Read Online Crow Bait by Douglas Skelton - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Skelton
Tags: Crime Fiction
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‘Be good to have him back, eh?’ Knight said, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘Handy boy to have around.’
‘We finished here?’ The irritation in Rab’s voice was heavy.
‘That’s us, big man. You get somewhere warm, get yourself tucked in. Maybe a nice mug of cocoa and a tartan blankie.’
Rab dropped the phone back on its cradle without another word. Sometimes Knight really pissed him off.
11
FRANK DONOVAN WAS running.
He didn’t like running.
He especially didn’t like running with two pockets filled with change, having won a jackpot on the puggy in the pub when the shout came in. It had been his plan to take the cash down the road to the bookies, put it on a nag and maybe claw back some of his losses, but events overtook him. He’d been having some lunch before he started the back shift and a veteran DS in for his midday tightener had his radio with him. When Donovan heard the name of the scroat the lads were after, he simply grabbed the coins from the slot and shoved them in his pockets as he dashed out. Now it was jingling down there like Santa Claus coming to town. He’d also had a couple of beers, which didn’t help matters, and as he pounded through the streets of Garthamlock he could feel it slopping around his guts.
The scroat he and another handful of officers were chasing was named Mo Morris. Mo for Maurice. Maurice Morris – how the hell did the poor bastard end up with that? His dad was a tea-leaf, currently doing time in Her Majesty’s Hotel Barlinnie, and wee Mo was a hopped-up wee shite with sticky fingers and a liking for relieving old people of their pensions. Donovan could see Mo haring down the street. He was a short-arse and short-arses could really move when they wanted to. They’d been looking for him for two weeks, ever since an old lady in Carntyne had been battered in her flat and her money nicked. That’s all the scroat got, that week’s pension and the old dear was still in a coma. Wee Mo was nippy on his feet but not too quick in the head, because he’d left his fingerprints all over the place. Even so, he’d managed to avoid being lifted, moving from place to place. The flat in Porchester Street was tenanted by a cousin and it had already been turned over, so Donovan assumed Mo had moved in only recently. But he must’ve been spotted by a concerned citizen who dialled 999. Unfortunately, he’d seen the uniforms heading into the close and skyed the pitch out the back window, jumping down onto the roof of some bin shelters, then away across the back court. The uniforms blew it in and, as Mo Morris was top of the Most Wanted list, any cop not involved in something else piled into the East End scheme, Frank Donovan among them.
Now here he was, on his tod, legging it down Balveny Street, jingle bells playing in his trouser pockets, trying to catch up with the fleet-footed wee bastard up ahead. Or at least keep him in sight. As he puffed and gasped in his wake, Donovan couldn’t help but think of the Roadrunner cartoons. Mo was the Roadrunner, which made him Wile. E. Coyote. Any minute now an anvil with the Acme trademark would land on his head. That might actually be welcome because, truth be told, he was feeling none-too-clever. The beer slopping around his guts was making him feel decidedly seedy, and those bloody ten pence pieces were banging and rubbing against his thighs as if he had testicles like an elephant.
Mo veered into Findochty Street, but Donovan kept after him. Donovan knew he couldn’t keep this pace up much longer – there was a pain in his chest now, which was worrying. He was only in his mid-thirties, for God’s sake – too young for a heart attack. He hoped it was just wind. He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out his radio, flicked the ‘Send’ switch and held it close to his mouth as he ran.
‘ DS Donovan…’ His breath wheezed with the words, ‘… in pursuit of suspect Mo Morris on Findochty Street.
‘Be good to have him back, eh?’ Knight said, filling the gap in the conversation. ‘Handy boy to have around.’
‘We finished here?’ The irritation in Rab’s voice was heavy.
‘That’s us, big man. You get somewhere warm, get yourself tucked in. Maybe a nice mug of cocoa and a tartan blankie.’
Rab dropped the phone back on its cradle without another word. Sometimes Knight really pissed him off.
11
FRANK DONOVAN WAS running.
He didn’t like running.
He especially didn’t like running with two pockets filled with change, having won a jackpot on the puggy in the pub when the shout came in. It had been his plan to take the cash down the road to the bookies, put it on a nag and maybe claw back some of his losses, but events overtook him. He’d been having some lunch before he started the back shift and a veteran DS in for his midday tightener had his radio with him. When Donovan heard the name of the scroat the lads were after, he simply grabbed the coins from the slot and shoved them in his pockets as he dashed out. Now it was jingling down there like Santa Claus coming to town. He’d also had a couple of beers, which didn’t help matters, and as he pounded through the streets of Garthamlock he could feel it slopping around his guts.
The scroat he and another handful of officers were chasing was named Mo Morris. Mo for Maurice. Maurice Morris – how the hell did the poor bastard end up with that? His dad was a tea-leaf, currently doing time in Her Majesty’s Hotel Barlinnie, and wee Mo was a hopped-up wee shite with sticky fingers and a liking for relieving old people of their pensions. Donovan could see Mo haring down the street. He was a short-arse and short-arses could really move when they wanted to. They’d been looking for him for two weeks, ever since an old lady in Carntyne had been battered in her flat and her money nicked. That’s all the scroat got, that week’s pension and the old dear was still in a coma. Wee Mo was nippy on his feet but not too quick in the head, because he’d left his fingerprints all over the place. Even so, he’d managed to avoid being lifted, moving from place to place. The flat in Porchester Street was tenanted by a cousin and it had already been turned over, so Donovan assumed Mo had moved in only recently. But he must’ve been spotted by a concerned citizen who dialled 999. Unfortunately, he’d seen the uniforms heading into the close and skyed the pitch out the back window, jumping down onto the roof of some bin shelters, then away across the back court. The uniforms blew it in and, as Mo Morris was top of the Most Wanted list, any cop not involved in something else piled into the East End scheme, Frank Donovan among them.
Now here he was, on his tod, legging it down Balveny Street, jingle bells playing in his trouser pockets, trying to catch up with the fleet-footed wee bastard up ahead. Or at least keep him in sight. As he puffed and gasped in his wake, Donovan couldn’t help but think of the Roadrunner cartoons. Mo was the Roadrunner, which made him Wile. E. Coyote. Any minute now an anvil with the Acme trademark would land on his head. That might actually be welcome because, truth be told, he was feeling none-too-clever. The beer slopping around his guts was making him feel decidedly seedy, and those bloody ten pence pieces were banging and rubbing against his thighs as if he had testicles like an elephant.
Mo veered into Findochty Street, but Donovan kept after him. Donovan knew he couldn’t keep this pace up much longer – there was a pain in his chest now, which was worrying. He was only in his mid-thirties, for God’s sake – too young for a heart attack. He hoped it was just wind. He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out his radio, flicked the ‘Send’ switch and held it close to his mouth as he ran.
‘ DS Donovan…’ His breath wheezed with the words, ‘… in pursuit of suspect Mo Morris on Findochty Street.
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