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  On the day of the job, Andy Hall, the gang’s break-in wizard, was caught stealing a car and was out of the equation. Jimmy decided to go in anyway and I was roped in to help cart the safe away while Jimmy’s wee brother, John, took on the look out duties.

  I stood back and watched as Jimmy tried to use the lock pick that Andy had given him. Getting nowhere quick he changed tack and took an axe to the door but, after half an hour, the back door showed no signs of budging. Metal doors are pretty effective barriers to entry.

  In frustration Jimmy threw the lock pick away and for reasons that were pure serendipity, I picked it up and asked if I could have a go. The gang laughed but Jimmy said he didn’t care so I tried my hand.

  To tell you it felt right from moment one is an understatement. It felt great. As soon as I poked the wire into the key hole I knew I was on a fresh road. It just felt perfect. Like an extension to my hand.

  I twisted and turned and the clicks of the levers being worked were Mozart playing in my ears. I hadn’t a Scooby what I was doing but after a few seconds the lock popped open. Jimmy swore for ten seconds before pushing past me and into the back shop.

  It would have been nice if my first job had been a success but it wasn’t to be. True, the safe existed but it was bolted securely to the concrete floor and would have taken ten men ten days with a pick axe each to even worry it. On top of this there was a sign, taped to the front of the safe, which read:

  ‘Jimmy. If you are reading this, I’d think about taking a holiday — permanently.’

  We all ran and three days later we heard that Jimmy was in the Southern General with an assortment of broken bones.

  Shit happens like an evil dose of the runs when you play with the big boys.

  Chapter 5

  My new found skill was soon in demand. I foolishly bragged about it and I was picked up by Martin Sketchmore, a rare anglophile in our midst, an old acquaintance of Michael Tolt and, to top it all, a fellow Partick Thistle nutter — go figure.

  ‘Been hearing that you are good with locks.’

  His accent was thick with somewhere in England, but not thick enough for me to place it. I nodded.

  ‘Got a job for you.’

  It was a doddle. A little house breaking. The home of a Mrs McCafferty as it turned out. Top floor flat in Meadowpark Street in the east end of the city. Easy pickings. She was at the bingo and Martin had his eyes on her husband’s paypacket.

  ‘She keeps it behind the clock. Friday night, the old man brings it in, takes out his beer money and the rest is for her. Today was bonus time at Mellowes.’

  Mellowes was a small engineering works that Martin skivvied in and Mr McCafferty gaffered for. Hence his intimate knowledge of all things mantle-piece in the McCafferty household.

  Martin had planned to go in earlier in the evening but a few pints got in the way and, later that Friday we could be found climbing the stairs to the McCaffertys’ home — ears alive for any sounds.

  At the top of the last flight I was faced with a storm door. It was locked but a few seconds with a piece of wire and a nail file and it was open.

  The inner door was all glass — swanky as hell for those days. Martin pushed me to one side and booted the glass. Shards showered around us and before they could settle Martin was in and out, pay packet stuffed in his pocket. The McCaffertys didn’t make it out of the bedroom before we were gone.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that they might be in.

  I got a tenner for that job — Mrs McCafferty’s old man must have got a hell of a bonus for Martin to pay me a tenner.

  And so it went on. I was a gun for hire. You want in. I get you there. But mostly I worked with Martin. It was a hell of a time. I wish I could tell you more. I really do but the clock is ticking.

  I was on the up again but on a downward track — if that makes any sense. I was rising up the criminal world but sliding down the social scale on the polite side of society.

  After a year of lock picking with Martin I wanted to go freelance. I fancied the lion’s share of the profits from a job — after all Martin would have fuck all if it wasn’t for me. I’m sure you know what I mean? So I bided my time, waiting for the right job.

  It arrived in the late summer of 1976.

  We were working the south side of Glasgow as the west and east were getting a little too hot. The police were on to us and word was on the street that there was some money in it for anyone that could turn us in. Forget CSI — it didn’t exist back then — grassing up was far more effective and some of my fellow thieves would be happy to drop me in it.

  Especially those who kept their freedom by dropping the odd word in the police’s ear.

  The south side was proving fruitful and my ten percent was starting to weigh down the bed. I was in the cash and a happy bunny. Finding good jobs was easy with the help of one Rachel Score — a pro from the Gorbals and Martin’s snitch.

  Rachel was blonde, over made up, over padded, corseted to the hilt and wore dresses that promised much if you could just figure how to release her from them. She let Martin know when houses were going to be empty and in turn she earned a cut of the take. Martin also paid her a little extra, in return for some extra marital exercise that Mrs Sketchmore was unaware of. As to me I never got a sniff of Rachel’s charms. Martin saw to that.

  ‘Don’t get involved with the tart. She’ll turn on you in a second.’

  That didn’t stop him.

