by Tom Benson
.
Saturday 29th June
Glasgow
It was 10:00 in the morning and Robert Davenport was under pressure from superiors and local politicians to make a dent in Glasgow’s growing crime figures. He could make reports sound as if he had his finger on the pulse, but he’d lost control of one situation many years before.
“Chief Constable,” he said confidently when he answered his phone. As he listened to the voice on the other end, he stopped moving papers around on his desk with his free hand and stared at his office door. His jaw set and his blood ran cold. When the caller stopped talking, Davenport responded, but with less self-assurance.
“I can’t bloody drop everything—” he stopped when he was cut off by his caller’s quiet, threatening tone. He listened before responding. “Okay, for Christ’s sake. Callander Golf Club, tomorrow at nine o’clock.”
Davenport slammed the handset down and turned his chair before standing to look out at the city. “Fuck you, William Hartley. Fuck you.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “Sunday morning playing golf with Hartley, the bastard,” he muttered. He ran a hand through his thinning fair hair.
.
Monday 1st July
Phil arrived on the outskirts of Glasgow on the M8 motorway. He had spent the weekend in Edinburgh, apart from his short trip across to Glasgow on Friday evening. It had been overcast throughout the weekend, and Phil’s mood matched the weather.
The morning news had carried a piece about the recently freed murder suspect Frankie McSherry being found. He had been shot dead and left on a patch of grass in the east end of Glasgow. Although Phil had dealt with one of the two hit-men, his mind went back to the dead policeman’s children. Barnes deserved a visit.
By the time Phil exited at junction 15, the sun was making an appearance, reflecting from the glass and steel of the modernised city. Phil glanced at the vast complex of buildings on his left. It was the Royal Infirmary where thirty-six years earlier he’d been born. A variety of memories flashed across his mind as he drove south along Castle Street.
He pulled into a filling station, topped up his tank, and bought the Daily Record. Glancing at the newspaper’s distinctive title left Phil with a peculiar sense of arriving home. When he was walking back to the car, he thought of a childhood friend, Chas McLean, who’d lived nearby. They’d spent many hours wandering these streets.
Phil remembered the area well. As boys do, he and Chas had discussed what they’d do when they grew up. Unlike Phil, Chas never got the chance. When Phil reached the multi-junction at Mercat Cross, he turned left onto Gallowgate and the east end.
Although Phil had never lived in this district of Glasgow, his friend Chas had been brought up there. When Phil was a fourteen-year-old, he had travelled across town by bus to play in Sunday League soccer at Glasgow Green. It was at those games he struck up a friendship with Chas. Phil was to see how rough the district was in a few visits to his friend’s street.
Chas would joke with other lads playing soccer, if he ever missed a game, they would know he had been murdered. He had joked about knives and occasionally guns changing hands close to where he lived.
Within a week of his fourteenth birthday, Chas was stabbed to death near his home in the Parkhead district. Phil remembered the Daily Record had campaigned on behalf of the dead boy’s family and friends. A perpetrator was never found, and the lack of justice had always haunted Phil. He’d also remembered if ever there was a place to hide, it was in the east end.
A bent and dishevelled man carrying a wine bottle staggered off the pavement in front of Phil’s car. When the vehicle stopped within inches of him, the drunk was oblivious, calmly wandering across the street in his zigzag fashion.
Phil followed the road for a few minutes until he saw the v shape on the left-hand side where Duke Street and Westmuir Street joined Gallowgate together. He turned into Westmuir Street and right into Sorby Street. On the right after fifty metres was Southbank Street, a small cul-de-sac. Phil had chosen to rent a flat there, close to where Chas had lived—and died.
Having parked, Phil unclipped his seat belt and took in the view. He was pleased to see a BMW parked in the street, even if it was a five-year-old model. His dark blue Toyota Celica was two years old, but when freed of the recent film of dirt it would look new. Blending in was paramount. Phil’s car could remain dirty for a while longer.
