Violence in the Blood Page 2

  Chapter 6

  The Church of Scotland abandoned the chapel in sixty-eight. The congregation dwindled to less than a hundred patrons, making it no longer viable to remain open. Collection offerings barely covered the heat and electric costs. The roof needed replacing, the bell tower structurally unsound and too expensive to warrant repair. McAlister bought it up for three thousand pounds and mothballed it, liking the irony of owning a church. It made him feel closer to God and part of the establishment.

  Rob Masters and Cory Finnegan had been with McAlister a little over three years, proving themselves to be good earners. Trusted Lieutenants, integral to the firm. Both had a certain way about them, the swagger that goes with being an enforcer.

  When they arrived, Malkie met them at the door and directed them to the crypt, telling them McAlister was waiting down there out of sight in case the cops showed up. He made up some bullshit about a sting operation. Both clueless, it fitted with the phone call they’d had from the man himself. Neither questioned it, making their way down in to the gloom.

  McAlister wasn’t any place close, his alibi solid, a hundred miles away on the golf course, surrounded by the great and the good. This was Malkie’s operation, his first real test. He brought in his own team, trusted confidants, George Patterson, Frank Mayer and Billy Kane, people he’d shared blood with on the street.

  Masters and Finnegan walked in blind. It never occurred to them that McAlister was on to them. Malkie’s crew stepped out of the shadows, raining down on them, punching, kicking, gouging, just like the old days. He let it run for two minutes, and then called time. He didn’t want them dead, not yet. He had them dragged over to the crypt wall, and chained like disobedient dogs with no place to run and no place to hide.

  Malkie stepped up close to Masters, always the cockier of the two. He’d made the mistake of talking down to Malkie from day one, thinking himself a cut above everyone else in the firm.

  Payback time.

  Malkie grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking his head up, he inspected the damage. A bloodied mush, his nose plastered across his face, emitting a nasal wheeze through the splintered cartilage. His left eye socket closed, swelling angry and purple. The right eye open, a mixture of crimson and mauve. Blood spilled freely from his shattered mouth, broken teeth strewn across the bloodied cavern. Malkie leaned in, whispered close to his ear. ‘Give it up, make it easy on yourself.’

  Masters spat a mixture of blood and enamel. ‘Get fucked.’

  Malkie nodded, a cruel smile on his face. He moved over to Finnegan, plainly seeing the fear in his eyes. The kind a wounded animal gets when it knows death is near. He leant in close, and told him how it was going to play out. ‘You can walk out of here, you just need to do the right thing, I can talk to McAlister, put in a good word.’

  A right thinking Finnegan would have known it was bullshit, there was no way he could come back. He’d skimmed the boss, no coming back from that. It didn’t work that way. An example had to be made, but Finnegan wanted to believe, desperate to hold on to life.

  Malkie backed off as if he was giving him time to think. Disappearing into the shadows, he whispered to Frank, the sound of breaking glass slicing the dank air.

  Finnegan searched the gloom, scanning left to right. He pulled at the chains. Masters hissed through splintered cartilage, ‘keep it together, man the fuck up.’

  A transistor radio crackled into life, Simple Minds playing “Alive and Kicking”, the volume cranked up. Malkie stepped from the shadows, stripped to the waist. ‘Fucking love this song, this band, Jim Kerr, top man. La la la la la...’ As he approached Masters, Finnegan could just make out the outline of something in his hand, grotesque and jagged, glinting in the low light.

  Malkie stopped, pivoted, turned back towards Finnegan, two paces separating them. Now he could see it, a broken brown ale bottle. Malkie smiled cruel and tight. Stepping closer, ‘La la la la la la la la la la la... come on sing it with me,’ drawing the edge of the bottle down Finnegan’s cheek. ‘La la la la la la la...’ Opening him up from eye socket to jaw bone, a mewling sound turning to a growl as spikes of pain invaded his face. Fresh claret gushed to the dusty floor of the crypt. Souvenir blood spatter making contact with Malkie’s shoes.

  He stood in front of Masters, a defiant look on his face, a hard man to the end. Malkie admired his stance. He knew there was no way out. He was determined not to break, not to show weakness. Malkie nodded, then thrust the bottle into Masters’ right eye singing along, ‘alive and kicking, la la la la,’ twisted it, pushing deeper.

