on a Friday. Boasting a small shopping centre, a bank, job centre and a couple of pubs, it wasn’t exactly teeming with commercial activity, serving as it did one of the poorest areas of Glasgow. The blue Transit pulled up outside the bookies at 5.57 p.m., as Brennan confirmed with a last look at his watch. Turning off the engine, his stocking mask already covering his face, he opened the door and jumped out. He booted the bookies’ door open and marched straight into the shop with Jarvis a pace behind him. “Right you bastards, everybody except staff get the fuck oot,” and to make his point Brennan pulled out the sawn-off and blasted a round into the roof Jarvis obligingly trained his sawn-off over the shop floor. The punters, a mixture of drunks, pensioners and assorted local lowlife, made their way out without needing a second invite. Springburn was the type of place that had more than its fair share of violent crime, and the punters in Brown’s bookies had all witnessed similar incidents at one time or another.
