The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Read online

  Don paused, tried to think of an appropriate response. “Probably mistook us for somebody else.”

  Bob crouched down and unzipped the holdall.

  “Were really hoping you’d say that, lad,” he said, turning his head to grin at Don. “’Cause that means I won’t feel guilty about introducing you to my mate, Morty.”

  64. – Owden

  “DON, MEET MORTY.”

  Bob held a foot-long hammer in the air and twirled it, so that the Don could get a good eyeful. The head was huge and had a long, sharp claw that curled away from it. Brown and black filth crusted the thing from head to handle, though judging by the way Don curled up against the headboard it was obvious he knew that the filth wasn’t dirt.

  “Look, Bob, I…”

  “Save it. You had your chance when I had you by the throat. That moment’s passed.”

  Don whimpered and drew the duvet tightly around him.

  “Wanna know why I call him Morty?”

  “Not really.”

  “Too bad. ‘Cause you’re gonna find out whether you like it or not.”

  “Look, I…”

  “His full name’s Morton,” Bob said, cutting him off, “after Morton’s Fork.”

  “Morton’s… Fork?”

  “Sometimes mistaken for Hobson’s Choice.”

  “I don’t under…”

  “Course you don’t understand. ‘Cause you’re an ignorant, fat prick,” Bob said. “‘Cause only one of us in this room bothers to read books, lad. What it means is a choice that leads to the same or two equally unpleasant outcomes.

  “In your case, it means you’re getting the hammer whether you like it or not, but you get to choose between the head or the claw.”

  “Please…”

  “Shut up,” Bob snapped, “or I’ll make that choice for you.”

  Bob flipped the hammer in the air and caught it.

  “Now choose.”

  Don shivered. His lower jaw trembled and his teeth began chattering faintly. Tears ran down his cheeks and he snivelled for mercy.

  Bob laughed. “Big bad Don Webber, reduced to tears at the sight of a hammer.”

  Don pushed his face into the duvet and smothered his sobs until he finally managed to get them under control. When he raised his face again it was puffier than usual, and his eyes were red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears.

  Seeing the man like this just made Bob angrier. Don Webber, pub braggart, his chest puffed out like a Frigate Bird, making claims about the men he’d beaten and the women he’d bedded, reduced to a sniffling mess. Pathetic.

  “I said choose.”

  Don almost broke down again, but when he saw Bob’s hand tense around the handle he thought better of it and choked back his emotion. A sudden smile struggled across his features and a glimmer of hope was in his eyes. “I’ll give you the safe combo, Bob,” he said. “Take what you think is right. Swear down, you can fuckin’ take it all.”

  Bob loomed over him with the hammer.

  “You’re wasting my time, lad.”

  Don went tense for a few seconds, then flopped forward into the duvet again as though finally resigned to his fate. A couple of soft tremors shook his body.

  “The head,” he sighed, the words muffled by the bedspread.

  “What body part?”

  Don kept his face pressed into the duvet, which he’d gathered between his legs in a ball. He tensed up, launched the duvet at Bob, and made a bid for freedom. He used the second that Owden struggled with the duvet to sprint over the bed and leap towards the door. Bob spun around, swinging the hammer in an arc. The head caught Don on the jaw and sent him sprawling to his right, where he thumped into the wall at full speed. Somehow he stayed on his feet. Spitting a mouthful of blood, Don pushed off the wall, and grabbed the door handle with his good hand.

  Bob let him get a good grip on it and then brought the claw down so hard it smashed through the metacarpals and struck the handle. Don screamed and tried to back away, but Bob used the hammer as a hook and pulled him forward by the hand. Another scream choked off in the fat man’s throat as he fell to his knees and held his right steady.

  Bob pulled the hammer from his hand.

  The loan shark’s eyes fluttered when he saw the blood coursing from the wound and he fell on his back, gurgling unpleasantly. Bob dropped to his knees and slapped him back to consciousness.

  “You’re not going anywhere, lad,” he hissed. “You’re staying here with me and a whole shitload of pain.”