  Finnegan puked, remnants dripping from his mouth as he watched, helpless. Masters’ head snapped side to side, snorting through shards of broken cartilage, a steaming kettle turning to a whining growl.

  Gouging and ripping, lumps of flesh tearing away. There was no escape, nowhere to hide. Malkie scrunched his hair in his left fist, yanked his head up, Increasing the pressure, forcing the bottle farther in with his right hand. The eyeball popped. Masters couldn’t hold on, screaming like a new-born, hot lightning rods of searing pain attacking his mangled eye socket, exposing raw nerve endings.

  Finnegan looked on, all hope evaporating. Losing control, he emptied his bladder, the stench of piss filling the crypt.

  Masters fell silent, his head slumped low, his bulk hanging limp on the chains. It was impossible to tell if he was dead or unconscious. George stepped out of the gloom, took the bottle stump from Malkie, the remainder buried deep in the eye socket.

  Malkie wiped his hands on a towel and dabbed at the cool beads of sweat on his brow. He turned to Finnegan, the acrid smell of fresh urine hitting the back of his throat. ‘You crossed the line.’

  Billy took the towel form Malkie, handing him a small package in return. Finnegan strained to focus his eyes in the low light, desperate to identify the object.

  Too late. Malkie was on him. No warning. No build up. Finnegan began to scream. Piercing shrill sounds filling the crypt, amplified in the confined space, echoing off each wall over the tinny sound of the transistor radio. Malkie went to work, frenzied, a man possessed. George, Frank and Billy winced in awe. Finnegan’s screams adding to his frenzy. The louder he got, it just seemed to intensify Malkie’s blood lust. Forcing the pliers in through shattered raw broken nerve endings. Attacking the incisors, upper and lower molars in succession.

  Finnegan, grotesque and mangled, stripped of dignity, piss-soaked and bloodstained, began to sob.

  Malkie reached for the .38 Special pushed it into the side of Finnegan’s head. ‘Can end this quick, what you do with it?’

  Finnegan bloodied and broken, sobbing like a child. ‘OK, just stop, please... I’ll tell you, tell you everything.’ A mixture of tears, blood and snot soaked into the dust. ‘Please, Malkie, just stop, stop.’

  Malkie wedged the barrel of the .38 Special into Finnegan’s groin, looking over toward Masters. ‘You want to keep your pecker and balls together, best tell me what he’s done with his share of the loot.’

  Panic setting in, Finnegan began hyperventilating. ‘Swear to God; don’t know what he’s done with....’

  Malkie digging the .38 harder. ‘You wanna bleed out down here?

  There’s only so much the body and mind can take, Finnegan gave it up, all of it.

  Malkie pulled back the hammer, and shot Masters in the leg. No response. He needed to be sure he wasn’t playing the dead man. He turned to Finnegan, his head slung low and dank hair hanging lifeless. He pressed the .38 hard to the top of his skull, and emptied the chamber. He handed the gun to Billy, told him to get rid of it. Instructed him to clean the place up. Burn the bodies. Leave no trace, no evidence.

  He made his way out of the crypt, ascending the stairs and out through the chapel in to the cold, bright sunlit day. Shielding his eyes, he took a lung full of air. Felt good. No going back. He drove to a callbox, put the call in. ‘Problem sorted.’ He hung up the phone.

  Chapter 7

  The following day, Thompso
n and McAlister had a face to face at the Grosvenor Hotel in Glasgow’s West End.

  McAlister embraced him like a long lost son. ‘Good to see you, Malkie, what’ll you drink, whisky, single malt right?’

  ‘I’m good thanks, water’s fine. Thought this place burnt down?’

  ‘You need to get out more, reopened back in eighty-two. Come on, not sure I can trust a man who won’t share a dram with me.’

  ‘Ok, make it a single.’

  Down to business, Malkie ran through the story, going into detail about his methods to extract the truth, convincing McAlister neither had held out on him. The cash already spent, frittered away on women, expensive gifts and designer clothes.

  McAlister looked around, checking civilians were out of earshot. ‘Your actions have brought about an immediate vacancy, it needs filling fast. You up to it?’

  ‘Depends, what is it you’re offering?’

