As far as anyone knew he had no background in the forces but there was a rumour that he had been rejected from the TA early in his life and this sat as a scar. He was never seen in public short of a uniform or insignia. It was testament to his status that he got away with it for so long.
The message came up from London that the Major was now surplus to requirements and Edinburgh was to join the empire. There was no subtlety involved in the plan of action. Exterminate with extreme prejudice. From the Major down take out the command structure and move in.
We hit in late November of 1981. The world had gone New Romantic and Martin had taken to wearing frilly cuffs on all his shirts. Twenty of us rolled into Edinburgh at midnight on the fifteenth.
We split up and played trash and burn with the Major’s property before taking out everyone from the Major, down to his lieutenants. Twelve dead — all made to look like accidents. The police went ape but back then we had brave pills by the dozen and alibis as solid as the Forth Rail Bridge. Even so I spent the best part of four months being escorted from my house to the Glasgow police head office almost daily.
The police knew I was involved. I knew they knew and they knew that I knew that they knew but it made not a hill of beans without evidence and evidence was thin on the ground.
Even while I was sitting in the interview room I had arranged for two of my more trusted compadres to scope out Edinburgh and start moving in.
It wasn’t easy. Chopping off the head was simple but the hydra had many more heads waiting to take charge. It took six months to whip the city into shape and even then we only had partial control, but it was enough to keep London happy and, when the police eventually backed off, I could get on with the business of making Edinburgh profitable.
Aberdeen was next, then Dundee and then the sticks. Four years it took us and an industrial amount of pain and effort.
However on the first of January 1986 I sent a message to London. It read:
‘ Scotland now ours — what next?’
We hadn’t really conquered Scotland. Any fool could see that but we had our fingers in most pies and the major jobs didn’t happen without our say.
Incredible as it might seem I was still none the wiser as to who in London was pulling the strings. I knew a lot more than I had at the outset and had been on frequent trips to meet my opposite numbers elsewhere in the country but, as to the boss, I was clueless. When I tried to discuss it with Martin, he didn’t seem interested and spent increasing amounts of time on holiday or just AWOL
By then I had more money than I could reasonably spend in the rest of my life. I had banked three houses in Scotland and was an early bird in the Spanish property market.
My car had progressed from a Ford Escort 1100 Mk1 to an Aston Martin DB4 — the one James Bond uses in Goldfinger. Women littered my path but no one had tied me down yet and the job was getting easier not harder.
I distanced myself from the day to day and if things went tits up I was six or seven people away from the pain. The police would still call but apart from enjoying a cup of tea and a Bourbon biscuit there was little else they could do. It didn’t stop them from trying but the better things got for business, the further from the action I flew.
Chapter 15
When the phone call came it was hardly a surprise.
‘Be in London tomorrow, you’ve a room booked tonight in the Hilton on Park Lane. You’ll be away for a while — make arrangements.’
Click.
And so I went. Martin was nowhere to be seen and I went alone.
I’m not a fan of London. Never have been. Too many people, too little space and it takes hours to get out of the bloody place to somewhere less crowded. Then again I’ve mates who swear by the place. Love it. Plenty to do. Plenty to see. Plenty to eat. A real buzz.
I just don’t like it.
Full stop.
The Hilton was stuffed to the gunnels with Yuppies — the real deal. Early adopter mobile phone freaks. Filofax. Power suit. Braces — the whole Wall St thing in one lobby. I almost felt like I had to miss lunch to fit in.
I sat at the bar after unpacking and hated it. Sterile decoration and the yuppies got on my tits. I slipped out, glad to be free of the smell of leather and sweat. I found a small pub in the backstreets and drank myself into a good mood and then drank myself into a shit one.
I woke up the next morning with a hangover and no sense that I had earned it.
A London suit appeared around twelve and insisted I join him on a little trip north. The Ford Sierra we travelled in was clapped out and smelled of beer and curry. I was pushed into the back seat and any notion that I harboured of being treated with some decorum, given my track record, was beginning to diminish.
We crawled through the London traffic and slogged our way onto the North Circular before cutting into the back end of Highgate and into a run down council estate. The car stopped and an outstretched finger pointed to a door that looked like it had been firebombed. The house it served didn’t look much better.
I tell you now I was nervous. I was beginning to think that this was looking like my exit interview as opposed to promotion. I walked up a path strewn with empty cans of Tennent’s Super and began to rack my brains for the deals I had done over the last few months. For all the money I had salted away on the side, I could think of nothing that warranted a kicking — or worse.
Before I got to the door it opened. Another suit grabbed me by the arm and pulled me in. The door slammed behind me, and it was hard not to think of a condemned man being led from his cell.
The hall was stripped of wallpaper and carpet and the sole light bulb in the ceiling was either off or didn’t work. A door at the far end of the corridor opened and warm light flooded the space. I was pushed from behind and entered an altogether different world.
The occupant was obviously used to the double take that visitors went through and gave me space to let my jaw hit the ground.
Far from the expected hovel, the space around me would have graced a stately home and not put it to shame. The walls stretched double height around me and the floor space ran to the size of a basketball court. It reminded me of David Read’s gaff but far nastier on the outside and far grander on the inside.
Furniture was strategically placed amongst a full gambit of statues, display cabinets and paintings mounted on easels. The carpet was so thick that it threatened to suck the shoes from my feet and the room gave out an odour that would have been at home in a Chinese opium house a hundred years ago.
Near the far wall, behind a desk with a stone top that looked like it had been hewn from Mount Everest, sat a man. His head was bent down reading a sheaf of papers in front of him. He grunted and the two suits behind me left.
Thirty seconds silence followed.
Chapter 16
‘Take a seat.’
The man pointed to a chair in front of his desk. He didn’t raise his head and continued to give the paper he was reading his full attention and me none. He lifted a pen, scribbled a little and shuffled the paper into a tray. He leaned back and eyes as grey as a wet Loch Lomond sky wandered over me.
‘What did we take last year?’
No preamble. No small talk.
