expression.”

  I’d always thought that saving Piper’s life had carried some weight. Now I knew that it didn’t, and it probably never had. He’d showered us with favours and money because we’d been useful to him. Gratitude had never entered into it, nor had friendship.

  “Enjoy the moment, Al,” I said. “Fuckin’ savour it, ‘cause you’re finished.”

  “Sez you.”

  I held up the weapons in my gloved hands. “Says these,” I replied. “Your fingerprints are all over Kandinsky’s gun, along with several of the casings in the clip. Bullets from these two guns are in your dead friends.”

  “Fuck you,” he said, without sounding convinced.

  “Pithy comeback. Oscar Wilde’s got nowt on you,” I replied. “If you report this to the pigs after we’re gone, they’ll be getting these guns and photographs in the post. Means you might have some explaining to do.”

  “And the hole in me arm?”

  “Thought you might get to that. That might help you with the pigs, but it won’t help you with the wife.”

  His face slackened. The last traces of his smile disappeared. “Whass she gotta do with it?”

  I held up the hard-drive. “I’ve also got this masterpiece, starring Bethany and her three-cock gob. Along some very graphic footage of several other infidelities.”

  Beads of sweat formed on Piper’s forehead. When he tried to speak one of them started rolling down towards his eyebrows.

  “With just one of these videos your missus can get at least half,” I said, “but just imagine what’d happen if she were to get all of ‘em at once?”

  The colour left Piper’s face. Judging by his horrified expression, he was imagining it.

  “I doubt she’d even leave you with your cock and balls in the settlement.”

  I knew from experience that Piper wasn’t afraid of the police. If the worst came, he could always pay them to look the other way. But Marissa Piper was different. She had what psychiatrists refer to as a high conflict personality disorder. In psychological parlance, it meant that she enjoyed sowing seeds of discontent and misery in her everyday life, whether at work or at home.

  In Boro parlance, it meant that she was a cunt.

  Marissa delighted in making Piper’s life miserable. She squandered his money on expensive trinkets and treatments that she didn’t want or need, booked expensive holidays that she later cancelled at great expense, and caused scenes at parties and other events, usually by verbally or physically abusing him. Whenever he called his wife out on her behaviour, she blamed it all on him.

  Piper had tried to divorce her many years ago, only to find that she wasn’t willing to let him have a clean break. She knew his dirtiest business secrets –
ones that would lead to a jail cell if they were revealed – and warned him that she might just let them slip if divorce was ever mentioned again.

  But not because she loved him, mind you. Because it wasn’t as simple as that. What Marissa wanted more than anything was to control their relationship. She wanted Piper to dance to her tune, like a trained pet. Love didn’t even come into it. Control was everything.

  So Piper kept his affairs very close to his chest. Any revelation of that kind would mean that Marissa had lost control, and he couldn’t have her believing that. He knew enough about his wife to realise that the only way she could regain control would be to destroy him both psychologically and financially. Not only would she divorce him, she would also reveal his every dirty deal, even if it meant her own downfall.

  Because at least she’d be in control.

  Piper looked up at me. “So whadda you want?”

  “For you to clean up this mess.”

  He gave me a rueful grin and then spat out a bitter laugh.

  “Make it all go away,” I said, “and we’ll keep your secrets. Don’t care how you make ‘em disappear or what bullshit you tell their friends and families, but this whole thing never happened. We clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  Crouching, I placed the guns and the hard-drive in one of the holdalls. Then I stared at Piper until he returned my gaze. “What?” he snapped.

  “Why?”

  “Why’d you think?”

  “Dunno,” I replied with a shake of my head.

  “Because I never fuckin’ liked you, Eric,” he said, sneering. “You always thought I did, because of that fuckin’ time you saved me neck. Thing is, though, you’d never lemme forget it. Kept bringing it up whenever you wanted summat, which was all the fuckin’ time.

  “When you told me you wanted a box man, I figured youse were going after some real scratch – fuckin’ retirement money. Then I figured that if you and your brother disappeared afterwards, nobody’d think owt of it. I knew I could’ve kept the money hidden in this place, away from the missus, and just bided me time.”

  “Marissa really did a fuckin’ number on you.”

  His face reddened. “I’m the one doing the fuckin’ number, mate. Been tryna move money out of accounts and into offshore funds for a long fuckin’ time. Doing business off the books, buying properties that she dunno nowt about. Building up a fund so’s I can leave that bitch once and for all. The money in them bags would’ve been the final piece of the puzzle. And now you pricks’ve fucked it up.”

  “No, Al. You fucked it up.”

  He thought about it and sighed. “Mebbe you’re right about that.”

  I picked up the bags and nodded at Kandinsky. He went out of the room and into the hallway. He said something unintelligible to my brother, whose low reply was also too soft to be heard.

  My brother re-entered the living room and glowered at Alan briefly. “You rang?”

  “I’m gonna go load up the car,” I said. “Which gives you five minutes alone with this prick.”

  “Five minutes?” he replied, disappointed.

  “That’s right. And if you aren’t outside the gate when we pull the car around we’ll fuckin’ leave without you. Got it?”

  My brother cracked the knuckles of his right fist. “Got it.”

  Piper couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” I said. “The big lad can do a lot of damage in that time. You should know, you employed him for long enough.”

  Piper whimpered.

  I whispered in my brother’s ear, “Do what you want within reason, but don’t fuckin’ kill him. We need him alive.”

  My brother grunted and gave a couple of nods.

