Dead Catch

by T F Muir

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘We had a falling out about money. He wanted more. But that wasn’t gonna happen. So he moved on.’ His smile could have fooled Gilchrist into believing he was pleased that Stooky had been tortured and murdered.

  ‘You don’t seem upset.’

  Fox’s lips flickered into a grimace. ‘After the falling out, Stooky turned nasty. Even threatened me. Told me to watch my back.’ He shook his head. ‘That was a big mistake. So, no, I’m not upset. Good riddance, if you ask me.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘About six months ago. Not long after the fallout.’ Fox sipped his whisky, lips curling as if it now tasted bitter. ‘Stooky wasn’t in the business of making friends. He had a job to do. Kept that to himself, too. And always flush with cash. Did collection work for big Jock.’

  There was that name again. But just to be sure, Gilchrist said, ‘Jock Shepherd?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘You don’t want to mess with that man.’

  Fox nodded, took another sip. ‘World’s full of people who don’t wanna pay what they owe. Stooky was good at getting them to cough up. Might’ve been small in stature, but man, he could be a mean mother. It would be a foolhardy person who tried to avoid paying big Jock. Particularly with Stooky chasing you down.’ He turned to Gilchrist. ‘But you know all about that, don’t you?’

  Surprised, Gilchrist said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just something Dainty said in the passing. Gave the impression that you’d run foul of big Jock once before. But, hey, I wouldn’t worry. Most of us’ve run foul of big Jock at one time or another. Nature of the beast, I guess.’

  Gilchrist frowned. He’d last met Shepherd about a year or so ago. Although he hadn’t run foul of the man, he’d been left in no doubt that Shepherd was the boss, and that he would allow no one – no matter on which side of the law they worked – to stand in his way. And all for the benefit of business – Shepherd’s business – making sure he was churning in the cash, legal or not.

  But Gilchrist still had unanswered questions. ‘So you think one of big Jock’s debtors didn’t want to pay, and was sending him a message by killing Stooky?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Stooky’s killing was nothing to do with collections.’

  Gilchrist lifted his pint. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Stooky died the old-fashioned way. A good old gangland killing.’

  Gilchrist said nothing while Fox did what he could to drain his glass. The whisky could have been acid from the way the man’s face screwed up. Then he took another sip, and returned his glass to the bartop with a crack that startled the bartender.

  ‘Another one of these, miss.’

  Gilchrist sensed the bartender felt she was too young to refuse a customer a drink, and the look on her face warned him she was about to seek managerial assistance. ‘I’ll vouch for him,’ he said. ‘One more, then we’re on our way.’ He gave her a smile of reassurance, then faced Fox. ‘Told you I can’t stay long.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  Gilchrist pressed his pint to his lips. Fox was well on his way to having one too many, maybe several too many. For all he knew, Fox could have stopped in a couple of bars before the West Port. ‘So why do you think Stooky’s killing is gang related?’

  ‘The note in the mouth. The Clydesdale Bank fiver.’

  ‘Which means …?’

  ‘Which means sweet eff-all in a court of law.’ Fox smiled at the bartender as she slid a filled glass across the bar. ‘Thanks, miss.’ He leaned forward to take a sip, careful not to spill any. Then he straightened up, and said, ‘It might not be well known to the public, but it’s big Jock Shepherd’s calling card.’

  ‘Are you saying Shepherd killed Stooky?’

  ‘Not Shepherd in person per se.’

  ‘But if Stooky worked for Shepherd, why would he have him killed?’

  ‘Cleaning shop. Moving house. Time for a change.’ Fox grimaced at Gilchrist, then said, ‘Shepherd’s not well. Word is he won’t see the summer out. Maybe not even see it in.’ He nodded, as if at the wisdom of his words. ‘And not just Stooky,’ he added. ‘But Hatchet McBirn, and Cutter Boyd.’

  ‘All three?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gilchrist, trying to put his thoughts in order. ‘If it’s not a secret that the fiver’s Shepherd’s calling card, who’s to say they’re not copycat killings?’

