The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 25

  Bob laughed. “You won’t make it.”

  “I really dunno what this is about,” McGarvey insisted, rubbing his throat.

  “Don told me everything.”

  McGarvey went for a bemused expression and shrugged. “Told you about what? I’m at a loss here, Bob.”

  Bob rummaged around inside the holdall, pulled out the hammer he’d used on Don and lay it flat on his lap. The surface was still damp with blood, only drying to a dark crust around the handle. “Like you, Don were at a loss, till I introduced him to Morty,” he said, glancing down at the tool. “Then he suddenly started knowing what everything meant. Hell, I reckon if I’d asked that lad a question in calculus he would’ve known the answer.”

  McGarvey studied the hammer. He clutched at his tie and tugged at it nervously. “Bob…”

  “I did damage to Don that can’t be repaired,” Bob said, gripping the handle. “Don’t make me do the same to you.”

  McGarvey squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “What do you want?”

  “A favour.”

  McGarvey nodded. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I know all about your import business bringing in drugs and prostitutes.”

  McGarvey opened his mouth, ready to deny everything. Bob lifted the hammer off his lap. “Don’t say a word, not if you want to keep those pretty white teeth.”

  The salesman’s mouth snapped shut.

  Bob lowered the hammer again. “Don gave you up, lad. He gave up Eddie. And what he said ties in with what Gupta told me. And what you decide to do next’ll play a big part in whether or not I let you live.”

  McGarvey’s hands quivered as he straightened his tie. “So what do you want me to do?”

  The big man’s grip on the handle loosened. “I want you to play Judas. I want you to give up Eddie. By this time tomorrow the healthy little import business you lads have got going with that pimp’ll belong to me. It’s not up for discussion or negotiation. I’m taking seventy per cent, which leaves you, Don, and Gupta with ten apiece. I could take it all, but if you give Eddie up I reckon it’s worth a percentage, plus I’ll let you keep what you’ve already made.”

  “Why Eddie?”

  The line of Bob’s mouth twisted up slightly. “‘Cause he’s the only one of you that represents a threat, who’ll fight for his share. He’s the only one of you with any bottle.”

  “I have fight,” McGarvey replied in a soft whisper.

  “That why you let him get away with slicing your child?” Bob asked.

  “He had…”

  “Your money?”

  McGarvey’s face screwed up and for a few seconds his bottom lip trembled, but he managed to keep it together. “I wanna make him pay for what he did to my daughter, but what the fuck can I do? Eddie threatened to kick me outta the fold if I didn’t put the blame on the Stantons, and I need that fuckin’ money, Bob. I’m the only one who doesn’t bring anything other than cash to the table. Gupta’s the one who brings in the shit. Don’s the one who brought in Lenny and Pat Coles to cut the aitch, the one who approached Hollis about smuggling the girls and the product in his lorries. And Eddie’s the man with the contacts and the muscle. All I’ve got is money. I can be replaced.

  “Call me weak if you want, but I fuckin’ need this. The economy’s shitting all over the car business, and my properties and shares aren’t raking it in, either. This life I lead isn’t exactly cheap, and I can’t afford to lose half a million in cash without feeling some pain.”

  “My heart bleeds for you,” Bob replied.

  The way that McGarvey had dourly accepted his fate made Bob feel sick. Putting profits over his daughter’s wellbeing made him weak. If it had been his late-wife and son who’d been sliced there wouldn’t be a trace of Eddie left on this earth for forensic examiners to find. Bob knew that the salesman wasn’t going to put up a fight, so he leaned forward and put the hammer back in the bag. “Well, you’ve lost your money now anyway, by all accounts, if Eddie has it.”

  McGarvey shook his head. “You might be right, if he actually had it.”

  Bob felt a surge of excitement and sat forward. “What d’you mean?”

  “Got a call earlier from him earlier, fuckin’ foaming at the mouth. The Stantons raided him last night. Cleaned him out, apparently. They even pissed on his bed. Fuckin’ animals.”