It was15:45. He was fifteen minutes early.
To pass a few minutes, Phil picked up the newspaper he’d bought at the service station. The headline was, ‘McSherry On A Slab—Barnes On Our Streets’. Phil read the story and felt the anger build up. Barnes had no conscience, and according to the article, spent the weekend celebrating his release. He’d called the police to ask if they’d caught the cop-killer.
Southbank Street was one hundred metres long, and the tenement block took up one side. The brickwork had been given a facelift, like many other old buildings in the city.
In the 1970s there would have been an open entrance or ‘close’ as it was called. It would have allowed unchallenged access for anyone to walk inside, and up the flights of stairs to anybody’s front door. Now, such buildings had a security door with intercom panel to contact each of the eight apartments, and a digital lock was fitted.
Outside the block and at the end of the street were parking areas. Directly opposite were the parking spaces and back view of a modern housing block. As Phil was taking in the scene, a red hatchback turned into the street. It was driven along halfway and parked facing the block. In the rear window, a narrow banner proclaimed, Kavanagh and Cooper—Estate Agents, Trongate, Glasgow.
The driver’s door opened, and a woman in her thirties got out. She looked up and down the street as she locked her car. When she stepped onto the pavement, Phil could see she was carrying a black leather portfolio case—and she took pride in her appearance.
She was about five-foot-ten, and her copper hair hung to rest on her shoulders. A white blouse and short red skirt emphasised a good figure and her black high-heels accentuated shapely legs.
Phil lifted his leather jacket from the passenger seat with his left hand as he got out of the car. He had two day’s stubble and was wearing a white T-shirt, jeans and trainers. When he walked toward the estate agent, he was sure she was appraising him, as he was her. He noticed the arching of an eyebrow and a faint smile.
“Hi.” Phil painted on a smile. “I’m Mr McKenzie. I take it you’re Stella.”
“Stella Kavanagh.” The woman had a charming Glasgow accent. She extended a slender hand, which was briefly held by Phil as they met each other’s gaze, searching beyond.
“Would it be the same Kavanagh as advertised on your car sticker?”
“It would,” she said with a smile. “The name and the company are all I kept. Mister Kavanagh has moved on.”
“His loss if you don’t mind me saying,”
“How gracious, Mr McKenzie.”
Phil inclined his head toward her and smiled.
“If you’re ready,” Stella said, “I’ll take you up to look at the flat.” She stepped to the door, punched in a four-digit number and pushed. “You’ll see the original features, like the tiled walls, have been retained and the entire building refurbished.”
They went up to the first-floor landing and stood between Flats Three, and Four.
“This is the place I suggested on the phone.” Stella used a key to open number three. “It’s the closest I could find to fit your requirements.” She ushered Phil inside, followed him, and closed the door. “Flat Four across the landing is under offer from another client, but if you’d prefer, I’ll swap you to four.”
“I would expect they are a mirror image of each other,” Phil said.
“They are, except Flat Four has one large bedroom.” She took Phil on the short guided tour to show him the living room, kitchen, bathroom, spacious master bedroom, and a small single.
In each room, Phil went t
o the window to assess the view and check the security. While in the bedrooms, he noted bedding in packaging.
“Thank you for obtaining the bedding,” he said. “I thought if the place were furnished it would be sensible to ask for bedding too.”
“I dealt with it myself,” she said. “I hope my taste is satisfactory.”
“I’m sure it will be,” he said as they moved on. “I noticed three doors downstairs. Would it be two ground floor flats and another entrance door?”
“The third door gives access to the backyard, which has also been refurbished. Would you like to take a look?”
“Please, if it’s no problem.”
They went downstairs and through the back door into a spacious yard which had been grassed. It had flowerbeds, and two wooden benches, making it a neat, cosy garden.
