The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Read online

  Grant had loved the Kraftwerk record, The Model. He had the 7-inch and 12-inch versions of the song, although at £3.99, the LP was a bit steep. Kraftwerk looked cool, if a bit too cool. Their look – Burton shop dummies meets Special Branch – might also result in a battering, although for totally different reasons.

  Another favourite was Japan, although Grant was knowledgeable enough to know that they – like so many of the current crop – were just wannabe David Bowie impersonators. At least Japan’s main man was a good-looking bastard, and occasionally played guitar as opposed to being totally synthetic. Grant had been growing his hair and had bleached and shaped it into a David Sylvian-type feather cut. Grant’s dad, Bob Dale – known universally as Hobnail – had predictably hated it, but since he’d vanished off the reservation of late, that aggravation had gone at least.

  In fact, Hobnail’s incessant hounding of his son had initially persuaded the boy to move out and start doing some strong-arm work of his own for Fat Franny Duncan, the local loan shark heidcase, and also his father’s boss. If there was one way to completely fuck over his old man, it would be joining the Fat Franny fraternity. But in truth, Grant had neither the motivation for it, nor the necessary menace. Threatening to scald pensioners for late payments of a tenner seemed a bit over the top, even for an arsehole like Fat Franny Duncan. Grant was never going to win Mastermind, but he was sharp enough to know where the path followed by his father at the same age would lead, and astute enough to want to take a different one. So, to his worried mother’s delight, he had come home. He’d been gone for two weeks – only a day less, in fact, than his father – nevertheless, his prodigal return had seen Senga Dale bring out the best china and nip to the shops for a bit of Silverside while Grant returned to routine, taking a Sunday soak on bath night and listening to the radio.

  ‘…and now, a new Number One, it’s the UK’s top-selling song … it’s Captain Sensible, with “Happy Talk”.’

  Fuck it, couldae been worse, thought Grant. Irene Cara was hovering around the top three like the Childcatcher, waiting to brainwash more Kids into joining her sinister cult. That irritating song from Fame was a new entry at Number Four. Grant Dale was convinced he could have done better, given half a chance.

  23rd June 1982

  ‘Aye, ah hear whit yer sayin’ … ye’re right fuckin’ there. How could ah avoid it!’

  ‘Ah’m no’ sayin’ that. That’s no’ whit ah meant, man.’

  ‘Stop puttin’ fuckin’ words in ma mooth. Ye don’t ken whit yer askin’ here. It’s no’ gonnae be as easy as you’re makin’ oot.’

  ‘Naw … it fuckin’ isnae!’

  ‘Well, put it this way, there’s nae band as of right noo. There’s nae instruments, ’cos they’ve aw went walkin’. There’s nae songs, nae money, an’ frankly, nae inspiration. Ye need aw ae things tae start a band. Ah should ken, ah’ve been fuckin’ tryin’ long enough.’

  ‘Aye? Like whit?’

  ‘Max Mojo? Fuck sake, that sounds like that green an’ white gadgie that helps weans cross the bastart road!’

  ‘But every cunt’ll be pissin’ themselves. Jesus Christ, man.’

  ‘Aye. Aye, ah said.’

  ‘Where? That wee office oan John Dickie Street? Where Molly pays the rates?’

  ‘Right. Fuckin’ fine. Ah’ll dae it after, man. Jist gie us a break, eh? Ma heid’s loupin’.’

  Molly Wishart heard her son from the kitchen. She initially assumed that he was speaking to someone on the telephone, but when she leaned in closer to eavesdrop, it was apparent that he wasn’t in the hall where the house phone was. Dale Wishart was in the front room of the manse. Molly peered through the gap between door and frame and saw him pacing back and forth. She hadn’t heard the front door opening and, although she couldn’t see the whole room, she assumed there was no one else in there.

  ‘For God sake, son, it’s like Blackpool Illuminations in here! Turn the big light off … everybody can see in.’

  ‘Whit … ’cos ah’ve got wan fuckin’ light oan?’

  ‘Hey, watch who yer speakin’ tae!’ The doctors had told Molly Wishart to anticipate certain mood changes that were often the consequence of a severe concussion, but in the two weeks since he had returned home from hospital, she’d noticed these episodes increasing in both regularity and intensity. Molly had asked the specialist about this and she had booked him in for further neurological tests, but since he appeared to have made a remarkable physical recovery, the NHS urgency seemed to have shifted down a gear.