  As the blood lust took over, and the urge to mangle overwhelmed him, he smashed the claw down into the hand again and again, breaking through the bones, tearing the flesh, severing ligaments and tendons, puncturing veins, until Don’s right had been almost split in half. At some point the fat man had passed out, so Bob woke him with several strong slaps to the face. When Don saw his smashed up hand he started gurgling again. Bob kept slapping him until the gurgling was replaced by soft whimpers of pain.

  “Now, you’re gonna start talking to me, lad, or I’m going to do the same to your feet. And, trust me, you think you know pain now? You don’t. Oh, believe me, you don’t. But when I go to work on your feet, you’re really going to know pain. About as intimately as you know that Kabuki mask you call your wife.”

  “What do… you want… to know?”

  Bob leaned in until their noses touched and whispered: “Everything.”

  65. – Stanton

  MARK KANDINSKY came up from London by train and appeared on our doorstep at just after three in the afternoon. Aside from a few flecks of grey around the temples and in his beard and a few more lines around the eyes, he was the same as I remembered. Five-ten of solid muscle and bad attitude, with more than enough brains to make the best of both of them – the perfect bloke for facing down somebody like Eddie.

  “You look well,” I said.

  “You too,” he replied. “So, now we’ve got the homoerotics out of the way, where’s my money?” You’d never have thought that we were old friends, or even partners in crime; there were no hugs or old-time reminiscences, just straight down to the business of asking for his five grand upfront. Always the consummate professional.

  “In the living room on the table.”

  He entered the house, threw his leather jacket on the banister, and looked around with admiring glances and the occasional approving nod. “Nice place. Someone’s doing alright for themselves?”

  “Yeah, but not me.”

  Kandinsky smiled, put his holdall on the floor by the sofa and flicked an imaginary hat brim at McMaster, who was watching TV on the armchair. He grinned and returned the gesture.

  “So who is?” Kandinsky asked. “Or have you taken to stealing homes now?”

  “Piper.”

  Kandinsky turned and looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “The ex-boss, huh? So how is he?” he asked.

  “The same, but older.”

  “Like the rest of us,” he said and sat on the sofa. “He still cheating on his missus?”

  “Every chance he can get.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t caught him out by now.”

  “She sees what she wants to see.”

  Kandinsky noticed the cash on the table.

  “If I was his wife I’da cut his knackers off a long time ago.”

  “If his wife looked like you I wouldn’t blame him for cheating.”

  Kandinsky smiled at that and picked up the money. He ran his thumbed along the outer edge of the stack and flicked through the notes. “Take it this is mine?”

  “Only if you wanna be involved.”

  Kandinsky reached over the arm of the sofa, grabbed the holdall and put the money inside. “Does that settle it?”

  Eventually my brother showed his face, as I explained the plan to Kandinsky, and watched us in silence. He wore the kind of pout that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a sulking toddler and sighed occasionally, just in case we hadn’t registered how u
pset he was about having to spend yet more money. After I’d explained the plan, I wandered into the garden and made a phone call.

  A muffled voice said hello.

  “You been keeping your ear to the ground?” I asked.

  “No, but judging by the call I got from the ex-hubbie this morning, I’d say you’ve done something to Eddie,” Rose replied. “Mike said Eddie’s spitting blood, but he didn’t say about what. He told me to keep my head down until all this was over. He’s even hired a couple of men to watch the place. They turned up outside this morning.”

  “I’ve got the money.”

  Other than the soft sound of her breath rustling down the line, Rose remained silent.

  “And Eddie wants to meet tonight.”

  “Where and when?” she hissed.

  “Not that fast,” I replied. “I’m gonna drip-feed this to you.”

  “You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you shit,” I said. “I owe your daughter. And I don’t trust you, Rose.”

  She let out her breath in slow increments. It took her a while to speak and when she did her voice cracked with rage. “You owe me, cunt. You… you tell m… me. Now.”

