Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  ‘You’re going to be sore for a while,’ said Edna. ‘But I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.’

  When did she get her medical qualification? Annette wondered. But she said nothing. Edna was probably right. But from the bruises that were already developing, it was clear that Justine was going to look a mess for some time, with a couple of black eyes, swollen nose and mouth, and many other marks that couldn’t be kept hidden from view in her line of work.

  ‘Who was the man that did this?’ Edna asked.

  ‘His name’s Martin,’ said Annette. ‘He’s been here before.’

  ‘He’ll no’ be back in a hurry. And that’ll no’ be his real name.’

  ‘It might be,’ said Annette. ‘Some of them use their real names.’

  That clearly wasn’t the answer Edna wanted to hear. ‘How do you know? Anyway, we don’t know his surname, or anythin’ else about him. Do we?’

  ‘No,’ said Annette.

  ‘He’s married,’ said Justine meekly, ‘and he’s got a wee girl of ten.’

  ‘That’s really nice for him,’ said Edna. ‘But it doesnae quite pin him down.’ It was obvious that she regarded the subject as closed. ‘Could you do me a really big favour, Annette?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take Justine home. She doesnae drive, does she?’

  ‘No. Of course I will. Can I use the phone?’

  Edna immediately looked suspicious. ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll need to tell my childminder that I’m going to be late.’

  ‘Aye, of course. You can use the phone in my office.’

  Edna left Justine in Candy’s care and accompanied Annette while she made the call. Then she helped smuggle Justine and Annette from the premises, after tactfully finding a way to relieve each of them of the money due to her.

  ‘Now you take care,’ she told Justine solicitously. ‘I’ll see that your shifts are covered until the end of next week, and we’ll take it fae there. I’ll keep in touch.’

  Annette’s car wasn’t far away, and they got there without meeting any customers. Then, before starting the engine, Annette turned to Justine. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘What dae ye mean?’

  ‘You were raped and beaten up. Do you want to go to the police?’

  Justine looked terrified. ‘The polis? Edna would be furious.’

  ‘The hell with Edna. I’ll take you there now if you want to.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think the bastard should get off with it,’ said Annette. ‘On the other hand, you offered sex for money and he paid you. That would make it difficult for a rape charge to stick.’

  ‘He raped me.’

  ‘I know, I know. But a court might not see it that way. And even if he was just charged with assault, what you were doing for a living would come out in court.’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Justine. ‘It might get in the papers. Everybody would know.’

  Annette started the car. ‘Anyway, Edna’s probably right. They would never catch him. I just wanted to make sure you’d thought it all through.’

  She drove to Ingram Street and turned right.

  ‘Where are you goin’?’ asked Justine. ‘This isnae the way to—’

  ‘We’re going to A&E at the Royal Infirmary. I’m sure there’s nothing too serious, but you need to be checked over, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘But what’ll we tell them?’

  ‘We’ll think up a story. We’ll say you fell downstairs, something like that.’

  Justine began to cry again. ‘Oh, Annette, you’re the only friend I’ve got in that horrible place. I’m never goin’ back there again.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Annette. ‘It’s no bother.’

  Justine’s gratitude made Annette feel guilty. If ever a girl had needed a bit of guidance, it had been Justine. Annette had given her some support, but could have done more, if she hadn’t let Candy influence her.

  If Justine did return, Annette decided, she would try and make it up to her.

  19

  A Quiet Night on the Western Front

  ‘You’ve certainly got plenty of women chasin’ after you,’ said Les. ‘She’s not bad. Not bad at all. Where’d you dig her up?’

  ‘None of your bloody business.’

  ‘Just as well it’s Morag’s day off.’

  ‘Is it? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘That’ll be right. Still, I wouldnae take this one intae Tennent’s. Word gets around.’

  ‘I’m grateful for your advice,’ said Jack. ‘Why is it never your day off during my shifts? Now, if you’ve finished in that bloody fridge, maybe you’ll let someone else in.’

  Jack picked out a bottle of beer and served his customer. When he had finished, several more were waiting. It was the middle of the five o’clock rush, the last flurry of activity before the end of his shift. As he hurried to get the orders, he remained self-conscious about the presence of his visitor, sitting by herself on a bar stool at the counter. He knew it was stupid of him. Apart from Les, no one was interested, or had even noticed.

  For a while all they could manage was an exchange of smiles as he went past. Then there was a lull and he was able to fit in a brief exchange.

  ‘It won’t be long till I’m finished.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. Who’s that other barman? He keeps looking at me as if I was a plain-clothes cop.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Les. It’s just simple lust.’

  ‘I suppose I should take that as a compliment.’

  ‘He’s harmless. Would you like another drink?’

  ‘I’m driving, remember.’

  ‘What’s that you’re on?’

  ‘God knows. It’s absolutely disgusting. I asked for a Coke.’

  ‘I think I know the problem. I’ll get you another one.’

