“I do not think a custodial sentence would be appropriate in this situation but your crime is both serious and reprehensible. The Court sentences you to 120 hours community service. The form of the service has yet to be agreed but something with a strong sense of moral ethics would seem to be appropriate. You’re free to go.”
Lorna left the box and made her way to the exit. There was no-one there for her. Arbogast followed her out, catching her up outside the main entrance.
“Lorna.”
She turned, recognised his face but couldn’t place it, too much had happened.
“It’s DI John Arbogast. We met at your home. I talked to you about your husband.”
“I’m free to go; she said I was free to go.” The penny still hadn’t dropped.
“I’m not here to take you back, but I do need your help. It’s about your daughter. She’s gone missing.”
***
Leona McMahon hadn’t slept well. The hard stone and threadbare sleeping bag had left her stiff, while the lack of food gnawed at her stomach. For a second she forgot where she was, then as the slow thunder of the river below lapped around the bridge foundations she came to, feeling more isolated than ever before. Leona felt her clothes; they were still damp from the night before but wearable. Outside, under the cover of the bridge she could see the weather had broken. Torrents of water spilled over from the tarmac path of Glasgow Green, and ran down into the Clyde. The water was high, with branches, plastic bags and other dislodged detritus racing down the river, driven by the swollen current. Looking down Leona knew it would be too dangerous to try and get back the way she came. The only other option was to climb along the bridge girders. The way was blocked by cross sections which held the structure in place. I could climb across, but what if I fall? I’ve got no choice, I can’t stay here. Slowly she edged out onto the metal strut. It looked solid but it was wet and she lost her footing on the first attempt and slipped, her arms grabbed at thin air and smacked off the metal to find purchase, which left her hanging; not knowing how long she could hold on for. Her knuckles were white with the pressure. Leona swung her feet to meet the sandstone column and pushed herself back up. She clung to the bridge and swore. This was going to take longer than expected.
***
Ron Semple was a happy man. Business had been good and his books were brimming with new loans. There were others that needed sold on but hey-ho, them’s the breaks. If the greedy little fuckers stuck to the deal and paid on time the interest wasn’t too bad. Anyway that’s what he told them; the truth was that once they were in it was unlikely they’d be going anywhere fast. The ones that paid small sums over a long period were his best customers. Some of them didn’t pay anything; they were trouble, but they knew what to expect.
Serial non-payers got their debts sold on to debt collectors. That was a possibility that was spelled out at the start of the process, but they never thought about the repayments. They were always whining about buying presents for the children, or to pay for some holiday, or Christmas – whatever the reason it was almost always to fend off the reality of their grubby little lives. He’d been seeing more loans default in the last few years. The recession had been good for him. The unemployment rate in the East End had been high to start with but things were worse now. People couldn’t eat. That’s what they said but what did he care? It’s just business. The door alarm went. Another new customer approaches. But when he looked up he knew this was something else.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Is that your sales patter?” Ron didn’t know the man, the accent was Irish.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You’d be wrong. We’re talking now aren’t we?” Ron sensed trouble, he had no support, didn’t feel the need in the shop.
“I’m not looking for trouble.” He raised his hands defensively, backed off a couple of steps.
“Cool your jets there, big man. I’m here to solve your problems, not cause them.”
The Irishman pulled back the chair in front of Ron’s desk and sat down, “I think we may have got off on the wrong foot. Let me introduce myself. The name’s Niall Murphy – I’m here to talk about the future.”
***
The downpour was getting worse, with the rain drumming off the road on the bridge above. By the time Leona dropped down onto the path she was exhausted. She’d ripped her hands on the rough metal several times, and wiped the blood on her dirty clothes. She wasn’t sure what time it still felt early. The generators for the Commonwealth Games venues had just kicked back into life and she could hear the murmur of voices. Looking at her filthy clothes she knew she couldn’t walk to her aunt’s like this. Sitting under the bridge while the rain battered off the tarmac she saw a figure running for shelter from the eastern side. It was only a boy, no need to panic. When he reached the bridge he stopped and stared at her.
“Terrible day, eh?”
Leona nodded. She didn’t like the look of him, sounded like a posh boy.
“What’s troubling you then? You look you’ve been in the wars. Is everything OK?”
The boy was older than he’d looked from a distance. He was wearing a dark blue tracksuit. Leona knew he’d spent money on it, maybe as much as £100. He stood, with his chest heaving, still out of breath from his sprint.
“Just a rough night, trouble at home, you know.”
“Are you alright for somewhere to stay? You can’t sit here all day freezing your arse off.”
“I’ll be OK, thanks,” she wanted him to leave. He wasn’t the kind of guy she needed in her life right now.
“Seriously though, I’ve got a place across the river, in the Gorbals. There’s a few of us live there; some girls too though so I’m not trying to be funny or anything. My name’s Paul.”
Leona didn’t want to offend the guy, but she didn’t know what to say to him to make him go away. Why can’t people just leave me alone?
“Look, I know what it’s like to have nowhere to go. Maybe you don’t get on so well with your dad, maybe he hits you?”
