That and because he hated the fucking name Jock.
CHAPTER 29
Alec Kirkwood had changed tack. Ally McFarland told me so.
Number five had changed his thinking on the whole issue. Seems he now accepted that the killing of Spud Tierney was not done to taunt him. Realized that Tierney’s finger wasn’t a great big Get it Right Up You to him.
That was the good news.
The bad was that Kirky was still hell-bent on finding out who murdered his dealer. Maybe more so than before. He had put the word out that he wanted Spud’s killer. Made sure everyone knew just how much. Kirky was used to getting what he wanted so was not a happy man when it didn’t deliver. And because he had made his wishes so public, it was left all over his face when he got nothing. That just made him angry.
What bothered Kirkwood most was that people, the people that mattered, might see this as weakness. Being top dog in a world where one ate the other was always a precarious business. If they think you are on the slide then they boot you up the arse to help you on your way.
One opening, that was all that they were looking for. Searching for a wound where they could stick a knife and twist until it was left wide and festering.
Well Kirky wasn’t about to give them an opportunity. He’d fuck every one of them over before he let that happen. He needed to re-establish his authority. Smack some heads together, break some legs.
That meant finding the cunt that had killed Spud and took the piss out of him and that was what he was going to do. Maybe it wasn’t all about him but that wasn’t going to stop him from finding whoever shanked Spud.
This serial killer wasn’t the only one that had taken the piss. Mick Docherty, still blazing about Jimmy McIntyre, the bullet through his window and the torture of Billy Hutton, hadn’t missed his chance. He let it be known what a joke Kirkwood had become. How everyone was laughing at him for not being able to look after his own. How he had made all this big noise about making someone pay and then doing sweet fuck all about it.
That would have been enough to make Kirkwood furious but Mick had also been getting a bit naughty. Two pubs in Cowcaddens had been turned over. Bottles, beer and cash taken and both places trashed. Two pubs in Alec Kirkwood’s pocket and under his protection. Penny stuff really but it was cheeky.
Everyone knew that it was kids who worked for Docherty who had done it. They had been selling the booze cheap and knocking back a fair share of it too. Cheeky little bastards, Kirky had said.
They were sorted without too much fuss. Three doors kicked in at the same early hour of the morning. Three disrespectful wee shits beaten about the knees with baseball bats. One of them would never walk unaided again but the other two would be back on their feet in a few months. Lesson learned.
But the boys that had robbed the boozers weren’t the issue. Mick Docherty was. He might not have given them the word to plunder the pubs but he didn’t stop it or turn them over to Kirky once he knew the score. That was out of order. That was ripping the pish.
Kirkwood said it was simple. His reputation. The serial killer. Mick Docherty. All three needed sorting. He figured that by doing one he could maybe do all three. It was all about coming up with a plan.
He had advantages when it came to catching a killer. Kirkwood could send his guys to talk to people that the cops couldn’t. He could get answers where they would only get knock-backs or no comments. Kirky’s people played by different rules.
Davie Stewart and Charlie Grant spoke to Jack Fyfe, a partner in Salter, Fyfe and Bryce. Jonathan Carr’s boss. Seems Fyfe had more than a few clients on his books that were known to Kirkwood. Criminals needed lawyers like anyone else – more than most – and there were always lawyers more than happy to take their coin. Jack Fyfe was one of those.
Kirky’s boys leaned on him although there really wasn’t much need. Fyfe knew which side his bread was buttered on. He provided them with a list of Carr’s clients and a rundown on who might be worth talking to.
He also gave them details of Carr’s extra-curricular activities. The lap-dancing clubs, the massage parlour and the redhead in Milngavie named Amanda. Jack Fyfe was the type who made sure he knew everything about his employees, particularly the potentially embarrassing ones like Carr. He survived by knowing about problems before they happened.
Davie Stewart and Charlie Grant took a trip out to Woodlands Street in Milngavie and knocked on Amanda Kernaghan’s door. She wasn’t best pleased to see them.
The way Ally McFarland heard it, she was much less pleased by the time they left.
I had no idea if Rachel Narey, DC Dawson or any of their uniformed friends had been out to see Amanda but if they had I was pretty sure their approach would have been different. It’s doubtful they would have taken a crystal vase from a table and emptied flowers and water over an expensive carpet. Or smashed the vase against a wall. They almost certainly wouldn’t have rummaged through drawers to find address books and letters. They wouldn’t have stood over her and let her believe that they were about to rape her.
They wouldn’t have forced her legs apart and dragged her skirt to her waist. Wouldn’t have leered and stared and scowled and drooled the way Davie Stewart did. Silently pawing at her, aroused and angry, while Grant demanded to know who else knew about her and Carr. Pushing at her to tell who would have been jealous enough to kill him.
Amanda cried, tried to scream but Stewart’s hand stopped her from doing that. She told them that the killer had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with Jonathan. It was a random murder, the papers said so, the police said so.
Stewart and Grant told her it wasn’t, that she was a stupid cow, that she had to tell them what she knew. She cried again. Stewart stroked her thighs and licked his lips. Grant asked for a name and in the end she gave one. Some guy that had been interested before Carr was on the scene and who she had been out for dinner with a couple of times. He didn’t take it too well when she said she didn’t want to see him again. The guy, a computer programmer from Bearsden, demanded to know if there was anyone else and she’d said yes.
They didn’t leave a mark on her. No damage to the house except a broken vase, a clumsy accident. They eased her skirt back down and encouraged her not to speak to anyone. Grant suggested that Davie Stewart might be keen to come back and pay her another visit if there was even a whisper out of her. She wouldn’t say anything.
The computer geek took a doing. He told them nothing because he had nothing to say.
The cops were called but he could tell them little. Two guys in ski masks asked about the lawyer that had been murdered. Left him in a heap of badly bruised ribs when they realized all he knew was what was in the papers.
Frankie Grant and a couple of thugs were tasked with having a quiet word with some of Billy Hutchison’s customers at the bookies in Maryhill. It was in the nature of things that there were punters there that owed Billy money and would have been quids in when he got a short, sharp shock and was found pan breid behind his own front door. Independent bookies like Billy strung regulars out on credit and were much more likely to let them run up a tab than the likes of Ladbrokes or Corals. Some of them could be into him for a bundle.
Debts like that could end up in the hands of loan sharks and it took no more than a single phone call for Kirky to find out what he needed. Frankie and his boys had leverage. Not that they particularly needed it because they were quite happy to break fingers or burn cars. But the threat of those gambling debts being transferred to Alec Kirkwood turned out to be a very effective laxative. It loosened tongues as well as bowels. A name that was offered to them three times was Charlie Coyle, known as Glasvegas because of his heavy gambling.
At the time Billy had popped his clogs, Coyle was into him for nine and a half grand. Glasvegas was a big up, big down punter, the kind who would sting Billy for a thousand here or there with a shrewd bet then give him fifteen hundred back with a crazy hunch. Billy would always take his dough because he was confident he’d finish up ahead. Glasvegas sold second-hand cars so made decent money without exactly rolling in it. He needed Billy’s credit line and got it. But this time he’d got more of it than he could handle. Billy hadn’t handed the debt over to a shark but they were circling and smelling blood. The pressure was on but Glasvegas couldn’t buy a winner to get himself out
