Dumfries Read online

  “That wis lovely, so it wis, Ma,” Robert said, smacking they lips ae his, staunin up and drapping his soup plate and spoon in tae the sink.

  “Dae ye want some mair, son? There’s hauf a pot left.”

  “Aye, that wid be great, bit Ah’ll leave it fur a bit. Ah hiv tae nip oot fur a wee while. It shouldnae take me long. Okay?”

  “Bit whit aboot aw they polis who ur oot and aboot, son?” she replied, fearfully, “They might try and arrest ye.”

  “Ach, don’t ye worry aboot the plods, Ma. They know fine well that Ah’m innocent ae anything. They’ve nothing oan me,” he retorted defiantly, lifting his jaicket fae the back ae his chair and heiding fur the door.

  Robert wis glad that Auld farmer Mack hid been oot and cleared the track doon tae the main road earlier or he widnae hiv been able tae get the van up tae the hoose efter collecting it fae the cop shoap. He turned right oan tae the main road and heided towards Stirling. He felt elated. He’d read in the Stirling Observer earlier that the search fur Ann Broon wid continue, despite nae trace ae her hivving been found, even though polis tracker dugs and local volunteers hid been scouring the surrounding area. The newspaper hid also said that the polis hid spent a day and a hauf ferreting aboot up at the quarry and at Hayford Mill, tae nae avail. The only thing that hid bothered him o’er the past few days hid been the struggle ae trying tae pish through the permanent hard-on he wis carrying aboot in the front ae they Y-fronts ae his. The burning sensation oan his knob eased if he semi-squatted doon o’er the lavvy pan and let the pish run oot freely withoot trying tae apply pressure. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he thrust his right haun doon the front ae his tight troosers and shifted his stiff dick across tae lie in the crease between the tap ae his left leg and groin. No long noo, he smiled tae himsel, feeling a hot thrill shoot through his body. He made sure tae double back oan himsel a few times wance he goat intae the city tae ensure he wisnae being tailed. He clocked whit he wis looking fur and pulled o’er. He glanced at the luminous dial ae his wristwatch before exiting the vehicle. Seven forty five. He wis oan time. The call wid always be taken between seven and eight at night. Any time before or efter that and he couldnae be guaranteed the receiver wid be lifted up at the other end. He pulled open the phone box door tae be greeted by the waft ae stale pish. The phone rang at the other end fur four rings before he wis able tae push the ten pence coin fully intae the greedy slot.

  “Hello?” a known voice rasped suspiciously.

  “It’s me…Robert,” he stammered, failing tae contain that excitement ae his.

  “Whit hiv a Ah telt ye aboot names, fur Christ’s sake?” the voice at the other end snarled.

  “Oh, right, er, sorry, sorry, Ah furgoat,” he stammered.

  “So, whit hiv ye goat then?” the voice finally asked efter a wee pause.

  “A live wan,” he squealed, squeezing his knees thegither, feeling his jeans tighten against his hard-on.

  Silence.

  “How fresh?” the voice oan the line finally asked.

  “Fresh…as in fresh.”

  “Hiv ye touched her?”

  “Er, naw,” he replied hesitantly.

  “Is it the wan that’s been oan the news?”

  “Aye.”

  “His she been getting some water?”

  “Aye, alang wae some breid.”

  “Okay. Right, Ah’ll ask ye again. Hiv ye touched her?”

  “Naw…well…jist a wee quick feeling up.”

  “Right, well, listen up and listen good. Stay away fae that bitch until we arrive. Hiv ye goat that noo?”

  “Er, right, aye, fine.”

  “Good. Ye’ve done well, so ye hiv. Ah’m right pleased wae ye. We’ll meet at the same place as the last time before heiding up thegither. Don’t be late,” the voice oan the other end said before the line went deid.

  “Good evening. My name is John Turney and these are the news headlines in Scotland tonight.

  Blinding Snow and strong winds are hampering efforts to find the BEA Viscount airplane that disappeared off the radar yesterday after taking off from Glasgow Airport for routine operational purposes. Police and rescue teams have been scouring the countryside near Aberfoyle and Balquhidder in the Trossaches…

  An eighteen-year-old youth has been sentenced to life in prison after being found guilty of the disappearance and murder of fourteen-year-old Ann Brown on the 9th of November 1972. Robert Connor lived with his elderly widowed mother on the edge of the village of Cambusbarron, Stirlingshire, where the teenager disappeared last year. Despite the schoolgirl’s body having never being found, a jury in the High Court in Glasgow unanimously found Connor guilty after only forty minutes deliberation today. There will be more on this story later in the programme…

  Also in the North Court of the same building, eighteen-year-old James Baxter was found guilty and sentenced to be detained in a young offenders institution for nine years by Lord Campbell of Claremyle, for his part in a bank robbery at the Clydeside Bank on Maryhill Road on the 9th of November last year, in which two police officers were blasted with a double-barrelled shotgun…

  Police have uncovered a horde of weapons including shotguns, Second World War rifles and handguns and what is believed to be a small amount of explosives in a house in Bridgeton. The building was evacuated by the Fire Brigade and residents had to hang about in a nearby orange hall for five hours whilst bomb disposal experts arrived on the scene…