“My dad’s dead.”
The penny dropped and Paul understood why she was there, “It was your father they found up on the bridge, wasn’t it?”
The remark caught Leona off guard; she didn’t expect him to make the connection. She buried her head in her knees, hoping the guy would just go and leave her alone. But he didn’t.
Paul was on his knees beside her, putting his arm round her and trying to comfort her, “Hey, there’s no need to cry. Come back with me, just for an hour. We’ve got food and some dry clothes that you can have. My girlfriend will sort you out. Something like that happened to me. When I was little, my old man died in Afghanistan. He stepped on a roadside mine. There was no sense to it, but I really do understand how you must feel.”
Looking at his eyes close up, Leona could see he was telling the truth. She thought she was a good judge of character, but obviously her radar was off these days.
“OK, I’ll come for a while, is it really close?”
“Across the suspension bridge and we’re there. You need to get out of these clothes. Look at you, you’re shaking.”
Slowly she got up and walked with Paul, he gave her his tracksuit top to keep her warm. Back out in the rain, she tasted the water on her lips and hoped the day ahead would be kinder than yesterday.
***
The Irishman said a lot of things that made sense to Ron. He said he’d been involved in the business in Northern Ireland and was relocating to Glasgow. Said he had good connections with top cops, something that was invaluable in their line of work. He wouldn’t say who but hinted the contact was high level. He said he needed an operation which was established; that with his help Ron could grow, that they could step on rivals and really make a name for themselves. He kept saying it was an improving economy and this was their time, said a lot of things Ron liked.
“But I don’t know you, how can I trust you?”
“A fair que
stion you have there, Ron, and to show my good faith I’m willing to do a test job for you. Gratis. Throw me a sensitive one and I’ll get it done. Nothing’s too much trouble.”
Ron thought it through; could he really trust this guy? “There’s one case I could do with a hand on.”
“Name it.”
“It involves a woman.”
“Not a problem.”
“Her husband has already permanently defaulted on his debt, but his wife has vouched for him. It’s still good.”
“How much?”
“£25,000 now. It’s been live for a year and a half.”
“What do you need?”
“She’s still got assets. A house up in Haghill.”
Niall Murphy didn’t know the area but he listened and nodded. He hated jobs like these but it didn’t sound too problematic. “Leave it with me, you won’t be disappointed.”
***
The call to Pitt Street came straight through to Graeme Donald. Sam Brown, the Chief Executive of the Health Board was clearly rattled.
“There’s been an incident.”
Donald knew what to expect but he played along, “Something that you need to involve me with?”
“Someone has shot Ian Wark.”
It was exactly what Donald wanted to hear. Murphy had been good for him in Belfast but he doubted he’d have the same value in Glasgow; he didn’t have the connections. But with every step he drew him closer, could use him until he was no longer needed, “Is he dead?”
“Yes, looks like he’s been shot in the head. I’m told it’s a terrible mess.”
“When did it happen?”
“It’s 11:05 just now, so it would be around an hour ago. No-one knows exactly.”
“Thanks for being discreet, Sam. Obviously we won’t be able to keep this quiet, but the longer we do, the easier it will be to handle. I’ll take a personal interest in this one. Are you there just now?”
“I’m on the way; just driving from the west end.”
“OK, I’ll get you there. I’ll be bringing our specialists so if we need to move patients from that ward, that needs to happen now, understand?”
“I’ll get it sorted. Thanks Graeme.”
Donald hadn’t expected the job to have been done so quickly. Ian Wark had been a thorn in his side. He’d been digging into his background at the time of the terror attack and he couldn’t be sure about how much information he’d uncovered. It seemed as though he didn’t have much but you could never be sure, it paid to check. At first they assumed he’d died. He’d jumped out of a light plane which had been shot down by the RAF. He’d been trying to make a martyr of himself by crashing a Cessna into the Trident fleet at Faslane. But he’d fallen short and a lot of the case had subsequently been covered up. The last thing I need is a court case. Wark was linked to the bomb blast at George Square, everyone wanted to know about that, so the less information that went public the better. And now he was gone. Murphy had been true to his word and would be rewarded, although his prize might not be what he expected. Donald made some calls and left for the hospital. This crime scene he had to see.
It wasn’t pretty. By the time the Forensics team arrived the ward had been closed off and the remaining patients moved. Ian Wark had been kept in a private room. Technically under constant surveillance, the man hours had been relaxed in recent weeks. With the Games on, the officers were needed elsewhere. The room had been under lock and key, though, so there shouldn’t have been any way for someone to get to him.
Donald made sure he was noticed, “How the hell did this happen?” No-one knew how the breach was made, closed circuit TV footage was being looked at; they hoped they’d find someone. All they saw was a man in a balaclava.
The door to Ian Wark’s room had been picked. Donald suppressed a smile. It was a good job and there was no damage, a clean break-in.
“Looks like a pro, sir.”
