Chapter 4

2007

Fraser Gilchrist was troubled. None of the usual narcs could tell him anything about who had been behind the shootings at the Portcullis. Having spoken to a few of the pensioners who had witnessed events, there was also something not quite right about the hit.

The details he had extracted from the witnesses just didn't make sense. He had spoken to four of them - four pensioners who were scared for their lives, as they knew who he was - and they had all told roughly the same story.

The killer had been wearing a ski mask. The killer hadn't said a single word from the moment he entered the pub to the moment he walked calmly out again. The killer had shared out Stevie Miller's 'cash takings' with the pensioners rather than taking them for himself.

At his suggestion the clan had carefully planted their own men inside the Glasgow gangs that were their biggest rivals. Fraser had made contact with each of these men and the message he got back in every case was that the other Glasgow gangs had not been involved in the attack.

It would come as no surprise to anyone that the Cullen clan also had a number of policemen on their payroll and Fraser's last calls had gone out to them. It was clear that Strathclyde police had no clues as to the identity of the killer either.

To say this was unusual would be a massive understatement. In a world where reputations were everything, a world inhabited by men who by their very nature were arrogant and boastful, there was always some word on the streets as to who was behind the latest big event. The absence of any gossip at all was what was troubling Fraser.

Reviewing what he knew, Gilchrist was able to rule out robbery as a motive - the killer hadn't taken the cash. Neither did it seem the hit was aimed at sending a message - the killer hadn't said a word, there was no threat. He was at a loss to explain the reason for the killings other than there could have been some personal motive involved. Miller certainly rubbed lots of people up the wrong way; Fraser had first hand experience of that. But had he done something bad enough to warrant someone taking him out? That was easy to believe.

Fraser knew Rab Cullen wasn't going to be happy that there were no clues to the identity of the gunman. He would also need to impress upon his boss the fact that the other clans were nervous and preparing themselves for war after the two hits carried out earlier that day. His informants had told him that the other gangs weren't looking for a battle with Cullen and things wouldn't kick off if no further attacks were carried out. Things were balanced on a knife-edge however; one more killing could send things spiralling out of control.

DI MacIntosh was growing increasingly frustrated. In his experience the average criminal wasn't that bright and they made stupid mistakes that led to their arrest. Neither were the so-called Glasgow hard men known for being able to keep their mouths shut. An example of how things normally played out was that within hours of the two killings that day he had tip-offs on who was behind them. The same wasn't the case with the Portcullis pub shootings and that was unusual.

He had forty officers - detectives and uniformed men - out working the streets and still he had nothing. He suspected that forensics would come up with little to help him either, the witnesses had all described a very clean hit.

Some of what he knew also pointed to some effective planning for the killings. Marks on the fire exit door indicated that it had been wedged shut from the outside to prevent escape that way. The killer seemed to get away from the scene without anyone seeing him - yet it had been broad daylight. The time picked for the attack was one guaranteed to mean there were few people in the pub.

Two of the witnesses had also let slip that the gunman had emptied the loan shark's money out onto the tables before he left.

"Why didn't he take the money? MacIntosh asked himself.

His network of informants all suggested that there was no link to any of the other Glasgow gangs, there was no hint of this being the start of a turf war. The two killings today were retaliation, as if the first killings had been gang related, but his informants all indicated the pub shootings weren't.

He had a bad feeling about this one. The day to day business of dealing with Glasgow's criminal gangs was hard enough without some rogue element turning up the heat. Drew could only hope that effective police work would turn something up sooner rather than later.

"Always look for the motive, that's the number one rule in investigation. If it's not money, it's not power or influence then it could be personal," he thought to himself.

MacIntosh didn't know it, but he had just come to the same conclusion as Fraser Gilchrist. What he didn't know was that a trawl through crimes known to have involved Stevie Miller, in the hope of finding somebody out for revenge, wouldn't lead him to the killer. No one had been arrested for the murder of Nora MacSween - so DI MacIntosh wouldn't link that crime to Miller and there was no trail to Gavin.

Fiona sat in the stands at Edinburgh's Meadowbank Olympic pool with her mother and father, nervously anticipating Gavin's race. He was down to compete in a 200m backstroke event and she had a particular reason for naming this event her favourite.

Ever since the day Gavin had come to her rescue she had tried to make a point of coming to support him at the major swimming meetings he competed in. She could still vividly recall the first time she had accompanied her parents, at first just there to support her new hero. Her outlook changed after that very first meeting.

Even aged thirteen, Gavin had looked incredible. Fiona had never really taken notice of him around the house, but seeing him in his racing trunks was stunning. The hours of swimming and working out at the dojo had broadened his shoulders and layered muscle on top of muscle. He stood at 5'8" then (5'11" now) and Fiona had shivered at just how buff he looked.

