The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Read online

  I ran a hand over my face, which was sandpaper rough, then lifted my t-shirt and inhaled. It was like a toxic combination of garlic, cheese and shit. This wasn’t surprising considering I’d been living in a car for two days straight with only Parmos and kebabs for nourishment. I was more surprised that I hadn’t died of a coronary.

  It was nice to be outside in the fresh air, away from the stench of bad food and body odours. The occasional spasm in my lower back reminded me that it didn’t like being in a car for that length of time. I lifted my arms over my head and stretched, my spine crackling like bubble wrap.

  Leaning against a tree to take the weight off my legs, I took a swig from a small bottle of water then offered the rest to my brother. He declined with a scowl, proclaiming: “Not drinking any of that shite.” I nodded and poured the rest of it out, then tossed the empty bottle into the darkness.

  My brother nudged me. “Silly bastard’s gonna regret not having any neighbours.”

  “He’s gonna regret a lot more than that.”

  We’d been tailing Patel for a week – seven tedious days that had been long on waiting and short on driving. Ever since Gupta had put out a contract on us he’d surrounded himself with bodyguards. They watched his movements carefully, which made following him a slow and difficult process. The only time he didn’t have his men with him was when he visited his girlfriend.

  In his eagerness to boldly go where many men had been before, Patel swapped his BMW for an old Audi and gave his bodyguards a few hours off. He thought they didn’t know where he was going, but the only person he’d fooled was himself. His men knew exactly what he was doing and whom he was doing it with. It was an open secret.

  The only person who didn’t seem to know was his wife.

  Two shadows drifted in front of the living room curtain and merged to form one larger shape. It remained like this for a while, as one shapeless mass, moving continuously, before pulling apart again, like dividing cells. The living room light switched off.

  My brother started forward. I stopped him by grabbing his forearm.

  “Give ‘em a couple of minutes.”

  He shook his arm free. “For what? So he can shoot his muck, like?”

  “He’s not gonna shoot that quickly.”

  My brother scoffed. “Fuckin’ Benny Holland can’t even get his junk outta his pants before he spray-paints the inside of his boxers.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m just saying that some guys don’t have staying power once they get a whiff of vadge.”

  “What the fuck’s that gotta do with this?”

  My brother shrugged. “Just saying.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about his staying power, I just want him occupied. I don’t want him anywhere near his alarm when we bust through the door.”

  One brief moment of excitement happened when Patel accidentally triggered his personal alarm during a meeting. The bodyguards piled out of their cars, kicked down the front door of the building and stormed inside. I smiled at the memory, and would have happily paid money to watch Patel explain to a couple of stuffed-shirt wholesalers why four men with knives and knuckledusters had come trampling through their office. It would have been worth money just to watch Patel stammer and sweat into his hand-tailored suit.

  A sudden rustling in the trees made us jump and move for our weapons. We glanced around, but there was nobody there. A breeze blowing in off the Tees was making waves in the long grass, and brought with it the stench of burnt tires and a faint aftertaste of local industry that stung the back of my throat. I relaxed slightly.

  An upstairs light switched on briefly and flicked off again. We gave Patel and his girlfriend enough time to get their clothes off and finally crossed the street. We stopped at the front door. I knelt down and worked the mortise lock. My brother stood over me to prevent neighbours or passers-by from seeing what I was doing. It took a while to unlock because it was old and stiff. Then I worked the cylindrical lock, which wasn’t quite as much trouble.

  I slowly pushed open the door and looked into the darkness of the hallway for potential threats. I saw nothing untoward, and we went inside.

  2. – Owden

  BOB OWDEN couldn’t sleep.

  His brain buzzed like faulty electrics. Thoughts and feelings ran through his head. Images strobed across the inside of his closed eyelids. No matter how he gathered the facts, or how he assembled them, nothing made sense. Bob was the kind of man who liked things to make sense, the kind who would throw a jigsaw puzzle away in a rage if even one piece were missing.

