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  ‘We have a proposition but there’s no going back once you’ve heard it.’

  Cryptic. My interest was piqued.

  ‘Do you want us to go on?’ said the gunman

  ‘Depends?’

  ‘It is in your interest,’ said the other.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yip,’ said the gunman.

  ‘Then proceed.’

  ‘Good,’ said the other.

  A right Laurel and Hardy double act.

  ‘You’ll be aware of the little incident that took place recently in relation to some unwarranted activity in London by your Mr Read. Well we represent a business that is looking to expand into Scotland. We foresee a small opportunity in this neck of the woods and our clients feel that the recent unpleasantness could have been easily avoided. We are looking for bright capable people who could help us.’

  It didn’t take Einstein to figure out what kind of business they represented.

  ‘We are aware of the standing of Mr Read, and his activities represent a bit of a barrier to our expansion plans. We know you are a loyal employee of Mr Read and…’

  He looked around the room.

  ‘… you seem to be doing ok.’

  He made the words ‘doing ok’ sound like ‘doing shite’.

  ‘Our client,’ he continued, ‘has given us permission to make an offer for you to join our firm. You would become our number two in Scotland and report to the new head of Scottish affairs. In return we will cut you in for a share of the total Scottish pie. Five percent to be exact. With a following wind we expect to clear one million in our first year.’

  I did the maths as the gunman sat back to let me take this in. I had just been offered fifty thousand pounds a year as if it were a packet of soor plums from the corner store. I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut. For all I knew this was some bizarre loyalty test by Mr Read.

  ‘We don’t expect an answer right away but it may help your decision to know that Mr Read will be heading for some choppy waters. He would have been well advised to stay clear of the capital. Our offer is valid for twenty four hours and you can get me on this number.’

  He threw a card across the table. It was blank save for a Glasgow phone number.

  ‘We would also look upon any conversation with Mr Read or his associates about this meeting as an unwise act on your part.’

  With that they got up and left. I stared at the card wondering what the hell that was all about.

  Chapter 12

  To say I was confused was a major understatement. I was hardly a king pin in Mr Read’s organisation and, as such, I suspected that the visit might indeed be a test of some sort.

  I decided to phone Craig Laidlaw. I had no idea what I was going to say but I needed to start somewhere — you don’t turn down a fifty grand until you’re sure the offer is a turkey.

  Craig was in a bad mood. That is to say his usual mood.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he growled down the line.

  I asked if there were any more jobs coming up as I was thinking of taking a short break. Craig laughed at this.

  ‘Off for a shag in Spain?’

  I laughed back.

  ‘No jobs I know of but there is some weird shit going down.’

  I asked what, but he wouldn’t elaborate.

  ‘Let me check with the boss before you start packing the condoms.’

  The phone rang an hour later.

  ‘The boss said he wants no-one out of town for the next couple of weeks.’

  I asked why?

  ‘Something is going down but that’s all I know.’

  He was lying. Craig was Brutus to Caesar and knew a damn sight more than he let on.

  ‘What about a trip doon the watter?’ I asked.

  ‘Zip.’ he said. ‘Get the message. Nothing. Not even a night at the pictures. Stock up on art mags and curry, and stay put until I call.’

  Things were looking interesting and I had no intention of staying in doors, so I set the answer machine and put on my jacket. The machine could be operated remotely from another phone. If Craig phoned I would know and could get back double quick.

  I headed for the only person I could think of.

  Martin Sketchmore’s face was a picture when I swanned up to his front door. He had only just returned after his forced absence of leave. One of Mr Read’s cronies had told me he was back home.

  He slammed the door on me but I hung on to the doorbell like a leech until he gave in and let me in. I didn’t bother with small talk and told him what had happened (minus the monetary offer) and he looked at me with his head at an angle that must have hurt.

  ‘What the hell are you telling me for? Why would I give a rat’s shit?’

  ‘You want to get back at Read?’

  He tilted his head the other way.

  ‘What kind of question is that? I’m not stupid. It’s taken me all this time to come home. Why would I want to screw it up again? Anyway why shouldn’t I go to him and tell him about our little chat. I’m sure he would be more than interested to find out why you haven’t told him?’

  ‘Because he won’t take a call from you,’ I said. ‘Because if this is true you’d be stupid not to be interested. Because I know he has your balls in a sling and is asking for fifty percent of your earnings in return for letting you live. Because he has lined up a world shattering set of crap jobs for you to do. Because if you were to get caught in any one of those jobs it is a minimum of two years in Bar L. Now what do you know about a new mob on the scene?’

  Martin turned away and looked out the window. Things had been tough since his exile but I’d heard that he had started to run with a gang from London and I was betting there was some word on the street about a move north.

  ‘Rumours,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It started about a year ago. Rumours of a new boss on the scene. The guys I was working with put it down to the same old, same old. There’s always gossip on the go. Stories of some new king muscling in. Hot air and nonsense most of the time.’

  ‘So what changed?’

  ‘Eddie Haliburton.’

