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MIKEY WAS NERVOUS AND agitated as he stood in the darkness awaiting the signal. ‘This is nuts, Shada mate. We’re gonnae get killed fae this mob, nothing surer. Ah’m shitting it here.’
Shada was impassive, focussed, staring straight ahead. ‘Ah think it’s a good plan. She’s thought it oot well,’ he responded confidently, pulling his skip hat low in an attempt to conceal his upper face.
They had assembled earlier in the evening in Mairi-Clare’s bedroom to run over the plan once again.
‘Do not concern yourself with what others are doing, just concentrate on your own role,’ she asserted. A hand-drawn map of the area lay on the bed. ‘Everything will run in sequence. Every action has a consequence. They will react as we anticipate, believe me. We will be done, dusted and out of there in no time at all.’ Mairi-Clare scanned the conscripted group, exerting confidence. ‘Questions?’
‘Just one – what if it aw goes tits up, pardon ma language.’
‘Well, if it does, Mikey, Terence will not have a drum. We can’t practise any orchestral music and we’ll all be fighting over the two checkout jobs that’ll be on offer at the Co-op over the summer.’
‘Well, if ye put it like that,’ Mikey responded, sheepishly.
‘The bus will return at 7.30 tonight from Carluke. They’ll be seriously drunk, as expected. If they’re not, it’s off. Remember the signal is when I move towards the bus and then we go as we practised. Clear?’
‘Ah’m fuckin’ looking forward tae this,’ Joe announced, bouncing up and down hyperactively. ‘Me and Shada’s takings are doon fae the Co-op trolleys every time they’re oot banging aboot in the summer. Payback is sweet, eh, mate?’
Shada smiled.
The street was in near darkness, illuminated only by the tall amber streetlights. The moon, so bright merely an hour earlier, was now enshrouded in a blanket of black clouds as the headlights of the bus guided the driver round the sharp bend and to a stop at the brow of the hill and the Orange Hall.
A cacophony of harsh adult voices could be heard singing and shouting as the bus door opened. Staggering, some assisting their drunken brethren, the passengers negotiated the steps and the short walk to the front door of the impressive red sandstone building. The almost regal purple-and-gold sashes hanging proudly around their necks were entirely at odds with their accompanying, dishevelled clothing.
Mairi-Clare leaned against the wall, biding her time. Slowly but surely, the street returned to its previous quiet state. The diesel engine shut down and the driver was now on the street, opening the baggage hold. She watched as the rear of the bus opened to reveal the band’s impressive drum equipment. Two members placed the kit on the pavement as the driver returned to his cab to make his way home.
‘Excuse me, mister. Is that your red Ford Cortina down there?’ Mairi-Clare spoke quickly as she approached the men, both of whom were worse for wear.
‘Naw, young yin,’ one replied, struggling to focus, his eyes smarting from the smoke rising from the cigarette burning in the side of his mouth. The stale smell of his breath made her turn her head away momentarily.
‘Oh, Ah thought it was. Ma da’s a member, John MacKillop. Just thought you were the Grand Master, ’cause it’s his car. Ah know ’cause his wife took me and ma pal Jean, their daughter, tae Barshaw Park in it jist last week. Anyway doesnae matter. It’s jist there are two boys tanning it jist now.’
‘Whit? Where?’
‘Doon there.’ She pointed towards the sharp bend, beyond the sight line of the hall. On cue, Mikey and Shada emerged from behind the cherry trees and dropped a large metal bar noisily on the pavement to signal their presence near the pristine red Cortina.
‘Hawl, ya wee bastards.’ The two men moved towards the parked vehicles, attempting to gather speed though their intentions seemed to be working faster than their buckled legs.
Turning, the drunker of the two shouted, ‘You watch they drums fur us, hen, tae we sort these wee fuckers oot.’
‘Okay, will do.’
Four pristine snares and a large bass drum sat on the pavement, emblazoned with gaudy images of King William of Orange looking majestic on his white horse.
