Run Johnboy Run: The Glasgow Chronicles 2 (67 page)

  “Who hiv we goat then?”

  “Ah think it’s the Taylor wan.”

  “And the rest ae them?”

  “They’re probably in fucking Dunoon by noo,” The Stalker snarled, kicking the side ae the Black Maria that hid jist pulled up.

Chapter Forty Four

Saturday.

Sir Frank Owen lay wae his eyes shut, although he wis fully awake.  He’d heard the bike coming fae a distance. The throb and roar ae the transverse triple-cylinder engine, as it slowed doon and drapped gears, before it roared oot ae a bend, shifting up the gears again, telt him that it was a BSA Seven Fifty Rocket Three. Probably an import, he thought tae himsel.  He’d always loved bikes since he wis a wean.  The only quality time he and his brother hid spent wae their father as kids, wis while rebuilding auld classics such as the Royal Enfield Bullet, BSA Bantam and Indian Scout.  Fur him, the smell ae an engine being stripped doon and the cracks oan the palms ae his hauns, lined wae oil, wis like honey tae a bee, while his brother never looked at a bike ever again efter their father passed away.  He wis proud ae the collection his father hid built up and he’d added tae it o’er the years.  He’d missed only wan Isle ae Man TT since nineteen fifty five.  It wis a time when he could get away aw by himsel and capture the sounds and the smells ae his childhood, withoot the interruptions and distractions ae business and domestic demands.  Eighteen months earlier, in July nineteen sixty seven, alang wae his good friend and fellow enthusiast, Lord John MacDonald, he’d travelled tae Buenos Aries in Argentina where they baith hid financial interests.  They’d agreed tae fund an expedition tae trace and hopefully recover the Norton Commando Five Hunner that hid been used by Che Guevara and his good pal, Alberto Granado, tae travel through Latin America in nineteen fifty four.  Despite a few premature announcements ae success that hid turned oot tae be damp squibs, due tae false claims ae authenticity and dubious ownership by hucksters, baith himsel and Lord John wur hopeful ae ultimate success in recovering it eventually.

  His eyes wur fully opened noo as the throbbing engine roared up the drive and skidded tae a halt, below his bedroom windae.

  “Darling, what in hell is that horrendous noise?” his wife yelped, jist aboot jumping oot ae bed in fear.

  He didnae reply as he wis awready exiting the bedroom door, heiding fur the staircase, tying his blue silk dressing gown tightly roond his waist.  By the time he reached the ground flair, the bike wis roaring away doon the drive and Peacock, his butler, wis closing the inner front door.

  “Who was that, Peacock?”

  “A delivery, sir,” he said, haunin Sir Frank a large envelope.

  “From who?”

  “He didn’t say, sir.  He…at least, I think it was a he, just stepped off the motorcycle and handed me the envelope before speeding off.  He didn’t even turn off his engine before coming to the door.”

  “Coffee in the sitting room, Peacock.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  He sat looking at the envelope.  There wis nae stamp oan the front ae it nor a sender’s address oan the back.  He felt it with baith hauns.  It felt like a magazine or a journal ae some sort.  He waited until Peacock poured his coffee.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Thank you, Peacock.  Will you please take a pot of Earl Grey up to Lady Owen?”

  He put oan his reading glasses and picked up the Victorian letter-opener that his faither and his grandfaither before him hid used, tae slice open the seal at the tap.  He pulled out a thick blue folder and placed it oan his knees.  He opened the folder, jist as he picked up the steaming cup ae coffee tae take a sip, bit immediately replaced the cup back oan tae the tray withoot tasting it.  He felt the beat ae his heart accelerating and the vein oan the left side ae his temple throb.  He wis aware ae Peacock’s presence when he came back in tae the room tae stoke up, and place some hardwood logs oan tae the fire, bit never acknowledged Peacock asking him if everything wis awright.  He read and re-read fur the better part ae an hour, before reaching o’er wae a shaking haun tae pick up the telephone receiver oan the table at his side.

  “Good morning…The Glesga Echo.  Who’s calling please?”

  “This is Sir Frank Owen.  Can you please ask the paper’s editor, Hamish McGovern, and the crime desk sub-editor, Tom Bryce, to make their way to my house immediately, please?  Thank you.”