  ‘That’s what we’re supposed to think.’

  Gilchrist’s head was spinning from the convoluted logic. Even if Shepherd won’t see the summer out or even in, why would he kill his own men? It made no sense. He waited until Fox returned his glass to the bar, then said, ‘So you know for sure who’s behind the killings?’

  ‘We’ve got our suspicions.’

  ‘Sounds like there’s a but coming up.’

  ‘But … we’ve got to tread carefully.’

  Gilchrist almost cursed. Fox was not opening up, and seemed more intent on having a good night out rather than sharing information. He’d likely had no intention of ever doing so. Just come up to ID Stooky’s body, and see for himself that the fiver was indeed a Clydesdale Bank fiver – whatever that proved. But if you asked the question – who knew the fiver was Jock Shepherd’s calling card? – alleged calling card – then it could cut the list of suspects to the troubling few: someone in the police service.

  And with that thought, Jessie’s voice echoed through his mind – Tommy might be a right nutter, but he was nothing like Terry. No, he thought, Terry was the wild brother who could slice and dice you to death, just as soon as look at you.

  Which brought him full circle, back to Tommy’s list.

  ‘What about the others?’ he asked Fox.

  Fox stilled, as if the question had frozen him to the spot. ‘What others?’

  From memory, Gilchrist rattled off the other three names on Tommy’s list, those who had survived the supposed gangland cull. ‘Bruiser Mann. Chippie Smith. Angel Thomson.’

  A shadow of sorts passed behind Fox’s eyes. ‘Doing fine, last I heard.’

  ‘And Tommy Janes?’

  Fox’s eyes narrowed, but only for a moment. ‘I was hoping young Jessie might have come along with you this evening.’

  ‘Why not phone her, speak to her directly?’

  Fox cocked his head, as if giving the question some thought. ‘Don’t want to trouble her,’ he said. ‘So that won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because of what she’s gone through.’

  Gilchrist downed the last of his pint. Fox was not letting him in, just feeding him bits and pieces to tag him along. Well, he wasn’t up for listening to any more of Fox’s saccharine drivel. He slid from his chair, picked up his jacket. ‘Can I ask you one last question before I go?’

  ‘So soon?’ He held out his hand.

  Gilchrist took it. ‘The other names,’ he said. ‘Bruiser, Chippie, Angel.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘You didn’t ask, Where did you get them?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s because you already knew about them.’

  Fox managed to pull his hand free. ‘You’re looking for something that’s not there, Gilchrist. They’re small-time criminals. Operating out of Glasgow. On big Jock’s ticket. Most of their adult lives spent behind bars. Everyone in Strathclyde knows them.’

  ‘But not everyone in Strathclyde knows about the list.’

  Fox stilled.

  Gilchrist offered a wry smile. ‘Do you know what I’ve learned from our meeting tonight?’

  ‘Is that it? Your last question?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Gilchrist said, then turned and walked from the bar.

  Outside, he bustled through the drizzle to his car parked on the opposite side of the street. He switched on the ignition, slipped into gear. He hadn’t been altogether honest with DS Nathanial Fox. Because he hadn’t learned absolutely n
othing from their meeting. He’d learned not to believe a word that came out of Fox’s mouth.

  But worse than that. Much worse.

  He’d learned that he could no longer trust Dainty.

  CHAPTER 16

  He thought Maureen looked tired, as if she’d stayed awake into the small hours for him to get there. But it was still early – five minutes shy of 8 p.m. – and before he could work out what was troubling her, she reached up and gave him a hug.

  He hugged her back, pecked her cheek. ‘How are you?’

  She hooked a finger in her hair, tucked it behind her ear. ‘Have you eaten?’ she said, then turned and headed to the kitchen.

  He closed the door behind him, and followed her.

  ‘I know that was a silly question,’ she said, ‘because you usually go to the pub and have a pint without ordering any food.’

  ‘Well, that’s not exactly true.’

