The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Read online

  34

  2nd August 1983

  Wullie the Painter wasn’t a clever man by conventional standards. He had no school certificates, no educational or training diplomas and, in 1972, he had even failed his cycle proficiency test. However, he was street smart. And he was convinced he had pieced together a cunning undercover plan in which – unfortunately for him – he was a pawn. Wullie had watched a lot of Columbo. That scruffy wee cunt could figure anythin’ oot in under an hour, he’d told Des Brick before revealing his thesis. It had taken him a bit longer, but then the telly detective with the flasher’s Mac had a lifetime of experience … an’ a team ae scriptwriters, Des had pointed out. Wullie the Painter was a comparative novice.

  ‘Right, here’s the script, Des,’ said Wullie. Before he launched into it, Wullie outlined the basis of his research. Personal meetings and detailed discussions with Terry Connolly, Benny Dunlop and Ged McClure; the latter of which had ultimately resulted in Wullie getting headbutted. His very explanation of the whole story had been prompted by Des Brick’s ‘Whit the fuck happened tae you?’ when he saw the twin black keekers. Wullie kept his covert role as Don McAllister’s paid informer to himself though. Some details are best left out, he reckoned.

  ‘Connolly’s oan the vans up in Onthank. They’re aw goin’ like a fuckin’ fair. Ye widnae believe it, Des! They ice-cream vans are jist a front for floggin’ aw kinds ae illegal shite.’

  ‘Fuck, Wullie … that’s hardly a massive surprise, is it?’ said Des.

  ‘Aye, but he’s gettin’ the gear affa the fuckin’ McLartys,’ Wullie revealed. ‘An’ the Fatman’s jist lettin’ it aw happen! Ah don’t fuckin’ get that bit,’ said Wullie. ‘Connolly’s up front an’ open aboot it aw wi’ me, tae. Christ, ah’m even dain’ the odd stint oan them as well.’

  ‘Well, ah dinnae see whit yer problem is then. Yer benefittin’, naw? A bit late tae be huvin’ a moral dilemma, mate!’

  ‘It’s no’ that, Des,’ said Wullie. He was struggling to avoid blowing his cover and telling Des that his work on the vans was at the behest of – and paid for by – the local cops. ‘It’s bigger than that though. McClure fae that manky Quinns mob, is getting bags ae skag doon fae Glesga affa this fuckin’ Gregor bruiser, Connolly’s placing it an’ distributin’ it, an’ – fuckin’ get this – that wee Wisharts’ prick, Benny Donald ower in Crosshouse is washin’ aw the money.’ Wullie the Painter took a deep breath. ‘It’s a fuckin’ organised racket, Des, wi’ the McLartys pullin’ the strings. It’s a fuckin’ takeover, an’ the three big knobs are dain’ fuck aw aboot it,’ said Wullie. He felt his blood pressure rising. Des Brick was impassive. Wullie appreciated that Des had his own personal shite to contend with, but still, his apathy was surprising to say the least.

  ‘Look Wullie, ah dinnae ken whit tae tell ye, mate. If yer concerned for yer ain safety…’ Des motioned towards Wullie’s eyes, ‘… then back oot. Ah’ve done that. It’s no’ really that difficult. Try an’ get a real fuckin’ job.’ The minute the words were out of his mouth, Des realised how ludicrous they sounded.

  ‘Whit, alang wi’ three million other folk! Fuck sake, Des … it’s no’ like I’ve got a folder full ae glowin’ references.’

  This chat wasn’t panning out the way Wullie the Painter had imagined. He’d looked on Des Brick as a mentor; someone to be looked up to. But now he felt little but pity. Des looked a shadow of the man he was a year ago. Effie Brick wouldn’t live much longer than the turn of the year, but by all accounts she was upbeat and sanguine despite the care being essentially palliative. Des, on the other hand, looked like he had already given up. The strain had aged him dreadfully. His hair was thinning and grey. The tell-tale scissor marks of his ‘short back an’ sides’ betrayed his current barber as Auld Joe, an eighty-year-old handyman who also washed windows. Around Onthank, an ‘Auld Joe number two cut’ was a sign of real financial difficulty. Whole families had them, even the women. Des Brick’s jacket hung off him like it was two sizes too big for him. He was emaciated and pallid. If anything, Des looked like one dying from cancer.

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Wullie. Ah’m shot ae it aw, noo. It was good while it lasted. Franny’s got his ain problems, an’ probably his time’s came tae. Nothing lasts forever, pal.’

  ‘Aye. Aw’right, Des. Jist one last thing though,’ said Wullie.

  ‘Sure, mate.’

