The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 18

  Bob extrapolated. As far north as Sunderland and as far south as Leeds made the nexus point local, either on trucks or on a boat via Redcar or Hartlepool, which meant that if somebody was smuggling in fresh meat they were cutting him out of his share. By the sound of things, he was being cut out of a lot of money. He needed to know who was cutting him out and quickly, before word got around that he was weak.

  “Start asking around,” he said. “I want to know who’s cutting us out.”

  “How?”

  “I dunno, but try Eddie’s people first. I’ve been hearing that lad’s name a lot recently. I’m not saying he’s the cause, it might be somebody else doing the importing, but he’s definitely on my radar.”

  “Whaddaya want me to do?”

  “Kidnap one of his pimps, if you have to, but I want some answers.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight, tomorrow,” Bob replied, “but soon. I’m already looking at Eddie for something else, this could confirm that.”

  “You want ‘em tortured?” Barney said, getting out of the chair and putting on a leather jacket.

  Bob nodded. “If needs be. Don’t hurt them unnecessarily, though. Give them a chance to talk without being prompted, first. We’re not running some Banana Republic here. And, Barn…

  Barney stared at him. “Yes, boss?”

  “Be discreet. This Hollis thing hurt us.”

  Barney nodded and exited the room

  Bob sat in silence, ruminating. He watched specks of dust drift in the light, letting his mind drift with them. Had Gupta neglected to mention the import of girls along with the drugs because he feared that his throat would be cut there and then? Did it just slip his mind in the heat of moment? Or was it unconnected? Was Eddie working something on his own? Or was it again unconnected? Could somebody else be bringing in girls?

  Anything was possible.

  He needed to be prepared for everything.

  44. – Stanton

  JOHN ARNOLD opened the door and frowned. His gaze settled on McMaster, looking the man up and down, and his eyes went cold and mean.

  “Who’s the skeleton?” he growled, angling his Magnum barrel towards the safecracker.

  “He’s cool,” I said. “He’s with us.”

  “Don’t remember asking if he was cool,” he said, coming forward slightly. “I asked who he is.”

  “Stephen McMaster.”

  Arnold’s brows unknotted. His eyes went wide. “The Master?” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. This was a first. In all the time we’d known him, Arnold had never been impressed by anyone or anything.

  McMaster’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Nobody’s called me that in years.”

  Arnold scratched an eyebrow with the gun barrel. “You used to crack boxes for Bob Owden.”

  He nodded. “I used to crack boxes for everyone.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the only bloke who cracked four of them in one night.”

  “There were only three safes.”

  “So what happened to the fourth?”

  “It got invented.”

  Arnold waved us inside, into the living room. We all sat on the plastic covered sofa, except for Arnold. He loomed over McMaster with a broad grin on his face – another first. “They said you opened safes like they were made of cardboard.”

  McMaster smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far, mate.”

  Arnold got all bashful, saying: “You want a drink, or summat?”

  McMaster shook his head and said no. Arnold seemed disappointed that his hospitality had been refused. He was at a loss for words, because his mouth dropped open slightly and he seemed unable to ask what is was we wanted.

  “How come you’ve never offered us a drink?” my brother asked, all hurt and offended. “We’ve put some serious wedge in your pocket over the years, like.”

  Arnold turned towards him. “Because this guy’s criminal royalty.”

  “So what are we?”

  Arnold scoffed. “Fuckin’ irritants, is what you are.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, like,” my brother said.

  Arnold’s brows lowered. “Not as harsh as I’m gonna get if you don’t start telling me what youse want?”

  My brother gritted his teeth and gripped the plastic covering until it squeaked. Arnold raised the Magnum slightly, ready to blow him away at a moment’s notice.

  McMaster coughed. “You know what, Arnie?”

  Arnold jerked in McMaster’s direction, his expression neutral.

  “You don’t mind me calling you Arnie, do you?”

  Arnold’s expression was now one of child-like awe. He barely croaked: “No.”