  ‘And you always say that.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘You haven’t eaten yet.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘And you always say that, too.’ She opened the fridge, slid out three sliced quarters of pizza on a dinner plate covered with cling film, which she placed on a circular oak table large enough to sit four at a push. He said nothing as she stripped the cling film, crumpled it into a ball, and dumped it into the bin. ‘Your favourite,’ she said. ‘Cold pizza.’

  Well, he could never argue with her over that. Unpalatable as it may sound, cold pizza was indeed one of his favourites, a fondness he’d developed during that first year of living by himself after Gail thundered from the family home, young Jack and Maureen in tow, to settle in Glasgow with her new fellow, Harry – that wife-shagging bastard. Still, if he could ever take the good out of being cuckolded, it would be his discovery of cold pizza.

  Of course, not having a microwave at the time helped – that, too, had found its way to Glasgow. After ordering a large pizza for home delivery, which was usually partially eaten no more than an hour or so before crashing out for the night, following mornings were mostly rushed affairs back then, made worse by nursing a hangover, with no time for toast or tea, or the boiling of an egg. So it was only natural for leftover pizza straight from the fridge to become standard breakfast fare by default, and often eaten on the drive to the Office.

  ‘I’ve also got you this,’ she said, and held up a chilled bottle of Deuchars IPA. She snicked off the metal cap with a bottle opener, and handed it to him.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be. Feeding you’s not rocket science.’ She removed the cling film from a small bowl of salad, and set it on the table beside an assortment of salad dressings he’d failed to notice until that moment.

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,’ he said.

  ‘It’s leftover pizza and salad, for crying out loud. Have a seat, Dad, and start eating.’

  ‘Before it gets warm, you mean?’ She didn’t laugh at his silly joke, and he held out his bottle and chinked an imaginary glass. ‘Cheers.’ The beer tasted cold, releasing a nip at the back of his throat, just the way he liked it. He helped himself to a dollop of fresh salad, spooned some onto Maureen’s plate. Then he slid a quarter-slice of pizza onto his plate, then Maureen’s, then waited for her to sit down and join him.

  But she was busying herself in a cupboard, as if searching for something misplaced. He looked around her flat, his gaze settling on the two-seater sofa which, from the guddle lying around it, could be the nerve centre of her home. Crushed cushions filled one corner by the arm closer to the window. A tartan woollen throw lay crumpled on the carpet by the legs of a coffee table on which opened books lay face-down and broken-spined, as if fatigued, amidst a haphazard array of A4 pages thick with scribbled notes.

  ‘You studying again?’ he asked.

  ‘Thinking of taking an Open University course.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Ah, here we are.’ She handed him a plastic bottle of black peppercorns from the cupboard. ‘Can you fill the peppermill? I’ve got to go to the bathroom.’

  By the time Maureen took her seat at the table, the peppermill had been filled to the brim, the plastic bottle returned to the cupboard, and his salad well dressed and seasoned.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, and chinked her glass of iced water against his IPA.

  He replied with a ‘Cheers’ of his own, and waited until she had taken that first nibble of pizza, before saying, ‘You’re not having a wine?’

  ‘You’d make a good detective chief inspector. You’re very observant.’

  He chuckled as required, and bit into his pizza – no knife and fork for this task – then washed it down with a mouthful of beer. ‘That was a question,’ he said.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘About the wine.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘You could say, but I’m not sure.’

  This was another trait he disliked about Maureen, her irritating habit of not giving a straight answer, just like her mother – her late mother. But he smiled at her, took one more bite, and said, ‘So what reason?’

  ‘You always told us never to talk with our mouths full.’

  He nodded, took another slug of beer. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘The beer. And the pizza, too.’

  ‘Glad you like it.’

  He forked some lettuce and cucumber, lifted it to his mouth, then held it there. ‘You wanted to talk to me,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember the last time you didn’t have wine with your meal.’

  ‘Changed days, Dad.’

  ‘Changed because of …?’

  She bit into her pizza, as if to tell him to work it out for himself.

