Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (17 page)

‘Murph, whit ye daein’?’

‘Shoosh. Just havin’ a wee nosey.’

‘The man’ll come.’

‘There was naebody in the cab. Keep the edgy for us.’

‘Aw, fuck. Hurry up, well.’

Murph crouched on the ramp and pulled the shutters until he could get his shoulder under them. Lexy stood at the side, looking both ways along the road, thinking of what to do if he saw someone. He’d pretend he’d stopped to tie his lace, give Wee Murph a shout and then just walk on. Bloody spam‐
case, jumping about in a lorry right outside the school.

‘You better no’ knock anythin’, right?’ he warned.

‘Fuck’s sake man, steady the buffs. I’m no’ a thief.’

Murph disappeared inside the truck, leaving Lexy to scope left and right like he was at fucking Wimbledon, occasionally rehearsing his drop‐
to‐
lace‐
tying emergency drill. There was nothing coming. The road only led into the school or back into the estate; it wasn’t exactly Argyle Street.

‘Gaunny hurry up?’ Lexy said in a half‐
whisper, though he knew it was pointless. There was still a good fifteen minutes until the morning interval, and Murph now had a major distraction.

‘Aw, man,’ he heard Murph gasp, sounding genuinely astonished, which didn’t bode well for getting him out of there any time soon.

‘Whit?’

‘Aw, fuck me. ’Mon up here a minute, Lexy.’

‘I’m keepin’ the edgy. Whit is it?’

‘There’s naebody there. ’Mon, fuck’s sake. You’ve got tae see this.’

Lexy had one more glance in each direction, then quickly scuttled his way under the shutters. The inside was empty except for a row of packing crates at the very front, and beside them in the corner a huge pile of those grey dust‐
sheets that the removal men put over your furniture to stop it getting chipped. There were also dustsheets hung on the walls, partly covering the wooden lattice frames the removers tied tall objects to. Wee Murph was standing in front of one of these, his hand on the cloth.

‘What’s in the boxes?’ Lexy asked.

‘Nothin’. Empty.’

‘So whit did ye – aw, fuckin’ hell. No way.’

Murph had pulled back the dustsheet to reveal two machine guns strapped to the lattice. He giggled nervously, but both of them knew this was no longer a laugh. They were also aware that they’d be looking at more than a punishment exercise or even a good kick up the arse if they were caught.

‘Dae ye ’hink they’re real?’ Lexy felt compelled to ask.

‘Naw, they’re fuckin’ water‐
scooters. Feel them.’

‘I’m no’ fuckin’ touchin’ them.’

‘They’re metal. Solid.’

‘Aw, fuck, man. We better get oot o’ here, Murph.’

‘My thoughts exactly, Lexy.’

Wee Murph had one last lingering look at the glinting weapons, then let the sheet slip down again.

‘C’mon. Hurry.’

‘Don’t run. Stay quiet,’ Murph advised.

They began walking to the rear of the container, then Murph stopped and put a hand on Lexy’s arm.

‘Whit?’

‘Shoosh. D’you hear a car?’

‘Fuck. Aye.’

They both dropped to their honkers and looked out through the gap. There was a silver Rover moving towards the truck, slowing as it did so.

‘Aw, fuck, man. No way.’

They heard the engine idling, the car having stopped behind the ramp.

‘Whit we gaunny dae?’

‘Hide.’

‘Fuck. Where?’

‘Here. Quick.’

Murph dived for the heap of dustsheets, Lexy at his elbow. They burrowed a space behind the pile, their backs to the wall, pulling sheets over the gaps just as they heard the shutters rolling up, the noise amplified by the empty space. After that, they heard the car drive inside the truck, all the way to the front, tyres rolling only feet away. The engine was killed. A door opened and shut, followed by the clunk of the locks being closed by a remote, then footsteps as the driver walked out.

Lexy was about to have a peek from behind the blankets when he heard the car’s door handle rattle a couple of times, followed by a series of muted thuds.

‘Don’t move,’ Murph warned, in as quiet a whisper as Lexy had heard, even in evil Mrs Stewart’s maths class.