  Anger had been building for a while now, occupying his mind, filling the gaps and crevices until there was no more space in his skull. Now, that fury needed a release, but there was nowhere for it to go. Instead, the chaos remained, torturing him with questions that had kept him awake for nearly a fortnight.

  That only increased his rage.

  And so the cycle perpetuated itself.

  No amount of pumping iron, bag work, and morning runs seemed to tire his brain, or diminish the constant fury. Even the vast reserves of energy he expended on playing nicely with the cavalcade of competitors, contractors, managers, police, councillors, local politicians, bouncers, heavies and hitmen who sat across his desk weren’t enough to exhaust him. They flapped the holes in their faces, but Bob rarely understood what they were saying. It was impossible to penetrate the dense layer of questions that formed a barrier around his grey matter. Most of time he just wanted to slide on steel knuckles, step around the desk, and deal with his problems the old fashioned way – the one that made sense to him. Diplomacy was for diplomats, not criminals.

  Bob opened his eyes, reached across the bed until he found the lamp switch and turned it on. He grabbed a paperback off the bedside table, found his spot, and started reading, to take his mind off things. Sentences and paragraphs passed without making sense. Every word looked like the hieroglyphics of an alien language, and the harder he concentrated the less he understood. Eventually, he threw the book away in disgust, lay back, and looked at the ceiling. After a while, he closed his eyes and turned off the light.

  As soon as it was dark, his eyes snapped open, exploring the ceiling and walls, as his brain searched for answers. All it found were more questions, adding them to to the ever growing pile. Bob knew that if he kept the lights off and did nothing for long enough, he’d manage an hour of sleep that was barely worth the effort.

  But he was tired of doing nothing. That had got him nowhere.

  It was time to go find some answers, and own this thing once and for all.

  The Stokeseley Slaughterhouse.

  At least that was what the tabloid press called it. He preferred a more choice word: disaster. It had been the worst thing to happen to his organisation in years. Six people dead, a viable business closed until the fuss died down, and a lot of money being lost in the meantime.

  The story sold to the press, the one they bought hook, line and sinker, was that John Hollis, who ran a haulage firm, had murdered Gerald Maxwell after an argument about money at a high stakes poker game that Hollis organised on the premises. Just before the murder, Maxwell, also known as G-Max, had phoned a couple of friends and told them to come and help him in case of trouble. When they turned up they found Hollis and a couple of local bruisers cutting up the corpse ready for disposal. Vowing revenge they went back to their car, grabbed some weapons, and got into a gunfight with Hollis and his men. They all died in the carnage.

  It was, of course, a fabrication.

  Bob was lucky that the first police on the scene were on his payroll. They told the sole witness that it would financially benefit him to forget about the three men he’d seen running from the scene of the crime. At first, he’d been reluctant to do as they asked, but when they whispered the name Robert Owden in his ear the man realised that the truth wouldn’t set him free; in fact, it would more than likely set him in concrete beneath one of the many buildings that Owden Construction were putting
up all over the north-east. So when he told the detectives – who were also on the payroll – about what he heard and saw, he left out the part about seeing three men fleeing the scene like their lives depended on it.

  Owden’s officers worked fast and did their best to make it as open and shut as possible. Poker game witnesses were conjured and threatened. Stories were fabricated and locked down tightly. Evidence was trampled on or lost. All the apparatus was put in place to ensure that the Stokesley Slaughterhouse was the fault of the conveniently deceased John Hollis.

  His hard-earned money at work.

  But while the press and the public at large were happy with the official line, Bob was far from pleased. The same questions came into his head constantly: Why did Hollis kill Maxwell? Why was he cutting him up? Why was Hollis’ safe open? Was Hollis operating a sideline without cutting him in? Who were the three men seen running from the crime scene?

  Bob turned the light on again and got out of bed. On his way to the wardrobe, he stopped at a wall mirror and admired his physique. He’d always kept himself in excellent shape; a habit formed in his teenage boxing years and maintained with strict discipline throughout his adult life. But the stress of the last fortnight had seen Bob hit the bags longer, pump the iron harder and heavier, run nearby fields further and faster, and it had also killed his appetite, with startling results.

