The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 11

  Bob then arranged for John Hollis to smuggle them out of the country. He moved the robbers to a safe house to recover and lay low until the fuss had died down. But when somebody passed their identities to the police, he had no choice but to get rid of them in a much faster manner. Jimmy Raffin killed the men and fed their chopped up remains to a herd of pigs on one of Bob’s farms.

  Acting only on anger and instinct, Bob blamed Frenchy for the anonymous phone call to the police, and reacted in the only way he knew how… by kicking down the door of the surgeon’s home and breaking his hands, even though he denied any involvement.

  Word got out a week later that the driver’s wife had made the call. She was disgusted by her husband’s involvement in the deaths and wanted to do the right thing. Bob tried to make up for his mistake, but found out that Frenchy wasn’t the type to forgive and forget.

  Six years of silence. Six years of patching up villains for everybody but Bob.

  He knocked on the red door and waited.

  A smiling obese man opened the door and began to say hello. When he recognised his visitor the smile faltered. Then he stepped back and quickly tried to close the door. Bob jammed his foot between the door and the frame. He thanked Christ for steel toecaps when the door struck. Even then, it hurt like hell. It hurt even more when Frenchy wedged his considerable weight against the door, trapping Bob’s foot.

  Hopping on his good foot, he leaned into the narrow gap between door edge and frame, hissing: “If you don’t open this door, Frenchy, I guarantee I’ll slam it shut on your hands until there’s nowt left of them.”

  23. – Owden

  FRENCHY LET go of the door. It creaked as it fell open.

  Judging by his size, it wasn’t the only thing he’d let go of. It took a lot of French fries to get that out of shape. Despite his relatively short stature, he seemed to fill the hallway. The baggy clothes he wore couldn’t disguise the fact that he was well over twenty stone – dangerous territory for a man of five-eight. He panted like he’d just exercised, and his shapeless face was an unpleasant shade of scarlet. Sweat ran down his forehead, and soaked his hair to his scalp. It also glistened unpleasantly on the hairs of his salt-and-pepper moustache.

  He folded his arms and stepped back, allowing his unwelcome guest into the house. As soon as he was inside, Bob wanted to be outside again, breathing in fresh air.

  The hallway combined the rancid stench of old takeaway grease with years of dust. It tickled Bob’s nostrils and the back of his throat, bringing on a sneezing fit. The breeze sent fat dust bunnies rolling like tumbleweeds across the filthy carpet. Dirt and grime had turned the white skirting boards a strong shade of mottled grey. And dust seemed to cover every surface; stairs, bannisters, radiators, and just about any painted surface. It had been a long time since the man had used a vacuum cleaner. Frenchy wasn’t just neglecting his appearance, he seemed to be neglecting everything.

  “We need words, Albert.”

  Frenchy stared at Bob with a neutral expression. There was no emotion in his small, piggy eyes. He folded his arms tightly, which made him look like he was hugging himself. This was the only suggestion of his mood. That and his silence.

  Bob sighed. “We need words, lad.”

  Frenchy shuffled on the spot, but maintained his omerta. Bob leaned in close enough to feel the heat radiating off the surgeon’s body. “I know you think this is what dignified looks like, Frenchy,” he said. “But what dignified actually looks like is a fat man who’s been kicked to a pulp on his dirty carpet. You’re not a hard man. Stop trying to act like one.”

  Bob took five hundred in notes from his jacket and wafted them into front of Frenchy’s face. “You’re looking a bit hot and bothered there. Cool yourself on these.”

  Frenchy’s gaze wavered momentarily, drifting in the direction of the cash, but when he locked eyes again his stare was nastier. Bob dropped the notes on the carpet. “Have it your own way,” he said. “And have this, too. I’m sorry about what happened all those years ago. I should’ve figured you wouldn’t sell us out, should’ve figured it were one of them wives that caused all this nonsense.”

  Frenchy’s eyes seemed to turn a darker shade of blue. His lips went thin and tight.

  “Nonsense? Is that what two broken hands amounts to now?”

  Bob held up his hands in mock-surrender.

  “Figure of speech. No harm meant.”

