by Alex Gray
‘DI Grant, Strathclyde Police,’ she said, holding up her warrant card for the young woman behind the counter to see.
‘Oh, yes, we got a call … come on round the back, will you?’ The girl looked quickly across at the customers sitting crouched over their computer screens before gesturing for the DI to follow her. It was clear she didn’t want to leave the cafe unattended.
‘I’ve been here on my own since six o’clock,’ the girl explained. ‘There should have been another guy working by now but he hasn’t turned up yet.’ She frowned, darting glances through the open door as if afraid someone would abscond with the computers. ‘So it’s me you want to talk to, I suppose,’ she added. ‘Look, find a seat, sorry, the place is such a shambles but we just took delivery of more stock and I haven’t had time to put it away.’
Jo Grant lifted a pile of A4 copy-paper from a seat and dumped it under the table. So long as she could sit down and get some sense out of this lassie she didn’t care what the back room looked like. ‘You’ve been here on your own all morning?’ Jo asked.
‘Oh, except for the customers,’ the girl replied.
Grant breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We think you might be able to identify a customer who was using one of your machines here at about six-thirty this morning,’ the policewoman began.
The girl’s face cleared suddenly. ‘Oh, that’s not a problem. There was only one fellow in then. Didn’t want coffee or anything to eat, just wanted to use the computer. That’s okay. Lots of them do that. We make enough on the food to pay rent on this place—’
‘This customer,’ Grant interrupted her. ‘Can you describe him to me?’
The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘He was quite old,’ she began.
The DI flashed her an appraising look: she was probably not even twenty herself. How old was quite old in this young woman’s estimation?
‘Maybe forty?’ the girl suggested. ‘He wasn’t very tall or anything.’
‘Hair colour? Distinguishing features?’ Mentally Grant encouraged her to think harder, to recall just who had been there that morning.
‘Um, just sort of an ordinary man. Kinda brownish hair, short. Nothing special about him, really.’
‘What was he wearing, can you remember?’
The girl heaved a sigh and shook her head. ‘No, I can’t remember. Sorry. Not anything I’d remember like shorts or a kilt.’ She giggled, then seeing Jo’s frown, hastily rearranged her features into a semblance of sobriety.
‘If I were to bring a photograph of this man to you, could you identify him?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The girl brightened up immediately. ‘I’m good with faces. There was this thing in one of these magazines where you have to identify bits of famous people’s faces,’ she said eagerly. ‘I was good at that, so I was.’
DI Grant tried to smile back but failed. This was a right waste of time. The girl had a cafe to run on her own, was trying to serve coffees and snacks, set up customers at their computers and find time to clear away stock. It was little wonder she’d spent no time staring at their mystery customer.
‘If we bring in a photograph,’ the DI said, standing up to go, ‘can we be sure to find you here?’
‘Oh, better give you my mobile number, hadn’t I?’
‘Actually,’ Grant grinned, ‘I’d like a wee bit more than that. Like your name and address for a start. Okay?’
‘Says she can identify our man,’ Grant told Lorimer. She was sitting in her car with the window down, mobile in one hand, cigarette in the other.
‘Looks like he’s made his first mistake, then. Going back to the same internet cafe,’ he replied.
‘So what do we do? Take photos of all of Kelvin Football club’s staff and players?’
‘Can you think of a better idea?’ Lorimer asked.
‘They’ll want to know why.’
Jo Grant could almost hear the wheels of Lorimer’s mind turning. To take photographs of them all might alert their killer. And was it worth the risk?
‘We don’t need players’ photographs,’ he replied at last. ‘For two reasons. One, we’ve got them all on match-day programmes and two, this girl – what did you say her name was?’
‘Wilma Curley.’
‘Aye, this Wilma girl says he’s an older bloke, about forty, so that cancels out most of the players, doesn’t it?’
DI Grant blew out a thin line of smoke before answering. ‘Not sure she’s even that reliable about ages, but yes, I’d say that probably rules out most of the footballers themselves.’
‘Okay, see what you can set up at Kelvin today. There’ll be plenty of other officers there anyway for a pre-pitch inspection.’
Jo Grant put down the phone. The actions dealt out this morning had given her a sense that something was happening at last. The other officers had felt it too, she was sure. It just remained to see if her hunch was right and if DCI Lorimer was indeed going to set up a surveillance operation at the football ground.
