by Heleen Kist
Having agonised about it on the ride over, I now felt justified in having brought Dave along to share the news. The men had greeted each other awkwardly but over the course of the conversation, Stephen saw how Dave had sought to protect him today; and maybe, by extension, also in their past. As the sun beamed down on us, I hoped this would mark a turning point for us all.
‘Yes. My God, the relief on his face. He’s right though,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘We’ll have to wait until the planning meeting to see if it’s truly over. Maybe one of Brian’s guys will still come to pressure him.’
‘Babe, with the execution the way it was this morning I don’t think any of those guys will be giving any business deal a second thought any time soon. They’ll be out to get whoever killed their boss.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ In every sense, I thought, quite happy if Mike was to suffer as a result.
The gate had been opened remotely and as we hit pavement, I saw the red van we’d come in. I’d been so distracted by the assassination that I’d forgotten my earlier fright. The hand holding mine suddenly felt constricting and, feeling the sweat build around my fingers, I dropped it.
‘Dave? Whose car is this?’
‘It’s Tam’s. He wants me to use his van when I do jobs for him, rather than my own.’
‘Have you had it long?’
The question must have told him something was wrong. He stopped looking for his keys and swivelled my way with an enquiring gaze. ‘What’s up?’
He’d accused me of conspiracy theories before and I didn’t want to sound like a loon again; but I needed the truth. With every bone in my body I believed I’d been followed. But scanning my memories for confirmation, I couldn’t be sure. Could my mind have played tricks on me?
‘I’ve noticed a red van following me lately. Is it you?’
A cloud passed in front of the sun and the temperature dropped, as we were covered in shade. When Dave bit his lip and looked at his shoes, I had my answer.
‘I was worried about you. You weren’t listening to me and throwing yourself into all these dangerous situations…I wanted to keep you safe.’
‘What kind of creepy person does that?’
‘The kind that loves you very much.’ His word and earnest expression caught me off-guard and I softened my attitude as he continued his apology. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? But you were being so bloody stubborn.’
Our little road-side argument raised a neck crane from a dog walker across the street. I pulled my stalker boyfriend into the car to spare the posh neighbourhood’s prying eyes from further vulgarity.
‘I thought it was the bouncer—Mike’s bouncer—that had been following me. I saw him on Pollokshaws Road again and when I lost sight of him for a minute, I saw that van.’ Now conscious of my misconception, I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe it was you all along.’
‘Babe, it was stupid. I know. But I was watching out for you. Christ, I’ve been making super slow progress on the drains at the Prince William just so I could listen in and make sure you were safe. But they never talked about you again. Or Glory. I even asked around my old friends—guys I don’t hang out with anymore, before you say anything—but none of them had any information about Glory being targeted.’
‘You should have been honest with me.’ The irony of this accusation wasn’t lost on me. Lord knows how much I’d been hiding.
‘I was. I kept telling you you didn’t know who you were dealing with. To let go. That you should leave it to the police. But no. You kept scheming away thinking you were streetwise when—I hate to break to you—you’re from Perth. Possibly the most genteel place on Earth.’
‘Well you finally got what you wanted.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to the police tomorrow. I’m going to help them catch the wholesaler red-handed for keeping forced labourers.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake! Why did you get involved in that?’
‘If I can’t get the bastard for murdering Glory, I will still get the satisfaction of putting him behind bars.’
Whether he now finally gave into my instincts about my sister’s murder or not, he didn’t show, and I thought the better of testing him, for fear of falling out of grace again. ‘Fine. But you don’t do anything by yourself. You promise? And then it’s over, yes?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him I might have released a can of money laundering-seeking worms inadvertently.
We rode in silence for a while, his eyes on the road and mine exploring the interior of this unfamiliar, no-longer-threatening vehicle.
‘Why are you working for Tam?’
‘I wanted to do more hours, to have money for the flat. We’re so far off. That’s why I’ve been working weekends.’ He turned to face me for the few split seconds that traffic permitted. ‘I want us to be together.’
