Craig Robertson - Random

‘… Ripper, don’t you think?’

‘Nah, he didn’t look like he could rip open a packet of crisps. That creep in the yellow shirt though. Definite candidate.’

‘God, aye. He was a freak. Weird eyes, right stare on him.’

‘I think that might just have been your tits.’

‘Well true, he wasn’t the only one having difficulty looking at my face when he spoke to me. Disnae mean he wasn’t a weirdo though.’

‘Place was full of them the night.’

‘No change there.’

‘Ah know, but I didn’t use to think there was maybe a psycho serial killer among them. Just thought they were chancers and pervy bastards.’

‘Scares the shit out of me, Mel.’

‘Ah know. Didnae think something like that could happen here. It’s no New York.’

‘Has though. Four times. Christ.’

‘Mental.’

‘Ah know. My old man has an Annie Rooney every time ah go out. Would be staying in till this freak’s caught if he had his way.’

‘Right, we’ll get the driver to stop at yours first so you’ll no be left on your own.’

‘Naw, naw, it’s cool. You get dropped off first. I’ll text my dad and he can meet me at the door to the close.’

‘No, I’ll just be worried. Drop you off first. Then I’ll no worry.’

‘Yeah, but then I’ll be worrying.’

‘Well, why don’t we both just get dropped off first and you can stay the night at mine.’

They giggled.

‘Aye, your Raymond would love that.’

‘Aye, he probably would actually.’

They both burst out laughing.

In the end, some sort of sense prevailed. The one whose dad could come down to meet her got off last. Didn’t seem to occur to her that the danger she was so worried about was sitting right in front of her. Not that she was at any risk whatsoever, either of them. Probably safer than any other two girls in the city that night. Safe as houses.

I breathed hard after the second one got out. Their words sticking in my head. Freak. Psycho. Mental.

Sticks and stones. Girls that age, though. Made me think of my own. Some judgements hurt more than others.

It was harder now. Wallace Ogilvie was dealt with and I could feel some of my hatred going with him. But there were still things to do. Still a plan to stick to. Had to go on. Much harder now. Had to be harder to deal with that. Hard as Glasgow. Hard as those who joked to me about a killer that sat in front of them.

They wanted this Ripper to kill football managers, politicians, and celebrities. They seemed sure I’d want him to kill traffic wardens or managers from the roads department. Hard people with ready black humour. People with no understanding. They didn’t know me. They didn’t know why. Never would if things worked out right.

My plan. My daughter.

Didn’t, couldn’t, care for their opinions. Only one thing mattered. Only one person mattered.

Had to shut them out. Had to turn a deaf ear to them again. They weren’t hard, they were stupid. Stupid and dull. Only thing hard was my heart. Hardened against their jokes and fears, their theories and bleatings. They weren’t gallus, they were just in the way.

Fuck Glasgow. Job to do. Job to finish.

The thing with sending out messages is that if they are not received and understood then you have to keep sending them out until they are.

Alec Kirkwood had clipped Jimmy Mac’s finger and dumped him in the street with a hole in his eye. It hadn’t been enough. He had broken the arms of two neds who had acted the big-man when they were asked for info. It hadn’t been enough. He had had a bullet put through Mick Docherty’s front window and it hadn’t been enough. He had put the frighteners on everyone he could and no one had coughed with a name. It wasn’t good enough.

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.