Reg McKay - The Last Godfather. The Life and Crimes of Arthur Thompson

My partner in crime.

The one who helped me break out of wage slavery. Who didnt grumble when the loot ran out and the family silver was flogged. Who stayed in my team when the flak started flying. Who has humoured my craziness and tolerated my weaknesses beyond any measure of sanity. The one who has had more faith in me than I deserve.

To my blue-eyed green-eyed Gerry.

My partner in life.

Thanks to all the other scribblers who have written a little about Arthur Thompson, leaving me with an itch that needed scratching the question of what else was there to know.

To The Fox, for his selfless sharing of contacts and his wise old eye for a story.

To those who helped but didnt want to be named.

To those who helped but didnt know it.

You all know who you are.

I know who you are.

Arthur Thompson knew you fine well.

You knew him better.

Reg McKay

Paisley

You dont know me but I know all about you, said the voice of the nameless man down the phone. And all about that old bastard. It was one of the less polite contacts I had about Arthur Thompson yet still one I was grateful for. Since the book hit the shelves, Ive become accustomed to being approached by people who claim to have the in on whatever or whoever Ive written about. With The Last Godfather those contacts almost took over my life. For months, I couldnt go to the pub but some old geezer sidled up to me with some story about Arthur. Then there was this one, the undercover cop. Now that was a surprise. The cops dont talk to me they get rapped on the knuckles if they do.

This cop had been on surveillance of The Ponderosa, Thompsons house, on the night Bobby Glover and Joe Hanlon were shot dead, the night before Fatboy Thompsons funeral.

We saw him seven or eight times that night through his window, the cop said. He even came out to talk to us once. He couldnt have slipped away to be involved in Bobby and Joes shooting.

Couldnt have walked through the secret tunnel under the house to Fatboys place, out the back window, over the wall and down the back lane to a waiting car? Like hed done hundreds of times before? Then driven to a spot five minutes away, done the deadly deed and come back the same route to give the cops a wee wave from his front room? Couldnt he?

But Im grateful to that cop. He did give me useful information that I didnt have before and it tied in with what this other fella told me in yet another bar when I was in search of nothing but a quiet drink.

Then youve got the blokes the same age as The Godfather, who grew up with him and grew away from him for very good reasons.

The straight businessmen came out of the woodwork in droves. Funny that a book should shake them out when theyve been keeping their heads down for years. The kind of shenanigans they got up to with Thompson makes you wonder if the world is full of crooks the only difference being that some admit it while others hide it.

Then there was the paperwork that people passed to me usually anonymously. Copies of letters from Chief Constables, official reports, death certificates, reports on unsolved murders, notes about caches of illegal shooters, murder scenes and a whole heap more.

All of it helped me fill in some of the missing pieces in Arthur Thompsons jigsaw of a life. For a life that was so long spent at the top of organised crime, there is so much to discover. For a life spent trying to keep out of the public eye there are secrets by the wagonload. And with so many other folk in the know about his deadly doings still terrified of the spectre of Arthur Thompson, their snippets of info will only slowly dribble out over time but not until they feel the way is safe. There are inevitably new tales.

Some new tales they are torture, kidnap, concrete boots, Scots running crime abroad and a whole heap more. Theres more than enough of them to fill a book on their own but theyre included here in this revised edition.

Will the story of Arthur Thompson ever be complete? Who knows? After all, he was The Last Godfather.

The car snaked slowly along deserted streets shining dark and greasy after a day of rain. It was a cloudy winter evening, black as blood in the night and a time for the safety of your own fireside but not for the three grim-faced men in the car. They had business to attend to.

Down from the north of the city, they travelled past the glowering Victorian bulk of the Royal Infirmary, a symbol of pain and hope to all who lived in their neighbourhood a place they preferred not to have to visit. An ambulance, lights blazing and siren blaring, overtook them as they passed the Cathedral. Grotesque profiles of the monumental gravestones in the ancient burial ground of the Necropolis sneaked a look at them as they sped on their way. This was old Glasgow. Theirs but not theirs. There was no money to be made in history. These were modern times and they were men of their time.

On to the toll at Trongate and the lights of pubs, chip shops, cafes and Argyle Street. Groups of young men with greased-back hair, in the long jackets and drainpipe trousers of Teddy boys, strolled the pavements and whistled at pairs of young women in beehive hairdos and too much make up. Most would be going in the same direction as the men east for the dancing at the Barrowland Ballroom. In a few years, it would become synonymous with death in the most unexpected of guises. A bible-quoting, neatly dressed, polite young man called John, the type you could take home to your parents, would pick up girls there, only to leave them dead by morning. In a few years, the name Bible John would define the face of uncaught serial killers but not yet. John had not started stalking the city streets yet. Now they were safe. Or so people thought.

To the south was the High Court and Glasgow Green where throngs of thousands had regularly gathered to gloat at the unfortunates who were hanged in public. The car turned left through The Barras market, stalls now deserted and ghostly, sodden litter shifting in the wind.

Pull in here, the front passenger ordered.

Want us to come in with ye? the driver asked, receiving a scowl for his trouble.

Just keep the motor running.

On the pavement, the front passenger straightened his collar while casually looking this way and that. He felt into one coat pocket and weighed something, then slipped a hand into the inside of his jacket. It was a routine he carried out as regularly as most men checking they had their wallet and their car keys. Satisfied, with one quick glance across the street, he strode confidently through a pubs doors.

Hes a careful one, that, offered the rear seat passenger.

He is that, agreed the driver, pulling a ten-packet of Bristol from his pocket and offering one to his colleague.

Hes no expecting trouble, is he?

Naw, its just his way. The man doesnt miss a beat. The two men nodded agreement, smoked and stared through the rain-speckled car windows, idly watching an old man with booze-wobbly legs trying to make some progress up the pavement. One step forward, two to the side. Another step forward, two to the side. He kept straying on to the road then stopping, a surprised expression on his face. Taking off his cap, rubbing his bald skull, hed set off, determined to get back on to the pavement. By the time the pubs doors swung open, the old drunk boy was heading back on to the street again.

Any luck? asked the driver.

Nah, no show, replied the front seat passenger.