‘Me too,’ I said, and shut the glove box to place my hand on his knee. ‘Our time will come.’
I thought about the money in Glory’s hidden account and wondered, for the briefest of moments, if my role in bringing down a major criminal—strike that: two major criminals—entitled me to keep it.
Chapter Fifty-Four
At 9:55 precisely, I found Oliver pacing the semi-circular steps of Police Scotland’s smaller Southside station. I’d come on foot, having enjoyed my long morning walk with Blue earlier. Nothing like the shrieking sound of a small nephew practising violin in the morning to make you appreciate the soft murmurs of a summer’s outdoors. I was wearing a T-shirt and leggings but had wrapped an anorak around my waist in preparation for the much-heralded end to our unusually prolonged heatwave. Any minute now.
When his eyes set on me, he raised both arms in greeting, revealing a V-shaped torso I was still convinced came from swimming.
I’d have to ask.
‘Good. You’re here. I’ve checked DI Roberts is in. But I wanted a word with your first.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve been going over in my mind the conversations I had with Glory. Whether there were clues…that I should have noticed her questions weren’t all hypothetical. But she seemed so genuinely interested.’
‘There will have been a reason she kept it quiet.’
‘But if what I told her placed her in danger—’
‘Oliver, it’s fine, it wasn’t anything to do with you. Don’t worry. Let’s go in.’
As I let him walk in front, I found it interesting he’d thought Glory might have been in danger. Was there something he knew?
Inside the atrium a single pendant light shone unnecessarily. Two policemen talked on the balcony overlooking the entrance, each holding the type of thin plastic cup that comes out of crappy office vending machines. I winced, anticipating undrinkable coffee.
The officer at the desk was a woman in her fifties whose blouse was revealing its length of service by the tightness across the chest; her buttons looking ready to pop off and hit the bullet-proof glass between us. Oliver mumbled something which elicited an amused snort, and she pushed a button to let us through to the inner sanctum.
‘This way,’ he said.
We walked along a short hallway, bland but for the notice boards lining the walls, announcing charity events and the results of the inter-district football tournament held last month. The station’s team hadn’t fared well and someone had scribbled a treasonous ‘Losers’ on the form. At the next stop-point, Oliver pressed a buzzer, soon to be greeted by a uniformed young man.
‘Visiting DI Roberts?’
‘Yes,’ Oliver replied.
‘Come with me.’
It amazed me that the access to meeting rooms took you through the open-plan offices. People beavered away in the sweltering heat created by full-width windows, no doubt designed by an enthusiastic architect to give the passing public a sense of the force’s transparency. But the only transparency I witnessed was in
their sweat-soaked work shirts.
There was paper everywhere, and it seemed that, despite a fortune being spent on government digitisation, law enforcement still heavily relied on piles of multi-paged printed reports. After passing a few closed doors, the man ushered us into a small, windowless room and offered refreshments.
I wasn’t going to risk it. ‘Water, please.’
Oliver sat at the table, on the side with two chairs. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.’
‘Have you been here before?’ I joined his side even though it gave the setting an us-against-them feel.
‘Yes, twice.’
The door swung open and a middle-aged policeman walked in, as broad as he was tall. Oliver jumped up, and given the gravitas exuded by the inspector’s face, I was compelled to stand to attention as well. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. A few steps behind him entered a younger, slimmer chap who merely stated ‘Armstrong, CID.’ We were instructed to sit.
DI Roberts arranged his notebook and pen on the table, released the tie caught in the fold in his stomach, and clasped his fingers together. ‘I’m deployed to the national human trafficking unit, based at Stewart Street. But I wanted to meet here with my local colleague. He is our resident expert on Mike Catach.’ The expert gave a nod in acknowledgement. It was the first time I’d heard Mike’s last name. ‘Now, Miss McBride, Oliver here tells me you have information pertaining to a plausible case of forced labour.’