  I knew of Eddie. Most people in our game did. A major player down south. Old school. Friend of the Krays and all that.

  ‘He’d died a while back. Car crash somewhere in the sticks,’ I said.

  ‘Spot on. Only thing was that he was found with no head. Nothing to do with the crash. It would seem that Eddie got in the car — minus his head, which would make steering difficult, drove into a tree and the petrol tank exploded’

  ‘Anything else.’

  ‘Chuck Semple.’

  Another name I knew and another dead man.

  ‘Went swimming in a DJ in St Catherine’s dock.’

  ‘And? Were they connected?’

  ‘Rumour mill says so. Add to that about half a dozen of both Eddie’s and Chuck’s senior crew going missing and you can see a pattern.’

  ‘Fuck. That’s serious shit.’

  ‘Could be. Might just be a turf war. I left London before Chuck went for a dip so I’m a little out of touch.’

  I knew how hard it had been for Martin to come home. He’d offered up a raft of future favours to Mr Read before he was allowed back. Read had taken his offers and tripled them. Martin was in for a few years full of crap. No wonder he was opening up. I represented a way out.

  ‘So why would they approach me. I’m hardly in Read’s inner circle.’

  ‘Story goes,’ he says, ‘that this new mob don’t want the old guard when they move into an area. Too unreliable. Too likely to rebel. They don’t need thinkers, just doers. Foot soldiers they can mould. If they are coming to Scotland then you fit the bill.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Take Jack Rushent. He worked for Eddie. Low level but bright. A month after Eddie and his team vanish Jack suddenly has money on his hip and has moved up a social circle or two. He’s about your age and was about your level.’


  I mulled this over.

  ‘Look,’ said Martin. ‘I think you’ve just been made an offer you can’t refuse.’

  ‘How do you figure? It could be Read checking me out.’

  ‘Could be — but unlikely. If someone is moving in, Read has far better things to do than check up on every grunt in the team. Besides what would he learn? That some of his trusted men were willing to jump sides for a wedge. Hardly a revelation is it? I think the offer is genuine.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘Because I think you know more than you are letting on.’

  Martin closed his eyes and shook his head — loosing the cobwebs.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You cut me in for a cut of your cut and I’ll help you out.’

  ‘What about Read?’

  ‘If this is really going down I’d rather be on the winning side. He was an idiot with the job in London. From what I hear he is history, with a motorway support as a grave in his near future. But you’re going to have to be plenty smart if you want to get through this intact. If Read gets wind you are on the flip he’ll nail your balls to the City Chambers.’

  I wanted time to think but I knew my decision. Martin was right. Hobson’s choice.

  A day later I offered him twenty percent of my cut and he agreed. I phoned the number on the piece of paper and was told to go to Tennents Bar in Byres Rd in the west end of Glasgow. I told them about Martin and was asked to bring him along. They didn’t seem bothered about him.

  I was to meet a man carrying a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Brave man — that could get you killed in some pubs in Glasgow back then.

  I turned up with Martin in tow and we were bundled into a car and driven to a small flat in Yoker. We were told to cool our heels in the flat for forty-eight hours and we would be contacted. We had no guards but it was clear what would happen if we stepped outside the door.

  Two days later and David Read was headline news on Scotland Today when his body was found in a coalbunker behind a small hotel on the south side. We later found out that he had been discovered with a dick in his mouth. Not his own but Craig Laidlaw’s. Craig’s body was found on wasteland near the Clyde and three other known associates of Read’s were declared permanently AWOL.

  On the third night the gunman and his mate reappeared and told us how it was going to be. We didn’t have much choice so went along for the ride.

  Chapter 13

  You would think that my life was full of the cloak and dagger nonsense back then and, to be fair, it sometimes felt like that. But most of the time I just put my head down and got on with life. True I was no nine to five guy but I looked on work as work and that way kept my head screwed on — at least for a while.

  As soon as we were dropped off at the Albany Hotel I knew things were changing for the better.

  How did I know this?

  Simple really. Full length leather jacketed, jewellery-laden guys with bottle blondes on each arm don’t walk up to me every day and say ‘Welcome aboard son.’

  I was ushered into the hotel lobby, whisked to the top floor and shown into a suitably plush suite. Martin and I were herded into one corner, handed a large whisky and told to chill.

  I often wondered what was going through Martin’s head back then. Maybe you would know?

  No?

  Well time to move on.

  Mr Leather dropped the blondes on a chair and flipped them a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. The girls were all fur coat and nae knickers but the way they got to work on the champagne showed they were no strangers to the good life.

  Our driver lifted me by the elbow and led me to the next room where Mr Leather was stripping to a Saville Row suit and an outrageously out of date kipper tie.

  He motioned for me to take a seat and the driver dropped another three fingers of malt into my glass.

  ‘Names don’t matter son,’ said Mr Leather. ‘You won’t see me again.’

