Ways to Die in Glasgow

by Jay Stringer

  I think of the guys I killed, and Jenny T as she splattered all over me. ‘A few what?’

  He puts his head to one side and smiles. ‘Drinks. You all right, son?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I got shot. And now I can’t find Uncle Rab.’

  His lips pucker and open like a fish a couple times. Then he plays with an envelope on the table, turning it round. ‘Not you as well.’ He points to the purse. ‘Was that your girlfriend we just got rid of?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lass came in here, looks like one of them drama students that go on the sub crawl and get lost. She was asking for him too. Haven’t seen him since last night. He left not long after you.’

  ‘Aye? Well, I saw him here with you last night, and now I can’t find him. His place has been turned over too. Any idea where he was going? Any idea where he is right now?’

  His eyes narrow, and he tries to find a little of the old Murdo Murder spirit. ‘Whatcha sayin’, son?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  He shakes his head and waves, dismissing me. ‘Away with you. Go sleep this mood off before you say the wrong thing.’

  I feel people around me stand up, ready to force it if I don’t behave. I see the woman crack her knuckles together and smile a little. I can take each and every one of them if I have to. Then I feel my leg, blinking on and off like a faulty Christmas light, and I put my hands out. ‘Aye, all right. Okay.’

  I turn and walk out. It takes everything I’ve got not to let the limp show as I move. I save that up till I’m outside and buckle against the wall, rubbing my thigh like Beth did, but I don’t have her magic blond hair or English accent, so it doesn’t make me feel any better. Once I’m feeling up to it, I head round the back. The Pit used to be the ground floor of a tenement building, but the rest of it was demolished after a fire. The Pit itself now stands on its own, the space behind it that had been the backyard now just a mess of broken concrete and weeds.

  I find the window to the lav. I know it from all the times I’ve dropped something out of it during a police raid. I slip the kitchen knife from Rab’s place out of my pocket and slide it into the gap where the window opens outward, working it loose until I can get a grip with my fingers. Then it’s easy enough to slip in through the window.

  I sit and wait there. I don’t know how long. I get the urge to pee a couple times but hold it in. Third time I figure, what the hell? I’m in the right place for it. Just as I’m finishing up, I hear movement the other side of the door, and I slip back out of sight just as it opens.

  Murdo walks past, not sensing me there, and pulls his tackle out, pointing it at the steel urinal. Before he can relax enough to let rip, I step in beside him and grab his wee boaby, gripping it hard and twisting a little. He yelps and pulls away, but then realises that’s going to cause him more pain, so he steps closer. It must be tricky trying to figure out what to do when a man has grabbed your dick in a lav. Almost as weird as being the guy holding it. I’ve only ever touched my own until now. His piece is warmer than I’d expected. Rougher too. It’s like holding one of those battered sausages in a chip shop.

  I make his decision easy and show him the kitchen knife in my other hand, bringing it close to his wee man. He gets the message.

  ‘You must have me confused,’ I tell him, ‘with the man who fucks about.’

  He doesn’t speak, so I prompt him and he nods. ‘Yeah, sorry, won’t happen again.’

  ‘It’s okay, no problem,’ I tell him, being nice, reasonable. ‘All I want to know is where Rab is.’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. I really don’t.’

  ‘See, the thing is now I have to cut your dick off, aye? I mean, I’m trying here, Murdo, I really am. I want to leave you be. But then, my uncle has gone missing, someone’s killed his dog, and two fuckers shot at me last night, so my patience is wearing a bit thin. And hey’—I look down into my hands—‘speaking of thin.’

  ‘Okay, okay, look.’ His breathing is coming really brittle, and I don’t know whether I’m more worried that he’ll piss on me or have a heart attack. ‘After you went last night, he got a call on his mobile, said it was from Gary Fraser. Then he left.’

  ‘Fraser? What the fuck would Rab want with him?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  A fella has a way of telling the truth when you’re tugging on his boaby, so I let go. He relaxes and forgets what’s about to happen. The piss splashes all over his trousers and shoes.

