by Ian Todd
“Is there any mair like you then?” Senga hid asked.
“How dae ye mean?”
“Young WPCs, seeing married aulder guys, like inspectors in the force?”
“Noo, where the hell did that come fae, Senga?” she’d remembered asking her, surprised.
“Ah wis jist wondering, that’s aw,” Senga hid come back wae.
Collette still thought that it wis a weird thing tae ask. Why wid Senga Jackson want tae know if there wur mair lassies like her seeing married men in the force? She’d specifically mentioned inspectors. Dave McGovern hid taunted her by wondering if his rank wis too low fur somewan like her tae be interested in his advances. Hid she some sort ae label that wis displayed oan her foreheid that advertised her involvement wae an inspector…two inspectors, who also happened tae be married?
“It jist seems such a weird question tae ask, so it dis,” she’d hit Senga wae.
“Well, is there?” Senga hid come back wae, still pushing the envelope, making light ae it.
She tried tae remember whit her response hid been at the time. Something alang the lines ae Senga maybe wanting tae go oot wae an inspector hersel. Christ, she couldnae stoap hersel fae cringing wae embarrassment. Tae look at Senga Jackson, the way she dressed, handled hersel, men wid’ve tripped o’er themsels tae get aff wae somewan like her. It hid sounded so stupid tae hiv come oot wae that kind ae shite, especially when Senga’s response hid been tae screw up her face and look at her as if she wis saft in that marshmallow heid ae hers.
“Whit the fuck…is that no wan ae yer sergeants fae the station?” Elvis whispered, sounding surprised, turning tae look doon at her.
“Eh? Let me see,” she grunted, joining him, their two cheeks practically sticking tae each other as they peered doon fae the wee windae.
“Whit the?” she exclaimed, watching Dave McGovern staunin talking tae Black Pat’s heid butcher, Streaky John McGinnis.
“Kin ye make oot whit they’re saying?”
“Naw…Ah cannae believe that, so Ah cannae,” she breathed, shocked.
“Whit, that wan ae the local sergeants know whit the hell’s gaun oan aboot here?”
“Ye know whit Ah mean,” she snapped, shaking her heid.
“Fox Skulk One, I think we’ve goat company. Over,” a voice quietly crackled o’er the radio.
“Aye, got him, Laddie…I mean, Fox Skulk Two. It’s our man. Over.”
“No. I’m not talking about Black Dog.”
“Say that again, Fox Skulk One. Over.”
“Chust above the entrance to the yard, to the right of the third stair landing floor…can ye not see the wee outside landing toilet window. Over.”
Silence.
“Aye, right enough, Laddie. Now, who could that be, Fox Skulk Two? Over.”
“Pass, Fox Skulk One. Over.”
Silence.
“Do ye want me to investigate, Fox Skulk One? Over.”
“That’s a negatory, Fox Skulk Two. Stay in position, Laddie. Let’s see what the hell’s going on here. This stakeout has chust become a little bit interesting for a change. Under no circumstances, I repeat, under no circumstances, are you to break cover without the go-ahead from me. Over.”
“Right, here we go,” Elvis hissed, failing tae conceal his excitement in that voice ae his fae atop the cludgie, as the sound and vibrations ae a truck engine coming through the entrance underneath them, in low gear, made the building shake.
“Wait until the engine’s switched aff,” she warned him, positioning her body surreptitiously tae avoid letting him squeeze past her doon oan tae the flair.
“Okay, fair enough, bit let’s move doon tae the landing below us. They’ll be too busy unloading,” he replied, stretching his erm past her shoulder tae push open the door oan tae the mezzanine stairheid landing, clearly no taking a telling aboot rushing in wae aw winkle-pickers blazing.
“Elvis, listen tae me…why don’t we forget this wan,” she pleaded, bit he wis awready heiding doon the stairs tae the mezzanine landing windae underneath them, two at a time
“Sshhh,” he hissed, turning roond wae his finger up tae his lips.
“Ah think we should furget this wan,” she whispered.
“Whit? Why?”
“It disnae feel right. The Sarge…Dave McGovern…he’s dangerous.”
“They’re aw dangerous. Christ, Collette, dae ye think this is some sort ae a game or something?”
“Don’t patronise me, Jerry Lee,” she snipped quietly back at him.