  Bob locked eyes with Jimmy and grinned. The hitman returned it.

  That explained last night’s no-show. The clever bastards had used Gupta to get Eddie to lower his guard. They had bought enough time to find the money and clean him out. Despite himself, Bob was developing a grudging respect for the brothers. He’d always thought they were about brute force and street smarts, but this proved otherwise. Anybody who could make their enemies dance to their tune was worthy of admiration.

  “Did they get all of Eddie’s money?” he asked.

  McGarvey moved his head from side-to-side again. “Hardly. Just my half mil and some petty cash from a floor safe.”

  “So he didn’t have his, you know, import money lying around?”

  “Two million quid? Where’s he gonna put it, under his fuckin’ floorboards?”

  “Stranger things’ve happened.”

  “Not in this case they haven’t,” he said with finality.

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  McGarvey fixed Bob with his gaze. “We’ve been buying up properties all around Middlesbrough. Boarding them up, alarming them to the ceilings. Christ, we even started up our own security firm to ensure that if the alarms are triggered, and junkies or squatters try to get in, the guards go in heavy-handed and move them on. Hell, the business is even making money now. Real money.”

  Bob closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and allowed himself a rueful smile. MMPW Security had been steadily taking business from RoSec for several months due to their no-nonsense, brutal attitude to trespassers and squatters. Now he realised what the name stood for – McGarvey, Miles, Patel, Webber – and he also realised why they were so heavy-handed with squatters.

  “You’re hiding money in derelict houses,” he said, looking at Jimmy.

  The hitman’s eyes lit up at the mention of money. Bob could almost see the thought process going on behind them; thinking about ways of getting his hands on enough money to pay off his debts.

  “Under floorboards, in attics, anywhere it would take squatters time to find,” McGarvey replied. “By which time the heavy crew would have kicked their heads in and moved them on. We’ve had three break-ins in a year. The first time it was some kids, who got off lightly with just a beating. Second time around it was a bunch of smackheads. They had their fingers broken. Third time around it cost the squatters their kneecaps. And we’ve not had no trouble since.”

  Bob rubbed his face until it was red. He thought about the kind of money stashed in those properties. He’d told McGarvey and Webber that they could keep their money, but it was open season on Eddie Miles’ cash reserves. By tonight the pimp would be dead, so he’d be in no position to do anything about it.

  “I want you to arrange meet Eddie tonight,” he said, thinking that if it worked for Eric Stanton it could also work for him. “I want to isolate him.”

  “He won’t meet tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s meeting the Stantons.”

  Bob looked at him for a long time. “Tonight?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bob grinned. “Tell me more, lad. Tell me more. Just keep thinking about that ten per cent.”

  68. – Owden

  LEE REGAN leaned back against a black Transit van and gave Bob a cool, level stare. He was a small, stocky man in his late forties with a shaved head, a wide red face and intelligent blue eyes. He folded his thick arms and fiddled with one of the chest pockets of his camouflage jacket. He pulled a cigarette, lighted it and blew smoke in Bob’s direction.

  “You made me look a right cunt last night, boss man,” he said. Although his gaze r
emained calm there was an edge to his voice that Bob didn’t like. Regan was still dealing with the fallout from the night before, probably still mulling over some heated exchange, turning an insult over and over in his mind. Bob didn’t want him losing his sanity before the action started, so decided to tread carefully.

  “I know,” he replied. “What can I say?”

  “Sorry’d be a good start.”

  Bob hated using the word, but wanted Regan relaxed and happy. He swallowed his pride and spat out the word like it was a poisoned pill. “Sorry.”

  “Those lads weren’t happy,” Regan added. His eyes narrowed to darkened slits, as if reliving an unpleasant memory. “And they’re still expecting to be paid.”

  “And they will be. Double.”

  Regan raised his thick eyebrows. “Double?”

