this was how a wolf felt before it attacked. The heart sending blood surging to every vessel it needs. It was pounding.
I closed my eyes and stuck my finger on the page. Simple as.
Hutchison, Wm. 16 Portland Street, Whiteinch.
I read his name five times and savoured it, turned it over. Hutchison, Wm. William Hutchison. Billy Hutchison. Bill Hutchison. Willie. Will.
Poor old William Hutchison, whoever he was, was going to pay an awful price for the behaviour of a fifteen- year-old slut twenty-odd years earlier.
Fucking bitch.
Don’t analyse it. It’s too obvious, doesn’t need it. I wanted to hurt her, punish her, make her regret humiliating me. Even though she would never know, this was my way of doing it.
Fate’s a funny thing. Hutchison, W from Rutherglen and Hutchison, W.G. from Barrhead were a fingernail away from theirs and knew nothing about it. Sitting either side of Hutchison, Wm, they were blissful in their ignorance. Best way for them.
I couldn’t help wondering who they were. Walter? Wilma? Wendy? Young or old, good or bad? Butcher, baker or mover and shaker? Would they have been difficult or easy, fought or succumbed? Would it have mattered?
Of course, I knew nothing about the man in Whiteinch either but that would change soon enough. Me and William Hutchison would become acquainted. I’d get to know him pretty well before I killed him. That was the way it had to be.
CHAPTER 6
It turned out Billy was a bookie. An accountant of the turf variety with his own shop on Maryhill Road, one of the handful of independents left in the city. Places like his relied on regulars. Offering slightly better prices than the big high street guys to keep the punters coming back. He’d know them all by name, know whose wife not to talk to, know whose secrets to keep, know who’d be good for credit and who wouldn’t.
He’d be a bit shady, bound to be, but legit enough. There would be a good few bets never chalked up for the taxman. He’d maybe be paying a bit of insurance to keep his shop from going up in flames, protection money to ensure a safe trip to the bank with a bag of takings.
Billy the bookie was in his late fifties, a cheery, grey-haired man of about five foot six with steel glasses, a belly and a purple face. His stomach, face and nose told me he liked his beer and whisky. So did his lunchtime visits to the Imperial Bar.
He lived an easy fifteen-minute drive from his shop, a big semi in Whiteinch with garden front and back. His wife was a faded woman with hard-worked hair, nicotine skin and 1980s clothes. I twice saw two guys who were probably grown-up kids that had flown the coop.
I watched him get into his car to drive to the shop.
I watched him walk from his shop to the bank and saw him stop fully five times to chat with this person or that.
Billy Hutchison knew everyone in the street and they all knew him. He had a joke for most, a quiet word for others. For every one of them he had a breezy smile. He tousled kids’ hair, he patted dogs and he waved at passing cars. Chances are he would have helped old ladies across the road if any of them needed it. He was Santa, offering 2-1 the field.
It didn’t make any difference. His was the name at the end of my finger and that was all that mattered. Carr had made it easy for me by being a total fanny but that wasn’t the point. Random is random.
I slipped into the pub and watched Billy. I was much more comfortable in the Imperial than I had been in the Corinthian. The beer, bunnets and bandits hid me better than champagne and chandeliers. No one looked twice.
Billy held court at a table in the corner. He sat with cronies and there was a lot of laughing and waving of hands. They all enjoyed the craic but Billy was king. No doubt about it.
The bunnets – whether they wore them or not – knew their place. They could have a pop at Billy, make a joke at his expense, didn’t matter. When Billy spoke they listened and laughed. He was the money man and that bought him stature.
I watched him knock back a pint of special and a large whisky. He wolfed down a plate of lasagne and chips. Chips with lasagne? Christ, the ‘chef’ deserved killing.
He had another pint and two more double whiskies. He chased the lasagne and chips salad down with apple pie and cream.
He had lasagne on his shirt, spots of cream on his collar and a mix of the whole mess on his face. To celebrate, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and burped. It was more than a rift. It was an open-mouth belch that he exaggerated by making it roar from his belly.
Billy the bookie sat back to let everyone marvel at his talent and his mates duly paid homage by all laughing with him.
I guess you can find a reason to kill anyone if you look hard enough. Billy Hutchison – nice old guy, burping slob – had just signed his warrant. I finished my drink, left the pub and went home.
It was fully two weeks until I went back to Maryhill and went into Billy’s shop. I’d seen him go into the Imperial just after twelve and the first race was the 2.00 at Sandown. Billy would be back in the bookies by 1.30 so that gave him nearly an hour and a half to fill his belly and display his manners.
I walked and waited – I didn’t need to watch him eat again. Walking when you have nowhere to go and no wish to be noticed is a strange thing. You can’t just look aimless, there has to be a direction about you. Pick a spot in front of you and walk quick enough, not too quick. No eye contact, keep in the shadows, be casual. Walk as if you are whistling without actually doing so.
I got far enough, checked my watch, looked around as if I was a bit lost and making my mind up. No idea if anyone was actually watching me. Checked my watch again, puffed out my cheeks and turned around.
Back to Billy’s.
It was ten past two, the first race was over and the place should have filled up a bit. More customers, more cover.
I had one worry though and there was no way I could think of to test it except by going in. Suck it and see, no other way to go. CCTV. The bane of my frigging life. Well, my new life.
I had spent a lot of time thinking about it. Pros. Cons. There were no pros. I would say that I lost sleep over it but I didn’t sleep much anyway. However the thought of them definitely made me anxious. If there were cameras in there then it could only be bad news. The only question was the degree of trouble.
My only protection was the baseball cap on my head and while that would help, it was hardly a disguise. One shot of me in the shop meant a link could be proven. No getting away from that. It would be a while yet before anything happened to Billy and it would mean someone checking through a lot of film but it could be done.
Maybe Billy didn’t keep the film more than a day or two. Maybe Billy had cameras with no film in them. Maybe Billy had no camera. I didn’t like maybes. I needed certainties. Random only gets you so far.
What was my take on Billy boy? He had money but not that much. The house was reasonably expensive but not that much. Semi. Semi-detached, semi-expensive. I’d looked at his shoes – a hundred quid a time with worn heels. He ate lasagne and chips but wore a watch that was either worth five hundred pounds or a tenner depending on whether it was legit or a snidey. He had a two quid haircut and two twenty-grand cars in his drive. He walked to the bank. Mrs nicotine skin and hard-worked hair carried Louis Vuitton handbags and went to bingo twice a week.
My money was on Billy not having a camera. It was a big bet. Bigger than anything placed in Hutchison’s Independent Bookmakers. I figured that he wouldn’t want to spend the money. Figured he’d not want everything that happened in his shop to be recorded either. Figured he’d have a dummy camera at best.
For figured, read hoped. For hoped, read prayed. Except I didn’t pray to God any more.
I had finished my return walk and was outside the bookies. I didn’t hesitate even though I wanted to. I breathed deep and approached the door. Let there be no cameras. No cameras. No cameras. Keep saying it, make