  A twenty-two-year-old man, who was found to be dead on arrival at Glasgow’s Western Infirmary after being slashed in the neck on the corner of Garscube Road and Possil Road last night, has been named as Timothy McPherson. Another unnamed youth, who was later released from the hospital for the affects of shock, has been ruled out as a suspect in the murder. Local Possilpark Inspector Duggie Dougan has appealed for any witnesses to contact…

  Another post office was held up in Burmulloch in the north of the city, the second in two weeks, with a substantial amount of money stolen. No one appeared to be hurt in the incident. Springburn Police Inspector Paddy McPhee has appealed for witnesses to come forward…

  A father of seven has been let off with a warning after his second appearance from custody in as many weeks at Glasgow Sheriff Court for assaulting his common-law-wife. James Petrie claimed his wife, forty-four-year-old Annie Small, assaulted him first, after he returned home after a night in the pub. Procurator fiscal, Glenda Metcalfe, appeared to express concern at the lenience of the sentence and a statement later issued by David Broderick, Head of the city’s Procurator Fiscals Service, denied that Miss Metcalfe’s views differed from Sheriff Clifford Burn’s views on domestic violence sentencing, by the controversial sheriff over the past few months…

  A Blackhill man who escaped from Low Moss Prison in Bishopbriggs is lucky to be alive tonight. After cutting himself whilst escaping over the prisons razor-sharp barbed wire, twenty-six-year-old, Joseph Louden, then lost his way in a snow blizzard before being struck by a train near his home in Blackhill. Seemingly, it had taken the prisoner thirteen hours to reach Blackhill, five miles away. Louden will be returning to Low Moss to complete his sentence after he is released from Glasgow Royal Infirmary, where he is being treated for frostbite to the toes in both feet…”

  Chapter Three

  “John Taylor, in respect of the verdict of being found guilty of bank robbery, of discharging a loaded firearm and attempting to murder two serving police officers whilst in the line of duty at The Clydeside Bank on November the ninth of last year, nineteen hundred and seventy two, the sentence of this court is that you be sent to a young offender’s institution for fourteen years…”

  And that, as Lord Campbell ae Claremyle so gracefully lisped fae between whit looked tae Johnboy tae be overindulged, fat, purple, drink-sodden lips, hid been that. It hid been difficult tae take the stupid auld basturt seriously, even though Johnboy knew fine well that the sentence hid been fur real and that the arse ae his Y-fronts wid testify tae t
hat wance he conducted a wee forensic investigation oan them later oan that night. He’d known a fair amount ae guys who’d sat oan the very bench that that arse ae his hid been plapped doon oan since him and Silent’s trial hid started first thing oan Monday morning. Efter being roughly plucked fae between the legs ae Michelle Hope, back in January, by her da, a serving bizzy up in Springburn, he’d been slung, heid first, doon two flights ae the stairs up his closemooth in Heim Street, bare-arsed, before being remanded up in the Bar-L fur three months. He’d known the trial wid end up in the High Court, bit the length ae the sentence hidnae been whit Johnboy hid anticipated. He’d known fine well that they’d come doon oan the shooter like a ton ae bricks. He’d been trying tae get his heid roond the bizarre flairshow that hid been getting played oot in front ae him and Silent, sitting there oan they numb arses ae theirs fur three days solid, in front ae some dodgy looking auld geezer, who wis decked oot in a hair-doo that Mary Antoinette wid’ve gied up cakes fur. No only that, bit it hid been difficult tae take the proceedings seriously. This wis probably due tae the fact that he’d never come across so many lying basturts in polis uniforms in his entire life being paraded in front ae some auld judge who wis sitting there, wearing a red and white Santa Claus outfit, even though the sun wis beaming through the windaes ae the South Court in The High Court Judiciary, doon in The Saltmarket, jist before five o’clock, oan that sunny efternoon oan Wednesday, the 30th May 1973.

  “He’ll be addressing the jury as we speak. Y’know, thanking them and aw that,” the turnkey…screw…bizzy…whitever the fuck he wis supposed tae be, who wis cuffed tae Johnboy, said tae the blank expressions oan the two prisoners’ faces.

  Johnboy turned roond and glanced back up the well-worn, wooden stairs, as the doors that led the prisoners straight fae the dock, doon intae the cells below, crashed shut above them.

  He looked across at Silent. Johnboy could tell he wisnae amused by the uninvited commentary being freely dished oot by the turnkey that Johnboy wis hauncuffed tae either. Tae add tae the drama, the wee skinny runt that Silent wis attached tae hid gone and goat his key jammed in the barred gate that wid take them through tae the cells and the Paddy bus that wid take everywan back up tae the big hoose that wis the Bar-L.

  “Ur ye there, Boabby?” the skinny, uniformed, haufwit shouted, trying tae keep his echoing voice fae doubling back up the stairs tae the courtroom, where Santa could be heard murmuring his thanks tae every lying basturt ae the local constabulary he could find tae commend.