The thuds stopped, and there was silence. Lexy felt Murph’s hand on his forearm, a signal that it was too early even to have a fly swatch. He was right, too. They heard another car approaching, then the dulled clang as it also went up the ramp and into the container. This time the door was opened and closed, but not locked. The first car’s handle rattled again, preceding another thud as the second driver walked to the back of the truck. A moment’s more silence ensued, then there was a huge bang, causing the pair of them to cling on to each other; must have been the ramp getting pulled up. The roller‐
shutters came down with a crash, followed by a dense metallic click as the door was locked. Lexy made to move, but still Wee Murph gripped his arm.

‘There’ some’dy in wan o’ thae motors.’

From beneath, they felt the low shudder of the engine starting up, and a few seconds later, the truck began to move.

‘Aw, man, I hope they arenae stolen,’ Murph whispered gloomily.

‘The guns?’

‘Naw, the motors.’

‘How.’

‘’Cause we could end up in a boat tae fuckin’ Moscow, an’ I’ve forgot my dinner money.’

There was a bottle of Loch Dhu on Angelique’s desk when she came back from the sandwich shop with her breakfast. It was a gimmick whisky dreamed up by a marketing man rather than a stillman, its hopefully saleable distinction being that it was black. Really black. Not just darkly peaty like Laphroiag, but black enough to suggest it shouldn’t be taken internally. Some whiskies were matured in sherry casks, some bourbon; this one was evidently aged in a treacle barrel. She just hoped it didn’t taste like it. It could have been worse, though. They could have gone with some muck like Tia Maria or Kahlua, which would have been the cheaper option.

Cops were never done whining about how little they got paid, given the hours, the danger and the canteen lasagne, but no expense was spared when it came to wind‐
ups and daft jokes. Still, it was proof of changed days that it wasn’t intended to refer to her skin. Her sex and her stature were still tediously fair game, but you had to be grateful for any advances in a profession where cultural progress moved like a greased glacier.

The road to Special Branch had not been an easy one. In her uniform and CID days, her height had always been as much of a problem issue as her colour and her sex, due to the singular prejudices of the Action‐
Man tendency, who frequently bemoaned the relaxation of restrictions that had allowed smouts like her on to the force. It was usually not said to her face, but deliberately loud enough for her to overhear. Eventually she challenged one of them about it in the canteen, a bloke called McMaster, who instantly went into that patronising‐
but‐
oh‐
so‐
reasonable mode his ilk could effortlessly affect.

‘No offence, hen, nothin’ against you personally, but we deal wi’ some bad, bad people oot there. What’s a wee lassie like yourself gaunny dae if there’s a big bear like me comin’ at you?’

‘I’d follow procedure and radio for back‐
up, and ask for a big bear like you to come and assist.’

‘And what if I’m no’ available?’

‘Do you want me to tell you, or to demonstrate?’

Gleeful anticipation had rippled around the room, entertainment in store. At the centre of the ripples there was only growing tension. Then her boss, DS Clark, had dispelled it all by calling her to heel and leading her out of the nearest door; to the kitchen, as it happened.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘I’m fed up listening to shite like that.’

‘You’re like a West Highland terrier noising up an alsatian. The guy weighs two hundred pounds. Did you think all that kung‐
fu stuff was going to work?’

‘Well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?’

There was the rub. Both parties left the canteen telling themselves the other had a lucky escape, but only one had doubt in his eyes. Granted, in front of so many colleagues, McMaster had a lot more to lose and precious little to gain, but there was no question he was the more relieved to see the situation defused.

When the dust settled, it became apparent that this display of feisty defiance had earned her the big man’s respect and made the lads look at her in a completely different light from then on. Or did it tread on their insecurities and generate even more resentment? She couldn’t quite remember. It was definitely one of them, though.

Given her size and her qualifications, they just couldn’t wait for her to get promoted to where she belonged: as far away from the street as possible. The day after she made detective, she was called into the DCI’s office for a congratulatory chat, and offered the ‘perfect’ post: co‐
ordinating the division’s ethnic minorities liaison efforts. He’d been told she spoke three other languages. What were they? Gujurati? Urdu? Hindi? That would be invaluable in working with ‘her community’.

‘What community?’ she asked. ‘Catholics?’

The DCI made a valiant response to being knocked down this unseen hole, by whipping out his shovel and getting on with some digging.

‘You’re …? I mean …? I thought … But … You say you’re a Catholic?’