  ‘If aw this McLarty business is comin’ back, why are the plods no’ aw ower it like a rash?’ Wullie felt he already knew the answer – him – if not the full rationale. But he needed to know if Des did too.

  ‘Fuck knows, Wullie. But they cunts couldnae find their ain arseholes wi’ a bullshit detector. How d’ye think we aw avoided the jail aw this time? That’s probably yer answer, plain an’ simple.’

  With that, and Des Brick wishing his former colleague well, Wullie the Painter took his leave. Wullie didn’t really do compassion. He felt desperately for Des, and obviously for Effie and the rest of his family, but he couldn’t express it properly. Every well-intended comment invariably emerged framed in sarcasm or dripping in cynical humour. He was aware that his concern sounded false, and therefore Wullie the Painter decided that he wouldn’t visit Des Brick again.

  His next move was a meeting with Charlie Lawson to pass over his observations. He already suspected none of it would come us a surprise to him, and that subsequently, Wullie would still be in the dark about the bigger picture. When the bigger picture got its full Technicolor Cinemascope release, Wullie the Painter had to ensure that he remained out of the blinding searchlights reserved for its stars.

  35

  30th September 1983

  ‘Ye dae realise how fuckin’ difficult it is for me tae get here, aye?’ Fat Franny Duncan was wheezing. He’d just climbed up the old stone steps of the keep at Dean Castle. In addition to this – and under instruction from others – he’d had to walk about two miles through the northern undergrowth to get there.

  ‘Fuck sake, man. It’s only a few steps. Jesus! Dae ye good tae lose a bit ae beef, anyway.’

  The others in the room laughed at Charlie Lawson’s dig. But Fat Franny Duncan did not.

  ‘Ah wisnae talkin’ aboot the physical difficulty, ya diddy. Ah wis talkin’ aboot the fuckin’ time!’ said Fat Franny, still breathless.

  The time and location of this emergency summit had indeed been unusual. Ten pm on a Friday night, at a publicly accessible heritage destination, albeit one that was currently closed to the public, seemed strange to all of them. Nevertheless, the five men – Fat Franny Duncan, Washer Wishart, Nobby Quinn, Charlie Lawson, and his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Don McAllister – and sole woman, Magdalena Quinn, all sat around a decorator’s trellis. A sixth male – Doc Martin – was absent, although why remained unexplained. It was dark in the Great Hall, but they had all brought torches. Franny shone his up to the great vaulted ceiling above them. He’d lived in Kilmarnock all of his life but he’d never been in this six-hundred-and-thirty-year-old building. He had to admit it was mightily impressive. Much more so than the Ponderosie. He briefly contemplated its likely asking price before Don McAllister’s voice snapped him back to the meeting’s purpose.

  ‘Naebody outside of this room knows the full story, an’ unfortunately that’s the way it has tae stay for a while longer.’

  The three non-coppers sighed in unison. It was like a reunion of Enid Blyton with her Famous Five, after alcoholism, divorce, gout and vanquished dreams had taken their toll.

  ‘Things are developin’ up in the East End. But the operation is aimed at takin’ out the kingpins, no’ just the foot-soldiers. So it has tae be water-tight. Nae loopholes. Nae potential for Donald fuckin’ Findlay tae waltz in an’ get aw the old guard off. So, ye need tae stick wi’ it for a few months longer, right?’

  There was no immediate response to Don McAllister. Eventually, Washer Wishart – the most eloquent among them – spoke.

  ‘Look Mr McAllister, we’ve aw kent
each other a long time. Never trusted each other. An’ ’cos ae that, naebody went intae this … agreement, wi’ their eyes shut. But circumstances are changin’. Personal and business.’

  ‘Ah get that…’ said Don.

  ‘Wi’ respect, ah’m no’ sure ye dae!’ said Washer. ‘Years ago, wi’ aw closed ranks an’ helped each other drive the McLartys ootae Galston. But we didnae get much assistance fae ye then.’

  Don McAllister didn’t read books; he read people. It was a vital skill in his line of work. He sought to understand the motivations of those on the opposite side of law from him. To be a good copper, you had to empathise with the criminals. If you could appreciate what drove them to act in the way they did, you could anticipate, intercept and then turn that fragile trust to your advantage. Of course, some were way beyond any form of influence, but in Don’s experience, these were the exception. Most people drifted into crime as a consequence of circumstance, desperation and opportunity. Only a few chose the life as a specific career path. In Don’s opinion, they didn’t teach this people-focused analysis in Police Training College enough nowadays. But it had become vital to Don McAllister’s strategy. He was convinced that some semblance of legitimacy existed in all of those here present. He had to trust his instincts. They had never let him down before, but there was a first time for everything. It was a tense position … for all of them.