  Helen stoapped tae catch her breath and light up a fag.  She’d jist goat aff the number forty five oan Springburn Road and wis making her way alang Fountainwell Road towards the flats wae two bags ae messages fae Curley’s oan Parly Road.  Why anywan wid dump auld people fae the tenements up here wis beyond her, she cursed tae hersel.  Whit made her even mair angry wis that whoever planned the build, hid placed aw the coin meters oan the landings ootside people’s front doors.  Her maw and da hid only been in the place aboot two weeks when their meter wis tanned.  Her da said the meters wur attracting aw the wee hoose-breakers fae miles aroond.

  “It’s like flies roond shite,” he’d said.

  She flicked her fag-end oan tae the road, picked up her bags and trundled towards the multi-storey.  When she finally managed tae get in tae wan ae the two lifts, it took her aboot fifteen minutes tae reach the nineteenth flair.  The confusion wis actually funny as people wur stepping in tae the lift, expecting tae go doon when the lift stoapped and the door opened oan their landing.  When they found oot their mistake as the lift shot aff skywards, they’d press the button fur the next landing up and then get aff, tae wait fur the lift tae take them doon.  In aw the times that Helen hid been coming up tae her maw and da’s, she couldnae remember a time when the lift didnae stoap at every landing oan the way up or doon.  The only scary part ae the lift aff intae space and beyond, wis when the lights in the lift wid flicker or go aff aw thegither, sending panic through the people staunin in the dark.  This panic didnae manifest itsel as screams or howls ae fear by the entombed inhabitants, bit usually displayed itself as mass farting in the dark that hid they known aboot it, wid’ve made Sally Sally and her Sally Army brass band colleagues mount a band recruitment drive in the area.

  “Ye’re here, Helen?  Aw, ye’re a wee darling, so ye ur,” Maw said, as she put the bags doon oan tae the kitchen table.

  “Here ye go, Da,” she said, throwing him o’er The Glesga Echo.

  “Right, get aff they feet ae yours and Ah’ll put the kettle oan,” Maw said.

  “So, whit’s new wae yersel, Da?” Helen asked him, grabbing a pew.

  “Ah’ve hid a busy week, sitting oan ma arse here in this chair since Ah saw ye last Saturday.  Oh, aye, Ah’ve hid a bath and went tae the cludgie seven times.  Yer maw says Ah’ve tae slow doon,” he said, unfolding the paper.

  “Don’t listen tae him, Helen.  He bought an auld pair ae binoculars aff ae the ragman oan Monday and he’s spent the whole week spying oan the people in the next block ae flats.  Ah’ve warned him that the polis will be at the door tae lift him fur being a peeping tom.”

  “Christ’s sake, hiv ye read this?” Helen’s da asked the pair ae them.

  “Read?  Ah hivnae hid time tae scratch ma arse, never mind read the papers,” Helen retorted as her and her maw laughed.

  “Look,” he said, haudin up the front page towards her. “Notorious Gangster Dies In Hoose Fire.” 

  “Aye…and who’s that then?” Helen asked him.

  “It says here, ‘Mr Mick Murphy, notorious underworld figure, died in a fire at his hoose in Martyr Street, Toonheid, late last night.  It is believed that forty four year auld Mr Murphy, who earlier in the day hid attended the funeral ae Mr Murtagh Punch, manager ae The Stanhope Street Stables, wis under the influence ae alcohol and set himsel oan fire in his hoose.  Two fire appliances fae Ingram Street Fire Station wur called tae the scene and quickly extinguished Mr Murphy and the fire.  Neighbours in the tenement wur allowed back intae their hames efter three hours.  A polis spokesman said that it appeared that this wis a tragic accident, although a report will be sent tae the city’s Procurator Fiscal.  A spokesman fur the Fire Brigade, wance again, warned people tae make sure that they extinguish aw cigarettes when sitting at hame alane, drinking.  This is the third accident ae a similar nature that his occurred in the city o’er as many weeks, he said.  Mr Murphy’s brothers wur unavailable fur comment last night.  Mr Tom Bryce, crime sub-editor ae The Glesga Echo, said that the paper wis awready planning tae dae a series ae exclusive stories, starting oan Monday, oan the city’s past and present corrupt officials and notorious gangsters, including the deceased Mr Murphy.  Readers ur warned no tae miss oot oan the sensational details being prepared fur publication.’  See whit happens when ye smoke?” her da warned Helen.

  “Ye’ll see whit happens if Ah hear ye saying that tae me wan mair time,” Helen retorted, smiling back at him as she lit up a fag.