  ‘Shrewd, I like that. Don’t give anything away. That’s important in this life. Put it this way, what if I was to offer you territory? Free to govern it your way, you pay your cut like everyone else but it’s yours all the same.’

  ‘Reckon I can live with that.’

  ‘Good man.’ Raising his glass, ‘slàinte mhath’.

  ‘Slàinte’

  Malkie took over the territory, making it his business to do personal house calls. He upped the taxes, telling the owners if they didn’t like it, they best go to McAlister and put in a complaint. He said they’d been complicit in defrauding the organisation and should consider it a fixed penalty, to be paid direct to him and no one else. He told them to ask around about him, confident in letting the street banter do the rest.

  Things remained that way for a while, but it was never going be enough. Malkie had plans, and it didn’t take long for him to grow restless. He’d outgrown McAlister. The man was weak, too trusting, compromised. Malkie wanted autonomy, not kick ups. Freedom to operate his way.

  And besides, he owed McAlister a date with the pliers.

  Chapter 8

  Back in the autumn of eighty-seven, McAlister had a job in the planning. A security depot with bundles of cash for the taking. He’d outsourced it. He got the word on two specialists, freelancers who operated across the U.K. and Europe. He had to put himself beyond suspicion. When the cops put the finger on him, his alibi had to be solid. He wanted Thompson there, eyes on, nothing more.

  John Blake and Kieran Williams spent most of the year living down on the Algarve and worked on personal recommendation. The call came via their contact in Newcastle. McAlister, a big name in Glasgow, was already known to them, and well respected. With cash reserves running low, they flew out the next day.

  McAlister had an insider at the Royal Mint processing centre, a low-key unit on the edge of an industrial estate in Dumfries. A place where cash gets destroyed when it’s taken out of circulation. Intel suggested there could be as much as a hundred and fifty grand in there. Unmarked armoured vans drove in and dropped the cash boxes, paperwork got signed off and the vans departed.

  The Idea was to wait for the last delivery. Three months of surveillance and inside knowledge said this happened each night at eleven-thirty. Blake and Williams were to lie in wait, Malkie to act as driver and look out. The security guards would unload the cash boxes. Being the last drop on the manifest ensured they weren’t in as much of a rush, taking time to flirt with the girls working inside. Perfect.

  McAlister’s plant was Rachel Proctor, a young single mum motivated by the opportunity to make a little extra cash. A girl of natural ability, twenty-three-years-old, full lips and bumps in all the right places. From day one, she took to wearing a uniform blouse two sizes too small, accentuating her assets. It proved to be a big hit with all the drivers.

  Two middle-aged blokes walking out in to the cold night air, their heads full of fantasy, the last thing they’d expect was to be staring down the barrel of a sawn off shotgun.

  The first part went to plan, the guards overpowered with ease. A knock to the head, bound and gagged, relieved of their uniforms, and bundled into the van out of sight. Clockwork – less than forty-five seconds.

  Blake hammered on the door, and waved at the security camera. The processing supervisor, a guy called Michael Phillips, looked at the monitor. All he could see was the guard holding up the paperwork, pointing at something. The cameras have no audio, so he can’t make out what it is he’s gesturing to, so he opened the door.

  Blake rushed forward, slamming the butt of the shotgun into the supervisor’s mouth. Blood and teeth spewed to the floor. Phillips writhed in pain as Blake delivered a vicious snap kick to his groin, another to the solar plexus. Williams steamed past, securing the area, the supervisor caught in the frenzied maelstrom, powerless to react or raise the alarm.

  Malkie waited in the car, feeling as if he’s been reduced to errand boy. He’s way past all of this. He’s Malkie Thompson, rising star of the Glasgow underworld. Yet here he is, nothing more than a glorified chauffeur. He began thinking to himself about ungrateful McAlister, who doesn’t realise what he’s done for him, and that he deserves more.

  Five minutes pass, he checks his watch, his eyes flit to the rear-view mirror. He’s getting twitchy. A gut feeling telling him something’s wrong. He began to think McAlister had set him up, expecting to see the blue lights over the hill any second.

  He couldn’t wait any longer, he was out of the car, stomping back to the unit. Through the wire fence he cut a hole in thirty minutes earlier. Across the asphalt, he broke into a jog, the wind blowing hard, muting his hearing. He saw the lights from the unit, the steel roller door shut but the side door’s ajar.