  I laugh, wash my hands and walk out through the door. All his people get to their feet, but they’re torn. Do they rush me or run to the toilet to see what I’ve done to their boss? They don’t choose either, just hovering there, caught between the two. ‘I think your man needs a towel,’ I say as I strut my way out of the bar.

  Fourteen

  Right.

  Gary Fraser.

  I know him. Bought some righteous weed from him. Some shit too, but overall he comes out on top. But Uncle Rab isn’t a fan of the puff. Why would he be talking with Gaz?

  One way to find out.

  I usually find Gaz sat at the bar in Lebowskis, working his way through cocktails while pretending to be all manly about it. I swear I even saw him have a drink with an umbrella in it once. It’s a twenty-minute walk, I reckon, but with my fucked-up leg, maybe longer. It takes me around the edge of Festival Park and then across the Squinty Bridge. At the other side of the bridge, I see a load of police tape and them wankers in white outfits gathered around the back of a van. I look the other way, try not to be noticed.

  If you don’t feel nervous when you see a copper, there’s something wrong with you.

  My leg goes to sleep while I’m looking the other way, and I fall over.

  Nice and subtle, aye? A uniformed copper helps me to my feet, asks if I’m okay. I decide now is not the time to tell him to fuck off and suck dick in hell, so I just say, ‘Aye, thanks,’ and walk on up the hill. At the top of Finnieston Street, I cross the road and turn away from the city. Lebowskis is just a little further down, perched on the corner of the block like a beacon for alcoholics. It’s one of they places where, when you walk in, you know they’re serious about selling you booze. There’s tons of the stuff, and it’s all arranged nice on shelves behind the bar. I don’t think it’s weird to say that walking into a place like this gets my dick hard.

  Gary Fraser is sat at the bar. He raises a drink to me and nods. He’s not one for words. Unless he’s on the Jägerbombs; then he won’t shut up. He’s a bit shorter than me, and more laid back. Likes to look cool and down with the kids in jeans and designer tops. He used to have spiky hair, loads of that gel, but now he’s trying to look all grown up and it’s combed flat to his head, parted on the side like one of they models on telly.

  ‘All right,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Some cunt shot me in the leg.’

  He looks impressed. Leans back from the bar to take a good look at me. ‘Which one?’

  I tap the wound. It doesn’t hurt, and I’m sure that’s not a good sign. My trackie feels a bit wet, and I hope I’m not bleeding again.

  Gary smiles. ‘Not going to be doing any tap dancing for a while then?’

  I ask the barman for a shot of tequila. I slam it down and ask for another. My brain gets a nice buzz on the go. I ask for a third and slam that one away too, before turning back to Gary.

  ‘I’d offer you a drink,’ he says. ‘But it looks like you know where the bar is.’

  ‘You saw Rab last night.’

  ‘I did.’ He nodded. ‘Came here just before closing.’

  ‘Why would Rab come to you? He doesn’t like drugs.’

  ‘I’m a man of many talents. Diverse portfolio. I do DVDs, clothes. I do guns too.’

  Guns, eh? Funny that. Glasgow’s not famous for guns, but Rab goes to talk to Gaz, then I get shot. Is that a coincide
nce? I realise I’m thinking when I could be asking.

  ‘Rab comes to talk to you about guns,’ I say. ‘And I get shot. Funny.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d laugh very much at that.’ He tries for a joke. ‘No, he didn’t come to me for a gun. I only said that because of you, thought maybe you’d want one, with being shot and everything.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I want a gun? Would you ask a man who’s just been bitten by a shark if he wants to buy a shark?’

  ‘Fair point. Okay. Rab was here asking for money.’

  ‘You do loans?’

  ‘No, but it’s because of that diverse portfolio I was telling you about. He said a guy who sells drugs and guns is going to be able to get his hands on money quicker than a bookie or a bank.’

  ‘Was he right?’

  He smiles. ‘Maybe.’ Then he sips his drink.

  ‘How much was he asking for?’

  Gaz gets his serious face on now, puts his pint down on the bar and slides it away before shaking his head and looking at me. ‘That’s confidential.’