  “I need you all again tonight,” Bob said and patted the side of the van, which made a hollow, metallic sound. “Same set-up as before.”

  Regan nodded and went around to the back of the vehicle. Without thinking, he looked around for passing bystanders. Even though Bob knew that it was pointless, he did the same. They were parked in a small cul-de-sac surrounded by trees, more than a hundred feet from the nearest road. The only witnesses were the birds, and they weren’t going to talk about it.

  Regan unlocked the door and opened it. Thick black plastic had been gaffer-taped to every inch of wall and floor space, making the interior look deep and dark. He opened a very large grey holdall. It contained bone-cutting tools along with a couple of small assault rifles with very long silencers and a couple of automatics, also silenced.

  Bob nodded his approval. “That’s some serious looking stuff in there.”

  “Russian military police use these things,” Regan replied with a note of respect in his voice. “Awesome stopping power up close.”

  “I’m not expecting close-quarters combat.”

  Regan turned his head towards Bob. “What we expect and what we get are rarely one and the same. Better to be prepared.”

  Bob grinned. “Sounds like philosophy, lad.”

  Regan shrugged.

  “You been reading again?”

  “Just the occasional issue of New Cunts,” Regan said with a half-smile.

  “Not partial to that stuff myself, kind of prefer flesh to paper.”

  “So do I. But I don’t see the birds lining up to get tapped by this,” he said, prodding his crotch.

  “You’re selling yourself short.”

  “Just stating the God’s honest, boss man,” Regan said, closing the door. “Now here’s a bit more honesty, you’re not gonna get those lads back in the vehicle without cash upfront.”

  Bob walked over to car and nodded at Jimmy, sat silently watching them. The hitman leaned over and opened the driver’s side door. The holdall was on the front seat. Bob opened it and rummaged around, pushing the bloody hammer out of the way. He picked up a couple of bricks of cash that he’d taken from Don’s safe and handed them over.

  Regan looked at the dry bloodstains smeared on the top note, before removing it from the pile and putting it in his pocket “Do I wanna know?”

  “Would you care if you did?”

  “Probably not.”

  “That enough to keep your men sweet?” Bob asked.

  “More than.”

  “Then go pick ‘em up and keep driving around till I need you.”

  69. – Stanton

  AS THE shadows grew longer and the first hints of orange appeared in the sky we got in McMaster’s car and drove towards the Yorkshire Moors, taking the long route. Identikit redbrick estates soon gave way to small villages that in turn became isolated dwellings, until these too disappeared and green pastures dominated the landscape. After a while this gave way to bracken and purple heather and the land began to rise until it became tree peppered hill ranges. Once we reached the moors roads the land levelled out into stark plains of rough grass and bracken with only the occasional gnarled tree skeleton to break the monotony. The roads narrowed until they were barely wide enough for one car.

  Once we were on Percy Cross Rigg everybody fell silent and started thinking about their individual tasks. When the road came to an end we parked the car, grabbed our bags and jumped a fence. The sun was dropping fast and formed a fiery red band just above the horizon. In another half an hour it would be gone completely and we’d need torches.

  We didn’t hang around. We set off along the Percy Cross footpath, moving fast enough to break a sweat within five minutes. A strong headwind bustled around us, slowing us down and making waves in the coarse grass. We hiked until the path became the Cleveland Way and finally reached the trees, where it forked left and right. Kandinsky started veering away to the right. Before he disappeared into the trees, he stopped and pulled a mobile from his front pocket.

  “One bar,” he said. “You?”

  I looked at my reception. “Two,” I replied. “Good enough.”

  “When I see them I’ll text you. Let you know how many there are.”

  “Call me if it looks serious.”

  “Will do.”

  I nodded. “Then make sure you get the fuck outta there. And don’t get fuckin’ lost.”

  Kandinsky grinned. “I’ll find you.”

  “You’re not having us on about that six minute mile, are you?”