  “Unlike the day you came and broke them. Then, harm was definitely meant.”

  “I made a mistake. And I’m sorry.”

  “Six years too late.”

  “Apologies from me are collector’s items,” Bob said. “I don’t give them away lightly.”

  “Oh, am I supposed to be thankful?”

  Bob stiffened. He wasn’t used to rejection, and didn’t react kindly to it. Frenchy was about to find out just how badly he would react. He just didn’t know it yet. “No, lad. You’re supposed to accept the apology in the spirit that it’s meant. Then we can get down to business.”

  “Take your business, and your cash, and get out of my house.”

  Bob slammed his fist into Frenchy’s gut. The surgeon folded forward and collapsed to his knees. He vomited half-digested chunks of breakfast over the carpet then tried to look up at his attacker. Tears of pain blinded him. He didn’t bother trying to wipe them away.

  He should have.

  Because if he had, he might have seen the right hook that put out his lights.

  24. – Owden

  IT TOOK Bob five minutes to pull Frenchy from the hallway to the living room. It wasn’t the most difficult physical task he’d ever undertaken, but it felt like it at that particular moment. Frenchy’s undulating rolls of flab made pulling in a straight line almost impossible, and his shoes seemed to catch on every thread of carpet, creating extra drag.

  Bob laid Frenchy next to the sofa, then sat in the armchair opposite to catch his breath. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a suit sleeve and waited for his heart to stop jackhammering, whilst he looked around.

  Everything in the room was dusty and dirty and the ragged furniture – what little there was – looked like it belonged in a skip. Back when they worked together, Frenchy had been houseproud. Everything he’d owned was expensive and well cared for. Dirty surfaces didn’t exist. The man had his life well put together.

  But the fat wreck laying in the dust looked like he’d fallen apart a long time ago. Years of treating working girl overdoses for their ungrateful pimps and patching up broken bones for Jack Samson had taken their toll.

  Bob tapped Frenchy with his foot, but he didn’t stir. There was something about his lack of movement that didn’t sit right. Bob went to the kitchen and boiled a kettle full of water. He also ran some cold water into a plastic litre jug, then carried them both to the living room and stood over the surgeon.

  “I’m standing over you with two containers of water,” Bob said. “In my left’s a jug of cold water and in my right a freshly boiled kettle. I’m gonna pour one on your face and the other on your genitals, though I haven’t decided in which order. You can stop me any time by waking up from your fake slumber.”

  Frenchy’s eyes snapped open. Even though he was still a bit shaky, he got off the floor and sat on the sofa. His eyes went back to the kettle, still trailing wisps of steam. “You don’t need that now,” he said.

  Bob put the kettle on the carpet and took a sip from the jug of water then put it down, too. He sat on the armchair and stared at Frenchy. “You gonna talk to me?”

  “Doesn’t look like I’ve got a choice,” Frenchy replied.

  “Oh, you’ve got a choice, it just isn’t much of one.”

  Frenchy rubbed at his chin and hissed. He pulled his hand away, then brought it slowly back and gave the area a few gentle prods. Bob couldn’t make out any bruising because of the surgeon’s scarlet complexion.

  “I’m lucky it’s not broken,” Frenchy whined.

  “Quit your mithering,
lad. I could’ve taken your head off if I’d had a mind to.”

  “A man your age should be at home with his pipe and slippers,” Frenchy said. “Not beating on defenceless people in their own homes.”

  Bob bristled at the mention of his age and glared. “Your beating could’ve easily been avoided. Just like the next one can be avoided by not mentioning my age again.”

  Frenchy sighed. “Whaddaya want, Bob?”

  “You patched up Frank Brodie not so long ago, right?”

  The doctor’s right hand tensed up and his fingers dragged across the sofa fabric. The movement lasted less than a second, but Bob spotted it immediately. Frenchy knew something that he didn’t want to share and was either about to deflect Bob’s question or lie.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Frenchy said without blinking.

  Bob smiled. Answering a question with a question – a nice deflection tactic.

  “Never you mind where I heard it.”

  Frenchy paused. “Yes, I patched him up.”