  With biological tests ruling out other forms of psychosis associated with substance abuse or other mental-health conditions, a Pakistani consultant had eventually diagnosed Schizo-affective disorder. But he was non-commital about the Henderson Church beating being the cause. The consultant’s colleagues casually suggested indulging in the young man’s altered-state fantasy, and recommended acceding to his bizarre demands about his new persona. Molly and Washer were warned about delusions and hallucinations being the classic symptoms of this type of psychosis. Nobody said anything to them about the disorganised and profanity-strewn speech patterns.

  In the subsequent days, Dale Wishart officially became Max Mojo via deed poll. When challenged, the individual now known as Max claimed his mum was imagining him talking to himself. He even shamefully hinted that her mental capacity might be called into question in this regard. But his left eye had also started fluttering and twitching uncontrollably when these periods occurred. Molly had convinced herself that with her son’s previously carefree attitude on the decline, he was being slowly but surely overtaken by a darker and more malign force.

  ‘Don’t talk shite, Mam. That’s the fuckin’ plot ae The Empire Strikes Back,’ he’d said to her. But the swearing in itself was indicative of a significant change. The teenager formerly known as Dale would never have spoken to his mother – or any woman for that matter – in that way. It was a positive trait he’d inherited from his father, who despite faults in other areas had never disrespected women in the manner so stereotypical of the working-class males of his generation.

  Max’s eye stopped twitching. He sat down. His demeanour seemed to relax as his mum stood before him.

  ‘So, when’s yer interview, again?’ she asked him.

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘The ’morra, ye mean?’

  ‘Aye. Christ … lost track ae the days, Mam.’

  ‘Well, make sure ye get tae yer bed early tonight then, an’ that ye’ve looked oot aw yer certificates, aye? It’s a good wee job, doon at the Garden Centre. Plenty ae fresh air … nice flowers tae look after. It’ll calm ye, son.’

  ‘Aye, Mam. Ah will. Don’t worry.’ Max wasn’t worried either, but mainly because he had absolutely no intention of going to this particular interview.

  3

  24th June 1982

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Washer Wishart had stepped out of the back seat of the Volvo and straight into a muddy puddle. This wasn’t a good start to what would surely be a difficult and confrontational situation. ‘Who fuckin’ lives like this, eh?’ he said, scanning the agricultural wasteland of the Quinns’ compound, where this summit meeting was being held. He wiped the brown watery shite from his brogues. He shook his head as he took in a destitute panorama containing scabby ducks, pigs and rabbits roaming free, four static caravans – three of which were on bricks as opposed to wheels – and a graveyard of rusting white goods, all underscored by a thick layer of slurried dung. Chickens moved tentatively, as if they were in the middle of a minefield. It was like an interpretation of Animal Farm painted by Hieronymous Bosch. Washer tiptoed gingerly through the muck, sighing and cursing under his breath.

  ‘Fuckin’ pikeys!’ said Benny Donald in a sycophantic attempt to surf the mood. Washer didn’t acknowledge him. Benny was still persona non grata for his peripheral role in the reason why Washer Wishart had to be in this god-forsaken Galston gypsy hovel in the first place. Washer aimed for the shed with the open door,
where others had congregated. Benny trailed along behind, head down.

  Nobby Quinn, the Birmingham-born gypsy patriarch, teased his wispy greying beard through nicotine-stained fingers. Magdalena, his domineering wife, stood right behind him, as if working him from the back. Three of their muscle-bound, tattooed sons sat on hay bales. They all looked like bored versions of David Essex in Stardust. They were the Quinns, ruling Romany crime family of Galston, a few miles to the east of Kilmarnock, and this was their gaff.

  Actually, it was their gaffe in other ways that had necessitated this meeting. Ten days earlier, an angry mob acting under instruction from the Quinns had wrecked the Henderson Church Hall in Kilmarnock, during a faux charity fundraising gig by local band The Vespas. The reason for this had been uncertain until Fat Franny Duncan had admitted under some duresse that he had paid the Quinns to carry out this apparently incendiary act. The Fat Franny contingent – Bob ‘Hobnail’ Dale, Des Brick, Wullie the Painter, and the Fatman himself – were situated nearest to the large barn door. It was unintentional but it looked to Washer Wishart like they were bracing themselves for a quick getaway. Washer smirked at the thought of milk turning faster than Fat Franny Duncan.