When she had first seen Gavin perform in the backstroke she had squeezed her thighs together, a raw tingle of excitement shooting through her. The starting position for this stroke involved the swimmers grabbing hold of the starting platform and when the gun went off, throwing themselves backwards in a dive. The effect was to show off Gavin's incredible washboard stomach muscles under tension and Fiona was immediately hooked.

Gavin might look quite plain with his brown hair; average height and the baggy clothes he wore also disguised his athletic build. Up until she had watched him at the swimming meetings she had thought his only really outstanding feature was his blue eyes. Once she had the opportunity to take in his almost naked, athletic body and the impressive package encased inside his tight speedos, she quickly revised her opinion.

As a result her hero worship had morphed firstly into a young girl's crush and in the past few years into a deep and abiding love for her 'brother'. For once she was secretly pleased that Gavin wasn't her real brother, as in her own mind that made him fair game for a relationship with her.

Her frustration had been growing however, as the more she tried to throw herself at him, the more she flaunted her body and sexuality, the more he smiled and acted the perfect brother. Fiona was beginning to wonder if he would ever notice her as a woman. She had even begun to wonder if Gavin might be gay. To her knowledge he had never had a girlfriend, but her constant fantasies about him wouldn't allow her to think that for long.

She focussed her attention back on the pool as the race looked like it was about to start. Fiona watched Gavin grab onto the starting bar and coil his body tightly, ready for the starting pistol. Her eyes took in the bunched muscles on his neck and across his shoulders and down his sides. Her anticipation built as she waited for the dive.

The gun fired and Gavin's reaction made her breath catch in her throat. The raw power was incredible and he looked like a sleek sea creature as he thrust explosively backwards and entered smoothly into his stroke. She had focussed on his tensed muscles and as always it had sent a stab of excitement directly to the juncture of her thighs.

She sighed and silently promised herself that she would redouble her efforts to get her brother to notice her.

One of the beauties of having finished sitting all of your exams was that there was an opportunity to be more relaxed about going into school for the final few weeks of term. Gavin took advantage of that to stay in bed listening to his parents and sister getting themselves up and out of the house. He was still a little tired from the swimming meet the day before.

Once he was satisfied he had the house to himself; he took a shower and went downstairs to have some cereal. He didn't even realise what he was doing until he blinked and looked down to see the Browning in his hands. Somehow he had managed to enter the garage and remove it from its hiding place without conscious thought. He turned the gun over in his hands, feeling its weight and a smile came to his lips.

The smile signified that his active brain had at last managed to identify why he had the feeling of anticipation as well as satisfaction after the killings in the pub.

"I'm going to do it again," he thought to himself.

The vivid details of what had happened inside the Portcullis ran through his brain again now. He remembered how alert he had been, how effortless everything seemed to be. His movement had been fluid and he had a sense of being invincible. It was as if his body had been charged up with energy, fuelled by the belief that he was in the right.

He was doing good work; he was removing the scum that preyed on society's weak and helpless. He was there to make sure they didn't harm anyone else. He was doing what the police and the courts couldn't do because they had their hands tied behind their backs. He was in those moments a frontier gunman sticking up for the good people against the bad.

"I'm going to do it again! There are other people out there who need me to stick up for them, to defend them against the evil that runs unchecked in our streets. It's not just me who has lost a mother; others have lost loved ones to the murderers, the drug pushers. There are countless others out there living in fear with no one to fight for them. Yes, I do believe I'm going to do it again."

The smile stayed on Gavin's lips as he packed the gun back into its hiding place. He knew this was a startling decision he had come to, but somehow it just felt right and he had never felt so at peace with himself as he did at that moment.

Making his way back into the house, he sat at the breakfast bar and began to flick through the morning newspaper. The stories being reported all seemed to be bad news - death, tragedy, and crime seemed to be what the tabloids believed sold copies. If he needed anything to confirm what he had been thinking in the garage moments before, there was ample re-inforcement on virtually every page he read.

There were reports of court cases, which described brutal killings, drug and alcohol fuelled violence, scams and fraud and there was a common thread running through them. In each case there was an innocent victim and an innocent victim's family. The paper seemed to take equal delight in highlighting the evil of the criminals and the suffering, the grief, the despair felt by those affected.

Gavin stopped on page 4 and read the report on heightened tension amongst the Glasgow gangs following the Portcullis killings and the subsequent 'tit-for-tat' shootings that had taken place.

... there is no doubt about it; Glasgow's gangland is on the verge of exploding. Criminal sources have told me that all it will take is one more killing to spark the biggest turf war Glasgow has ever seen. Illegal weapons are everywhere and the police can do nothing to control what's going on.