My new found skill was soon in demand. I foolishly bragged about it and I was picked up by Martin Sketchmore, a rare anglophile in our midst, an old acquaintance of Michael Tolt and, to top it all, a fellow Partick Thistle nutter — go figure.
‘Been hearing that you are good with locks.’
His accent was thick with somewhere in England, but not thick enough for me to place it. I nodded.
‘Got a job for you.’
It was a doddle. A little house breaking. The home of a Mrs McCafferty as it turned out. Top floor flat in Meadowpark Street in the east end of the city. Easy pickings. She was at the bingo and Martin had his eyes on her husband’s paypacket.
‘She keeps it behind the clock. Friday night, the old man brings it in, takes out his beer money and the rest is for her. Today was bonus time at Mellowes.’
Mellowes was a small engineering works that Martin skivvied in and Mr McCafferty gaffered for. Hence his intimate knowledge of all things mantle-piece in the McCafferty household.
Martin had planned to go in earlier in the evening but a few pints got in the way and, later that Friday we could be found climbing the stairs to the McCaffertys’ home — ears alive for any sounds.
At the top of the last flight I was faced with a storm door. It was locked but a few seconds with a piece of wire and a nail file and it was open.
The inner door was all glass — swanky as hell for those days. Martin pushed me to one side and booted the glass. Shards showered around us and before they could settle Martin was in and out, pay packet stuffed in his pocket. The McCaffertys didn’t make it out of the bedroom before we were gone.
It hadn’t occurred to me that they might be in.
I got a tenner for that job — Mrs McCafferty’s old man must have got a hell of a bonus for Martin to pay me a tenner.
And so it went on. I was a gun for hire. You want in. I get you there. But mostly I worked with Martin. It was a hell of a time. I wish I could tell you more. I really do but the clock is ticking.
I was on the up again but on a downward track — if that makes any sense. I was rising up the criminal world but sliding down the social scale on the polite side of society.
After a year of lock picking with Martin I wanted to go freelance. I fancied the lion’s share of the profits from a job — after all Martin would have fuck all if it wasn’t for me. I’m sure you know what I mean? So I bided my time, waiting for the right job.
It arrived in the late summer of 1976.
We were working the south side of Glasgow as the west and east were getting a little too hot. The police were on to us and word was on the street that there was some money in it for anyone that could turn us in. Forget CSI — it didn’t exist back then — grassing up was far more effective and some of my fellow thieves would be happy to drop me in it.
Especially those who kept their freedom by dropping the odd word in the police’s ear.
The south side was proving fruitful and my ten percent was starting to weigh down the bed. I was in the cash and a happy bunny. Finding good jobs was easy with the help of one Rachel Score — a pro from the Gorbals and Martin’s snitch.
Rachel was blonde, over made up, over padded, corseted to the hilt and wore dresses that promised much if you could just figure how to release her from them. She let Martin know when houses were going to be empty and in turn she earned a cut of the take. Martin also paid her a little extra, in return for some extra marital exercise that Mrs Sketchmore was unaware of. As to me I never got a sniff of Rachel’s charms. Martin saw to that.
‘Don’t get involved with the tart. She’ll turn on you in a second.’
That didn’t stop him.
The gigs Rachel found us were easy. On a Friday night Martin would make a visit to the Gorbals, partake of Rachel, and come back with an empty ball sack; a full list of all the houses on the go for that weekend in his pocket.
All was roses and wine until, one weekend, Susan Sketchmore got her claws in and grounded Martin. In his absence I was despatched to meet the lovely Rachel with strict instructions to pick up the list and nothing else — chance would be a fine thing.
I met Rachel in the pre-arranged close only to find her giving one of her regulars a knee trembler. Without pausing she reached into her handbag, took out a piece of paper and handed it to me. If her ‘friend’ noticed I was there he never gave a sign. I left to the sound of a deep grunt as her customer finished his business.
Once back on the street I was tempted to look at the list but, around me the Gorbals was alive with eyes and ears and it wasn’t until I got home that I scanned the list of names and addresses.
All, bar one, were alien to me. The familiar name was David Read.
I knew David’s dad of old. He had been a big customer of my old engineering company and a man with contacts at Ford. Money was not an issue but he was a Gorbals man through and through and wasn’t for moving to some fancy detached house in the suburbs. Over the years he had purchased every flat in his close. A bit of cash to the council and a front door appeared where the communal entrance had once been. Then he set about converting the whole building into the home of his dreams.
The old man had died the year before and David now had a four-floor house with nine rooms to a floor and more toilets than was good for a man.
Read’s name was removed from the list — it wasn’t going to Martin — this one was for me.
I re-wrote the list in my best forged handwriting and Martin and I spent the weekend emptying valuables from homes.
On the Sunday night Martin called it quits around ten and told me we should both get going while the going was good. I made my excuses and told him I was walking into town for a drink. He shrugged his shoulders and told me to pass by his house the next morning for my share and left. I waited until he was well gone and then some.