by Gavin Graham
Soon, he felt his right leg tremble (it was always the right leg) and he growled like a dog. He came in a breathless squall, but his blissful moment was abruptly interrupted by a noise - the wailing sound of Police sirens. Yes, the pigs had picked up on the grand scent of death and would hurry to see the beautiful show. It didn’t even bother him…no…it merely added to the excitement of his moment.
He looked casually to the backseat, mouth still agape, and he saw her mobile phone. She must have texted for help and the authorities fixed her location from the signal.
Fair play to the sweet little blondie…
He savoured his moment as the sirens got louder, still looking up at the beautiful sight of a hanging girl, as he felt his dick go limp. He kept the Johnny on and buckled-up his trousers, moving to the boot of the car where he took a canister of petrol and doused the car before setting it alight. The hanging body was still attached, he’d used fire-proof rope so the Police would find her like that; so they too could enjoy the show.
It would make a damn nice photo for the front page of The Glasgow Herald, he’d thought at the time. It did too, it made all the front pages and the headlines were spectacular: THE HANGMAN OF CLELAND LURKS IN THE SHADOWS OF THE SWINSTIE FARMS.
He ran and ran across the dark winding roads, till his limbs trembled and his chest burned, aching with icy-sharp pains.
He ran hard and fast till it was time to stop, and he took shelter in a stinking old underground sewage pipe. He waited and waited till the coast was clear and there was no more Police chopper on the hunt.
Then, he made a run for it.
He felt more alive than he’d ever felt before, but he also felt sad, that the thrill of the kill had passed.
Chapter 28
A criminal case for the High Court
Guilty is as guilty does; the eyes of God are my witness…
A few months after the farm house hanging, on a cold December morning, the High Court in Glasgow was held by Judge Alistair Mason Carmichael, QC.
In the dock was a 21-year-old man, 6’1” tall with an athletic and muscular physique. He had a close-cut crop of short black hair and tattoos were visible around his ox-like neck - a Roman Catholic cross, one on each side, just below the earlobes. Each one was accompanied by a singular teardrop, half the size of the actual cross. Rumour had it, the ‘teardrops’ were symbolic of his first murders - pub landlords - Willy Shaw and Tom Callaghan. The two guys had been running illegal casinos in the back rooms of their Maryhill pubs and bringing in a fair bit of coin, much to the financial detriment of a local businessman who was ‘on the rise’. That rising star of a businessman also hosted illegal gambling venues in some of his pubs and he didn’t care for the competition.
The prize had been up to the first man to take down Shaw and Callaghan, a grand a piece. Within twenty-four hours of the hits being put out, both men were shot at close range by a masked shooter. Blasted in the face with a sawn-off shotgun, right outside their own boozers, in broad daylight. The killer was never identified and no witnesses or informants ever came forward, confirming to CID Detectives that both murders had been gangland executions of the very highest order; silence ensured by the absolute enforcement of fear.
The young man in the dock on this bitter and foggy morning was one Francis Murdoch, of fourteen Cossack Lane, Govan. Frankie ‘Mad Dog’ Murdoch was a vicious criminal who had a fierce reputation for violence and a long string of convictions behind him.
Grievous bodily harm.
Robbery.
Sexual harassment.
Drug offences.
He also had a penchant for the odd hanging, but that’s not what this was all about.
Today, he was accused of an altogether separate crime - the assault and attempted murder of a 16-year-old school girl - Charlene Ferguson. He was going down and he knew it, as did his immediate family and friends, present in the courtroom as a show of solidarity.
His straight-laced, eccentric-looking sister, Jane, was the only one he had left in the way of family. His mum had died giving birth to Frankie and his paedophilic rapist of a father had committed suicide. His older brother, may he rest-in-peace, had been shot dead in the street by a gangster.
So, he and Jane were the only ones left.
His best mates: Razor, Dancer and Fat Boy, were in attendance too.
The McConnell boys were notorious in their own right, as sons of a ruthless and powerful gangster named Arthur McConnell; the man who was set to take control of Glasgow and rule its criminal underworld. Their presence in the supreme criminal court merely added to the controversy of the case, but also to the air of guilt that surrounded young Murdoch.
But, on this occasion, they had the wrong man.
Murdoch was innocent.
Nevertheless, the evidence was conveniently stacked against him. There were finger prints on the baseball bat and knife that were used to bludgeon and stab the girl, with unquestionable intent to kill. There was DNA from bloody hair strands found strewn across her mutilated body, left for dead on the kitchen floor of her parent’s house. And, there was an eye-witness, identifying Frankie as the man she clearly saw forcing his way onto the premises.
Intoxicated.
Weapons in hand.
A man, with his mind set on murder.
It was a disaster, somebody had set him up, good and proper.
