bottom left corner of the mesh window and struck it with the hammer.
The punch went through and the glass spidered. I repeated the operation until the bottom corner was a maze of cracks. I turned the hammer over, using the preen to finish driving a hole in the corner.
Grabbing the busted glass I levered it away from the window. Putting some welly into it I pulled again and the rest of the window peeled away like Blu-Tac on a warm day. I forced the window to bend up into the top right corner. The mesh held the glass together and the whole window now hung from the frame like a bent and twisted shutter.
I cleared away the sharp edges around the frame with the hammer and shone the small torch into the room beyond. It was stacked full with boxes and in one corner there was a small table with a wooden chair in attendance. High up in the top corner was a small white box. An infrared passive detector.
In my day such technology was the domain of the rich and powerful. Nowadays it was available from Tesco’s and would almost certainly be linked to the local police station. I wasn’t worried. I had no intention of being inside for more than a few minutes.
I had spent the last few days getting to know the layout of all three jobs in intimate detail. As my cell mate for the first four years inside had said to me on more occasions than I cared to remember — planning is everything. The fact he had been caught during an opportunistic house breaking seemed to pass him by.
Beyond the room was the main shop — an open area that served the public. No counters. No wire cages. Open plan was the order of the day and the safe was in the room next to this one. A bottle of Glen’s vodka, that I could ill afford, and a long term customer that I had befriended in the local pub had given me the low down — to the smallest detail. She had once worked there and knew the layout inside out. Yes, she had told me, there were some safety deposit boxes but only half a dozen and they were rarely used. She didn’t know if there were any that hadn’t been touched in years but she told me she wouldn’t be surprised.
All I had to do was exit the door from the room I was looking at, turn left, enter the next one and I was in the safe room. My friend had assured me that the door to the safe room wasn’t strengthened and the plan was simple — in and out as quickly as possible.
I pulled up my hood, heaved myself onto the window and, as I slid through the gap, the red light blinked and the alarm went off. I rolled on the floor and, kicking boxes out of the way, I rushed through the door and into the shop.
But my friendly snitch had either lied or was out of date with her info. The other door was locked and it was a heavyweight son of a bitch. I’d had visions of kicking the thing in but given the CCTV cameras I hadn’t dared enter the building to check it myself. Mistake. It took me ten minutes to crack the lock and I knew that the police were on their way but the fact they had just lifted five of the gang gave me hope that they might be light on back up.
The ten minutes seemed like ten hundred and my ears were only listening for one sound — sirens.
The door opened and I pushed inside to find a mother of a safe door on the right and a dozen boxes on the left. I whipped out the key and in sixty seconds knew that I had drawn a blank. I exited, head down to the camera and I was back in the lane in less than a minute. The sirens were on the rise again but I vanished into the scheme before the police could arrive.
Tonight it’s Easterhouse.
Chapter 32
Wednesday January 23 ^rd 2008
Dud number two. Much easier than Castlemilk though. I knew the boxes were in the room I was breaking into and the wire mesh on the window was a breeze to cut through. I was in and out in two minutes and back in the hostel by one o’clock.
Now things get tricky. Drumchapel is a bastard. I’ve been over there four times and I’m still clueless. In the old days I would just have walked in with a couple of gorillas and concluded my business. With no back up and no weapon it’s a non-starter. They will also be on high alert. Word will have spread that someone is doing Credit Unions. That will make them twitchy. I need some help on this one and sadly I can only think of one person that might be up for it.
I’m off to see Martin tomorrow.
God help me.
Chapter 33
Thursday January 24 th 2008
For the bulk of my incarceration I had always thought that Dupree had taken Martin out after I was sent down. Then I had the pleasure of a new cell mate, a confidence trickster, who shared my cell for a few nights. It meant there were three of us crammed in the room built for one but the prison was bursting at the seams and there was hardly a union rep we could complain to.
The con was called Gerald Crainey and in some distant part of my brain his name rang a bell. At first he said little but on the third night we were talking football and he came over all gobby. It turned out he had been on the books for Celtic as a schoolboy.
‘I could have played for the first team, you know.’
He loved his football and to hack him off I told him I was a Partick Thistle fan. He took the royal piss out of me but we got into it over the 1971 game and, as I had learned over the years, it was a great way to wind up some Celtic fans.
‘Another Partick nutter. Met one not long ago called Martin Sketchmore.’
I backed him up and asked him if Martin Sketchmore was my Martin Sketchmore.
‘Sassenach who thinks he’s Scottish. Balding, likes his rugby and his pros?’
It was as good a description as I had heard. What intrigued me, on further interrogation, was that the meeting had occurred at a football event that was only a few years in the past. That put Martin on this planet well after I thought Dupree had got to him.
I pumped Gerald for everything he knew but it wasn’t much. He had met Martin at a Celtic supporters’ do that was being held in Murrayfield — the home of Scottish rugby. They had got to talking at the bar. The inevitable subject of 1971 came up and then Martin had told Gerald that he always wanted to go to an Old Firm game but had never gotten round to it. Gerald happened to have two tickets for the main stand at Hampden for the upcoming Rangers v Celtic game in the Scottish Cup. The game was a sell out and tickets were nowhere to be found — not for love nor money. A few drinks later and they were soul mates. A few more and Gerald invited Martin to the game.
Gerald and Martin had drunk themselves stupid at the game but parted ways with no exchange of details. Martin had been a stranger to Gerald ever since. But it was enough for me. If Martin was alive someone would know where and I intended to find out.
It took me months of favours and back-handers to track him down. In truth it wasn’t difficult, just agony when you are trying to do it from prison. My lack of friends made everything expensive, painful or slow.
I found out he was back in Glasgow and now part of the law abiding citizenry. He had a job in a city lawyers, as a ‘by the hour’ detective. His job was to dig up dirt and his old contacts had made him a bit of a winner at the gig. I knew he lived in Eaglesham — a small satellite village south of Glasgow. I didn’t have an address but with a name like Sketchmore I reckoned he wouldn’t be too hard to find.
I took the bus to the village. A long haul by any accounts, and, when I arrived, I realised this might be harder than I first thought. The village, although small, was still big enough to cause me some grief and as I alighted the bus and stood next to the bus stop I thought — where now?
The pub was the obvious start point and I entered the Eaglesham Arms with some hope in my chest. Ten minutes later I was back on the street.