Phil stood back and appraised the building, taking note of the drainpipe which ran up the right side of the windows. It was within an arm’s reach of the windows of the odd-numbered flats. The rear door had a digital lock fitted, and a two-metre high fence bordered the open aspect of the garden. He nodded his satisfaction when he saw the agent look from him to the building and back.
“Is it satisfactory?” Stella asked.
“It’s fine. I have one thing to ask, but I’ll wait until we’re upstairs.”
She nodded and smiled.
They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. The estate agent laid out the paperwork and sat back before she explained the support system for issues with maintenance and services. She went on to clarify the deposit, monthly terms, and the details required to secure the apartment rental.
“You had another question I believe, Mr McK—”
“Please, call me Phil,” he said, leaning forward onto the table.
“Thank you, Phil,” she said and smiled, which took several years from her. She clasped her hands on the table. “And your question ...?”
“Would there be any problem if I rented number three, and number four?”
“Well.” Her eyes widened. “It isn’t the way we usually do things but should be okay, as long as they are both paid for. We have another client calling to see number four.”
“Don’t worry about the other client,” he said. “Is the name Patterson?”
Stella lifted the cover of her notebook. “How could you know—”
“I have another favour to ask,” Phil said.
“Anything—” she said, before correcting herself. “... anything ... in particular?”
“I’d like this flat in my name, and Flat Four in the name of Patterson.” He maintained eye contact. “It’s important if we made such an arrangement—nobody should know except us.”
“It would be unorthodox—”
“I would appreciate it, Stella,” he said, gazing into her sparkling green eyes.
“You want both flats, but in different names?”
“Yes, it sounds strange, but it’s how I need it to be.”
“It wouldn’t be for sub-letting, or anything illegal?”
“No, I wouldn’t implicate you in anything illegal,” he said. “I have certain plans for the next month, and it would be the ideal solution.”
“It will be a personal favour,” she said. “My business partner wouldn’t approve, but leave it with me, and I’ll arrange the agreements. I’ll need the appropriate details for the other tenant of course.”
“Details won’t be a problem,” he said, “and I never forget a favour.” He gave her a disarming smile.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, returning his smile. “I have the key to the other flat if you’d like to give it a once over.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
The viewing of Flat Four was a cursory glance to confirm the layout, and they returned to Flat Three to sign the paperwork.
Stella hesitated when completing the documents for Flat Four. She glanced at Phil and signed. “I should see photographic evidence of Mr Patterson.”
“I’ll drop by your office in the next day or two—if it’s okay.”
“I look forward to seeing you—with the paperwork. Thank you.”
When he was alone, Phil made a thorough check of the two apartments. The view from both front windows was almost identical, as was the view from the rear windows. He considered his options, and the drainpipe outside Flat Three’s rear window was the deciding factor. An emergency route in or out was always handy.
Phil left the block and walked a mile along London Road to the Barrowland market. It had the title, The Barras hanging over the wrought iron entrance which faced London Road. Some things never changed. Before mingling with the crowd, Phil checked his wallet was secured in a zipped inner jacket pocket.
The sun was losing the fight against the clouds, and the temperature had dropped since earlier. As he joined the other folk wandering around the stalls, Phil hunched his shoulders forward and hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets.
He recalled from his teen years, a tip given by his dad. ‘Never be caught with your hands thrust deep into pockets, Philip. It leaves you defenceless in an assault.’
Phil tuned-in to the dialect and manner of the people around him. Some of them were the hardest people you could wish to meet, but also the most genuine. Living among them would take concentration and the same adaptability he’d used in foreign countries. The wrong word or action could prove as fatal as if he openly threatened somebody. These were the reasons he wanted to be based in the east end.
It would have brought unwanted attention to say too much with his faded accent. He used single syllable words and grunts to ask for goods, and he’d visit the Barrowland regularly to tune in to the accent. The dialect might be harsher in the east than other parts of the city, but it wasn’t such a bad thing.