  “Why?”

  “Somebody shot him.”

  “Who?”

  “The Stantons, I think.”

  “Think?”

  “I didn’t see them,” Frenchy answered. “And neither did Brodie, as it happens. They were wearing ski masks.”

  “So how does he know it were them?”

  Frenchy scratched his nose. “He didn’t say. Just said it was.”

  Bob leaned forward and fixed his eyes on the surgeon.

  “Why’re you lying?”

  Frenchy rubbed at his throat. “I’m not lying.”

  Bob smiled. “You just told me you were. Twice.”

  Frenchy stiffened and placed his hands on his lap.

  “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

  “You spoke to them, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “By no, you mean yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they say?”

  Frenchy glanced around the room. “Not a lot. They robbed me, too.”

  “If you keep lying to me, I’m gonna get mad. You should know from experience that this is bad for your health.”

  “They shot and robbed Frank, then they got him to call me and lie about a prozzie with an overdose. When I turned up they broke the jaw of my muscle and took me for all the cash I had. That’s it.”

  “That’s not it.”

  Frenchy wafted his hand at Bob and made a sound like air escaping a tire.

  “You weren’t there. I was.”

  “And yet there’s something about your story that stinks, lad.”

  “That smell might be the truth, Bob. Considering how few times in your life you’ve encountered it, the truth probably smells strange to you.”

  An adrenaline burst of rage coursed through Bob’s bloodstream. Muscles tensed, sinews flexed, and his hands made tight fists. He wanted the truth, he needed the facts that would help him solve the Stokesley Slaughterhouse. And if he had to beat Frenchy within an inch of his life to get that, then so be it.

  Frenchy cringed and drew back into the sofa. He had seen Bob lose his rag too many times over the years, and knew that he was in big trouble. “Calm down, man. Let’s not go off all half-cocked.”

  Bob stood up and hunched over into a fighter’s stance. He took a step forward.

  Frenchy looked into his eyes, but saw only anger. “Look, mate, I made a mistake. The Stantons weren’t there for Brodie…”

  Bob was now close enough to hit him.

  “…and they weren’t really there for me…”

  Bob pulled back his right, ready to throw it.

  “…They were there for G-Max. For Hollis.”

  Bob blinked, and life flooded back into his eyes. He stared at his raised fist, then lowered it to his side and stepped back towards the armchair. His face twitched through the full gamut of expressions without ever settling on a definitive emotion – he looked numb, confused, worried, and frightened, quite often at the same time. He sprawled into the armchair with all the subtlety of a dropped dumbbell and blinked again. None of what Frenchy said made any sense, and yet he knew he was telling the truth.

  “Same night as the robbery?”

  A drawn out sigh that sounded almost like a sob escaped Frenchy’s lips. He nodded jerkily and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “But there’s only two of them lads,” Bob said, almost to himself.

  Frenchy shook his head. “There were three.”

  “Three?”

  “There was one upstairs guarding Brodie while the Stanton’s grilled me.”

  And with that the pieces began slotting into place.

  25. – Stanton

  PIPER’S LOVE nest was about ten-minute’s drive from Yarm centre. The property was surrounded by a tall stone wall topped with broken glass shards and razor wire. The only way in was through an electric double-door gate. I pressed the fob button and a motor began to whir. The gates juddered and pulled apart jerkily.

  We made our way up the gravel drive, which bisected a neatly cut lawn peppered with small Spruce trees and manicured shrubs. We parked in a two-vehicle carport adjacent to the house and got out of the car.

  The place was a perfectly preserved two-storey sandstone rural cottage, with a few features that the original builders might not have thought of. Black burglar-proof bars covered all the sash windows, even those on the upper floors. Ornamental flourishes and a coat of black lacquer helped them blend in better with the rest of the house, but they still looked wrong. As the front door opened, a burglar alarm started beeping loudly. A quick swipe with the fob sensor soon put a stop to that.