  Fanny picked up the phone and dialled.  She felt better noo that she’d made up her mind tae inform her parents.  She knew they’d be disappointed, even angry at her.  They’d let it be known oan many an occasion that they disapproved ae her choice ae career. She hidnae been back tae Thistle Park since the incident wae the boys escaping, jist before Christmas.  She’d received a card through the post fae the heidmaster wishing her well in the future.  And that hid been that.  Since then, she’d barely been able tae sleep and she knew her parents wur worried sick aboot her.  She dreaded picking up the telephone every time it rang.  She looked dreadful when she looked at hersel in the mirror.  The doctor hid telt her that she needed tae rest and that things wid take their natural course and that she’d start tae feel better.

  “Hello?”

  “Mum?”

  “Fanny?  Darling, it’s so nice to hear from you.  We were just talking about you and wondering when you were coming home?  Your father is just about to go through to Edinburgh as he is on the committee to appoint the next moderator to the church.  Do you want a word with him before he leaves?”

  “Mum, I have something to tell you…the both of you.”

  “Yes?  What’s that, dear?  You’ll need to speak up as it’s a bad line.”

  “I’ve handed in my notice.  I sent it away first class just over a week ago. I’ve also got something els…”

  “Oh Fanny, that’s wonderful.  Hold on until I tell your father the good news, darling,” her ma said, covering the moothpiece wae her haun, while Fanny listened tae the muffled sounds ae her ma telling her da, the Reverend Christian Flaw.

“Hello?” Fanny shouted intae the phone.

“Hello?  Are you still there, dear?”

  “Yes, I’m still here, Mother.”

  “Your dad said that’s wonderful, wonderful.  He never felt that they deserved someone as pure and as innocent as you. You were too good for them, darling…”

  “Mum?”

  “…but of course, I knew you would come round…”

  “Mu-um!”

  “..and see the error of your…”

  “Mum!”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Will you and dad come and collect me?”

  “Speak up, dear, I can’t hear you?  The line is really bad.”

  “I’m pregnant!” Fanny screamed intae the phone.

  “Here ye go, sir.  This is the summary report fae Inspector McGregor oan the Murphy fire up in Martyr Street last night,” Peggy McAvoy, his personal assistant ae six happy years, said cheerfully, placing the report oan the desk in front ae him.

  “Thanks, Peggy.  Ah don’t want tae be disturbed fur at least the next hauf an hour,” Sean Smith, the superintendent said tae her.

  He looked at the two typed sheets peeping oot ae the buff coloured folder.  He wisnae supposed tae be in.  It wis Saturday and he’d been planning tae go across tae his daughter Bridie’s hoose, tae wet the heid ae the new baby that hid jist arrived hame fae the Rottenrow Maternity Hospital the day before.  It wis his first grandchild…a wee boy called Sean…named efter his grandpa.   He’d telt Clodagh, his wife, that he’d meet her o’er there later in the morning.  He thought aboot the phone call last night.  It hid been efter midnight when Colin, wan ae his inspectors who covered the Toonheid, hid telephoned.  He’d jist put aff the lamp beside the bed when it hid rang.

  “That bloody phone!”  Clodagh hid grumbled, as he heided oot ae the bedroom tae the stairheid landing.

  “Ah’m sorry, hen.  It must be an emergency if they’re calling me at this time ae the night,” he’d said, apologising.

  “Hello, Sean?  Sir?  It’s Colin McGregor here.  Ah thought ye might like tae know, there’s been a hoose fire up in the Toonheid the night.”

  Normally he wid’ve let rip if anywan hid called him aboot a hoose fire at his work, never mind at hame, in the middle ae the night, bit he’d held himsel in check.  The last time a fire hid been reported tae him fae up in the Toonheid, it hid nearly brought the ceiling doon oan the lot ae them.  He tried tae remember exactly whit hid started aw the trouble that time and then it came back tae him.  Some wee toe-rag hid went and goat himsel frizzled in a dookit, bit they’d goat it aw sorted oot.  Colin wis a good inspector, though.  He widnae hiv called if he didnae think it warranted it.

  “Aye, Colin?  Nae problem.  Whit’s the score, son?”

  “Mad Mick Murphy, wan ae Pat Molloy’s boys his jist been taken up tae The Royal efter setting himsel and his hoose oan fire.”

  “Is he deid?”

  “No yet, although Fin O’Callaghan wis speaking tae wan ae the doctors and he said he’s suffered eighty percent burns tae his body.”