  Closer now, he could hear excited voices, something was up. He sprinted head down into the gale, slowing as he neared the door. Panting, his lungs burning, he pulled out the Beretta M9, checking the load, one in the chamber ready to go.

  Crouching low, scanning the area left to right. He spotted John Blake lying on the floor, blood seeping from his head, lifeless. Farther in, he found Williams, wild-eyed, waving his gun around threatening to shoot anyone who moved.

  It turned out the supervisor had a second in command. Protocol dictated that he came looking for the number one within ninety seconds of radio silence. A little detail Rachel Proctor neglected to pass on.

  So the assistant supervisor, young athletic type, decided to be the have a go hero. He rushed Blake. It turned out he snuck up behind him and whacked him with a bat. Put him down and whacked him some more, killing him outright. Blake didn’t even get a chance to throw a punch.

  Adrenalin flowing, the assistant activated the silent alarm before turning his attention to Williams, who was none the wiser, stacking the cash, getting taken down and tackled to the floor. The first he knew of it, he had four guys on him, twisting him up. His shooter went off, and they backed away. The only thing was, he managed to shoot himself in the lower leg, tearing his calf muscle clean off. Lead pellets peppered his knees and thighs, leaving him bleeding out like fresh road kill.

  Malkie assessed the scene. There was nothing for it, Blake was lying face down, his hand clutching a grey mail sack stuffed with used notes. Malkie guessed he was already dead on account of the dark congealed blood pooling round his head. Williams wasn’t looking so good either. Propped against a filing cabinet, arterial spray covering a two-yard radius, stray pellets embedding the femoral artery. No chance of him getting out of there. Malkie took stock. Williams’ eyes rolled round in his head, struggling to focus. Time was running out.

  Out of options, sirens already faint in the distance, he had two minutes before they closed in. Had to get out of there, salvage job and make the best of it. He put one bullet in Blake’s head, just to be sure. Walked up to Williams, and popped him straight in the face, twice, prising the holdall from his fingers, and walked out of there.

  McAlister was livid, two freelancers dead. The only good news, they ain’t affiliated. He doesn’t need this kind of shit, but there
’s bound to be fallout, you can’t go round offing the contractors.

  He sent a car, ordering Thompson be brought in. Malkie didn’t resist, confident he did right. McAlister has a dilemma. His reputation, his very position is at stake. Thompson’s stepped over the mark. McAlister has to be sure he’s not messing with him. At the same time, he knows Thompson used his nous. He tidied up the loose ends. That said, he still wants his money. He’s the Governor, the number one, no one gets a free pass.

  Chapter 9

  Thompson’s body bore the marks of a beating, angry red weals forming on his chest, swelling to the face, a split lip, blood congealing around his mouth. They stripped him naked, gaffer taped him to the chair. He still had his head held high, staring down his balaclava-clad assailants. Taunting them, ‘when this is done, you boys are gonna beg me to end it quick.’

  They stuffed a dirty old rag in his mouth to shut him up. Then it began. Three blokes, rubber hoses. Thompson knew what was coming, tensing his body, then relaxing it, regulating his breathing, preparing, getting himself in the zone.

  It started off slow, each one taking it in turn. Hose cutting through the air, a swarm of mosquitoes striking his face, chest, top of the legs. The first few blows stinging like fuck. The adrenaline coursing through his body, numbing the pain. They were just getting warmed up. No words, building to a silent crescendo of violence.

  They tipped him back in the chair, the rhythmic pattern of pain raining down on the soles of his feet.

  McAlister stepped forward, crouching close to Thompson. ‘You did well, problem is, you didn’t stick to the plan. Disobeyed orders.’ He took his time to inspect the damage. ‘See you and the boys have got acquainted. Enjoy their work, can do this all day.’ McAlister moved down to the bloated feet, jabbing them with his finger. ‘They got the look of raw meat, still a way to go.’ He used both hands to squeeze each foot in turn. ‘Nice work, boys.’ Malkie choked back a groan. McAlister moved back, closer to his face. ‘Take it as a lesson, son. Need to know your place.’ Whispering close to his ear, ‘can’t have employees running wild, bad for business.’ He took the rag from Malkie’s mouth. ‘Now where’s my money?’