Mairi-Clare watched the two men as they staggered away from the hall towards the targeted car. She turned and nodded quickly towards the adjacent church wall. On cue, Tubbs and Joe emerged from the darkness and lifted the large bass, quickly retraced their steps through the church grounds and along the six-foot wall leading to Queen St and the pre-arranged hiding point of the Gallow Green.
The two vigilantes retreated towards the hall, staggering in their cheap slip-on shoes that seemed to touch every inch of the tarmac along the way.
‘Wee bastards ran like fuck when they seen us. Dropped this nail bar. So ye were right – jist aboot tae steal the cassette player oot the Cortina. Where’s the drum?’
‘Oh, one of yer pals took it in,’ Mairi-Clare answered confidently without missing a beat as a great hollow thud came from beyond the churchyard wall.
‘Whit was that?’ The two were already on edge.
‘Don’t know, I think it came from the hall. Your pals will be wondering where you are.’ She spoke less convincingly now as she stood between the church and the inquisitive band members. The stale-breath guy brushed her aside and peered over the wall into the church garden, the high gable ends blocking the street light.
Tubbs was lying prostrate on top of the wall; he had tripped and dropped the drum, causing the crash. He held his breath and didn’t dare to move out of pure fear.
A drunken voice from the doorway of the club called, ‘Sandy, move yersel. The troops are shouting for the tunes.’
‘Aye, okay,’ Sandy responded, continuing to stare into the darkness. ‘Help me get these drums in.’
Mairi-Clare moved slowly, increasing her pace once she felt she was out of sight. Tubbs and Joe had made their way safely to the Gallow Green and secreted the immaculate drum under dark tarpaulin among the overgrown bushes as planned.
‘That went like clockwork! Well done, MC,’ Joe whispered excitedly, as the group met at the rendezvous point, the third pool table to the rear of the Big Apple.
‘Did anyone see you hide it?’ Mairi-Clare responded.
‘Naw, don’t think so.’
‘If they bampots weren’t steaming, we’d be deid by now.’ Mikey was still shaking, constantly watching the door, expecting the hordes to burst in at any time looking for the stolen equipment and the thieves.
Shada smirked.
‘They were always going to be drunk,’ Mairi-Clare interjected. ‘We have it now, that’s what matters. Move it to my house tonight at ten o’clock. The streets will be quiet before the pubs come out. Terence can thank us all once he makes timpani in a top orchestra.’
The boys shared confused glances.
‘That’ll be the principal timpani,’ Tubbs grinned.
The group relaxed, glad they had all survived in one piece.
***
A mere three months after arriving from London, Cal had settled well and was beginning to make headway with his business. The dark November nights had arrived and he certainly noticed a coldness in the air in contrast to the mild weather he’d experienced in his formative years down south. His clientele and caseload consisted of the same small time crooks, drunken disorderly and assault charges, like a repetitive, unbroken, cycle. It was cases that kept the office busy but not in profit. He was also intrigued by some historic cases which were on file relating to a number of prisoners seeking grounds to appeal their convictions. Once he found time he would expand this aspect of the business, he thought.
‘Meet me at the Porridge Bowl. That’s at the top of the hill behind yer office. I’ll be in a white Escort – don’t be later than 1900 hours.’
Cal was intrigued by the late phone call as he locked up the office. He drove steadily up the steep hill towards Coats Observatory, his mind racing. He’d recognised the voice but couldn’t place it. He would find out soon enough.
The car vibrated as it crossed the roughly laid Roman setts. A car’s headlights flashed in front of him. Cal pulled up to its rear and made his way to the passenger door. ‘You? Now I’m interested. This must be worth delaying my exciting Fray Bentos dinner for.’
‘Take a seat.’
‘You have my undivided attention, DS Lawrie.’
‘Call me Frank. Look at that view. Beautiful, eh, Mr Lynch? See that building there, the Porridge Bowl. Some kind git built it years ago and set it up as a school.’
Cal turned to glance at the imposing, pythonic structure, its oval roof shining within strategically placed white lighting.