“Look, uniform or no, a crook’s a crook in ma eyes. They guys doon there ur setting themsels up tae poison hauf the wummin in the city and noo ye’re telling me we should stoap whit we’re daeing, aw because there’s a bloody polis sergeant doon there assisting them, insteid ae arresting the basturts?”
“We don’t know that,” she retorted.
“Aye, well, Ah’ve gied up a rehearsal tae be here the night and Ah’m no gieing up noo, jist because ye don’t want tae embarrass wan ae yer bosses.”
“Fuck off, Elvis. That’s no whit Ah’m saying. He’s goat a reputation…”
“Ah’ve goat a reputation. We aw hiv reputations, some better than others. If you don’t want tae be involved, fine. Bit Ah’m gaun doon there tae arrest they basturts, even if it’s a citizen’s arrest. Noo, ye’re either wae me or ye urnae,” he snarled, brushing past her.
“Wait,” she squealed, hurrying tae catch up wae him.
“Right, jist stoap whit ye’re daeing, right noo,” Elvis shouted in his maist commanding and authoritative voice, flashing that ID badge ae his at the surprised and bemused faces staunin there in front ae them.
Collette suddenly doubled up behind him and threw up where she stood, as the smell ae the inside ae the windowless building seized her by the throat.
“Ah’m Elvis Presley, Sanitation Manager fur the north ae the city, including Possilpark, so Ah Ah’m,” he declared, wondering where the sergeant hid disappeared tae.
“Is she gonnae be awright, son?” Streaky John asked him, nodding tae the bent o’er, boaking WPC, throwing up o’er his sticky butcher’s flair, as the rest ae the guys went back tae the work ae hauling a heidless horse across tae a stone slab table at the far end ae the room.
“Ur…ur you okay, Collette?” he asked her, thrown aff kilter, turning tae see whit the hell she wis up tae, passing o’er a clean hanky.
She managed tae staun up straight, gasping, looking white as a ghost, before letting fly again, as the deid horse left a big trail ae congealed, thick blood in its wake.
“Gie’s a shout when ye’re ready,” Streaky John said, walking aff tae talk tae the driver, who wis looking a bit nervous, even if it wis only a WPC’s uniform oan display.
“Christ, ur ye okay, Collette?” he asked again, no too sure whether tae continue wae his confrontation wae Streaky John or tae go and assist his arresting officer.
“Ah’m sorry, bit Ah’ll hiv tae go ootside fur a bit ae fresh air, so Ah will,” she managed tae get oot before her throat erupted in a series ae choking, dry-boaking noises, as she dashed aff alang the side ae the wagon, spewing in front ae hersel as she went.
“Er, excuse me,” he shouted, leaving her tae it, as he followed in the footsteps ae Streaky John’s back. “Ah don’t think ye understaun whit the situation is here.”
“Ur you still here?” Streaky snarled, turning oan him, as the lorry started tae reverse oot ae the shed entrance tae the cobbled opening that wid take his evidence back oot oan tae Saracen Street.
“There’s reinforcements oan their way, right this minute, so there is,” Elvis shouted, as the bent o’er figure ae his arresting WPC came intae view and the truck disappeared left in the direction ae Hawthorn Street.
“Whit dae ye want us tae dae, Streaky?” wan ae the guys asked.
“Ye better pack up yer tools and get gaun until Ah see whit the fuck the score is here,” Streaky John snarled, turning his attention back tae Elvis, as the choking, boak
ing and heaving ae another deposit ae chicken tikka and fried rice, hit the square cobbled stanes.
“Ah don’t think ye quite understaun…” Elvis warned him, stepping in front ae the black butcher, before an explosion suddenly went aff in that heid ae his, as he landed oan his back and Streaky John stepped o’er him, oan route tae deal wae The WPC.
“Ouch, that must have hurt, Fox Skulk One. Over,” the radio crackled.
“Felt it from here myself, Laddie. Over.”
“Do we intervene? Fox Skulk One? Over.”
“Stay where you are, Laddie. Over.”
Despite the state that she wis in, Collette managed tae look up at the sound ae the hobnail boots clattering across the cobbles towards where she wis bent o’er. Streaky John’s boots hid picked up speed and he wis heiding straight fur her. She jist aboot shat hersel when she spotted the glinting, metal hook that wis gripped in his haun, as a face ae thunder hurtled towards her. She tried tae staun up, tae escape, bit she slipped, either oan the blood fae the heidless horse or her Indian meal fae earlier. Whitever it wis, she fell flat oan her face, jist as Streaky John reached her. She felt her whole body being lifted up by the bunched-up bun ae hair oan the back ae her heid before she wis run, wailing in fear, across the yard towards the corrugated fence surrounding the black butcher’s shed. Oan route tae the fence, she scrambled tae get her fingers roond her radio, which wis pinned tae the lapel ae her uniform jaicket. Wan second she seemed tae be clutching it, and the next, it hid disappeared, as her face clattered and bounced aff ae the metal fence.
