I stood at that corner of the Read’s road for an hour before deciding the moment was right.
I slid along on the opposite side of the street like a limpet, eyes peeled, ears wide open. A man emerged from a close further down the street and I froze but he turned away and I saw the cloud of breath follow him as he hurried against the growing cold.
With a last look up and down the street I crossed to the door, pulling out my toolkit as I walked.
I had now acquired a regular locksmith’s wallet of assorted picks and files. I removed one of the picks from the wallet and, as I reached the door, bent down and slid it into the keyhole. I pulled a second pick from the wallet and pushed it in beside its brother.
Back then I didn’t know any of the technical jargon that goes with picking locks. Pins, shells, hubs and plates meant nothing. I just moved around bits of metal and if I was lucky opened the lock. The street faded from my mind and all my effort focussed on springing the lock. If someone came along now it was too late to do anything else but try and open the door and make it look like I was supposed to be there.
The lock turned out to be a penny drop – my name for the easy ones. Why penny drop – well when I was scavenging as a kid one of the favourite scams was to drop a penny in front of someone. When they bent over to pick it up, me and my mates would rush them, push them over and grab their bag, wallet, purse, coat – you name it. It was an easy way to earn if you had the balls and could run.
The lock clicked, I flicked the handle and I was in.
It was dark as sin in that house. I closed the door and the noise echoed along the walls. Clearly the close was still lined with tiles. I thought the Reads would have decorated the hall – to make it more like part of the home but it smelled and sounded like a thousand other closes across the city.
It was only then that I realised how ill equipped I was for the job. I had no torch. Martin always brought his along. I had no idea where to start looking either. Remember this used to be a building that housed fourteen families over four levels. Where the hell would the bedrooms be - always a good start point when doing over a house.
But I was in and I wasn’t going back. Strike that - I couldn’t go back. I either made this job pay or Martin would be over me like a rash. A little extra cash from this job and maybe I could hire some muscle to keep him at bay.
I ran my fingers along the close wall as I walked, feeling the cool of the ceramic surface on my fingers.
I reached the bottom of the stairwell and tried the first door. It opened easily and, as I stepped in, I could smell the bleach and fat fighting – the kitchen.
I backed out and closed the door, crossed to the other side and pushed at another door. My nose caught the whiff of stale cigar smoke and through thick curtains enough light played to show me that this flat had been turned into one giant room. I walked forward and felt wood under my feet. I saw the shape of an armchair near one of the windows and, at the far side, I saw the glint of something. I walked across the wood and froze. A shape moved in the dark.
I tilted my head a few inches to the left and the shape moved again. I froze again. I could make out the rough shape of a man or a woman. I shifted my head again and the shape’s head copied me and I let out a laugh. Walking forward I touched the ice chill of a mirror and breathed a sigh of relief. I traced the mirror all the way to the window and then all the way back to the far wall. I reached up and I couldn’t feel the top of it. It stretched all the way to the ground.
I had heard of such rooms in dance classes but I had never been in one. It took a fair bit of cash to buy someone’s house just to turn it into a dance studio. I looked over at the armchair and wondered if the old man used to sit and watch the dancers practising. I shivered – there was something not quite right with that thought.
I retraced my steps and walked back into the stair well. I was fascinated by the whole place. Why would someone buy an entire tenement with all the cost of converting it? It was a massive undertaking. David’s dad must have really loved the Gorbals.
I started up the stairs hoping that common sense would put the living rooms on the next floor and, at worst, the bedrooms on the floor above. If the bedrooms were at the top of the building I was in for a long search.
At the next floor there should have been three doors leading off the landing. Instead there was one door right at the top of the stairs and when I pushed it open there was carpet beneath my feet.
The light was better up there. The three homes on this floor had been opened up into a huge living area with windows on three sides. If the dance studio was impressive the scale here was breathtaking.
Here was a man who had a living room the size of three houses. Around me there was a wealth of furniture and I wondered if it was safe to turn on a light. I could see some lamps and given the curtains were shut I decided to risk it and, after some fumbling, I managed to switch on a small table lamp.
The room hove into view and it was no less impressive - although I couldn’t help wondering how the hell three families had managed to live their lives in the space.
The walls were a veritable art gallery of paintings. In those days I had no idea of the value of such art. I studied a few and thought I could do better given half a chance and a bunch of crayons. Of course I was so wrong it hurts.
I crossed the room and scanned for anything of value and my eyes found a chest with a gold padlock the size of a loaf of bread. It was the sort of chest that you would expect to see in Treasure Island. The padlock could only mean one thing – jackpot.
I took out my lock pick kit and popped the padlock with ease. I raised the lid and jewellery shone in the dim light. The chest was stuffed with it. If it was real I could retire today and six generations of my descendants would never run out of cash.
It was then that my life took a left turn. I suddenly knew that I was in the wrong place. I slammed the lid down and locked the padlock. I sprinted across the room, dousing the light as I went and I was down and out the front door like the wind across the top of Ben Nevis.
As I ran I knew I was in the deep brown stuff. Deep in the crapper. I knew what I had to do but my guts were churning and I wanted to be sick.
It was well after one o’clock by then but that made no difference. I knew where David Read might be and I now knew what he was - and more importantly what he could do.
I cut down on to the Clydeside, across the Albert Bridge and headed with speed towards the Merchant City.
I found the street I was looking for - gasping for breath and scared to the bottom of my nuts.