  ‘Do I look like someone who gives a toss about the Data Protection Act?’

  I do not.

  ‘You do not.’

  ‘Well, then,’ I say, ‘stop arsing about and just tell me what’s going on.’

  Gaz puts his hand up to say okay, okay. ‘Look, I don’t know. He asked if I could get sixty grand in cash. He said all his money’s tied up in property and he’s not going to be getting another publishing royalty for three months—he can’t get his hands on the cash.’

  ‘So he came to the bank of Gaz.’

  ‘For a return of double next week, aye.’

  ‘You give it to him?’

  ‘Not yet. I agreed to get it for today. I’ve been waiting here for him to call.’

  So the money’s here? Damn. I should have played it cool, called his bluff and said Rab had sent me. Trouble is, I’m new at all this. I have no idea about investigating shit. Then again, what do I want with sixty grand? I just want to find the cunt who shot Rab’s dog.

  What next? Play dumb.

  ‘And Rab hasn’t called yet?’

  ‘Nope. And from the look of your leg, I get the feeling he’s not going to.’

  True. But somebody might. And they might want the cash. I grab a pen from behind the bar and write Beth’s mobile number on a napkin.

  ‘If anyone calls about the money, arrange to meet them here, and leave me a message, aye?’

  Gaz shrugs, pulls out his phone and waves it at me.

  ‘Sure, might be a laugh,’ he says.

  Fifteen

  Why would Rab need sixty grand in such a hurry? And why did I know nothing of this if I was with him last night? Who else would know about the money? My new career as a detective is just leading to more questions.

  There’s his accountant, Robin. He works out of an office on Blythswood Square. He’s the real deal. Suit and tie. Knows all about the taxes and stuff. But he’s for the money that Rab admits to. If Rab wanted money that quick, it wouldn’t be for anything legit.

  I need to talk to his real accountant.

  Gilbert Neil works out of the Horse Shoe Bar in town. Him and Rab have worked together for years. If dodgy deals are going down, Gilbert knows about them. I take a cab because my leg is really starting to fuck me about now, and my hips and back keep going numb too.

  Gilbert’s from South Africa, though you can’t tell from his accent. He moved over when he was a teenager and now sounds pure Scottish. I bet my accent wouldn’t change if I went to South Africa. But why would I want to go there? It’s all sun and guns. And big sharks. Fuck that. Gilbert used to be a mad keen cyclist until he had a run-in with the Calton Tong a few years ago, and now he’s a mad keen sitter. He’s been keeping an eye on Rab’s real finances for as long as I can remember, advising on what to declare to the taxman and what to keep under the bed.

  The Horse Shoe is hidden away in Drury Street, a cobbled lane just off Renfield Street, near the main train station. I keep being told that it’s world famous, but I only ever see the same bunch of people in there. It’s not exactly full of tourists. They serve three-course meals for the cost of a pint, and they never kick you out if you’ve had too much to drink. If you like seeing drunks falling off their stools, and middle-aged women belting out karaoke, this is the place for you.

  Gilbert likes both of those things.

  There’s the ground-floor bar, but Gilbert is never in that one. I climb the brown wooden stairs that lead to the upstairs bar, and let my eyes get used to the dim light. The owner of the pub has commissioned portraits of the most regular customers and hung them on the wall near to where each of them usually sits. I can see Gilbert’s shiny bald head from across the room, sat beneath his own portrait, at the corner table by the fire escape. He’s around the same age as Rab, but he’s kept more shape. I wouldn’t want to fight him. Though we both have a dodgy leg these days, so maybe it’d be interesting. He always used to have his dog with him. A cute wee pit bull named Gojira. But the poor guy had to be put down a couple months back when his legs gave out, and Gilbert is still too gutted to replace him.

  That reminds me again of Rab’s dog. Every time I think of the wee man, my blood boils away a bit. I need to watch that—I might do something stupid.

  He looks surprised to see me, his eyes widening for a second as they latch onto me. He’s talking into a mobile phone, but he hangs up as I drop down into the seat opposite like a sack of spuds. The frame squeaks.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ I say. ‘Not expecting to see me?’