  The interiors were decked out with terracotta tiles, ceiling beams, and exposed brickwork. The lounge was a long open-plan room that ran directly through to the dining room at the back. Several expensive-looking Persian rugs covered the terracotta and made the place look a little less cold and impersonal. A gleaming glass media stand dominated the corner of the room, which was itself dominated by a TV the size of a barn door. “Fuck me. Could get used to this, like,” my brother said. “Bet this shit’s 3D, too. I bet he’s got porn.”

  He sat on a grey leather sofa, facing the media stand, and searched a large smoked-glass coffee table in front of him for the remote control.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” I replied. “It’s a place to rest our heads, nothing more. We won’t be around enough to enjoy it.”

  He picked up the remote and bashed it against the armrest like a frustrated child. “Always gotta spoil my fun.”

  I went back to the hallway and up the stairs. The bedrooms were down a small narrow corridor to the right of the staircase. The master bedroom looked like a hall of mirrors, but without the novelty of making you look fat. There were mirrors on all the wall units, above the chest of drawers, on the door to the en-suite and a large group of small mirrors had been placed on the ceiling, just above the king-size bed, probably so that Piper could admire his own visage whilst getting it on with the latest fuck du jour.

  Wherever I looked I could see my tired reflection staring back at me. I sighed, drew the dark curtains, so I didn’t have to look at myself, put my head on the pillow and went to sleep.

  ------

  I stepped into a brightly lit open-plan office. The stench of blood and shit hit my nose like a fist, making my eyes water. It seemed to penetrate my clothes and skin. Despite wanting to turn and leave I forced myself forward one tentative step at a time.

  Off to my left, just beneath a window that resembled a ship’s porthole, a large plastic sheet was spread out across the floor. A naked corpse lay on the sheet. Its limbs had been removed and stacked in a bloody pile to one side. The head and genitals had also been hacked off and placed elsewhere on the sheet. The torso was split, so that the entrails spilled out.

  The head was facing me. I recognised who it was. It was Gerald Maxwell (or G-Max to his friends). On the floor was a large, unzipped black holdall with a lot of money insid
e. I walked towards the bag, preparing to pick it up.

  Then I noticed that the G-Max’s eyes were following me. The face still had the slack-jawed blankness of death, but the eyes burned with anger. He was blaming me, shaming me with his eyes. I knew without explanation that he believed I was responsible for this.

  I felt no remorse. Why should I? Gerald’s demise was entirely of his own making, but there was something about his murder that unsettled me. This could just have easily been my fate. I looked away from his accusing eyes, but I knew they were following me just the same. I reached down, picked up the two holdalls and turned around.

  Gerald wasn’t there any more. Instead, there were two plastic sheets on the ground with a corpse on each. Faceless men dressed in black hacked at the bodies with meat knives. A big man with a scarred face stood close by and watched the spectacle with a blank expression. His mouth moved but I couldn’t hear the words.

  The faceless men cut off the heads of both corpses and placed them down so that they faced in my direction. I stared at my own face and that of my brother. I searched the eyes for meaning, but saw only the emptiness of death. Whatever had been there once was now gone.

  Then I realised who the big man was.

  Eddie Miles.

  He was smiling, taking photographs of the corpses as souvenirs. He stroked the hair of a young girl I recognised. It was Rose’s daughter, Emily, but there was something not quite right about her face. Her mouth consisted of one long bloody slash that went from one side of her face to the other. She opened that terrible gash, to say something, but no words emerged, only one long scream…

  ------

  I groaned and scrabbled around in the darkness, my heart beating like a kettledrum. It was only when I realised where I was that I relaxed. I pulled off the sheets and lay on the bed with the stink of sweat on me, thinking about the nightmare I’d just had.

  My eyes adjusted to the lack of light and I looked at my outline in the ceiling mirrors. Waves of guilt washed over me every time I thought about Emily McGarvey. I could blame Eddie for making the incision, but I knew that I was just as culpable. I could have kept Rose’s betrayal to myself and taken defeat on the chin, but I don’t like to lose. And now a little girl was sporting scars she’d have for the rest of her life because of my pathological need to win. Revenge wouldn’t fix the disfigurement. Maybe, just maybe, it might make me feel better about things, but it would bring no comfort to the girl.