  ‘Different times, Washer,’ said Don McAllister. ‘But have ah no’ turned a blind eye tae a lot ae yer collective activities since?’

  ‘Aye. Fair enough,’ said Fat Franny, ‘but noo we’re in different times. Ah cannae earn the same way ’cos ae ma mam. Ah’m huvin’ tae diversify, an’ this tape business ye set up isnae really takin’ off.’

  ‘Ah’m also worried aboot losin’ ground wi’ ma ain distributors,’ said Washer Wishart. ‘Ah cannae risk this drugs money goin’ through these decent wee businesses ah’ve known aw ma life. We always said “nae fuckin’ drug money” an’ noo, that’s aw there is.’

  ‘And from our side,’ said Magdalena Quinn, surprising no one present with her willingness to speak, ‘no one can afford the protection anymore. The bettin’ holds up a bit but ya need ta understand … most of these poor cuntys are now on strike. We got income fro’ Cumnock, Auchinleck and that … no’ just Galston.’

  ‘Look, ah know all this. Life’s shite for everybody. Ah get it! Ah didnae vote for Thatcher tae get back in either!’ said Don. ‘But we aw agreed oan a plan. Shook oan it, an’ promises were made. Ah’m no’ goin’ back on these. Everybody here gets protected immunity an’ set up wi’ legit businesses. Mrs Quinn, Nobby … we’re puttin’ cash intae a fund for yer regional boxing clubs. It’s protected. The licences’ll get agreed before the whole McLarty operation round-up. Naebody’s even gonnae connect you tae this. McClure is gonnae look like he acted oan his own.’

  Nobby Quinn shrugged.

  Don McAllister looked at Fat Franny next. ‘You’ve got potentially the best fuckin’ deal here! Rental video tapes is gonnae become a massive market, ye’ll see … an’ no’ just for they mucky yins yer sellin’ through the vans the noo. We’ve already sourced ye the players tae rent oot. We told ye we’d fix that after ye complained that Washer’s boy’s pal … the singer … had yer money, an’ we did. Naebody welshed oan that deal, did they? Aw we asked is that ye aw kept schtum an’ just let that yin go. We’ll set ye up wi’ a proper shop when aw this is by. Ye can conduct a legit business fae yer house, lookin’ after yer ma. ‘But we need tae lock Terry Connolly tight in wi’ aw the McLartys, no’ just that baldy fucker, Gregor Gidney.’

  Washer looked up. He knew he was next.

  ‘An’ we told you at the beginnin’, ye need tae find something totally legitimate and scalable tae “lose” their money in,’ said Don. ‘That way, when they eventually come lookin’ for it aw, an’ we make the sting, it’ll fall at the door ae Benny Dunlop, an’ you an’ yer consortium don’t get dragged in.’

  ‘Finding somethin’ legit … in Crosshoose … these days? More chance ae findin’ a virgin at a Young Farmers’ do … after they’ve aw been oan the Merrydown leg-openers.’

  There was muted laughter. They recognised that the plan originally put forward last year by Don McAllister, via his envoy Doc Martin, hadn’t materially changed, even if the timescale had stretched.

  ‘So whit happens next … oan your side, ah mean?’ asked Washer.

  ‘Ah obviously cannae say too much about the Glasgow side. But it’s nigh-oan impossible tae get a similar covert operation going oan up in the likes ae Ruchazie. There’s already too much fear. Everybody just boards up their windaes when the gang frighteners come out.’ He paused and looked behind him. ‘It’s called Operation Double Nougat. Draw yer own conclusions why. Used to be Single Nougat but noo it’s focused on two centres.’ Don already felt he had probably said too much, but he acknowledged they were all in a pact, for better or worse. ‘We’ve got an insider just monitering the three individuals doon here. It’s no’ anybody ye’se know so don’t go huntin’ an’ runnin’ the risk ae blowin’ their cover.’ Don folded his arms. ‘End ae the day, this is aw about trust. We aw need to completely trust each other.’

  Their objective might not have had the far-reaching implications of The Manhatten Project, but if it worked it would change the local landscape forever, and they also had their very own ‘Fat Man’. Fat Franny briefly considered suggesting they all get their cocks out, but for the others a stiff handshake seemed to suffice.

  36

  2nd October 1983

  Max Mojo was unsure what to make of his dad’s offer. It had come out of nowhere. Max even began to think that Washer Wishart might have been psychic. Like Darlinda from the Daily Record. Washer had raised the subject of a financial investment in Biscuit Tin Records before Max had even been ready to lay bare the fact that they were careering uncontrollably towards being skint. His offer – the equivalent of an advance against any future sales – was fifty thousand pounds. Max was initially staggered that Washer even had that to spare, given the number of gloomy faces that currently hung about the manse waiting for scraps of work.