  “Boabby? Boabby? It’s me, Ross…Ross and Big Byron. We’re locked in, so we ur,” Ross squealed, unease starting tae seep intae that whine ae his.

  “Y’know, ye’re actually quite famous noo, so youse ur,” Big Byron suddenly announced, oblivious tae the panic in his partner’s voice. “No that anywan bit me his made the connection, mind ye.”

  “Should that no be notorious?” Silent suddenly piped up, tae Johnboy’s surprise, hivving no uttered a single word during the whole ae the trial proceedings.

  “Naw, naw, that’s the other guy…the main man. He wis the notorious wan aboot here, so he wis. Youse pair ae clowns ur famous fur something quite different aw thegither, so youse ur.”

  “Boabby, ur ye there or whit? Where the fuck is he?” Ross demanded, whining, as he looked at Big Byron, in full panic-flow noo, that high-pitched stuttering voice ricocheting up and doon the white glazed tiled walls ae the corridor oan the other side ae the grilled gate.

  Johnboy could’ve saved him a bit ae grief. The instant that key hid become jammed in the lock, he’d awready calculated and then dismissed their chances ae being able tae overpower the two dumplings they wur attached tae, tae attempt an escape fae the building, withoot being nabbed. The fly in the ointment wis the fact that the screws him and Silent wur hauncuffed tae didnae carry a key oan them tae unlock the cuffs. That wid be done oan the other side ae the barred gate. Noo, if Boabby, the missing bobby, hid been oan the same side ae the gate as them, well, that might’ve been a different story aw thegither. The odds wur definitely stacked against that happening, at least fur the time being.

  “And whit notorious wan wid that be then?” Silent finally asked, biting, as Johnboy glared at his co-accused, no sure whether he wanted tae gie him a bloody slap or ignore the stupid basturt.

  “Manuel. Peter Manuel. Notorious fur raping and shooting aw they wummin and young lassies deid, back in the late fifties,” Byron beamed knowledgably, clearly impressed by that historical brain ae his.

  Silence.

  “Johnboy, dae ye know whit the hell he’s oan aboot?” Silent suddenly asked, taking Johnboy by surprise again, trying tae draw him in tae the useless diatribe he’d been forced tae witness.

  “Ah’m talking aboot that notorious mass murderer wan, Peter Manuel…him that goat sentenced tae be hung by Lord Campbell…your Lord Campbell, at 4.58 in the efternoon, in the same dock, at the exact same time as youse two, oan the 30th May 1958,” Big Byron continued, haudin up his wrist and shaking his cheap Timex watch at them. “Imagine the coincidence ae that, eh? Exactly fifteen years tae the minute, gie or take a few seconds. Ah wonder whit odds the bookies wid’ve gied me oan that wan, eh? Ah wis the wan that led him doon the stairs efter he goat sentenced, so Ah wis. Wee Peter? Couldnae gie a monkey’s jack-fuck, so he couldnae. Wance Lord Campbell donned that black piece ae cloth and telt him he wis tae be topped, he jist aboot-turned and tried tae take these steep steps two at a time. Christ, Ah could hardly keep up wae the greasy wee, limping midget,” Byron beamed, chuffed tae be able tae share aw that historical knowledge tae a captive, hauncuffed audience.

  Johnboy felt the bile in his stomach burning and wanted tae throw up. He’d been let doon badly. The nod fae The Big Man hidnae arrived back fae Spain, despite the supposed appeals fae Wan-bob Broon. It wis difficult tae breath steady. He wanted tae be oan his lonesome tae try tae sort oot in his heid whit the hell fourteen years meant in porridge time. He’d never really been intae violence and hid always tried tae avoid it if he could, despite whit Lord Haw Fucking Haw hid claimed, back up in the courtroom, when he wis sentencing him. Johnboy inhaled the musty air ae the confines ae the white tiled dungeon. He hid a really strong urge tae grab the hair oan the back ae the heid ae Ross, the useless basturt ae a turnkey, who wis stuck between the jammed lock and Silent, and smash that face ae his aff the barred gate he’d failed so miserably tae open.

  “So, how many people dae ye hiv tae bump aff tae be classed as a mass murderer then?” Silent wanted tae know, as Johnboy coonted tae ten, slowly.

  “Oh, noo there’s a question. Definitely mair than wan, that’s fur sure, bit efter that, well, Ah suppose the sky’s the limit. Manuel goat convicted ae five, bit they say he done in a lot mair than that. Aye, he wis a charming wee fucker wis Peter. Always wore a cravat under his shirt collar…at least, he did when he wis up here oan trial.”

  “So, ye’re saying five then?”

  “Aye, five wid definitely hiv yer passport stamped as a spree killer, nae question aboot that.”

  “And aw these Yankee sojers that get sent tae Vietnam, shooting wummin and weans here and there and who ur aw noo walking aboot, happy as Larry. Wid they be classed as mass murderers as well then?”

  “Naw, that’s different. When ye’re at war, ye hiv every right tae defend yersel. It’s either kill or be killed. When faced wae an enemy, it’s either you or him. The wan that’s left staunin is the wan that goat in there first. Everywan knows that.”