Sentencing was passed by Judge Carmichael shortly after nine am: “Francis Murdoch, you have been found guilty of the assault and attempted murder of a defenceless 16-year-old girl and the circumstances of the attack disclose that your actions were planned and premeditated and that you forcefully entered her parent’s house with the specific intent of committing a vicious and despicable act of savage violence. Yet, no evidence has been brought forward to explain the severity and sheer ferocity of your actions or the motives behind them. Regardless, the evidence unveils that you struck the victim more than fifty times with a baseball bat and stabbed her with a knife in excess of fifteen times, these injuries are not including slash wounds and bruising that resulted from relentless punching and kicking. You struck her repeatedly to the point that she will be kept in the intensive care unit for the foreseeable future and will most likely live out the remaining years of her life with permanent brain damage. For all intents and purposes, she will be left a vegetable. You stabbed and slashed her, from her face and neck down to her genitalia, parts of which were removed in hideous fashion with a blade that was designed for gutting fish. Mister Murdoch, what you did was absolutely reprehensible. Even in light of your previous convictions and the crimes of grievous bodily harm that you have been charged with to date, it is impossible to comprehend how any young man could be capable of such a disturbing and shocking level of violence. Your mental state has been investigated and there is no psychiatric explanation for what you did. It is my opinion that you are unquestionably arrogant and perhaps one of Scotland’s most evil men. Young Murdoch, you bring the fear of God to my very being, given the acts that you have committed, you are a monster. So, in respect of the charges of assault and attempted murder, I hereby sentence you to fourteen years imprisonment. That’s all…”
A few seconds of silence lapsed, before the crowds erupted in protest. The Ferguson family, outraged by the leniency of the sentence, sprung to their feet to hurl verbal abuse and profanities.
“That’s a fucking joke!”
“Fry the cunt!”
“Hang him!”
“Life!”
“Burn that fuckin’ psycho!”
Frankie seemed undeterred, casually watching from the dock as his sister removed her Coke bottle glasses to break down in tears. You see, he’d already accepted it, he knew he’d been stitched-up and would just have to go with the flow. He certainly wasn’t scared of a stint in the jail. He showed absolutely no emotion. In fact, his face was an unexpected picture of insubordination and incredible arrogance, his chin raised in a clear statement of defiance.
This riled
the Ferguson family even more as the courtroom fell into total chaos.
The McConnell boys just stood there, glancing at each other beneath heavily intoxicated eyelids, nodding their heads.
Nobody could have expected what happened next though as it would shock those present and send chills done the spine of an entire nation. It was a singular moment in time when Frankie’s eyes fell upon one of the McConnell boys.
Murdoch smiled.
A knowing and devious smile, the smile of a demon, to be captured in what would become an infamous courtroom sketch. He winked at his friend, sending him a message - I know what you did, you set me up and when I get out the jail I will punish you and those you love in the worst ways imaginable…
It was the picture that would define him.
That sketch - the smirking demon.
The Devil.
One that would be posted all over the front pages, from the Daily Record to The Scotsman, a terrifying image that would forevermore be synonymous with evil in Scotland. And as he stood there, smiling, knowingly, he recalled something that his older brother had said, the day before he’d been shot in the chest by a rival drug dealer outside The Stag hotel in Wishaw, “Frankie boy, always remember - when who live by the cross, you die by the cross…’
2018
Chapter 29
The disappearing act
And so, it is true, the greatest trick The Devil ever pulled was convincing the world that he didn’t exist…
After fourteen years in Glasgow’s notorious HM Prison Barlinnie, Frankie ‘Mad Dog’ Murdoch was a free man.
Plain Jane, the sister, was waiting for him. Stood with folded arms by her old green Honda Civic in the carpark. Even at the age of forty, she still looked older than her years, more-so now than ever before.
Straight-laced Jane, the spinster.
The most un-sexy girl in the town.
Never wore make-up.
Never wore nice clothes.
She had this thick way of looking at you through her thick-framed and thick-lensed spectacles, that made you pity and feel sorry for her.
Aw’ she’s a wee Saint, that girl, so she is!
She was ugly and uninteresting, all-round. The heavy tweed overcoat, fit for a man. The thick tights and thick tartan skirt that was almost like a kilt. The whole thing was wrong. She wore this granny-style wooly hat, too, and that was just the cherry on the cake.
Frankie always reckoned she did it on purpose, because she never wanted a man to touch her, scarred by the trauma of all the sexual abuse they’d gotten at home.
They embraced by the side of the car, a hug that was prolonged and heartfelt. “How are ye’?” she asked.
“Shite, thanks,” he replied, with a scowl, then a smirk.
Jane smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Same old Frankie. Right, get in the car then.”
Frankie settled himself in the front seat, taking one last look at the sandstone edifice that was Barlinnie as he secured his seatbelt. “Nae’ mare’ cauld’ custard and smack,” he muttered to himself, before turning to address his sister. “I heard the McConnells arranged a party fur’ me at the Malmaison?” he asked, with mock surprise.
“Yeah.”
“Open bar, half a kilo of Charlie and twenty high-class escorts to do a turn for the boys? Business must be good then for the Godfather and his crew? Or, is that just a normal night out for Fat Boy?”
“Aye, he’s definitely notorious for staging sordid orgies in fancy hotels, he’s probably had every sexually transmitted disease going that one. I’m glad you’re making a run for it, Frankie. Sometimes it’s the best thing to do, just take-off, and start afresh.”