  “Cool. Actually, Arnie, I think I will have that drink.”

  Arnold beamed – nobody on earth was as happy as he was right now. His anger at my brother all but forgotten. “What would you like?” he asked. “Got some seriously sexy stuff out the back. Name your poison?”

  “I’ll take a whisky, if you’re offering.”

  Arnold danced on the spot like an excitable child. “Oh man, I’ve got a single malt that’ll give you wood.”

  McMaster clapped his hands together once and grinned. “Then serve me up one Viagra whisky, barkeep.”

  Arnold laughed as he rushed out of the living room, towards the back of the house. McMaster turned and glared at my brother.

  I slapped his massive shoulder, saying: “What the fuck was that all about?”

  My brother turned to me, his face dark red with rage. “Nobody calls me a fuckin’ irritant. Especially not some fuckin’ Worzel Gummidge-a-like.”

  McMaster leaned towards him. “You need to chill, mate.”

  He pointed back at the safecracker. “And you need to go fuck yourself,” he hissed, “I’m not having that scrawny prick talk down to me. Don’t give a fuck who he is.”

  “Never seen a man have a scrap with a Magnum bullet before,” I said, “but I don’t fancy your chances.”

  “I’ll stove his fuckin’ head in before he has a chance to fire it.”

  I snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  Arnold re-entered the room, carrying a tray with four tumblers and the fanciest bottle I’d ever seen. It was dark blue, with a set of curves that would make Marilyn Monroe jealous. Light gleamed off the silver-etched typeface. A small metal decal announced that it was older than most of the people we knew. Arnold must have spent a pretty penny on it, or at least knew thieves with a taste for the finer things in life. Casting my brother a vicious glare, he poured four singles and handed them round. The aroma was like no Scotch I’ve had before or since. It stroked my sinuses with feather-light delicacy. There was nothing medicinal or earthy about it, more like figs and butterscotch. It seemed almost a shame to ruin the scent by drinking it.

  Arnold raised the glass to the light. “Savour it, lads. This is one of the finest things you’ll ever drink,” he said, turning towards McMaster. “To criminal royalty.”

  “Criminal royalty,” we repeated.

  The first taste caressed my throat as it glided down to my stomach. When it landed it didn’t burn; instead a soft, warm glow spread out and gave me a hug. The aftertaste was like having Christmas pudding served to me by Christ Himself.

  “Holy fuckin’ shite,” my brother said, breaking the reverence of the moment.

  Arnold cast him a withering scowl. “Let’s enjoy this in silence,” he said.

  The second taste was almost as good as the first, but the shock of the new had departed, and by the third the glass was empty, leaving an aftertaste that made me salivate for more.

  Arnold looked at his dregs and sighed like he was bemoaning the death of a much-loved son. “Opinion?” he asked.

  McMaster wore a beatific smile and shook his head in wonder.

  “You were right. It gave me wood.”

  Arnold chuckled and put his glass back on the tray. “Right, I’m on such a high I’ll forget the fact that Beavis here,” he said, pointing at my brother, “called m
e Worzel Gummidge. Under normal circumstances your head would look like a Jackson Pollock but, lucky for you, good whisky makes me all happy inside. And in that spirit I’m only gonna charge youse double for whatever it is you came here for.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” my brother said, rising to his feet.

  Arnold had the Magnum barrel under his chin before he’d even finished standing. “I can wait a minute,” he said, cocking back the hammer. “Hell, I can wait an hour, a day, or even a week. But I’ve got a feeling that youse can’t. So, the price is the price, lads. And unless you wanna darken my mood enough to see me pull this trigger I suggest you fuckin’ pay it.”

  45. – Owden

  THE CALL came in about an hour before Bob intended to drive down to Hutton Woods and hunker down for the long wait. Regan had the men, the van, the equipment, and the means of disposal at the ready. Bob told him to drive around until he was needed.

