Free The Purple Contract by Robin Flett Page A

mouthful of fish supper.
    ‘Aye, a better class o’ grease for sure.’ Les Stewart preferred sausage to fish. ‘What time does our pal finish, then?’
    Moloney scrunched up his now-empty wrapper and aimed it at a waste-paper basket.’ Coconut!’ the newspaper ball disappeared without touching the sides.
    ‘Used to be good shows here,’ said Al Hendry, referring to the travelling fairground which moved from town to town in the summer. ‘They still do that here?’
    Shrugs all round.
    ‘My cousin says he’s usually out by half-eight, nine o’clock at the latest.’ He binned his newspaper wrapper in the same basket. ‘He might go home after that, or he may just head for Glasgow. Any road, he’s spending the night in the hotel up there.’
    Paul Hendry tried for three in a row and missed, his greasy ball rolled across the pavement and fetched up against the low wall. Hoots of derision from all sides.
    ‘Your penalty for missing, my son, is to go and fetch us a new numberplate,’ grinned Al.
    ‘Fuck’s sake!’
    ‘Plenty of quiet streets and car parks round here. Once they’re home for tea the cars won’t move again till tomorrow, so no-one will be bleating to the law before then.’
    ‘Fuck’s sake!’ commented Paul again. ‘Can we no’ all go?’
    ‘Oh yeah, all four of us mooching around looking at cars in a small town!’ Maloney was scathing. ‘Get us lifted in no time, that would.’
    Paul scowled at him.’ But––’
    ‘We’ll park up as near to Edwards’ office as we can, so we can watch the place,’ cut in Al. ‘Hide the new plates in the boot when you get back, we’ll change them on the way home.’
    ‘Bunch a’ bastards!’ Paul Hendry stood up and slouched off to the Astra, where he pocketed some tools. With a final wave of two fingers he crossed the street and disappeared.
    The boot lid clunked shut and Paul Hendry slipped into the rear seat alongside Les Stewart. ‘All done.’ He was in a much more cheerful mood, thieving really pepped him up.
    ‘Good,’ his brother grunted. ‘There hasn’t been any movement for over half an hour now. Can’t be anyone still in there with him, so it won’t be long.’
    Five minutes later Con Moloney patted Al on the shoulder and pointed. Keith Edwards was closing the door to his office, an ex-shop in a side-street near the town centre. They watched him lock the door, pull down a grill and lock that too.
    ‘Christ, you’d think this was the Bronx or somethin’!’ commented Stewart.
    ‘Aye, you’d almost think there might be thieves about!’ said Al Hendry.
    They all sniggered.
    Al waited for the MP to walk round the corner. There was no car parked outside his office, so it was obviously elsewhere.
    ‘There’s a car-park round the back there,’ pointed out Paul, ‘I came through it on the way back.’
    ‘Right, we’ll move round to the main road and pick him up on the way out of town or wherever.’ Al started the car.
    They parked at the side of the road two minutes later to wait. Five minutes passed––and then ten.
    ‘Jesus! Where’s he gone then?’ Paul was getting jumpy. ‘We’ve missed him!’
    ‘We haven’t missed him,’ said Moloney. ‘He has to come this way and we were here first.’
    A dark coloured car turned on to the road behind them. ‘That’s the car-park!’ said a relieved Paul Hendry.
    ‘Here he comes, keep a low profile, all of you.’ Al slumped down in his seat and turned his head away from the road.
    The car, a steel-gray Lexus, swept past and Paul Hendry yelped, ‘There’s a copper with him!’
    And there was. The uniform quite distinct in the passenger seat, the two men in conversation.
    ‘Oh fuck!’ Moloney was really pissed, this bloody enterprise was jinxed.
    ‘Quick, follow him!’ Les Stewart pointed forward through the windscreen.
    ‘What, with a copper in there?’ Paul Hendry was horrified. ‘You ever been in Barlinnie? It’s not fuckin’ fun, I can tell ye!’
    Barlinnie