“Thanks Constable,” Donald didn’t know where they found these guys. Is that supposed to impress me? He forgot about his irritation when he saw the body. A small calibre entry wound marked the front of Wark’s forehead. The bullet had rotated through his skull, mashing his brains and forcing its way out of the other side. The blood from the exit wound stained the light green wall behind the metal bed; fragments of hair and skull clung to the bed and plaster.
“Sam Brown was right.”
“What about, sir?”
Donald turned back to the PC, “It’s a hell of a mess.”
Kath Finch had arrived with her team but she wasn’t happy, “Why haven’t you got your shoe covers on, sir?”
Donald looked down, he’d deliberately forgotten; the more confusion the better. It was more evidence that they’d need to rule out, something that was bound to slow things down. “Shit, sorry Kath. I was worried about the case. This isn’t going to be easy to explain.”
Kath Finch stayed quiet. She knew she couldn’t argue with her boss, it wasn’t worth the effort, but what on earth was he thinking? She knew he’d been heavily involved in the manhunt to find Wark; this would be personal for him. “I need to ask you to leave the room, sir.”
Graeme Donald tried to look chastised, “Sorry, Kath; it’s just you, know, it’s this case – I’d hoped to get answers from this guy. There was going to be a trial.”
Kath nodded, “We need to work fast to try and isolate the evidence. It won’t be easy in this room. There must be dozens of people in and out of here every day, so it may take time.
“Just do what you can, Kath; it looks like there might be someone else out there holding a grudge. This can’t leak out. We might need to try and keep this quiet.”
As he left the Royal Infirmary, Donald was confident the coming months were looking decidedly better. But to be able to square the circle he needed to deal with Murphy, an issue which had suddenly leapt up his list of priorities.
19
Back at Corsock Street, Arbogast waited while Lorna McMahon freshened up. She said she was tired out from her ordeal at court and asked if he could give her 15 minutes to shower and change. He said he didn’t mind. Upstairs, as the patter of water drummed off the plastic shower curtain restoring Lorna to life, Arbogast took the opportunity to look around. There wasn’t much to see. There was no TV, no electrical equipment at all. A couple of DVDs suggested that hadn’t always been the case, the movies were a couple of years old. The only piece of furniture was a small pine effect set of drawers. The side was hanging off, it had seen better days. There were an assortment of letters crammed in, many unopened. He pulled one out and a picture started to form. It was from a debt collection agency – Nice ‘n’ Semple loans. Jesus, where do these guys get off, passing off their business with a joke? The picture being painted for the McMahons was one of massive debt. Which explains the lack of furniture. Arbogast checked the name on one of the unopened envelopes:
Mr and Mrs Horace McMahon
That wasn’t good. With Horace gone, the debt would be left in her name, which explained why she’d turned pick pocket, although it obviously wasn’t a skill. She was taking a long time to get ready. Outside he saw a shadow pass the venetian blinds, which were pulled shut. There was someone outside. The letter box flapped. He didn’t move. It wasn’t his place to answer the door. Then he heard a voice. Looking round from the living room to the hall he could see a hand poking through the slot.
“I know you’re in there, Lorna. Don’t make this hard for yourself. Open up and let’s talk. What would your husband say?”
Could be the debt collectors? Maybe I can help after all. Arbogast unlocked the door to find a tall man straightening up. He had closely cropped hair, and a well worn face which looked like it had seen too many late nights. There was a small scar on his chin and he didn’t look happy.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Never mind that, what do you want?”
“Listen, pal, I’m here to ask the questions and I’m here to see Lorna McMahon. Now if you’d go an
d get her that would be grand.”
Niall Murphy knew if he played it confidently the guy would do as he was told. He had to give it to her though, the woman didn’t hang around, her husband was barely cold and here she was shacked up with someone else. This guy didn’t look like he’d be much trouble.
“Are you from the debt collection agency?”
“What’s it to you? Not your business, so be a dear and get the woman of the house, please.” Niall reached into his inside pocket; he wanted this guy to know he might end up in trouble so the hint of being armed was usually enough.
Arbogast had had enough of this clown, “I think it’s time you told me who you are.” Arbogast produced his Warrant Card and flashed it in Niall’s face, “DI John Arbogast, I’m looking into the death of Horace McMahon and your agency has its name all over the case. Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk?”
Upstairs the shower had finally gone off. Lorna appeared in the hall in her dressing gown, “Who’s that down there?”
She came down into the hall still drying her hair with a towel, Lorna didn’t recognise the man but he carried a look she was more than familiar with; he was here about the money, “This isn’t really a good time, I’ve got company. Could you come back tomorrow?”
Niall Murphy knew he was in a tricky situation but perhaps a few calls and this guy could be warned off, “Look, Detective, no worries; sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding. I’ll see you around.”
Arbogast didn’t like the look of the guy; he wasn’t someone he’d seen before, wasn’t a known fixture, “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“That’s right; you didn’t ask to be fair.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me your name. I doubt your boss will want any more attention from the Police.” He’d heard of Ron Semple before. He’d started small and built himself up, making money out of other people’s misery. He hated these guys with a passion and this guy looked like good old fashioned muscle.
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