‘Yes. Well, it was my sister…She died.’ I fumbled to retrieve the phone from the pocket of the anorak swinging in the void under the chair.
‘I’m aware of that. My condolences.’
‘The delivery man for Excelsior, Marius, confided in her about his slavery situation and that of the other Romanian men with him. There are six of them. So Glory set out to get evidence. You see, Oliver told her you would need photos of their working and living conditions.’
At the mention of his involvement, Oliver squirmed. ‘She’d asked me about a hypothetical situation. I never advised her to go in like this.’
DI Roberts patted his shirt pocket and trousers, which I guessed was him searching for reading glasses in vain, because he then flicked through the photos holding the device at arm’s length and using his thick fingers to zoom in on each one. I had been very tempted to remove the cosy-looking images of Glory and Mike. People kept getting the wrong idea. But as Oliver had seen them, that might have raised suspicion. As expected, Roberts paused on one of those.
Armstrong sat with his arms crossed in front of him and craned his neck for a better view. ‘What was your sister’s relationship with Mike Catach?’
‘A customer. Excelsior is the wholesaler for her café. Veg&Might on Pollokshaws Road. As you can see from the dates, these inside ones were taken at the same time as the others. It’s obviously part of evidence gathering. You know, because Oliver said you’d want pictures of the men in charge.’ He seemed unconvinced and I jumped to defend her further. ‘I suspect she used her charm to get close. Glory could be very charming.’
‘I can believe that,’ he said. ‘Good thing Mrs Catach didn’t see these. She’d have her for breakfast.’ He snickered, oblivious to his insensitive comment.
‘So you’re running an investigation into him?’ I asked.
‘The force has been after Catach for ages. Everyone knows he’s a major player, but we could never get anything to stick so far. He’s a master at covering his tracks and letting others take the fall.’
‘What’s his crime?’
‘You name it: drugs, bribery, intimidation, money laundering—’ He stopped as if he’d divulged too much and fixed his gaze on me. ‘You seem exceptionally interested in Mike Catach and his business, Miss McBride. Is there something you want to tell me?’
I felt the blood drain from my face and I hoped it didn’t show.
Back-pedalling as elegantly as I could with one foot in my mouth, I lifted the phone off the table and pointed at the labour conditions. ‘I guess I was curious what kind of man could do this to another human being. And, you know, it’s my first time talking to the police about criminals. So forgive me for being a little over-interested.’ After emitting a coy smile, I turned to catch the eye of DI Roberts. ‘Were you aware of forced labour taking place there?’
‘Actually, no. But human trafficking is a priority for the force so we’re grateful that you’ve come forward.’ Roberts was about to take charge of the conversation again when his colleague interrupted.
‘We weren’t aware either. Catach’s main guys tend to be local lads and we’re all over them. We’ve never focused on the workers—they look like any other immigrants doing menial jobs in that part of town.’ The way Armstrong dismissed the victims smacked of an attempt to justify his team’s failure to spot their plight. Roberts’ stormy glare told me his DI rank trumped Armstrong’s.
Oliver chimed in. ‘There is a misconception that victims fall into forced labour due to their employers having control of their immigration status. People don’t expect it to apply to Eastern Europeans who can live here freely. But we find, in fact, that many of our cases here in Scotland involve Romanians. Sometimes Poles. Other nationalities don’t seek help because they fear being deported. But as that’s not the case for our EU friends, people can’t understand why they don’t just leave.’
‘Yes, it was easy to miss,’ Armstrong said. ‘We’ve been focused on making the case with the hauliers.’ With Armstrong being on the defensive, I sensed an opening.
‘The hauliers?’
He bit; a wounded male ego chomping to reassert its importance. ‘Our investigation points to a multi-million-pound money laundering racket, involving several wholesalers across the Glasgow area and a haulage company under the control of Catach that we believe transports drugs.’
‘And you think these pictures will help you get into his books?’
