Stay of Execution

46

Moash Glazier had deemed it wise to lie low for a few days. In particular, he had deemed it wise to stay out of Leith, in case someone spotted him and reported his presence in the area to Malky Gladsmuir.

He knew how unpopular he would be with the bar manager and had decided to give him time to recover from his visit from the CID and from his embarrassment over the coat that he had taken from him. The longer he delayed their inevitable meeting the more likely he was to escape a kicking. One thing was certain, though; never again would he be allowed a slate in the Wee Black Dug. In future it would have to be cash on the bar.

If anyone understood the meaning of the phrase ‘cash economy’, it was Moash Glazier. He kept his contact with the official world to a minimum; he had been given a National Insurance number once but he had no idea what it was, or what obligations it imposed on him. Moash wanted nothing to do with formal society. Somewhere he fitted into a chain of supply and demand, but he would have scoffed at the idea. He lived on what he stole and on the money realised by its sale, and that was that.

His lifestyle carried the hazard of imprisonment, but paradoxically it offered the priceless benefit of freedom from the drudgery that made him pity those ordinary straight people who went to work eight hours a day, five days a week. He was glad of their efforts, though. After all, who else filled the great lucky dip in which he delved for his living?

If he had been able to recognise it, though, he was trapped in a work cycle of his own. He had no bank account, no nest egg; he fed and watered himself on a day-to-day basis, and holidays were a luxury he could not afford. His close call in the Meadows had rattled him, and he had hidden away with his Granton woman over the weekend, but the cash he had raised from the mountain bike, the boots and the wee step-ladder. . which had not fallen off during his flight from the Meadows, contrary to the story he had told the police. . was running low, and it was time to go on the prowl.

He decided that the city centre was off limits for a few more days. That young inspector, Steele, had scared the crap out of him, and he had no wish to run into George Regan for a while either. So when he left his bolt-hole, he headed east for Leith and the docks, where there was always stuff lying about.

He passed by Newhaven harbour but paid a quick visit to the flour mill, where someone had been kind enough to leave a very fancy vacuum flask, a CD Walkman and a heavy-duty torch in the saddlebag of a bike that was chained outside. The saddlebag was secured only by two small buckles, so he stole that also.

He was so pleased with his take that he almost decided to go home at that point, but he decided that the day was too full of promise to cut so short, especially since the weather was grey and drab, the kind that he knew from experience kept folks’ heads down, rather than looking out of their office windows.

There were too many windows in the Scottish Executive building, though, too many to take a chance on a quick trip through the car park, so he kept on walking down Commercial Street, until he crossed the bridge and reached the shore.

Moash was sometimes tempted by the Malmaison Hotel; it attracted a lot of moneyed folk, and in theory healthy pickings. But he had the sense to know that the rich were increasingly cashless, and that to make anything from them he would need access to their unguarded valuables. That would not be easily gained, though, as posh hotels usually had security systems, with concealed video cameras and other stuff that could get you banged up in no time.

So he sniffed at the Malmaison and passed it by; there were other places behind it, industrial units where people were sometimes careless, and the goods yard which on the right day was Aladdin’s bloody cave. He wandered along casually, with the practised slouch of someone who was inherently skilled at drawing no attention to himself. When he nipped into an open office doorway and won himself a fat wallet from the pocket of a so-called security guard who had left his jacket hanging over his seat while he went for a slash, his day was complete.

Moash never retraced his steps. That was the second stupidest thing that a professional thief could do, a sure way of landing yourself in the treacle. The stupidest was to run once you had made a score. If the loss was discovered quickly, there was no better way of identifying yourself. So he kept on walking, until he was almost past the Albert Dock, where the road took a turn that would ultimately lead him out on to Salamander Street.

He stopped at the corner of the dock and glanced around, not to see if he was being pursued, but to see if anyone was looking in his direction. Happy that he was unobserved, he unzipped the fly of his jeans and urinated contentedly into the dull green water.

As he followed his yellow arc, his eye was caught by a strange movement. As is the case with all commercial harbours, it was impossible to see anything clearly that was more than a few inches below the surface, but he could just make out a shape down there. Moash knew that curiosity killed cats, but he also knew that they had nine lives. Beside him on the ground there was a long docker’s pole; when he had zipped his fly, he picked it up and thrust it into the water.

Something moved at its touch, something solid. Moash frowned. And then the object turned and rose, until it was just below the surface, close enough for him to see the dead face of a man staring up at him.

Had there not been a helicopter close overhead, drifting in to land on the nearby pad, someone would have heard his scream.

As well as being totally amoral, and a parasite sucking sustenance from the community in which he lived, Moash Glazier had a third great weakness. He believed in omens and in the signs that they drew for him. And so when he saw the thing beneath him, tethered somehow to the wall of the dockside, its heavy jacket ballooning out around it, he read its meaning loud and clear. Finding one stiff was a major misfortune, but coming upon another less than a week later, that was an unmistakable message. All things came in threes, and if he hung around this place, he knew all too well who the next would be.

He dropped the pole into the water, and he broke his number-one rule. He turned and ran, taking the shortest route out of the docks, not caring who saw him, and not stopping until he was half-way up Constitution Street, when he saw a taxi and hailed it.

Gasping, he instructed the driver to take him to Waverley Station, where he used the stolen credit card of G. Gebbie, offering an acceptable facsimile of the smudged scrawl on the back, to buy a one-way ticket to London King’s Cross. His train was past Dunbar before his heartbeat returned to something approaching its normal rate.

Moash realised that a whole new chapter of his life was unfolding, but that was infinitely preferable to the closure of the whole bloody book. As the train sped south, he counted the cash in Mr Gebbie’s wallet. . three hundred and thirty-five pounds, the remains, if he had known it, of a very successful Saturday in the bookie’s. . then took the fancy vacuum from the expensive-looking saddlebag.

He unscrewed the cup on top, then the inner plug, and sniffed. ‘Bastard,’ he growled. ‘Fuckin’ oxtail. Ah hate fuckin’ oxtail.’