  He put down the phone, lay back on his bed and basked in the moment. Every creak and rustle seemed incredibly loud tonight. The air had a crackle of electricity that made his skin tingle. Despite all his legitimate businesses, and the thrill of making clean money, this was still what excited him the most – the night of the kill. As soon as the Stantons and Jimmy were dead they became a problem to be disposed of, but until that moment came they were a source of exquisite pleasure.

  Bob got off the bed and walked towards an antique wardrobe he rarely used. The closer he got to the door the harder his heart beat against his ribcage. A few calming breaths gave him the impetus he needed to grab a key off the unit top. He placed the key in the lock and opened the door. The scent of mothballs and dust tickled his sinuses and a lump formed in his throat.

  It had been twenty-six years since his wife’s death, but the pain never abated, especially when he stared at her dusty clothes. Folding his torment into boxes with her things and hanging it in wardrobes with her dresses was all well and good, but it only worked for a while. The moment he saw her skirt suits with large shoulder-pads, or evening gowns with shoulder ruffles, his memories flooded back – fresh as the day he packed them away.

  Sometimes guilt accompanied the pain.

  But not this time. He worked quickly.

  Parting his late-wife’s clothes, he reached in the back of the wardrobe, wrapped his hand around something cold and smooth and pulled it out. A Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun with a long black barrel. Bob worked the action, ejecting a shell that he caught in mid-flight.

  He had no intention of using the weapon to kill. It was too loud, too messy, but it would be useful for making the brothers go where he wanted. Then he’d use something a bit smaller, quieter, neater.

  Bob put the cartridge back in the chamber, placed the shotgun on the bed. Going back to the wardrobe, he pulled out a small semi-automatic and silencer. He checked the clip, made sure that there was one in the chamber, then screwed on the suppressor.

  Aware of the guilt that was bubbling to the surface, Bob closed the door and locked it. He placed the key back on top of the wardrobe and took a deep breath. He swallowed several times and felt the pain slide down into his stomach where it burned like dyspepsia. Indigestion became rage as he told himself that the Stanton brothers and Jimmy had made him open this emotional time capsule. His rage blazed incandescent.

  Bob feared that letting it fester would bring mistakes, so he threw everything into a large holdall and ran out of the house. He threw the bag in the backseat of his car and drove to Hutton Village. Passing Jimmy’s vehicle, Bob parked about fifty metres further up the road on a grass verge. He put the bag over his shoulder and hiked past large houses with long driveways and enormous manicured lawns. Hopping over a fence, he walked along Highcliff Road, a crumbling path of dirt and tarmac. Then he cut left, through trees and shrubs, the ground rising steeply, until finally he reached the top and it all levelled out. Emerging into a small cool clearing, he found Jimmy perched on a large chunk of dead tree, staring into the distance. Occasionally, the hitman swung his right foot forward and kicked a blue canvas bag. The contents clanked every time he did it.

  Bob wondered if Jimmy was thinking about the mess he’d made, and the thousands he had squandered on cards, horses and other pointless pursuits. He also wondered if the hitman still thought he could dig his way out of the deep hole he’d made, or if he was finally starting to realise that he was a dead man walking.

  “Penny for ‘em, lad?”

  Jimmy turned his head in Bob’s direction. He looked gaunt and miserable, even in the low light. “You’d be wasting money on the contents of my skull.”

  “Oh, I dunno about that.”

  Jimmy turned and pointed diagonally to his left. “We’ll watch from over there,” he said. “We’ll hafta do a bit of climbing to get a decent view though.”

  “Aye. Fine with me.”

  “If he’s smart, Eddie’ll keep his men close, on both sides of the clearing, in a relatively small radius. I’m thinking this side of the clearing because the two sides are closer together. It’s what I’d do anyway.”

  Bob grunted his agreement. Jimmy knew killing, particularly how to watch the enemy and out-think them, so there was no reason to disagree.

  The hitman picked up the canvas bag and pulled the long handle over his head.

  “Let’s do this.”