  “Two hours before. Not a moment sooner,” I said. “And you better find a way to get out of there without alerting your new bodyguards.”

  “You better not let me down.”

  “I’m only doing this because of your daughter. Don’t even think about doing owt stupid.”

  “Define stupid?”

  “Revenge on anybody but Eddie.”

  Rose fell silent again. Something unpleasant was brewing inside her skull but I didn’t know what. She was a risk, a wildcard, but I owed her daughter, and by that definition Rose herself, for the damage I had caused. Plus, the unprofessional part of me wanted to see what kind of damage a psychopath like her would do to Eddie.

  I coughed to break the silence. “I mean it, Rose.”

  “I heard you. Just make sure Eddie’s there tonight.”

  66. – Owden

  BOB SAT in the car and thought about everything that Don had told him. He lingered over how bad things were, and how bad they might become if he allowed them to continue unchecked.

  For two years, a conglomerate consisting of Eddie Miles, Don Webber, Gupta Patel and Mike McGarvey had been bringing in drugs and girls right under Bob’s nose. And they were gearing up to bring in a hell of a lot more.

  The idea had originated from Gupta; more as a hypothetical thought than an actual business plan. One day over drinks he’d mentioned to Mike McGarvey that in addition to his family businesses in the northeast they also had a spice export business out in Chandigarh, in the north of India, about two hundred and fifty kilometres from the Kashmiri border. He mentioned that they’d been approached on several occasions by Pakistani smugglers offering them decent money to slip Afghan Heroin in with spice shipments to Europe and the UK. Gupta wondered just what kind of money they could make by circumventing the Pakistani middlemen and dealing directly with the Afghans themselves, hypothetically, of course.

  McGarvey was in the throes of a divorce from Rose at the time, an expensive affair that ultimately cost him a house in Wynyard, a small fortune in lawyers, and a hefty cash sum. The fact that he managed to reduce that amount in exchange for waiving his visitation and custody rights did little to ease his worries. Added to which his car businesses were getting squeezed by the economic downturn. He saw Gupta’s theory as a real solution to a real problem and approached Don with it.

  Don did very well out of loansharking, and running the occasional high stakes poker game or bare-knuckle fight, but he knew that drugs were where he could make some real money, the kind that could buy him that palatial mansion near Yarm he’d had his eyes on, so brought the matter to Eddie Miles’ attention.

  Eddie already had dealers on the street and prostitutes who would step on the raw product in exchange for a free taste every now and again. He decided that it would be in their interests to step on the product in Middlesbrough but supply it wholesale to other areas of the UK, so that Bob wouldn’t start asking questions about the new shit on the street. In the end, Eddie was too paranoid to give the job of cutting the heroin to his prostitutes, so they gave the job to Lenny Coles and his brother, Pat.

  The Coles brothers had plenty of connections around the UK and were very discreet. They didn’t care where the drugs came from and wanted no part of bankrolling the project. Lenny’s price, aside from a small percentage, was enough funds to buy and run his dream project, a strip joint called Coles’ Hole – a venture that was putting a small dent in several of Bob’s own ‘exotic’ businesses.

  The Afghans were surprisingly easy to find, and more than willing to cut out the middlemen. And once the infrastructure was in place they started small. They hid a few kilo packets of heroin inside a few 10kg spice bags that were carefully concealed with tonnes of others, then weighed the shipments to ensure that there weren’t any anomalies that might be picked up by customs officials, packed them in freights, and sent them off to mainland Europe and the UK.

  It was the mainland Europe consignments that interested Bob the most.

  Patel Spices had contracted Hollis Haulage to bring in shipments from the continent (although later they branched out and used other local suppliers, and varied the routes, to ensure that the packages made it through and to have the security of knowing that they weren’t reliant on one carrier).

  The contract had started not long after Jimmy had broken John Hollis’ legs as a warning over the murder of the two black men who’d crossed the haulier’s path. Bob knew the man well enough to recognise that he had taken the contract as a form of petty vengeance. Earning money was all well and good, but putting one over on his boss, damaging his business from the inside, was what really motivated a scumbag like Hollis.