  ‘Not in here.’ He plays it cool. If he does know what’s happened to me, he doesn’t let on. ‘You don’t usually drink in here. I thought the Vale was more your kind of scene.’

  ‘I like all kinds; I’m easy.’ I pull his pint over and sip at it. It’s too heavy, like a stout or something. ‘So, why does Rab need sixty grand?’

  Boom. Catch him right off the bat like that.

  ‘What are you talking about, Mack?’

  ‘Aye, you know. I just talked to Gary Fraser. He says Rab needs sixty in a hurry, nothing he can free up legally that fast, and he’s going to pick it up today. You really going to pretend you don’t know what it’s for?’

  ‘I honestly don’t. I know he needs it, but he wouldn’t say what it was for. Said it was something he was playing close to his chest, some important deal that nobody could know about until after it was done. All I know is that he needs the cash, and I’m the same as him at the moment. My money’s all tied up in property deals, can’t help him out.’

  ‘You suggested Gaz?’

  ‘Aye. Gary’s helped me out a few times. As long as you get him a quick profit, he can get his hands on cash.’

  Do I believe him? I don’t know. He knows something more, but there’s no way to beat it out of him here without attracting attention. Besides, I don’t think I could. I’m already worried that I might not be able to stand up when I’m done.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to Rab?’

  He thinks it over. That bit I believe. ‘Last night—we talked on the phone. I think he was out drinking with you. He said you were talking a lot of pish, talking about your past and crying again. He mentioned he needed the cash and that’s when I said he should go see Gary.’

  ‘He say anything else?’

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks off into the distance, pretending something over there is more distracting than me. I lean in, getting in his face but staying silent, making it uncomfortable.

  ‘He say anything else?’ I say again.

  ‘He said he had some business to deal with at the whorehouse on Copland Road.’

  Oh aye? Business to attend to in the same place I got shot?

  Fuck-a-doodle-do.

  Mayb
e it wasn’t me they were after. Maybe they got me mixed up with my uncle.

  I stick a cigarette in my mouth and then climb to my feet, trying not to look like a cripple. The trackie clings to my leg, and I feel the fabric sticking, needing to be pulled away as I move. Not a good sign. Never trust a psychiatrist to treat a bullet wound. I limp down the stairs out into the fresh air and light the ciggie. I walk to the corner, where the bus stop is, and lean against it, looking like a suave motherfucker.

  I suck down on the ciggie and ask myself the obvious question.

  What would Columbo do next?

  Well, I guess he would look for the most famous person he can see, then keep pestering them like a day-old fart until they crack and tell him how they did it. Then he probably takes that dog home and does something nasty. That’s not going to help me very much. But what advice would he give me?

  Follow the money.

  That’s what they say, isn’t it?

  That’ll do, pig.

  Sixteen

  Lambert

  Rab’s body moved easier than Lambert expected. It was loose and pliable. Maybe it was the drugs in the corpse’s system, or maybe it was simply the first time Lambert had dealt with a corpse so fresh. Usually he came to them later, once someone else had done this bit and tried to hide it.

  He tipped half a bag of lime over the body. He’d read somewhere that it helped cover the smell, and quite a few of the murder scenes he’d attended had seen bodies coated in the stuff. Next he wrapped it in a plastic sheet, a shower curtain he’d bought from Asda the day before, and then bound the bundle with elastic tow rope. He tipped the other half of the lime over the bundle and then laid the wooden board on top.

  That would do.

  For now, anyway. The harder work would come later. Bodies didn’t start to smell as quickly as people thought; nobody passed by this lock-up, and Anderson would be fine there for up to three or four days, if need be. Once the heat had died down. In both senses.

  Lambert locked the door behind him and climbed into the car. He pulled out his phone to make a call, then caught himself and realised what he was doing. He reached over to the glovebox and slipped out another phone, one that wasn’t in his name, and punched in a number he knew by heart. He waited while it dialled and then clicked over to voicemail. He hadn’t been expecting an answer; nobody ever picked up the call live, but the messages were always listened to.