Phil was back in Flat Three after ninety minutes, enjoying a coffee. While out, he’d bought food essentials. Self-catering in these conditions was going to be another new experience for him, and unlike the ‘hard-routine’ employed when on active service. Apart from being furnished, the flat had a well-equipped kitchen. It was going to be luxury, relaxing in an armchair.
Instead of preparing a meal on his first evening, Phil wandered around the local area. It was a fifteen-minute stroll along Gallowgate and down onto London Road to Alfredo’s, a small pizza takeaway place. As Phil glanced through the door, a big blond man was leaning across the small counter with his right fist raised. Phil walked inside, and the glass door clicked shut.
The thug took no notice and continued. “You’ve got half an hour you little bastard. Have it ready when I come back.” He turned, glared briefly at Phil, and shouldered his way past.
Phil straightened his leather jacket and stepped up to the counter. “He’s coming back for more than a pizza isn’t he?”
“Please don’t get involved, mate,” the slightly built owner said in an Italian/Glaswegian accent. “He’ll bloody kill anybody who gets in his way.”
“What’s he up to?” Phil said. “Is he running a protection scam on takeaways—” he stopped in mid-sentence to turn and see a red Ford screech away from the nearby corner.
“He hits about twenty fucking small businesses around here,” Alfredo blurted out. “I’m sorry my friend, I shouldn’t be cursing at you. I’m scared.”
“Could you afford to close earlier tonight?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was him in the red car, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he always parks around the corner. His name is O’Connor.”
“I’d like two pizzas, please,” Phil said. “I’ll have a Hawaiian to eat now, and a cheese prepared in about twenty-five minutes for Mr O’Connor. I want his hot, with lots of cheese.”
The frightened man got on with the preparation of the pizzas and explained the order to his young colleague. Like most takeaways, the actual premises was mainly behind the counter. The customer area was three metres square between the counter and the front door. Phil stood near the counter
chatting to the owner.
Alfredo had been born and raised in Glasgow and had been running his business for half of his thirty-eight years on the planet.
Phil excused himself and took two minutes to walk around the corner. Along the side street, a few cars were parked. A factory wall took up the whole of one side, which faced a line of tenement flats on the other. The apartments weren’t in as good condition as the one Phil was renting. When satisfied he went back inside and smiled at Alfredo.
While Phil stood at the end of the counter, enjoying his pizza and a bottle of Coke, he asked about the city and the east end in particular. Alfredo was a font of knowledge regarding wrongdoing, and what the law enforcement missed.
During the time Phil was eating, three other customers came in, ordered a pizza and left. Each had a pleasant greeting for the owner, and each eyed Phil with suspicion. It confirmed for Phil, a new face stood out like a beacon.
Alfredo smiled for the first time while relating a humorous anecdote, but he stopped talking, and the smile disappeared as the red Ford passed, slowed, and turned the corner.
“Pizza, quickly—” Phil put his Coke on the counter and accepted the hot, slim cardboard box. He winked at Alfredo and left the premises at a rapid pace.
The red car was parked around the corner, and the big man was struggling to undo his seatbelt as Phil approached. When the driver’s door flew open, Phil had the box open and pressed the freshly cooked, hot cheese pizza onto O’Connor’s face.
The thug grabbed at Phil’s wrists and struggled. Phil had a knife in his left hand and stabbed the back of both of the desperate hands. He held the pizza in place for several seconds, before he let go and slammed the driver’s door.
Nobody else was around. He got into the back of the car behind the sputtering, gasping hoodlum. It took three seconds for Phil to pull slack on the seat belt and wrap it around O’Connor’s neck, securing him to the head restraint of the driver’s seat.
The bloody hands came up as the thug gripped the belt across his throat. Phil held the belt, pressed his knees against the back of the driver’s seat, and leant back. He watched in the rear-view mirror as the tough guy’s eyes bulged and mouth gaped. Pieces of cheese were stuck to his reddened face.