  The unsightly folds of old man fat at the base of his pecs had melted away and he could trace the line of his abdominals for the first time in several years. His big biceps looked leaner and more defined. Hard years had taken an inch off his former six-two frame and he had more wrinkles than he would have liked, but he still had all his hair, even if it was turning from dark grey to white. Not bad going for a man of sixty-five.

  Bob pulled on his clothes and walked around the room with a hand on his chin and his head lowered. His slippered feet slapped against the parquet. He tuned in to the sound, using the rhythm as a metronome, and started thinking again. The problem was that the whole affair resembled a collection of badly made watch parts; no matter how well he assembled things they never formed a whole. Every time Bob thought he’d figured it out, everything fell apart and he had to start all over again.

  Jimmy Raffin had been quick to point out that Hollis had form in the killing department. A couple of years before he’d killed two young black men who had been stupid enough to steal from him – money he shouldn’t have had. Owden paid the police to ensure that their deaths remained unsolved, and then paid Raffin to break Hollis’ legs to ensure he didn’t mess up again. But it seemed that somewhere along the line John had forgot that valuable message and paid the ultimate price.

  Owden went to the bedside table and picked up the phone. He dialled a number from memory and waited. It took a while. After all, it was late.

  A sleepy voice answered: “Hello?”

  “Jimmy, it’s Bob.”

  “Shit! You know what…”

  “Aye, lad, I know what time it is.”

  “Can this…”

  “No, it can’t wait,” he replied. “Come pick me up. We have people to see.”

  3. – Stanton

  THE HALLWAY was as dim and empty as a reality show contestant. Strong weed, old sweat and the faint odour of fried chicken lingered in the air, masked by the spicy scent of freshly burned incense. Laughter emanated from upstairs along with the occasional squeak of bedsprings.

  I illuminated the stairwell with a small pocket torch. The steps were clear of obstacles. I took the lead and climbed them slowly with my brother trailing. We kept our feet on the outer edges of the steps and took our time about it, making sure that they didn’t squeak. At the top of the stairs we stood outside the main bedroom door and listened whilst Patel said sweet nothings to his girlfriend.

  “Suck it! Yeah, that’s it. Get it big an’ hard. Back of the throat, bitch. That’s it. Yeah, fuckin’ deep throat that cock. Fuckin’ gag on it.” It sounded like he was trying to replicate something he’d heard in a porno, right down the faux-American accent. In between Gupta’s sighs of ecstasy, we could hear the wet gagging of his girlfriend as she attempted to do as he asked.

  My brother’s mouth tightened into a suppressed smile and stifled laughter sent little earthquake tremors of amusement through his body. I shook my head and pressed a finger against my lips. I didn’t want him to give our presence away.

  “It’s not getting hard,” Patel’s girlfriend said, sounding slightly offended.

  “Trombone me,” he hissed.

  “Oh… Really?” she said, now registering her disgust.

  “Do it.”

  A few snuffled snorts of palm-smothered laughter escaped my brother, but it didn’t sound like anybody heard. I took out my camera phone, made sure the flash was on, and waited. Gupta’s moans grew louder and more insistent, like they were building towards a climax. I took that as my cue to open the door.

  Gupta was bending over with his fat arse in the air and an unattractive expression of ecstasy on his face. He squeezed his right moob with his left hand, kneading it like like brown dough. His right hand hooked around the back of the girl’s head and pulled her face-first between his parted butt cheeks. Her pony-tail flicked up and down quickly and she used both hands to pull at his small erect cock, the way you imagined a milk-maid would work an udder.

  It made for a delightful photograph.

  The bright flash shocked them out of the moment. They both screamed but remained motionless, mouths gaping in surprise, just long enough for me to get another choice shot.

  Then Gupta made a dive for his clothes.

  Big mistake.

  The girl still had his genitals in a double-handed grip.