  The gigs Rachel found us were easy. On a Friday night Martin would make a visit to the Gorbals, partake of Rachel, and come back with an empty ball sack; a full list of all the houses on the go for that weekend in his pocket.

  All was roses and wine until, one weekend, Susan Sketchmore got her claws in and grounded Martin. In his absence I was despatched to meet the lovely Rachel with strict instructions to pick up the list and nothing else — chance would be a fine thing.

  I met Rachel in the pre-arranged close only to find her giving one of her regulars a knee trembler. Without pausing she reached into her handbag, took out a piece of paper and handed it to me. If her ‘friend’ noticed I was there he never gave a sign. I left to the sound of a deep grunt as her customer finished his business.

  Once back on the street I was tempted to look at the list but, around me the Gorbals was alive with eyes and ears and it wasn’t until I got home that I scanned the list of names and addresses.

  All, bar one, were alien to me. The familiar name was David Read.

  I knew David’s dad of old. He had been a big customer of my old engineering company and a man with contacts at Ford. Money was not an issue but he was a Gorbals man through and through and wasn’t for moving to some fancy detached house in the suburbs. Over the years he had purchased every flat in his close. A bit of cash to the council and a front door appeared where the communal entrance had once been. Then he set about converting the whole building into the home of his dreams.

  The old man had died the year before and David now had a four-floor house with nine rooms to a floor and more toilets than was good for a man.

  Read’s name was removed from the list — it wasn’t going to Martin — this one was for me.

  I re-wrote the list in my best forged handwriting and Martin and I spent the weekend emptying valuables from homes.

  On the Sunday night Martin called it quits around ten and told me we should both get going while the going was good. I made my excuses and told him I was walking into town for a drink. He shrugged his shoulders and told me to pass by his house the next morning for my share and left. I waited until he was well gone and then some.

  Chapter 6

  The Read’s house was down near the river and by the time I got to it, it was nearer twelve than eleven. The front door was flush to the main wall. This meant no shadow to work in. If someone walked along the street, I would stick out like a sore thumb. I needed to work quickly and I needed to be lucky.

  I remember standing at the corner of the street looking at the
front door wondering what lay behind it. All weekend we had lifted cheap jewellery and cash. The jewellery would be fenced by one of Martin’s friends for a fraction of its worth and for three nights’ work the amount of cash would seem poor.

  I knew that, had I given the Read’s address to Martin it would have been first and if the pickings had been rich there would have been no need to scrape away the hard earned belongings of the Gorbals poor further down the list.

  I had to hope that there was a jackpot behind the door. Not least because I knew my deception would be discovered — Rachel wouldn’t forget to ask Martin how he had fared with a house like the Reads. All I could hope for was a score big enough to free me of Martin and set me up on my own.

  That was, is, and always will be my problem. Nothing was ever enough. I always wanted more and I always wanted more far quicker than made sense.

  In my life I wanted round the corner before I had reached the end of the street. I wanted over the next hill before I’d climbed the one in front of me. Tomorrow was too late, today was a touch tardy and yesterday meant I already had it and didn’t want it anymore.

  To add to my drive I felt the world owed me something for taking my mum and dad away. Some big fucking favour that I was entitled to call in whenever I needed it. There had to be an upside to losing your parents, even if one of them had pissed your life away at the feet of horses that were never quick enough.

  As I waited in the still of that night I thought this is my time. A time for change. Come morning, I’ll be a new person. Fresh out of the wrapper. The past buried in the dustbin with my last packet of Golden Wonder.

  I remember the wind on my face as if it was carrying a new soul for me to try on. Wrapping me in a warm blanket of optimism.

  I was so right and I was so wrong — a two-edged simultaneous equation.

  Chapter 7

  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.

  Chapter 8

  The single light above the door told me I had arrived at the right place. I walked up to it, paused, took a deep breath and knocked on the imposing double door that guarded the entrance.

  High up in the wood a small shutter slid back and a pair of eyes looked down on me.

  ‘Mr Read, please.’

  I said it in a whisper but it was enough. The left hand door swung open and heat and light spilled onto the street.

  ‘And what would a little gob-shite like you be wanting with Mr Read?’

  The doorman was decked out in a royal blue overcoat that struggled to keep his muscles in check. This was no polite club steward. This man was a human blockade.

  ‘Tell him that someone is going to do his house over.’

  The blockade cocked his head and vanished.

  I tell you now that I wanted to run. With every bone in my body I wanted to sprint down that street and let the night swallow me up. I’ll also tell you that had I done so I would have been dead in twenty-four hours and you wouldn’t be here listening to this.

  Two men in dark suits appeared in the doorway and, without stopping for a by your leave, stepped onto the pavement, lifted me bodily by the armpits and whisked me along the road and into St Andrews Square.

  They hauled me round the church that sits in the centre of the square and into the shadows beyond. I was dumped to the ground and one of the men kicked me in the thigh.