  Jack got her a real Coke, then tackled the new queue of customers that had begun to form. Annette sat and sipped her fresh drink, abandoning the previous one, which Jack poured down the sink. At the first opportunity, he said to Les, ‘Would you mind not serving that shite to friends of mine?’

  ‘Aitken said we had to shift it.’

  ‘Try it on people you don’t like. There’s plenty to choose from. This is the West End.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Les. ‘I can see you want tae impress your bird. When I served her I didnae know she was with you.’

  ‘If you stop gaping at her, I’ll maybe forgive you.’

  He was kept busy until the end of his shift, but remained aware of Annette’s presence all the time, snatching a few words with her when the chance arose. Les’s reaction was understandable. Seen out here in the real world, she had no competition. If Morag had entered the bar now, he would not have given her a second glance. Annette, as well as being the embodiment of sexiness, looked fresh and wholesome, good enough to take home to his mother, if she’d still been around.

  He made a quick escape at six o’clock, getting out ahead of Les, whose shift was also ending. Annette took his arm as they made their way along Byres Road. ‘Where now?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Since you’re on the wagon, I thought we could go straight to the restaurant. If there’s time before the film, we can have a quick drink later. Where are you parked?’

  ‘Near the cinema.’

  They went down Ashton Lane, to an Indian restaurant. It was a few yards from the cinema and a couple of minutes’ walk from Annette’s car.

  Over the meal, they continued the process of getting to know each other. This was their third date. The first two had been in city centre bars, near Central Station, where Annette could get a train back to Paisley. This was the first time he had got her into the West End, an area of many amenities, including his flat.

  He told her more about his marriage and its failure, about his university course and his plans for the future. He heard more about her children, the
house she was now buying, something of her earlier life. She mentioned her ex-husband, but that was still a subject on which she was a little reticent. Mainly he heard about a world that was completely different and separate from the one in which he had met her.

  They also discovered that they had a number of common interests, including the cinema. After the meal and the film they found themselves back in the street at ten thirty. Jack felt that the evening had been going well.

  A few yards from the cinema, the lane reached a junction. They could turn left to Byres Road or carry straight on to Annette’s car. They slowed down to a halt. Annette seemed to be leaving it up to him to make a suggestion.

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you suggest?’

  Jack hesitated. ‘My flat’s not far from here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We could . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean. Have you got real coffee or only instant?’ He was reduced to silence and Annette laughed. ‘I told the babysitter I’d be home by midnight. Maybe another time.’

  The cinema crowd had dispersed and it was dark. For the moment, they were alone in the lane. Annette put her arms around him and gave him a long kiss, her body pressed closely against his. In a way, it was their most intimate contact so far. ‘I hope you’re not too disappointed.’

  ‘No. It’s just that we seem to be doing things the wrong way round. I’m not sure what the rules are.’

  ‘Neither am I. We’ll just have to make them up as we go along.’ She took his arm and steered him round the corner, towards the main road. ‘Come on. We’ve time for a nightcap in your pub.’

  They made their way back along Byres Road. The Centurion was moderately full, but they found a table to themselves near the counter. There were two barmen on duty: Vince, the assistant manager, and Arnold, a law student from Glasgow University.

  ‘What would you like?’ Jack asked.

  ‘My round. What’s yours?’

  ‘A whisky.’

  As Annette returned to the table, another customer came up to the bar. As he stood at the counter, he was only a few feet away from Jack and Annette, and they were able to hear all of the subsequent exchange. He was a man in his forties, whose complexion suggested that alcohol was a regular part of his diet. Jack recognised him: he had one of those faces that seemed able to be in every Byres Road pub simultaneously. By the look of him, this evening had been no exception. He called Arnold over, waving an opened packet of potato crisps in front of him.

  ‘What’s this shite?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  The customer stuck the packet in front of Arnold’s face. ‘This garbage. What do you call it?’

  ‘I’d call it a packet of crisps.’

  ‘Would you? I’d call it a packet of shite. Except that it’s worse than shite. In fact, shite tastes better than this.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for that,’ said Arnold.

  Jack exchanged glances with Annette and winced. It wasn’t always easy to deal with drunken idiots, but getting smart with them was unlikely to help. Arnold, who was new to the job, was still learning this.

  Fortunately, the remark was lost on the customer. ‘Who makes this crap? Kane’s Krisps. Is that the same jokers that make Kane’s Kola?’

  Arnold appeared to give the matter consideration. ‘The name would seem to suggest that.’

  ‘My wife tried that the other day. It tastes like piss. Their cola tastes like piss and their crisps taste like shite. Where the hell do they make the stuff? In a public lavatory?’

  ‘I’m not familiar with their manufacturing methods. Anyway, did you just come up to chat or was there something else?’

  ‘I want a packet of decent crisps. Or my money back. I should ask you to pay for gettin’ my stomach pumped at the Western Infirmary.’

  ‘As far as I know, you can still get that done on the National Health.’

  ‘Don’t get cute wi’ me, son. Fuckin’ student, are you?’

  Jack got up and stood at the bar beside the customer. Throughout the exchange Vince, the assistant manager, had been serving a succession of customers, managing not to notice that there was a problem.