“Aye, well a’ haven’t got much choice, huv’ a’? If I turn up at that party it’ll be my last night on earth, I can guarantee that. Those bastards stitched me up fourteen years ago and now they want to see me with a bullet in the brain, a wee skinny-dip in the Clyde for good measure too.”
The sister frowned, eyes nimble and focussed, moving with the turns of the road.
She was a good girl, Jane.
She was loyal.
Loyalty goes a long way…
She’d been the odd one out in the family though, the only one that had turned out normal. She’d never broken the law. She’d gotten herself an education and secured a respectable job as some kind of health care practitioner, giving help and support to those who needed it, out of the goodness of her heart. She’d learnt to speak and annunciate her words properly. She said please and thank you, without fail, and minded her Ps and Qs. She was the type of person who’d regularly say Biblical things too like learn to forgive and turn the other cheek.
She was the complete opposite of her twisted and violent younger brother.
She never judged him though, and if he ever needed help, like he desperately needed it now, she would happily go to the ends of the earth to assist him in any way she could.
“Did ye’ get all the stuff, like a’ asked?”
“In the glove box.”
He opened it up and had a quick look inside, shuffled through the bits and bobs, it was all there, including a massive wad of cash. “Brilliant, you’re a gem, you know that?”
She smiled. “Look, I’ll go through what’s what when we get to my house, we’re almost there.”
‘Mad Dog’ Murdoch emerged from his sister’s bathroom, looking different enough to get him out of Glasgow unnoticed.
“So, what do you think about the new look?”
“I look like that plonker, Boris…thingy,” it was the blonde wig that matched with his passport photo.
“It’s just to get you out the country, nobody will bat an eyelid when you board that plane, as long as you don’t act up, OK? It’s all the rage over in Thailand too apparently,” his sister could have a dry sense of humour, when she felt like it.
“Aye, well I suppose it’s fine, but…”
“But, what?”
“Well, it’s the glasses. A’ look like a bloody kiddy-fiddler. Quite frankly, they remind me of him…Dad…and that’s not good for my rage, know what a’ mean? Are they really necessary?”
“Yes, they’re absolutely necessary.”
“Why’s that then?”
“Because if anybody clocks you it will be because of this,” she threw down a paper dated from December 2004. On the front page was a sketch of Frankie in the Glasgow High Court, with an admittedly devious and menacing scowl on his face. “This image is famous now, or infamous, as the case may be. Across the entire country, that image is known, imprinted in the minds of all those who can remember the case and the media circus that surrounded you’re sentencing. The Most Evil Man in Scotland - that’s what they called you when that picture came out, so if someone clocks that look again, then it won’t be long before a lynch mob turns up to kill you. The eyes never lie, remember that.”
Frankie nodded, studying the image, curiously. It was a strange feeling, but a perfect moment somehow, reminding him of where he’d come from and what was coming next - a delicious run of violence, mayhem and vengeance.
“Right, Mr. Fraser Lewis, you happy now? New name. Fake passport. Cash. Flight ticket. I think you’re good-to-go, shall we get you to the airport then and on that flight to Bangkok? Before the McConnell boys send out a search party with sub-machineguns?”
“Aye, Sis, thanks for all this. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“Just do one thing and try not to get yourself killed, OK?”
“Aye, will do…”
“When will you be back?”
“A few months, you’ll know when I’m back as it will be in the papers…”
“Sorry?”
“Just look out for this headline - MAN WITH THE CRUCIFIX TATTOO FOUND FLOATING IN THE CLYDE,” he smirked and once again showed her his demonic smile and evil eyes.
THREE MONTHS LATER
Chapter 30
From Thailand with love
Bangkok.
William Cruikshank, the man previously known as Francis Murdoch and who’d gone under the alias of Fraser Lewis, took great care not to cut himself. He held up a broken shard of glass and stared curiously at his own reflection, stroking at his new face with wonderment, as an ape-like caveman might have seen his image in the surface of a shimmering lake, for the very first time.
But he had to admit, the Thai plastic surgeon had done a marvellous job.
The neck tattoos were gone.
He was freckle-faced but more handsome, in a ‘weathered’ sort of way, with a fearsome hock of fiery-red hair that gave him the air of a farming tycoon.
He looked like one of those ‘old-money’ sorts who drove their Bentleys around the West End.
He looked bookish and learned; versed in the ways of the human hunter.
One thing remained though - the massive crucifix tattoo that majestically adorned his muscle-ripped back - that would remain till the death…
He was stood in a clammy old shit hole of a room with walls that were bare and damp, not much bigger than his old cell in Barlinnie. It reeked of sewage, fish sauce and other unidentifiable bodily aromas.
Muffled sounds of sexual moaning were a constant echo, as the whores did their business with horny farangs.
Groaning.
Panting.
Swearing.
A vulgar cacophony of sex that was faintly audible from every corner of the cockroach-infested building. From beyond the walls and beneath the floors and above the ceiling that trembled, where the plastic shade of a hanging lamp, red and transparent, swayed constantly. The Thai girl in the flat above took in a lot of British and American back-packers off the street and, on occasion, the floor beneath her bed would shudder so violently that misty little clouds of concrete dust would fall to where he lay upon his bed.