“You, ya wee fucking hairy, ye,” Streaky snarled, bouncing her face aff the fence a second time. “Ah don’t know whit the hell that boss ae yers is up tae, bit we’re gieing the cunt nae mair money. Hiv ye goat that?” he yelled at her, this time, loudly smashing the steel hook against the corrugated sheet beside her heid, as she screamed in terror. “Noo, you listen up, bitch,” he snarled, still clutching her hair at the back ae her neck, burling her roond tae face him, covering her face in spit. “You tell that fucking prick, Dougan, that if he reneges oan an agreement again, Ah’ll fucking burn him and that station ae his doon roond aboot his ears. Hiv ye bloody well goat that?” he spat at her, tossing her away like a rag doll, back doon oan tae the blood-soaked cobbles, as the guard dug fae the other side ae the fence started gaun mental, trying tae get under the fence at her, as she scurried away fae it, vomiting up again oan route, wondering whit hid happened tae Sergeant Dave McGovern.
Chapter Thirty Two
It wis the bells that managed tae invade his consciousness. No yer chiming wans, although the last wan in the chain sounded like it hid a bit ae a chime tae it, before the shrillness kicked in again. It certainly wisnae coming aff ae a fire engine, either. And anyway, where wis the fire? He certainly hidnae dialled 999. Fire engine bells always sounded desperate. It wis the last ring that hung in the air…jist like a chime. It wis a chime.
“Duggie!” Marge bawled in tae his lug.
“Eh...whit the…who?” he stammered, bolting upright, panting as if he wis oan fire, clutching that heart ae his.
“Ur you deaf or whit?”
“Whit the…” he croaked, looking aboot the dark bedroom.
“The phone.”
“Whit aboot it?”
“It’s bloody-well ringing, so it is.”
“Oh, right,” he grumbled, swinging his legs oot ae the bed and staunin up, deliberately keeping his back tae her, trying tae hide that hard-on ae his that wis sticking oot ae the fly ae his underpants. “Ah’ll jist go and see who it is at this time ae the night.”
“It’s yer bloody work, so it is. Who else wid phone people at a quarter tae four in the morning?” she scowled at him, as a flood ae light lit up the bed when he opened the bedroom door tae the hall. “And whit wee trollop hiv you been dreaming aboot noo, ya dirty, clatty basturt, ye?”
“Hello,” he barked.
“Inspector? Thought ye’d like tae know whit’s been gaun oan doon here,” Skanky Smith said cheerfully.
“Aye, Skanky. Fire away, son,” he replied, mentally willing his premature morning erection tae shrink before hivving tae go back in tae the bedroom tae get his uniform fae the wardrobe.
“Yer two favourite people ur upsetting the neighbours, so they ur.”
“Who, The Gruesome Twosome?”
“Naw, The Sani Man and Calamity Jane hersel.”
“Aw, fur Christ’s sake,” he cursed. “Oan ye go.”
“The baith ae them ur up at Stobhill efter hivving a run-in wae Streaky John and a few ae his boys roond the back ae the tenements, behind Saracen Cross.”
“Whit?”
“They’re attempting tae insert stitches oan tae the front ae that napper ae his and she’ll be sporting two black eyes efter the basturt rammed her face intae the corrugated fence ae the scrappy next door.”
“Whit the hell wis she daeing roond there wae him?”
“Trying tae make an arrest.”
“Ye whit?”
“He went tae arrest Streaky John during a meat drap. She wis the arresting officer.”
“Sweet mother ae God! Is she fucking nuts? Whit the hell ur ye letting somewan like her go roond there wae a fucking Sani Man fur? It’s a bloody wonder the pair ae them didnae end up skewered.”
“She never let oan tae me or anywan else doon here whit she wis up tae.”
“Did she radio in fur assistance?”
“Aye, well, Ah wis gonnae mention that, so Ah wis.”
“Whit?”