‘John Neilson, I think his name was. The only way you got in there was if yer parents were deid or poor. Well-quoted back in the day it was, and the weans would have come fae down there.’ Lawrie pointed towards the sprawling council estate enhanced by the rows of streetlights. ‘Seems very peaceful, doesn’t it? Just folk going about their business. Trying to look after their families. But amongst aw that,’ he waved his fingers, the smoke from his burning cigarette filling the dashboard, ‘there’s scumbags punting drugs to weans, creating junkies desperate for the next high.’
‘This local history lesson is certainly very interesting, Frank, but my meal-for-one is growing more appetising by the minute.’
‘See, the type of guy that set up that school doesn’t exist anymore. In today’s Paisley, entrepreneurs are very different – mostly ruthless filth. You’re now working for one of them: Quinn. Defending his henchman, I hear. I assume you know how dangerous that fucker is?’ The greying detective stared intently.
‘I’m a lawyer, Frank, which means I represent and defend those who require it.’
‘Franny McGurn left that old shopkeeper for dead for refusing to pay protection money. Smashed skull, fractured eye socket and a broken nose. His nerves are shot tae shreds. Once the scars heal, he’s heading for Dykebar mental hospital for the foreseeable future – the guy’s fucked.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, but why am I here?’
‘Drop the case. I’ve got at least two missing people still on the books in the last year courtesy of McGurn, on Quinn’s orders. You’re well out of your depth. Stay clear,’ Lawrie advised, menacingly.
‘Again, I’m a lawyer. I represent...’
‘See that’s what I find strange, Cal. Aye, yer a brief but my friends in London tell me you worked for the wee guy. Built up a sterling reputation for helping low-level cons. Kept them out of jail where ye could. Rumour has it you even set up training programmes to help them. I’ve not seen any evidence or heard of you taking on cases from the gangster fraternity. Then ye land here... Why the change? Why ye going over to the dark side, eh?’
Cal appeared calm, though he suspected Lawrie could hear his heart pounding in the forced silence.
He had established a successful career in London developed by working his way up within a large criminal practice, followed by setting up on his own in the East End of London where poverty levels and unemployment were inevitably followed by petty crime and consequential violence. He had a credible success rate at court and an equally impressive role in preventing reoffending by assisting his clients to engage, meaningfully, with the rehabilitation services on offer.
‘Upholding the rules of the Bar Standards Board is very dear to my heart,’ he said, ‘and so is paying the bills. Sometimes you have to take the work where you can. Look, I’m new to this area and have to establish my practice. If you have an issue with a certain individual and believe this is an organised crime business, surely there’s enough expertise and resources within Strathclyde’s finest to tackle it head on.’
‘No bad, nice deflection. I’m not convinced, Cal. There’s more to you than meets the eye. I’ll give ye the benefit of the doubt for now but, believe me, I’ll hound you out if you keep working for that bastard.’ Lawrie turned to face Cal his eyes narrowed to emphasise his intent.
Cal met his glare. ‘Frank, I will do my job to the best of my ability. If your team have done theirs, there’ll be no holes in any evidence for me to exploit. I defend; you get a conviction if my client’s guilty. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?’
‘Fair enough. Nevertheless, I’ll help ye out. Any wee scroat I huckle and is crying for a brief, I’ll get you called in. Might stop you working for him’
‘Every little helps. Thanks. Are we done?’
‘I wouldn’t mind staying in touch, just between you and me, you understand? I don’t think yer in his pocket – yet. Quinn’s got touts everywhere including within the polis, so it’s good tae talk.’
‘I’ll be happy to. But let’s be clear, I won’t share client information on cases. That’s sacrosanct.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ Lawrie stretched out his hand.
‘I’ll see you in court,’ Cal answered. ‘A week next Tuesday for Mr McGurn’s trial.’
‘Look forward to it. Bye.’
How much research had Lawrie actually carried out with his contacts in London, Cal wondered. Had he delved deep into his background? He was sussing him out, assessing what he would face in court, scoping his credibility.
Cal decided he would keep talking to Lawrie, develop a mutual understanding; another potential relationship would do his plans no harm whatsoever.