  The third leg of this Ayrshire crime triumvirate – Washer Wishart’s crew from Crosshouse – were the current victims. There were three of them. Old man Washer, suited and business-respectable as usual. Flat-pack Frankie Fusi, the legendary dark-haired and smouldering fixer. Benny Donald, who was there ostensibly deputising for Washer’s consigliore, his thirty-year-old nephew, Gerry Ghee. Gerry had called in sick that morning. Given the business of the day, it had raised a slight suspicion with Washer, but he hadn’t pressed it. If he had, Gerry would’ve been forced to concede that he was having a vasectomy. It wasn’t something he wanted widely known.

  The summit had been called by the Quinns, at Don McAllister’s insistence. A new gang war was the last thing Don McAllister wanted, so he had acted quickly. Regional enforcer, Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin had been cajoled into attending by McAllister, but purely as an independent witness.

  So the meeting of the most powerful unelected men in East Ayrshire was taking place in a dung-filled cowshed. Washer wasn’t impressed, but when in Romany territory…

  ‘Thanks are due tae the Quinns for hostin’ this emergency summit meetin’.’ A muted, half-hearted round of applause broke out as Doc Martin opened proceedings. He wasn’t expected to chair, but it looked like he’d have to. The inscrutability of the Wisharts, the inarticulacy of the Quinns and the apparent determination of the Fat Franny crew not to incriminate themselves had left no option. The meeting should’ve started half an hour ago, but all present danced around the subject with a prolonged discussion about the morning’s breakthrough news. Only Washer Wishart had an understandable interest in the Falklands War being declared over, given his previous army service overseas. None of the others present could’ve given a flying fuck about it, and their determination to drag the stilted introductory smalltalk out for as long as possible was a clear indication that this wasn’t going to be as fruitful and conclusive a discussion as Don McAllister had hoped. So – acknowledging the digressionary tactics – Doc Martin cut to the chase.

  ‘It’s an emergency ’cos naebody wants a return tae the McLarty era, right?’ Doc waited for a response. He only got head shakes. It was enough. ‘So, Washer’s been wronged, right?’ No response. Doc put that down to the confusing wording. These weren’t the sharpest tools in the box, he reckoned. ‘Whit ah mean is that the Wisharts were the victims ae an unfortunate fuck-up. Is that agreed? Nae maliciousness wis intended towards them.’ The seated leaders eyed each other anxiously. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s no’ the fuckin’ Deer Hunter. Nae cunts gettin’ shot through the heid. Jist admit the fuck-up, apologise an’ we can get tae the compo.’ There was some shuffling of feet and a theatrical cough from Magdalena Quinn. Doc Martin was getting annoyed. ‘Franny, fuck sake, man. You’re up.’

  ‘Em … ah’m willin’ tae … em, concede that ah only wanted they two Heatwave DJ fannies neutered.’ Fat Franny cleared his throat. ‘Ah asked Nobby here for an … accommodation. But, as Doc says, due tae an unfortunate breakdoon in communications…’ Fat Franny turned to look at Hobnail, ‘…the wrang instructions got passed.’ Fat Franny then turned to look directly at Washer Wishart. ‘An’ fur that, ah’m sorry, Washer. As long as the penalty’s fair, ah’ll be fine in handin’ ower the lion’s share.’ Fat Franny had conserved a tidy stash in his house safe, and while he resented giving it to Washer Wishart, the price of protecting the ongoing calm was worth paying. Within reason, of course. Hobnail would find his monthly cut docked for some time to come.

  ‘Good,’ said Doc Martin. ‘Nobby? Anythin’ tae add?’ Nobby Quinn shook his head. But his fearsome wife spoke up.

  ‘Washer, we’re sorry about ye boy, but that wasna us. We didna touch ’im.’ Magdalena’s thick Brummie accent floated through the testosterone in the barn like a fart in a spacesuit. ‘But inna spirit of keepin’ peace here, we’ll pey up too.’

  ‘Thanks fur that, Mrs Quinn,’ said Doc. ‘Right, if you’re aw’right wi’ this, Washer, ah’ll work oot a package an’ let ye know once they’ve aw accepted it.’ Washer Wishart nodded his acceptance. He’d got through this brief summit meeting without speaking. It would be clear that he’d accept the outturn penalty payments, but that he’d do so grudgingly. That should keep the others on edge until the real story of the Henderson night emerged. And he’d make sure it would. Meanwhile, the payments to him would hopefully sort out the Glasgow drug mess in which Benny Donald had landed the family.