  Don said they had brought in one hundred kilos of raw heroin over two years, which was worth roughly one hundred grand a key. Ten million pounds in two years, with plans to increase it to a hundred keys this year.

  A lot of money had passed beneath his nose, and with it a lot of power and influence.

  The conglomerate had also smuggled in an average of ten girls per month, many of them via Hollis, for the last eighteen months. Beautiful, young eastern European and Russian girls with massive earning potential and a large supply of heroin to keep them pacified. He knew that most of these girls would each bring in at least fifty grand a year, and the prettiest ones could bring double that. Within a week, most of these girls would have earned back the money it cost to bring them over. After that it was all profit, which in the space of a year would be in the millions.

  Bob knew that taking a small slice of the business just wasn’t going to cut it any more. He wanted it all to himself.

  That meant taking out Eddie. Which meant bringing him out into the open.

  And the only way of doing that was by leaning on Mike McGarvey.

  67. – Owden

  MIKE MCGARVEY stood in the doorway of his home and stared at Bob like he was crazy. He went through his salesman’s routine of facial expressions – shock, confusion, concern – before finally settling on a big white smile. “I really dunno what you’re talking about, Bob.”

  Bob returned his grin. “Is that so?”

  Without invitation, Bob and Jimmy pushed him back roughly through the hallway and into his large living room. Bob took the grey leather Lay-Z-Boy, placing the holdall he was carrying at his feet, and Jimmy took the matching sofa. McGarvey stood in the centre of the room, looking shocked at the intrusion – this time his expression seemed genuine.

  “You can’t just… push in here, Bob,” McGarvey said, trying to sound forceful but failing.

  “Can’t I, lad? Hmm, I thought I just did.”

  McGarvey ran a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair and then brushed at imaginary dust speckling the lapels of his expensive suit, trying to think of a reply. His eyes studied Bob, lingering at the blood sp
atters on his hands and clothes. Fear came off him in waves that a predator like Bob could sense, and his senses told him it wasn’t fear of the unknown. McGarvey knew why this was happening, he was just trying to buy himself time.

  “Youse are gonna have to leave,” he said.

  “Why?”

  McGarvey coughed nervously and checked his Rolex. “Because I’ve got guests arriving soon.”

  “They’ll have to wait,” Bob replied. “We have things to discuss.”

  “We have nothing further to discuss. I want youse to leave.”

  Bob sat forward. “Make us.”

  McGarvey made a move for his mobile phone, which was on the coffee table in front of Jimmy. The hitman picked up the handset and pocketed it. McGarvey turned on his heels and walked towards a landline that was resting on the front windowsill. Bob nodded at Jimmy, who was off the chair and in front of the salesman before he knew what was happening.

  McGarvey was tall and well built, with three inches in height over Jimmy, but it was muscle for show rather than fighting. He stopped walking and faced the hitman, trying to make his eyes go cold and mean. “Step outta my way.”

  Jimmy shook his head and smiled. “Boss wants a word,” he said. “And what the boss wants he usually gets.”

  McGarvey swung a right hook. Jimmy saw it coming and blocked with his left forearm, then stepped forward and caught his opponent in the windpipe with an open-handed strike. The salesman’s hands went to his throat and he gasped for air. Jimmy surprised the man with another couple of solid blows to the solar plexus, folding him forward, and then pushed him back in the direction of the sofa. McGarvey staggered back until he tripped over the coffee table and landed in a heap on the cushions. Panicked, he kept gasping for air.

  Bob chuckled. “Relax, lad. He didn’t hit you that hard. If he’d hit as hard as you think you’d be dying now.”

  McGarvey tried breathing through his nose and found it easier. Gradually after a few more breaths, his panic abated and he started breathing normally. He gazed in the direction of the kitchen – Jimmy was blocking the route with his arms crossed – and then turned his head towards the hallway and the front door.