Solomon Brightman sat, one leg crossed over the other, his foot swinging back and forth as if to some music that only he could hear. His face was intent but Lorimer was gratified to see that the psychologist’s customary smile was back in place.
‘We can narrow it down to several people,’ Lorimer told him, ‘both in terms of age and of physique. We must suppose that Pat Kennedy didn’t send the email to himself and some of the staff, like Jim Christie, don’t fit the girl’s description.’
‘So, how many middle-aged ordinary men with medium-brown hair are we looking at?’ Solomon smiled.
Lorimer shook his head. ‘Goodness knows. There are the manager and his deputy, the coach, the club doctor, the groundsman, though I suspect he’s probably a good deal older than forty, some of the older players perhaps and a few others who come in and out on a part-time basis.’
‘Of course it may be none of these people,’ Solomon suggested with a grin. ‘It could be the elusive Big Jock that everybody claims to know.’
Lorimer pursed his lips. They’d got no further with tracing the Kelvin Keelie who seemed to be such a fanatical supporter. ‘He’ll be there tomorrow,’ he assured Solly. ‘Kennedy says he never misses a home game.’
‘The person you’re looking for has a degree of organisation to his killing,’ Solly reminded him. ‘I can’t see it being someone as simple minded as this fan is reputed to be. And he knows about firearms. Does anybody fit that description so far?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. We’ve done background checks on most of the players. Nothing has come up so far to suggest a link with guns. But we’re still investigating that angle,’ he said. For a moment he thought of Rosie and her enthusiasm to root out just what sort of weapon had made away with Norman Cartwright.
Solly lifted a piece of paper from where he’d laid it on Lorimer’s desk. ‘This looks like the work of an uneducated man to me,’ he suggested. ‘No comma or apostrophe, for instance.’
‘And all block capitals?’
‘Ah, he might well use uppercase to emphasise his point. He’s not totally illiterate when it comes to using a computer, but I don’t think we’re looking for anyone who’s particularly used to composing letters. And he isn’t a professional hitman, doing this on anybody else’s behalf. Otherwise why use an internet cafe?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t own a computer?’
‘Or perhaps he doesn’t want to risk anything being traced back,’ Solly mused. ‘Of course, he may deliberately have kept the message simple to throw us off his scent. And another thing,’ Solly bent his head to one side, his face suddenly serious. ‘He’s used the same internet cafe twice which shows that he’s gaining in confidence. Maybe your football chairman’s more at risk than we imagine.’
‘Maybe he is, but he won’t cancel the game,’ Lorimer said, looking at the psychologist. ‘Which means we’re going to have our work cut out tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 41
The first rumble of thunder made Chancer rush for cover
. Cowering under the overhanging shrubbery, the little cat curled himself into a tight ball, tail tucked neatly beneath him, paws firmly together. Although it was early morning, the usual birdsong was absent from the heavy air. Chancer looked up and sniffed, sensing that rain would come today after those endless weeks of heat that had left dry, cracked patches all over this garden. He had become familiar with every bush and shrub in the Lorimers’ overgrown backyard as well as with the signs of life that denoted a full bowl of cat food and a lap to sit upon. As yet there were no humans stirring in the house. At the first twitch of a curtain, the little cat would be up and running, tail erect, ready to greet his new owners, so he kept one eye on the house for any sign of movement while smelling the air around him.
At last there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the door to the kitchen was flung open.
‘Hello, you.’ Maggie Lorimer trailed her fingers through her long untidy mop of curls and regarded the ginger cat standing patiently on her doorstep. Not waiting for an answer, she walked back in, letting the morning air into the room. Chancer stepped over the threshold, gave an inquisitive meow and sat expectantly, waiting for breakfast to appear.
‘Still no sign of your owners, boy,’ Maggie told him. ‘Maybe we’re going to get lucky, you and me.’ She grinned and bent down to scratch behind his ears. The cat tilted his head and closed his eyes, an ecstatic expression on his face as he lost himself in a paroxysm of purring.
Maggie Lorimer left him to eat his food and flipflopped through from the kitchen, her sandals making a hollow sound on the tiled surface. It seemed unnaturally loud, and made Maggie glance up. Outside the sky was a deep shade of grey, a streak of burnt orange lightening up the horizon. So, the good spell of sunshine and cloudless days was coming to an end, was it? Well, next week she’d be back in her classroom. They’d had the best summer on record, so nobody was going to complain, least of all the waterboard people who had been issuing dire warnings of shortages. If that sky was anything to go by, there would be a right good rainstorm before the day was out.