  46. – Stanton

  MY BROTHER fumed and huffed all the way to Nunthorpe. He drove angry, pulling into traffic early, cutting up cars that tried to overtake, and created a general menace on the roads. By the time he parked the car and pulled his hands off the steering wheel it had deep indentations from where he was gripping it so hard. “Three grand for three fuckin’ Tasers,” he said. Each word sounded like it was being wrenched out of him by force.

  “Wouldn’t have been three grand if you’d kept your temper,” I replied.

  “Who the fuck does Arnold think he is?”

  “The man with the shit,” I answered. “That’s who.”

  “He’s certainly fuckin’ full of it,” my brother said. “Mebbe we should pay him a proper visit one of these days?”

  I laughed. “You wanna commit suicide go right ahead, but I’m quite happy here in the land of the living, thanks very much.”

  My brother muttered under his breath and turned towards the driver’s side window, then rested his forehead against the glass. He let out a melodramatic sigh that made him sound like a teenager having a strop and started playing with his mobile phone. He didn’t like waiting.

  Can’t say I blamed him. I wasn’t exactly happy about it myself.

  What movies don’t tell you about criminal life is the boredom. Long, slow hours are spent in stationary vehicles, breathing in the kinds of stench that should come with a public health warning; snacking and smoking towards a future cancer or heart attack; all for a payday that might last a few tight months, if you’re lucky. Hours, days, weeks are squandered in the company of people who aren’t worth the sweating and grunting their parents did to produce them.

  No matter how big the reward, no matter how long or well it lasts, that lost time can never be refunded. It’s taken out of your account and replaced with wrinkles, thinning hair, thinning bones, and a whole host of new and interesting ailments, most of which stick around long enough to become chronic.

  After a while, you realise that years of your life have been spent watching and waiting, memories clotting into one big congealed mass, with only your colleagues’ idiotic droning as a soundtrack. If movies and books told the truth about the boredom of criminality I suspect there’d be a lot less criminals, though probably a lot more politicians and bankers.

  We watched Eddie’s house from a distance. The car was parked too far away for him to see us, but close enough that we could watch the cars leave. I checked my watch; we still had fifteen minutes before I reckoned they were due to leave. The sun had long since packed its bags and left for the day, leaving a thin sliver of moon to guard the night sky until its return.
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  “You really think they’ll leave soon?” McMaster asked.

  “Eddie’ll have his people hiding in the tall grass long before we show up. He probably figures we’ll get there early; so if he’s there before us, that gives him the advantage,” I said. “It’ll take him fifteen minutes to get from here to there, another fifteen to get his men hidden, and that gives us two and a half hours tops to get in the house and root around.”

  “Two and a half?”

  “Eddie’ll wait till ten fifteen before he loses patience and writes it off.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Because I’ll keep Gupta on tenterhooks and buy us that time.”

  Not quite on cue, but near enough, the cars started filing off Eddie’s drive. Four of them in total. Almost immediately a call came through from Gupta, wanting to know if we were still on for tonight. I told him we were, but he needed to make sure that Eddie turned up.

  Gupta played his part beautifully, and acted like it was touch-and-go whether he was going to make it. I played my part, too, and screamed abuse, threatening him with the pictures. Before he hung up, sounding crestfallen, Gupta said he’d see what he could do.

  “Shall we do this?” I asked, looking at the others.

  They nodded. It was time.

  47. – Stanton

  WE HEARD McMaster knock on the door. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. It snapped open and a deep voice said: “Who the fuck’re you?”

  “Sorry to bother you, mate,” McMaster said, suddenly sounding northern again. “Me car packed in. You don’t happen to have any jump leads or owt?”

  “You got a mobile?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then phone the fuckin’ AA an’ gerroff me property.”

  We waited by the garage door, out of view from the rest of the house. My brother chewed at his bottom lip and clenched and unclenched his hands continuously. The tension was getting to him. He didn’t like strategic thinking, or anything he couldn’t control, and was only truly happy in the heat of the action, when his physical advantages and courage gave him the upper hand.