  But Washer had phrased it in accountancy terms that Max didn’t fully comprehend. Bottom line was, The Miraculous Vespas’ new sugar daddy was now Max’s actual one. Max would remain manager, with complete control over all music-related decisions. He simply had to consult Washer or Gerry Ghee fortnightly on all planned expenditure. That was good enough for Max, and since he was facing increasing concerns from Grant about where their adventure was headed, he could now report that it was headed – in the short term at least – to Glencairn Square, Shabby Road Studios and a demo-recording date that very morning with owner and erratic record producer, Clifford X. Raymonde.

  Promoted by the bouffant-haired studio boss, a Battle of the Bands-type circuit was emerging in Kilmarnock. In a typical week, disparate bands, such as Penetration, So What!, Nyah Fearties and The Graffiti Brothers, played well-attended gigs at The Sandrianne, The Broomhill Hotel and – as The Miraculous Vespas had only recently done – The Hunting Lodge. The more established groups sometimes got to play the Grand Hall, but since a legendary riot at a Sweet gig there in 1973 – immortalised in their song ‘Ballroom Blitz’ – the council were very wary of making it more widely available. For Max, the Grand Hall was the pinnacle of their immediate aspirations. His current plan was to establish a small but cultish base of operations. Although Postcard’s influence remained, it was the only Scottish-based label out there. And since Orange Juice had now moved to London and Polydor Records, the future for the Glaswegian label was uncertain. Max Mojo saw the potential. Maybe the less heavy-metal-orientated of the local bands might eventually become part of the Max Mojo music revolution. Maybe an East Ayrshire Tamla Motown philosophy might ultimately shift attention and focus south-west from the current Glasgow scene. For Max, the possibilities seemed endless. But one of the biggest problems was the lack of a supportive, cogent scene. The more
accessible venues had their own particular identity and clientele, and although the myriad of local bands that were now filtering through Shabby Road tried to stay close to their home ground, invariably they would have to play difficult gigs in foreign territories. For Max Mojo’s band, their potential nemesis was the Sandrianne. In a week-long period in late September, the band had played all of the principal Kilmarnock venues. Only the Sandrianne remained.

  The Sandrianne in John Finnie Street was formerly the town’s first respectable theatre. When known as The Opera House, it had enjoyed a few good years of unusual popularity before punters began to seek their cultural enjoyment further afield. Now, though, the Sandrianne was better known as a biker’s pub. It drew the heavier of the local rock bands to its velvety cushioned bosom. A group apparently named after a make of Mod scooter was going to have to be pretty fucking miraculous. But the band’s growing self-confidence – as well as their ability – meant tough gigs like the Sandrianne weren’t the sphincter-tightening ordeal that they might’ve been only a few weeks before. By the Sandrianne show at the end of September 1983, The Mysterious Vespas had played twenty-two gigs, including one at Glasgow’s Queen Margaret Union, supporting the Glaswegian band Bourgie Bourgie. The gig itself was great, but afterwards Max had lost their fee – and all of the money the band had with them – in an inter-band drinking competition.

  Grant Delgado wore leather at the Sandrianne. As did Maggie, although her leather was restricted to a bra. The Motorcycle Boy’s full-faced helmet and biker persona made him a hit before a note had even been played. Simon Sylvester made no concession to location and dressed as he did for everyday circumstances. Having given up on the outré clothing styles favoured by the manager, he had his red-and-black Dennis the Menace-style jumper and ripped blue Levis. Max Mojo was the main stand-out. He sported tan DM boots, red trousers and a baggy white shirt with a grey pin-striped waistcoat. The black eye-patch was present and correct, but he had recently started wearing a bowler hat and walking with a new cane. Max justified its flamboyant purchase to Grant with reference to the life-saving qualities of its predecessor. A Crosshouse Clockwork Orange was the intended vibe. The music was also tailored to suit. Grant led the band through covers of ‘Paranoid’, ‘Purple Haze’ and Led Zeppelin’s ‘Ramble On’, all filtered to fit their own jangly, harmonised sensibilities. But ‘The First Picture’ was harder edged than it had previously been delivered. The song’s underlying melodic grace couldn’t be obscured though, and, while not receiving the reception it would have on home turf such as The Hunting Lodge, the night at the Sandrianne was a qualified success. Unfortunately, Max tripped over his cane on the way out to Jimmy Stevenson’s van at the end of the night. He fell forward into the first motorbike, and the remainder – parallel-parked down the street – fell like dominoes. The denim-and-leather-clad Sandrianne clientele chased the van as far as the Railway Arches. Max Mojo made a mental note that John Finnie Street was now off limits.