  ‘I think you should give him his money back,’ Jack said. ‘These crisps are pretty bad. I’ve tried them myself.’

  Arnold looked at Jack a little resentfully. But he followed the suggestion and the customer, after a few more grumbles, went back to his seat.

  ‘There was no need for you to butt in,’ said Arnold. ‘Just because you want to impress your lady friend.’

  ‘I saved your life, but don’t bother to thank me.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Annette, when Jack had returned to his seat. ‘What?’

  ‘That you were just trying to impress me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I’m impressed. I think you also saved your pal from getting a sore face. Is it always like this here?’

  ‘You’ve caught us on a quiet night. The cabaret’s even better at the weekend.’

  The diversion over, there was an awkward silence for a moment. ‘So,’ said Jack, ‘I really enjoyed the evening.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Are we going to do the same again?’

  ‘I hope so. How are you placed at the weekend?’

  ‘I’m off Saturday evening.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got a suggestion . . .’

  On their way out, they passed a table where the drunken customer was still proclaiming loudly about the excremental qualities of Kane products. Fortunately, he didn’t see Jack and they made it safely to the street.

  20

  Best of Three

  ‘I think you’ve let this become an obsession,’ he says. ‘Can’t we talk about it?’

  That’s exactly what we’re doing. Talking about it. But on my terms, which is the part he’s unhappy about. That, and being tied to the chair. Though it’s not particularly warm in the room, a film of sweat glistens on his brow, reflected from the ceiling light. Apart from this giveaway sign, he seems remarkably unruffled. I can admire his nerve, but what I really want is to hear him beg for his life.

  I bring out my knife and test the sharpness of the blade with my finger. His eyes follow my movements closely, but he shows no other reaction.

  There’s plenty of time. We’re in the large dining kitchen at the back of the house, where the light can’t be seen from the road. And there’s no nightwatchman. I checked that out.

  I did my homework carefully. Already I can see how well it’s paid off.

  The problem: how to get the subject, a man bigger and stronger than me, into a position of helplessness before I finally kill him. In a location where we are free from interruption, so that I can explain to him at length why he deserves to die. A difficult problem, which I mulled over for some weeks.

  Then the solution was presented to me, gift-wrapped, in a two-page advertisement feature. Botanic Court, a small development of luxury flats, now nearing completion. Built by Archer Homes Ltd, owner and managing director Steven Archer. For the first week after it opens, the show flat will be manned personally in the evenings by Mr Archer himself, to demonstrate his faith in the project and answer personally any queries from prospective purchasers. Also – this part not in the advert – to save the miserable bastard from having to pay any of his employees overtime. A cost-cutting exercise that will prove fatal.

  It takes an effort of will not to show up on the first night, at six o’clock prompt. Instead I hang on until Wednesday, a dull and rainy night, when legitimate enquirers are less likely to bother turning out. I wait until nearly half past eight, by which time the trickle of visitors has run out. Then I make my move, in case he shuts up shop early.

  The security door is hooked open and I close it behind me as I make my way directly into the building. The show flat is on the ground floor. Convenient for the public and allowing any flaws in the unfinished development, like a l
eaking roof, to remain hidden from the public. Maybe I’m being unfair to him. For all I know, he may be a very good builder. That’s not why he’s being held to account.

  I rattle the letterbox and the man himself comes to the door. As soon as I see him, my hatred swells up, but I control it and return his smile.

  I follow him around the house, listening to his sales patter, asking the right questions, waiting for my chance. While we’re in the bathroom I note with relief that the water is on. I wasn’t sure if it would be, but now I know that I’ll be able to clean myself up properly, as I did last time. There won’t be any hot water, but no scheme is perfect.

  My opportunity comes, conveniently, as he’s showing me round the dining kitchen. The kitchen, he explains, comes fully fitted, cooker, fridge freezer and washing machine all included. I show a particular interest in the fan-assisted oven. Obligingly, he bends over to open the oven door. For a moment, his back is to me.

  A hefty push and he loses his balance, falling face down on the floor, his head narrowly missing the oven door. I perch on his back, keeping him pinned down. Once recovered from his surprise, he’d be able to throw me off, but I have thrust the cloth under his nose, holding it there. His struggles gradually lessen as the chloroform takes effect.

  Leaving him for a moment, I quickly go round the house, switching off the lights in all the other rooms, then shutting the kitchen door behind me. It’s now nearly nine o’clock, it’s unlikely that any more visitors will show up, but if any do they’ll find a house in apparent darkness, its sole light visible only from the empty back court.

  I push one of the dining chairs in front of the central heating radiator, beneath the window. Then, with an effort, I haul him over there and sit him on the chair. From my innocent-looking M&S plastic bag I bring out the rope and truss him up securely, legs together, hands behind the chair, then several loops tightly round his chest and the chair frame. I tie the chair itself to the radiator pipe, so that he can’t pull it away or knock it over. Then I sit down at the dining table, patiently waiting for him to regain consciousness.