  ‘Could ye’se aw leave us a minute? Ah’d like a private word wi’ yer bosses.’ Doc Martin’s request left all a bit blindsided. Hadn’t they just worked out a resolution?

  The kingpins all motioned to their subordinates to wait outside.

  ‘There’s rabbit stew in th’ yard fur them’s that want it.’ And with that culinary threat issued by the fearsome Magdalena Quinn, the main part of the summit meeting of the Three East Ayrshire Crime Families concluded, blood unspilled. Des Brick knew Fat Franny had been hoping for a word with Doc Martin about his upcoming Metropolis nightclub residency. The suggestion that Doc was about to award that gig to Bobby Cassidy and his pal, Joey Miller, of Heatwave instead of Fat Franny had been the catalyst for the Henderson Church sanction. But after twenty additional minutes of private chat, Doc Martin had bolted first. He’d far better things to be doing than debating his own plans with subordinates, and nothing short of a red-hot poker up the arsehole from Satan himself would get him anywhere near that steaming oil-can with the boiled skinless rabbits.

  ‘Whit wis that aw aboot, boss?’ Des asked hopefully.

  ‘Eh … nothin’ important. Jist aboot the … em, method ae payment. The compo, like.’ Fat Franny seemed distracted, but Des elected not to press the point further. The journey back to Onthank in the brown Rover was conducted in silence.

  4

  5th July 1982

  12.34 am

  DI Charlie Lawson had elected to visit Senga Dale alone. His boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Don McAllister had suggested taking a young female copper, but Charlie figured that she’d just get in the way. The wee lassies at the Kilmarnock Cop Shop were useful at these types of difficult home visits, there was no doubt about that, but since Don McAllister specifically wanted this situation kept tight – and since it was after midnight anyway – Charlie didn’t want this dragged out by a Juliet Bravo offering to make soothing cups of tea.

  He rapped at the green door. Try though he always did to conceal or vary it, Charlie Lawson’s door-knocking technique could only be polis. As he waited for the occupants of the house to stir, he mused on how often a police knock during the night prompted responses from adjacent houses more quickly than the one being knocked up. You could set your watch by it. Both of Senga Dale’s terraced neighbours had illuminated their houses before hers. Net curtains on both sides twitched.
The watchers would have instinctively known a police call was under way even though Charlie Lawson was unmarked both in clothing and in transport.

  He didn’t want to chap the door again, but just when he thought he would have to, an upper-bedroom light came on. He heard footsteps on the internal stairs, and then the door opened. No locks or chains, Charlie noted.

  ‘Aw’right, son,’ said Charlie, to the dishevelled teenager staring bleary-eyed into the gloom outside. ‘Yer mam in? Ah need a word.’

  ‘Eh … it’s fuckin’ three in the mornin’, for fuck’s sake! Can it no’ wait?’ croaked Grant Dale.

  ‘Naw, it cannae … and naw, it isnae.’ Grant looked puzzled, or more puzzled. ‘Three in the mornin’.’ Charlie Lawson moved up a step. ‘Can ah come in? It’s important. Go an’ get yer mam.’

  ‘Ah’m right here.’ An unseen voice rattled down the stairs. ‘Let him in, son.’ Grant Dale stood to one side. He looked out into the street after Charlie Lawson had brushed past him.

  ‘Fuck off, ya nosy aul’ cunt!’ he hissed at Mrs Trodden, the old woman who lived immediately to their right, and who was now out on her own doorstep for a better view.

  All three moved from the small hall into the living room. No one sat. In and out, basic details … condolences. Charlie Lawson recalled his boss’s instructions.

  ‘Mrs Dale, ah’m very sorry to have to inform you that we’ve been investigatin’ a fire in the town centre. A body was found in the building, an’ we believe it to be that of yer husband, Robert Dale.’ Senga’s lip quivered a bit but she controlled it. Show nothin’ of yer feelings tae naebody. Her son’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard, but then his expression also returned to stoney-faced. They both remained standing. Charlie was relieved. Night shift was a bastard, particularly when you had to do house calls like this one, but it was beginning to look certain that he’d be back at his desk in less than half an hour. ‘There are currently nae suspicious circumstances. It looks like a tragic accident,’ Charlie concluded.