  Patel went in one direction and his genitals went the other, as the girl pulled away with another scream. Gupta didn’t make it very far, stopped momentarily, then opened his mouth and let out a high-pitched shriek.

  The girl let him go.

  Gupta hit the floor hard and rolled around, cradling his cock and balls. He hissed and mewled all at once, like two angry alley cats fucking in a bag. He’d forgotten all about his personal alarm. I rummaged around in his trousers, grabbed it and put it in my pocket.

  My brother switched on the light.

  The naked girl snuck under the duvet and pulled it over her in a manner that suggested she believed it would protect her from our advances. She peeked out over the top, her eyes flitting back and forth between my brother and me. I didn’t know why, but I found the sight comical.

  I looked down at Patel, who was still wailing in pain.

  “Oh dear, you don’t look so good, mate,” I said. “That looks really nasty, maybe you should get it seen to.”

  Patel moaned. “I think… I’m, oh, fuck… I… I think I’m fucked up… Think she tore summat… in me cock.”

  “Unfortunately for you, mate, my give a fuck is broken. And even if it wasn’t, I still wouldn’t give a fuck.”

  “I need help.”

  “I know.”

  “Help me.”

  “Then help yourself. Get talking. Explain yourself.”

  Patel looked up from the carpet. “You mean… the contract?”

  “Partly.”

  “Even if I wanted to… take the contract off your heads, I can’t… Fuckin’ Eddie sez we gotta show solidarity, like… Sez we gotta take you fuckers down… He’d fuckin’ lay me out… on a permanent basis if I pulled out now.”

  “And whaddaya think we’re gonna do to you?”

  Less than two weeks ago, we’d pulled a job which involved stealing half a million from a local car dealer on behalf of his ex-wife, Rose Bennett. To throw the husband off Rose’s scent we made it look like the real reason we were there was to raid a high-stakes Poker game he liked to run on a monthly basis. Gupta Patel had been one of those present along with the husband, Michael ‘Robert’ McGarvey, and a couple of hard-arsed local crooks, Don Webber and Eddie Miles. The moment we left the building they had a contract o
ut on us. They threw fifteen grand each into the kitty, which amused me slightly; because that was the amount stolen off each of them.

  A thin whimper emerged from behind Gupta. Mary pulled the duvet tight as she drew her knees into her chest. The bedclothes quivered, and I heard the maraca clack of her chattering teeth.

  I turned towards my brother. “Get her out.”

  The girl cocooned herself within the bed linen, wrapping it beneath and around her frame like a second skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “We’re not gonna hurt you,” I said.

  Mary shook her head. “He’ll take us somewhere and rape us,” she said, looking at my brother.

  My brother stared at her with an open mouth, then scoffed. “Not that fuckin’ desperate, sweetheart.”

  I prodded Gupta with my right foot. “You want her knowing your business?”

  Patel shook his head and winced. “Mary, put your kecks on and go downstairs.”

  “I’m not going with him,” she said. “He’s huge. I don’ like his eyes; he’s got rapist eyes.”

  My brother gave me a look of concern; her words had obviously got to him. He pointed at his face. “Have I got rapist eyes?”

  “I don’t even know what the fuck rapist eyes are supposed to look like.”

  “Like his eyes,” the girl said.

  “Shut the fuck up, Mary,” Patel snapped, and then grimaced with pain. “Get ya’ kit on and piss off… If he'd come here for your snatch, he woulda had it by now.”

  My brother huffed, then threw Mary’s clothes on the bed. “Get dressed.”

  “I don’ trust him,” she said, nodding towards my brother.

  He sighed, folded his arms and turned his back. “Fine, there. Happy? Now get on with it.”

  Mary looked at the bundled dress near her feet, then glanced at me. “I don’ like your eyes, either.”

  “And I couldn’t give a shit.”

  “But…”

  “But put your fuckin’ clothes on or I’ll dress you myself. And I won’t be gentle about it, either. You’ve got exactly five seconds.”