“They took the radio aff ae her…”
“Ur you blood telling me that, that prick, Streaky John McGinnis took wan ae oor radios?” he bellowed, no believing whit he wis hearing.
“Aye, something like that.”
Silence.
“And, whit ur we daeing tae retrieve it?”
“Shane Priestly is trying tae track doon the whereaboots ae Streaky. His last known address wis up oan Balmore Road, bit that wis nine months ago.”
“Whit dis the intel files say?”
“Nothing, so it might be the morra, er, later the day, before we kin get a haud ae somewan tae let us know his current location.”
“So, dae Ah hiv tae come in then?”
“Naw, bit if ye could gie Paddy McPhee a wee bell, that wid be helpful.”
“The Stalker? Whit the fuck his this tae dae wae him, then?”
“Er, wan ae his boys lifted The Sani Man, so he did.”
“Oan whit charge?”
“Breach ae the peace and assault.”
“Ur you fucking jesting me or whit?”
“Aye, he widnae let the doctor shave a wee tuft aff ae the front ae his be-bop-alu-lu and when a constable tried tae persuade him otherwise, there wis a wee scuffle and Jerry Lee Lewis ended up getting charged. Seemingly cutting a bop tae him is the same equivalent ae Samson hivving a bad hair day, so it is.”
“Samson? Where dis he come in tae the picture? Nowan’s mentioned his name tae me before, so they hivnae.”
“It’s a figure ae speech, so it is.”
“Never you mind that,” The Inspector scowled, no believing whit he hid tae put up wae. “Whit else’s been happening?”
“Jist the usual. There wis two ODs up in Killearn Street, in which wan died. A couple in their mid-twenties. The wee ambulance man wis able tae save her. Social work took the two weans intae care. A couple ae stabbings in the Balmore Vaults and two shoaps windaes tanned, bit…”
“Whit?”
“There wis an assault oan wan ae oor boys at quarter tae two, jist o’er two hours ago doon in Mansion Street.”
“That’s a bit late, is it no?” he wondered oot loud.
“Aye, we’re no too sure ae the circumstance, bit it wis a severe hiding, so it wis. Sonny Green wis walking alang Balmore Road at the Mansion Street end when he noticed somewan hauf way up the street waving tae him, aw kind ae agitated like. When he went tae investigate, three heavies appeared oot ae a closemoo
th and started ladling in tae him. Aye, and no jist a wee scud either. This wis street fitba stuff, wae him being the fitba.”
“How bad is he?”
“We’re no sure yet. Dave McGovern’s up at Stobhill as Ah speak. They’re jist aboot tae wheel him alang tae theatre. They reckon he’ll maybe need some reconstruction work oan that face ae his efter they smashed in his cheekbones wae their feet.”
“Ye don’t think there’s a connection between whit went oan wae Collette James and Streaky John, dae ye?”
“We’re no sure. It’s really unusual fur an assault oan wan ae us at that time ae the morning, unless it involves a domestic, which this clearly wisnae.”
“Look, Skanky. Ah’m coming in. Kin ye get somewan up here tae pick me up?” The Inspector asked, fully awake noo and cursing under his breath.
“Ah’ll come and pick ye up masel. Ah kin fill ye in oan the way up tae Stobhill.”
“Okay, if Ah’m no at the front door, jist hing oan a minute. Ah’ll probably be getting ma ears ripped aff oan the phone by Paddy McPhee. He’ll be bloody raging if he’s at hame and Ah’m phoning him at this time ae the morning.”
Chapter Thirty Three
Sharon took a deep breath and lifted the cardboard box up fae the flair and oan tae the table, setting aff the anticipated wee stir across at the milling lassies. They reminded her ae a dug she wance hid back in the Toonheid days. Whenever she took oot the mop pail, it wid scurry aboot nervously, gieing it wee feart glances every noo and again, bit avoiding it like the plague, while trying tae pretend that it wisnae there.
“Well?” she asked them, lighting up a fag, as they continued tae shuffle aboot o’er at the sink, slinging wee furtive glances between her and the box oan tap ae the table, making oot they hidnae heard her.
“Is that the time?” Betty asked aw ae a sudden, looking up at the clock above the door. “Should we no aw be getting a move oan then?” she tittered nervously, as the other’s faces lit up in agreement.
“We’ve goat hauf an hour and the Clydeside Bank is only roond the corner, oan Springburn Road, so it is.”
Silence.
Her money wis definitely oan Issie.