‘Yes, their records are the last piece of the puzzle. We’ll finally be able to follow the cash flows between his wholesale firm and the hauliers. And with what we’ve already got, we’ll lock the scumbag up for years.’ This raised an eyebrow from his superior and he found his place again. ‘And, of course, free the Romanians…ahem…Poor guys.’ He didn’t speak again for some time, leaving the talking to DI Roberts.
‘The photos clearly evidence breaches in Health and Safety for workers, which in and of themselves warrant a visit. See here: they’re not wearing gloves and have no equipment to help them shift the boxes. When you couple that with the decrepit living conditions, and the fact the men live on site, you have tell-tale signs of a forced labour situation. But ideally we need a real witness. Miss McBride would your delivery man—this Marius chap—would he speak with me?’
‘You can’t expect him to come in here!’
Oliver clarified. ‘DI Roberts means for you to set up a secret meeting at the café.’
‘You mean like get him in with an order, so you can have a chat at the rear?’ I asked.
‘Exactly,’ Roberts said.
Perhaps over-sensitive to the security of the women in his life, Oliver said, ‘You don’t need to, Grace. You’ve done a lot already. The police could take it from here once you give them the photos.’
‘Indeed, we don’t want you to put yourself in any difficult situation. But it would speed things up,’ nudged Roberts.
‘Thursday. He delivers on Thursday. I can bring him in for a while.’
‘Are you sure?’
Oliver’s slimy concern was getting on my nerves and I blurted out something I probably shouldn’t have. ‘Yes, I’m sure. I want to nail the bastard.’
The two policemen looked at each other in alarm while Oliver’s eyes darted between them, curious for a response. My stomach had not only sunk but collapsed straight through the chair and hit the ground with a big fat thud.
‘What’s it to you?’ Armstrong’s interest had been re-awakened.
Why had I not k
ept quiet? Now I had to tell them there was more to it. ‘You’ll think I’m moronic. And there’s nothing to support my claim. But I suspect Catach killed my sister.’
‘Why?’ the DI asked, a fatherly expression on his face. Comforted by him holding his arm against Armstrong’s chest in anticipatory restraint, I opened up. Worst case, I was some mad grief-stricken woman. Best case, I was right.
‘Because she was snooping around. He must’ve caught her and wanted to get rid of her.’
By now, Oliver had moved away from me, rubbing a very raised forehead. Armstrong chewed his cheeks in contemplation. ‘I would say that seems a little excessive, detective inspector. Not really his style,’ he said, keen to reassert his expertise.
‘I know I sound a little crazy. And I know it was a car accident. But I can feel it, you know? I can feel it in my deepest heart of hearts. She was murdered.’
Roberts conceded to my pleading. ‘Why don’t we do this: you set up a meeting with Marius this Thursday and I will read through the file on your sister’s accident. Deal?’
‘Yes. Deal. Thank you, detective inspector.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
Sascha was miffed when I asked her to place an order at Excelsior after she’d so diligently procured another supplier at my request. But when she understood why, it changed everything. And now that the delivery day had come, she was following me around and fussing over me as if I were a visiting dignitary. A heroic freer of men.
I hadn’t planned on telling her, but she’d met Oliver at an event and he’d apparently not been able to contain his admiration—or perhaps incredulity—for the selfless efforts of these two sisters. Still, it made it easier to explain why I was going to let strange people into the kitchen or why I was still hanging around the café at this time.
DI Roberts and a female colleague of similar age sat at the table closest to the counter, sipping coffees in their civvies, looking very much the part of an ordinary married couple. Less ordinary, but unlikely to be noticed by a casual observer, was the fact that they’d been sitting there for two hours already. We never knew what time Marius would come, as it depended on the day’s delivery route, so we had to play a waiting game. I took their latest order. Having started with espressos, the pair had moved onto decaf and Roberts’ attempt at a third pastry was thwarted by his companion, seemingly applying a hint of method acting to her role of spouse.