  He stood at the far end of the room and I noted that his hair seemed to have a life of its own. Expensive wig. A crap one but expensive. Add to that the way the fat round his waist failed to move with him and I suspected that a twenty-four hour Playtex was de rigueur for my new leather coated friend.

  ‘I’ll keep it short,’ he said. ‘Life’s changing. Small time gangs are on their way out. Think big, that’s the secret. This is nearly the eighties and we need to change. Take your Mr Read. Nice operator — until he pulled that diamond stunt. Wrong job, wrong place and no thought to the future. Hard to think that he expected us to let a million quids worth of ice just walk.’

  A million and all I got was a lousy grand.

  ‘ Glasgow wasn’t high on the list for us but your Mr Read changed that. A bit of research and a bit of planning and here we are.’

  He paused to sip at the beer he had just poured.

  ‘Anyway new management needs new personnel. Personnel with ambition and drive. Word goes you’re not half daft and a whizz at the old safes. So, we say to ourselves, we need someone with a bit of nonce and cool under pressure. You seem to fit the bill, so here’s the script. We set you up in an office. None too grand but nice — if you know where I’m coming from. We give you a contact and he passes on a few errands we need done. You help us out and we cut you in for five percent of the action.’

  ‘You’re going to need some help. I’m assuming that is why your friend is here. It’s up to you how you fund the help. We don’t mind a few homers but nothing that will get you noticed. Keep it under the radar and we will be fine.’

  ‘Give us twelve months unblemished service and we double your cut in year two.’

  He took another slug of beer.

  ‘It is about here that you expect me to say ‘any questions?’ but it isn’t going to happen. You are a smart kid. There is no negotiation on this unless you want to negotiate over the colour of your wreath.’

  ‘Get the picture?’

  He finished the beer.

  ‘Time for me to go. The pros next doors are yours to do what with what you want. The room is paid up until tomorrow and the tab on room service is open for light refreshments but not for abuse.’

  He headed for the adjoining door.

  ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  And with that he was gone. I got up and followed him through but save the two girls and Martin, the room was empty.

  We had a hell of a night. The girls were willing and more than able and the bar tab was large but at the back of my head I knew that there was no such thing as a free lunch and my new life might include a touch more than ‘a few errands’.

  Chapter 14

  Two days later a bruiser of a man turned up at my door and handed me a set of keys that were dripping with the grease from his just finished fish supper along with a letter, crumpled and battered. Hardly the auspicious start to the new life I had been expecting.

  Inside the letter was a slip of paper with an address and the words — ‘Move in and wait.’

  The keys turned out to open an office on Gordon St that lay four floors above a Chinese restaurant. It shared a common entrance with the Chinky’s (you could call it that back then) and in the following year we had a line of credit with the restaurant that made us their best customers by a country mile.

  The office itself was a simple two room affair. One room was set out as a reception with a desk and a battered two-seat sofa that attended a plywood coffee table. The next room had a desk, chair and a filing cabinet that didn’t work. Decoration was from the late grime period and two forty — watt light bulbs provided some gloom. The view — a trade description violation in itself — was of a brick wall.

  I made my first executive decision and, dipping into my own pocket, I called in a girl called Sally Macintyre. Sally was an interior decorator — one of the few in Glasgow in the late seventies. She usually did the houses of the rich and not so famous. I gave her a free hand, a small budget and told her I needed the place to lo
ok business like with an air of authority.

  Two weeks later I had the smartest office in the west of Scotland but still no contact from London.

  When it eventually came it seemed innocent enough at first.

  Most of the early jobs were simple pick and drops and I pulled together a team of runners under the watchful eye of Martin.

  Glasgow ’s waifs and strays flowed through our offices, turning it into an all day rush hour. The office was always alive with activity. We went from one to six phones — that raised a few eyes with the GPO — we were still a year short of the creation of British Telecom. Within a month I had rented the office next door and knocked through — creating an area for the pick and drop crew — named the PD’s by Martin. We put in a coffee and tea machine and, eventually, a telly, radio and a hot plate.

  The first big job came three months in and it was a darling.

  A bruiser appeared at our office and handed me a distressed envelope — clearly London specialised in the battered look. It contained a date and a time.

  I made the rendezvous outside a chippie on Dumbarton Rd thirty minutes before I needed to. It was a habit back then — turning up early — it let me suss out if there was going to be nonsense. The meet was short and I was given another envelope.

  The gig was a new one on me. Kidnapping. The letter gave me a name and an address. The objective of the exercise was a warning to a businessman who was not paying up on the protection front. Normally this was a knee cap job but London wanted to make a different mark this time and I was told to lift the business man’s six year old, and not to hand the kid back until the protection money started flowing.

  For the record I added in ten grand to the demands — strictly for my back pocket.

  I lifted the kid from school and took him to a flat that I had rented for the month.

  To say I was an amateur at this was as big an understatement as could be made about me back then. For a start I had no food or drink in the flat. Naively I had assumed that the businessman would come up with the goods in hours and I would be out of there post haste. What I hadn’t banked on was that he was currently in Spain, banging his heart out with his private secretary.