The newspapers said it was a serial killer. Said it was a random hit. Kirkwood wasn’t so sure and didn’t care anyway. He had let half of Glasgow know that he wanted to know who had claimed Tierney and someone had to know. He’d made it the talk of the underbelly. The talk of the steamie and the steaming. The chattering classes like Ally McFarland spread the gospel according to Alec Kirkwood to anyone who would listen.
Yet still he didn’t have what he wanted. Did they think he wasn’t serious? Could they be that fucking stupid? It left him boiling that they were going to make him prove himself all over again. If he had to demonstrate to these arseholes that he was not to be disrespected then they would only have themselves to blame.
He offered them the easy way or the hard way to do things and they made the choice. They gave him no option but to behave like the bampot that fought his way out of Asher Street. He had left that slum behind years ago and knew there were other ways of doing things, but they kept dragging him back there. Well, fine.
An example had to be made and Alec Kirkwood knew just the man. There was a guy by the name of Hutton who hurt people for Mick Docherty. Billy Hutton, a violent type who liked being a bit of a name. He was flash with his cash and his mouth and had a reputation with the women. He was maybe six four with slicked-back hair and gym muscles. He thought himself a looker and by some miracle his face had escaped a doing over the years.
The little people crossed the road to stay out of Hutton’s way. He was always given room and he loved it. He had three kids by three women. None of them to his wife. Hutton had been inside twice and had put his share of people in hospital. He liked his work.
He was close to Docherty and there were even those who thought Mick was afraid of him. That seemed unlikely but you could bet Hutton was happy with the idea.
Same thing with Spud Tierney. There was some talk that Hutton had stuck Spud but Kirkwood doubted it. The knife wasn’t Hutton’s style. A baseball bat maybe, a drop off a tall building or simply beaten to death. Not the blade though.
Still, Hutton knew folk had made the whisper about him doing Spud and he did nothing to stop it. He knew his name was floating but he didn’t sink it as he should have. It was part of the game that sometimes you took credit for things you hadn’t done, add a notch to your score and a boost to your rep.
The trick though was to pick and choose your moments. Playing the smart arse and letting people believe you had offed one of Alec Kirkwood’s boys was stupidity. Kirky was still very unhappy. He was convinced someone had murdered Tierney to taunt him. That someone had cut off Tierney’s finger as a sign.
Every time I caught the tail end of a whisper put out by Kirkwood, I shuddered. It wasn’t the way it was meant to be. It had nothing to do with him.
But the word kept coming. He was saying that it wouldn’t end, wouldn’t be forgotten. No one would be allowed to take the piss out of Kirky. It seems he thought Hutton was doing just that.
Hutton had a council house in Christie Street in Shettleston with his wife. A typical sixties dump from the outside but inside it was kitted out with the flashiest gear that shady money could buy.
Tuesday morning and Hutton had left that council house and began to walk down the street. He had turned just one corner when an unmarked white van pulled up and three men got out.
They grabbed Hutton and threw him into the back of the van. The big man didn’t put up much of a fight.
Of course, nobody in Christie Street was able to describe the men when the police came asking. Of course, no one saw anything they could tell the cops.
It was Davie Stewart and the Grant brothers, Charlie and Frank, each as mental as the other.
The white van drove out of Christie Street at a good pace but not racing. There was a kettle full of boiling water sitting in the front seat and you don’t want that spilled on your upholstery.
They drove no more than two minutes to the hill known locally as The Womb on account of the number of kids conceived there. There are few places in suburban Glasgow that are very far from bits of green that could be used by desperate teenagers.
Hutton was marched to the top of the hill at gunpoint, his hands tied behind him. Frankie Grant carried the kettle.
They kicked his legs from him until Hutton was on his knees before them. They cracked the side of his head with the gun barrel and forced his mouth open.
Frankie poured half the kettle of near-boiling water down his throat then covered him in the rest.
Hutton screamed.
He did the same again when Frankie smashed the empty kettle off the side of his face, leaving a red welt that stained him from his cheek to his forehead.
Charlie Grant tore the trousers off him and forced Hutton to bend over, spreading his legs wide.
Davie Stewart went behind him and shoved the barrel of the gun up Hutton’s arse. He forced it roughly into his hole and spiralled it as deep as he could inside him.
Hutton still played the big man. He told them to fuck off. Told them to do it. Told them to go ahead and pull the trigger. So Davie Stewart did.
There was a click and nothing else. The gun had never been loaded in the first place.
That was the point when Hutton began to cry. He sobbed a bit and laughed out of relief. Just before Davie Stewart raped him.
Charlie Grant did the same but Frankie settled for kicking Hutton hard in the balls. Each to their own.
They left Hutton on top of The Womb, bleeding, blistering and greeting his eyes out. He’d thought they were going to kill him and chances are he ended up wishing they had. The message was that were some things worse than death for a Glasgow hard man. There were worse things that Alec Kirkwood could do to you than that.
Everyone who lived and breathed in the inner city knew the value of image and dignity. Lose those and you’d be as well losing your balls. Hutton had tried to be smart with the wrong guy. Anyone else fancy trying that? Thought not.
They would be calling him a mad bastard again. That was fine. They’d be saying he was just a psycho in a good suit and he could live with that. This time it had all been about getting that message across, not about wee Spud’s killer.
As Hutton lay blubbering on the top of that hill, Davie Stewart eventually asked him who had killed Spud Tierney. Through his snot and tears, Hutton said he had no idea. Davie Stewart hadn’t expected to hear much else but kicked him in the head anyway. That was for being stupid. You should have said that in the first place, arsehole.
News of what was done to Hutton was quickly fed to all corners. No point in doing it otherwise.
Had to make you wonder what he might do to the person who had actually killed Tierney. It certainly made me think. Not scared, not of what he might do. Worried that it might get in the way of my plans. A complication I could have definitely done without.
Some people asked how it was known Hutton was leaving the house at the time he did. They wanted to know how Kirky’s men knew to have that kettle boiling.
Some said Hutton was a creature of habit. Others knew that wasn’t true. The smart money said Mrs Hutton made a phone call. Three unanswered rings then hung up. Come on down, the price is right.
Hutton didn’t go to the cops, of course, and didn’t go to a hospital. He went to the flat where the mother of one of his children lived. She took one look at him and closed the door in his face.
He went to Mick Docherty’s and didn’t get a much better reception. Mickey stuck a bundle of cash into Hutton’s pocket and sent him on his way. It was the last anyone heard or saw of him.
Not all my fault. Hutton put himself in that world. I just put him in that situation.
CHAPTER 26
My view on other people’s happiness was not what it was. There was a time when I’d have wanted everyone to be as happy as me. As us.
The day we were married. The day Sarah was born. The first day she went to school. The day she won that poetry prize. I had so much happiness that it burst out of me and there was plenty to share.
Things changed.
Other people’s happiness became something I didn’t consider greatly. It became something I didn’t consider