  Which he did … well … he already had … but was struggling with how to say it, just in case he was wrong. ‘Well,’ he tried, ‘most women avoid alcohol during pregnancy. But if that’s the case, I would say I’m confused about your earlier answer.’

  ‘Which was …?’

  ‘Why you weren’t sure. About the particular reason. For not having wine.’ He took the forkful of salad, then followed it with a mouthful of pizza. He smiled, and eyed her from behind his bottle of beer.

  She said nothing, which told him everything. Then she got up from the table, walked to the sink, and stared out the kitchen window. He slid his plate to the side, and stood. When he reached her, he put his arm around her, surprised to feel the tremors of her sobbing. He pulled her closer, her head tilting onto his shoulder, and together they stared in silence at the night darkness.

  It took a few moments before he sensed her recovering. ‘Does Tom know?’ he said.

  She shook her head, sniffed back a sob. ‘I haven’t told him.’

  ‘Which is why you weren’t sure?’

  ‘Sort of.’ She pushed away, and as she turned to face him, he knew from the tightness in her lips that there was more to come. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not Tom’s.’

  Well, there he had it. Like mother, like daughter. Tom a cuckold, just as Gilchrist had been. Although he wasn’t sure if you had to be married first, before you could be cuckolded.

  No matter, he knew the feeling. But Tom was not his primary concern.

  He offered an understanding grimace, and said, ‘Which complicates matters.’

  ‘You always were the master of the understatement.’

  He caught her furtive glance over his shoulder, which helped him better understand her dilemma. ‘You’re wondering how you’re going to be able to fit in studying for your Open University course if you’re going to have a child.’

  ‘No, Dad. I’m wondering how and where I’m going to have a termination.’

  He tried to keep his surprise hidden, but didn’t think he pulled it off. Maureen’s lips jerked a quick smile, then she returned to the kitchen table as if they’d been talking about the weather. Silent, he took his own
chair and picked up what was left of his pizza. But the base tasted cold and hard, the pepperoni limp, the cheese bland. He sipped it down with a mouthful of beer, no longer fresh and crisp, but lukewarm and flat. Maureen, on the other hand, now she had offloaded her worries and come clean in a sense, ate with gusto.

  He finished his beer, pushed his plate away. ‘Mind if I have another one of these?’

  ‘Help yourself. I bought four.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Not that he intended to drink four bottles of Deuchars. Rather, he couldn’t think of anything meaningful to say. He ran his empty bottle under the tap, stood it on the draining board, and pulled another from the fridge. He picked up the opener, snecked off the top, and was saved by Maureen saying, ‘So you don’t approve?’

  He might be the master of the understatement, but Mo was the master of the loaded question. Don’t approve of her considering terminating her pregnancy? Don’t approve of her being a woman with more than one lover? Don’t approve of her taking an Open University course? Don’t approve of the salad? Or what? For all he knew, it could be all four, maybe more. But logic guided him to the correct question.

  ‘Terminating a pregnancy is a big decision,’ he answered.

  ‘And so is going through with it,’ she snapped.

  He let a couple of beats pass. ‘What you’re feeling at the moment is only natural.’

  ‘And what am I feeling?’

  Well, he’d walked straight into that one, he supposed. Just like her mother, Maureen had that unsettling ability to wrongfoot him when he least expected it – another character trait she could do without. ‘Mostly confusion, I’d say. And worry, of course. You’re worried about how you’re going to cope financially. You’re worried about how you’re going to raise a child on your own, and all the other worries you’d given no thought to until this moment.’ He tried a smile, but his lips might as well have belonged to someone else. He took a sip of beer that drained it past the halfway mark.

  He shrugged his shoulders at her. ‘Anyway, that’s how I felt when your mum told me she was pregnant with you. All of the above. And then some. Not only was I petrified at the thought of being the father to some helpless child who would look to me for support through her life … into adulthood,’ he added, just to avoid argument. ‘But I was worried that I might not be able to provide for you. What if I lost my job? What if I died, or was killed, or took some incurable disease? What if … what if …?’