  His grin widened. “In the daylight, I can do the first mile in six,” he said and shrugged. “In pitch black, through this shite, with only a torch, though, I might make it to you in double that, if I’m lucky.”

  “As long as you make it back that’s all the matters.”

  70. – Stanton

  GUSTS RUSTLED the canopy of leaves above our heads and for a second it sounded like the forest was telling us to hush. I waited and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I could make out the solid silhouettes of the trees and used them to negotiate my way slowly and carefully towards the destination.

  As we approached the clearing I heard a soft but distinct voice in the distance. I stopped walking and hissed at my brother and McMaster to do the same. I dropped on my stomach and listened, trying to tune into something other than the rush of blood in my ears. Foliage swished, twigs snapped beneath feet, and there were occasional terse whispers. The sounds seemed to be getting louder. They were moving in this direction.

  The ground was cold and wet. Damp seeped into my clothing and the undergrowth tickled my face and neck. I shuffled to get comfortable, breathing slowly, and thought about my next move. I pulled my weapon and screwed a silencer on the barrel.

  I looked around and saw the faint outline of my brother on the ground. There was a brief glint of light off the barrel of his gun. McMaster was also close by, because I could hear his laboured breathing. My brother whispered at him to shut the fuck up. He did what he was told, because I didn’t hear him after that.

  Footsteps moved towards us, then away and back again. Voices murmured, two of them by the sound of things. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but whatever it was there was a definite back and forth going on.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of it. If they were Eddie’s people then what the fuck were they doing this far from the meeting spot? Over half a mile from where they were supposed to be. If Eddie was covering this kind of radius he was a lot smarter than I’d given him credit for. If they were hikers, trekkers or campers then we had real problems. One way or the other we would deal with them, but killing innocent bystanders wasn’t what we did. Dead civilians were bad for business, and would bring a lot of police attention our way – the kind of attention we didn’t need.

  I edged forward on my knees and elbows, moving in the direction of our unwelcome guests. My brother must have had the same idea, because I could hear him approaching through the undergrowth. I crawled as quickly as I could and tried to move only when they moved, to mask the sound of my progress.

  As the two hikers moved back in our direction I got to my feet and waited behind a tree. I looked a
round in vain for my brother, but couldn’t see far enough to make him out. The rustling got closer and louder until it seemed like they were only a few feet away. I took a deep breath and held it, waiting for my moment. Then the footsteps stopped, followed by some very low-pitched murmurs. The footsteps started up again, but they were more tentative, as if hikers were wary of being watched.

  They were only a few yards away now; the sound of the vegetation beneath their feet was more distinct and I even heard words within the whispers. I edged around the tree, taking my time, lining up the shot. Two crouching silhouettes crept forward in small baby steps. Both were carrying something long and dark. And when they emerged through a faint patch of light, I realised exactly what those things were: semi-automatic rifles.

  So I decided to get brave and said: “Drop the weapons and get the fuck on the ground. I’ve got you both covered.”

  71. – Owden

  BOB HAD been waiting for a couple of hours by the time Eddie came out of his house flanked by men. The heavily bearded Karagounis brothers took the front. A couple of hefty bruisers that he recognised but couldn’t name covered him from the sides, and Barry ‘The Baztard’ Brownlow and his boyfriend Gay Paul were at the back. Bob pointed at them.

  “Look who’s taking up the rear, lad,” he said, chuckling.

  Jimmy grinned. “It seems somehow appropriate, dunnit?”

  “Does at that.”

  All the men carried big black holdalls over their shoulders and they all wore dark clothing. Bob leaned in towards Jimmy. “What do you reckon?”

  “I reckon they’re carrying enough firepower to take over the north-east.”

  “You think we should catch them by surprise?”

  Jimmy snorted. “Bollocks to that.”

  Bob gnawed at his fingernails. He knew that if Eddie got to the Stantons first it would be game over. The files they had would be passed to the press and the police and he would probably have no choice but to run. The other option would be to stay and face financial ruin and prison – which wasn’t any option at all.