‘No. I was brought up one though. I went to a Catholic school. My mum’s Belgian. They take it very seriously.’

‘I’m sorry. I’d no idea.’

She resisted the temptation to observe that, in the Glesca Polis, folk thinking she was a Jungle Bunny rather than a Jungle Jim was probably the only reason she’d got this far.

‘And you don’t speak …?’

‘Nope.’

‘But you must have close ties to …?’

‘Nope.’

There was a long silence.

‘I’ve heard there’s an opening coming up in the drugs squad, sir.’

‘Ehm, yeeees.’

If the DCI was discomfited, some among the lower orders were fuming. It was positive discrimination, and she wasn’t playing the game in return. She only got promoted because she was from an ethnic minority at a time when the force needed a few higher‐
profile brown faces. She could at least show some gratitude by going off to work among her own. Wasn’t that what the likes of her joined up for in the first place?

Well, no, actually. But neither had she thought the job wouldn’t be full of arseholes who’d resent her very presence on a daily basis. It didn’t present much of a deterrent, however, being something she was used to dealing with since the age of five.

There was a note attached to the neck of the whisky bottle. It said, ‘I’ll come quietly, guvnor. It’s a fair cop.’

She turned round to check who was looking. There were lots of heads suddenly buried in files and paperwork, guilty schoolboys each and every one.

‘Weans,’ she said. Maclaren and Wallace sniggered. ‘And I suppose you think I’ll be sharing this?’

A couple more heads perked up – McIntosh and Rowan – now that the gag was out in the open and she hadn’t taken the huff. They feigned hangdog expressions at her threat.

‘All right, tell you what. I’ll open it on Sunday night if you experts are right and nothing happens on Saturday. Fair enough?’

‘Aye.’

‘Sure.’

‘Sounds good.’

Angelique placed it on the windowsill, leaving the alternative unspoken, but knowing the bottle was getting opened whatever happened over the weekend. If the Black Spirit did strike on Sonzolan independence day, they’d all be needing a drink afterwards.

The likelihood of that wasn’t something she felt qualified to comment on either way. Angelique knew plenty about the terrorist, but information about whether the UK featured in his imminent plans remained extremely thin on the ground. She hadn’t assumed the role of prophet of doom; in fact the whisky was as much their way of winding her up about being the one who had landed such a pointless task. In that sense, there was a tacit hint of gratitude about it, or at least acknowledgement. There but for Gracie’s dog, as Millburn would say.

The days were counting down and in the absence of any clues, leads or developments, it was getting harder to feel worried, even though part of her knew that theoretically the opposite should be true. It was a lot easier to steel yourself to the task of finding a needle in a haystack if you at least had a halfway convincing reason to believe the needle was even there. You’d also have the advantage of knowing what you were looking for.

The regular sources were dry, the Black Spirit not having exposed himself via the politics or supply lines that normally entangled terrorism and organised crime, and from where information leaked via cash, grudges and betrayal. With him being a freelance operative, there was no splinter‐
faction to sell him out, no power‐
struggles to take his eye off the ball. The exercise had consequently been reduced to the embarrassing desperation of actually putting out a national request for officers to report to Special Branch ‘anything weird that isn’t obviously drugs‐
related’. The definition of ‘weird’ was left to the individual’s discretion, but it was presumed they understood that this was within the context of a possible terrorist threat. Beyond that there was the further filtration process of regional knowledge, best summed up by one duty sergeant’s requested confirmation as to whether she meant ‘weird generally or weird even for Fegie Park on a Saturday night’.

Nonetheless, this still meant a lot of worthless absurdity was being referred, ‘just in case’. Yesterday’s top waste of time was the theft of two drums of chemical fertiliser from a farmer’s yard in Barrhead; DIY pipe‐
bombs weren’t really the Black Spirit’s style, and anyway, in that part of the world, the neds just stole stuff on impulse and checked out what it was later.

It looked like they were starting early today. The clock hadn’t reached eight before she was taking a call about an alleged shooting attempt in Langside last night, the sergeant apologetic but nonetheless bound by customary thoroughness to mention it. She could picture him blushing at the other end of the phone as he wearily added that the complainant had also mentioned seeing a dead person at Glasgow Airport earlier in the evening.