  I left the room and waited in the hallway for a few moments. Ollie and the fat man were still face down on the floor. A large puddle of piss had formed around the fat man’s waist, but the pair were otherwise unharmed. It seemed my brother had learned patience after all.

  He’d saved himself for Alan.

  Rubber soled shoes scuffed the tiles and there were sounds of a struggle, of hands grabbing clothes, of fabric tearing. Alan whined.

  “Hold still, you cunt,” my brother snarled.

  A loud distinctive crack echoed down the hall – the kind a broken bone makes. Alan shrieked briefly, though it was soon muffled, probably by my brother’s hand. A couple of quieter snaps followed, along with more mewling.

  I opened the front door and stepped into the night. Cool air brushed my skin. I took a deep breath, let it out gradually, and turned to the two men on the floor. “This was all a bad dream, boys. If you wanna live, my advice is that you’d do well to forget you ever had it.”

  As I closed the door there was another crack, another drawn out squeal.

  97. – Owden

  BOB TURNED slowly, shining his light on every inch of the attic. He couldn’t see anything. Either Anthony had lied or the money had been moved elsewhere, but there was no bag in the attic. He climbed down to the landing below and closed the scuttle hole. Then he folded the stepladder, placing it behind the bathroom door, and went down the stairs. He turned on the alarm and locked the door and the mesh gate.

  Bob rested against the mesh and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. There were seven holdalls in the car boot, totalling one and three-quarter million. He should have been happy with a good night’s work, but couldn’t help being disappointed that one bag was missing.

  Bob moved towards the car, dodging a few people who walked their dogs in the anaemic morning sun. He got in the passenger seat and glowered at the Karagounis brothers in the rear-view mirror. They weren’t in much condition to notice, but Jimmy sensed his mood immediately.

  “Problems?” he said, starting the engine.

  “Aye, lad,” he said, turning around. “The money weren’t there, Anthony.”

  Anthony slowly looked in Bob’s direction with unfocused, glassy eyes. The morning light reflected off his waxy, pale skin. Every breath he took seemed to catch in his throat, and every attempt to speak resulted in nothing but guttural sounds. After several greedy glugs from a large water bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Swear down… that’s where it’s… s’posed to be.”

  “Well it weren’t there, lads.”

  Anthony’s eyelids flickered and closed, and his head drooped. His chin struck his chest and he jerked upright, blinking furiously in an effort to stay awake. He nudged his brother for help, but George was too far-gone and replied with vowel sounds. Anthony’s head did another fast droop, bounced up again, and he slapped himself to stay awake.

  Bob knew that Anthony had lost too much blood over the last few hours. He probably didn’t have long left. The loss of blood was so severe that Bob had grabbed a dusty, black duvet from one of the houses to throw over their legs.

  Anthony gasped and spluttered. His face screwed up and his eyes became tight slits. He rocked back and forth gently, making a strange huffing sound. It was only then that Bob realised Anthony was trying to cry. “Don’t… wanna die… not like… this,” he whispered and wiped his knuckles across his eyes. They came away dry.

  “Can’t make… any tears.”

  Bob hadn’t shed a tear since the day of his wife and son’s funeral. He turned away from the dying man, saying, “Know how you feel, lad.”

  Jimmy pulled away from the kerb and drove around with no sense of purpose, waiting for his boss to give a definitive order. Bob patted his arm. “They’re done. Let’s go to the farm and get rid of them.”

  “And the last bag?”

  Bob raised his shoulders and let them drop. “Just have to write it off. ”

  “And the Stantons?”

  Bob allowed himself a thin smile. “You were right, lad. I shouldn’t have let Eric get to me like that. Don’t matter now, though. If them lads are running, like I’m hoping they are, then it works out best for me.”

  Bob thought about h
is temper and how it had got away from him in the heat of the moment. Upon realising how much it had nearly cost him, he felt a slow shiver slowly work its way up his spine. Only dumb luck had stopped him from killing the Stanton brothers, of ensuring that their photographs and videos made it out into the world. Now that he’d had a chance to think he knew that not killing them had worked out for the best.

  Jimmy cast him a quick glance. “And what about me?”

  Bob patted his shoulder again. “Taking out Rose the way you did meant a lot, lad. Especially because of the way you felt about her.”

  Jimmy’s mouth went tight and his bottom lip trembled briefly.

  “But I don’t want a whiff of gambling from now on.”

  Jimmy’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t promise. Just do it.”

  Jimmy’s eyes blinked with emotion. “I’ll sort it out.”

  “You’d better, lad. ‘Cause there won’t be a next time, if you catch my drift?”

  “I get you.”

  Bob looked out of the window at the passing houses and cars.

  “Then me and you are good.”

  ------

  Later that day, after the call came in from the Kemps, telling him it was all good, and the pigs were tucking in to their diet of chopped up body parts, and the sun had started its descent behind the horizon, Bob emptied the holdalls of cash onto his bed. The notes piled up on the duvet and spilled off the sides, littering the floor.

  Bob undressed to his boxers and climbed on the bed. The money felt scratchy against his flesh, but the feeling wasn’t unpleasant, just different. The smell, though, was wonderful. The rich, earthy aroma of back pockets and leather wallets, the tang of copper from where paper and coins had been kept together, the various scents were like the finest soporific ever invented. His eyelids drooped. He didn’t fight the tiredness, choosing instead to let it engulf him the same way the paper covered him.

  For the first time in what felt like years, Bob Owden dozed off into a deep and peaceful sleep.