Glasgow
6 a.m.
April 18th
Stanton had driven all night, down the M90, onto the A90 and then onto the M8, one short break of a half hour along the way, in a lay by to make a phone call, using the dead man’s cell phone, hadn’t given him any respite at all. He was getting exhausted, but pushed on taking the lorry on the A899. His target was the A72. An old Legion buddy lived in Motherwell and Stanton had been this way before some years earlier.
On the last part of the exhausting trip he had opened the window as the bodily fluids of the deceased were beginning to make a stench. Stanton mused on the fact that he would probably go down as serial killer having killed two truck drivers and a dog handler in one day.
Clarky was expecting him. He hadn’t gone into details, but Clarky owed him and was glad to help out such a good army buddy.
Stanton steered the big lorry up the Bothwell Road and into the Hamilton Park racecourse. He’d had this in mind earlier when he’d thought of Clarky. They’d had a good day out here when he stopped by, years ago, and Stanton roughly knew the lay out in his head. He entered via The Paddock and swung the lorry through a tight circle. It was six am and the whole place was empty. He parked under a line of trees and spent a while wiping the cab. He locked the doors on exit and walked to Hamilton West train station. There were CCTV cameras so he kept his head down and faced away, though he was getting too tired to care. It was a chilling and nerve racking wait, but a short one, before the early train screeched to a halt. He was drifting off when the train arrived and the brief journey saw him to Motherwell station with ease.
Clarky opened the door of his house on Parkneuk Street to an exhausted friend.
“Hey Trev. My god you look wasted. Better come on in.”
“It’s good to see you my friend.”
Stanton took a look around at the street before he walked in. The only thing which caught his eye was the oversized white satellite dish on the roof of the house opposite.