Kelvin Park had never looked so good, thought Ron Clark as he stepped out on to the terracing. The pitch was at its best, thanks to Wee Bert’s ministrations, and the banners were actually being lifted by a tiny breeze. If the weather forecast was to be believed they should have a dry morning so there was no chance of rain putting off the crowds. He glanced up at the sky. It was dark today and the gathering clouds looked ominous. Clark felt in his trouser pocket. Yes, he hadn’t forgotten to put it there. The team sheet with the list of all those who had been picked as players or substitutes was nestled against his right thigh. Big Gudgie was in goal, with Craig Mitchell as the substitute keeper. Woods and Thomson were his final choice of strikers though he expected McKinnery would come off the bench before full-time. Austin Woods was reliable but, like all ageing players, he didn’t usually make the full ninety minutes. He’d play Gaffney, Sweeney, McGrory, Douglas and Friedl in mid-field with Rientjes, Lynch and his own nephew, Davie, in defence. Davie’s time had come, Ron thought to himself. The wee fella had been football-daft all his days and a Kelvin supporter to boot. Now it was a mark of pride to be able to pick him for his own team, a team that was going to make it back into the Scottish Premier League if their manager had anything to do with it.
Ron Clark straightened his tie and headed back into the clubhouse, rehearsing what he would say to the team once they had assembled in their dressing room.
‘Everything’s in place,’ Lorimer told them. ‘We’ve got cameras covering every entrance and turnstile and the dogs are being brought in to sniff out anyone who has even the faintest trace of firearms or ammunition about them.’
‘What about inside the grounds?’ someone asked.
‘For every one of the usual officers on duty there’s a plain clothes policeman. We’ve got an unmarked van ready to roll into the car park behind the main building. There will be an armed response unit located inside the van and every officer will be in radio communication with that unit at all times. Plus mounted police horses and you lot, of course. If you’ve bought your tickets, that is.’ Lorimer’s face creased in a sudden grin. At the sight of their worried faces, the DCI produced a bunch of tickets from behind his back. ‘Just joking,’ he said. ‘But a black-and-white scarf or two would help to camouflage you in the crowd.’
All weekend leave had been cancelled due to this massive operation and there had been quite a bit of raised spirits at the prospect of a breakthrough in the case.
‘What about Mr Kennedy?’ DI Grant asked.
‘Don’t worry, we’ve taken care of him,’ Lorimer told her. ‘But it’s up to you all to watch any movement within the ground that seems suspicious. We’re on the lookout for anyone who is armed and that may not be as easy to spot as it seems. A pistol and even a sawn-off shotgun can be concealed quite easily.’
‘But that would suggest an attack at close range,’ DC Cameron said.
‘Aye, so anything that looks to you like a sniper’s rifle, you don’t mess about. You call the unit right away. I’ll be in radio contact at all times.’
Pat Kennedy looked down at his stomach in dismay. The Kevlar jacket had cut into folds of flesh and pushed the big man’s layers of fat further south, making them jut out above his waistband.
‘You’ll just have to pull your shirt over it a bit,’ the officer told him.
Pat Kennedy glared at the man. Not only did he hate to look slovenly, but this dark blue shirt didn’t suit him at all. Still, it would conceal the black bullet-proof vest underneath, but already the chairman could feel trickles of perspiration beneath the heavy material.
‘What if he aims for my face?’ Kennedy had asked Lorimer the previous day. A specially adapted Kelvin cap had been hastily constructed but Pat Kennedy swore to himself that he would only wear the thing as a last resort. They had a good turn-out from their corporate people and Barbara herself would be there by his side. For a wicked moment Patrick Kennedy imagined a sniper’s bullet aiming for his chest, missing and hitting his wife instead. His mouth twitched then he shook himself free of such a fantasy, wondering how on earth he was capable of thoughts like that. But he’d had them before, a little voice insisted: ideas of what life might be like if Barbara were suddenly to keel over. Marie McPhail figured in these fantasies, her willing body next to his against some exotic background, far far away.
‘All right, sir?’ The officer was regarding Kennedy strangely and the chairman realised he had drifted off into a world of his own. Hopefully the policeman would take this for a moment of reflection on life, the universe and some nutter playing silly buggers in an internet cafe.
‘Yes,’ Kennedy answered. ‘Everything’s just marvellous.’
Ignoring the sarcasm, the officer patted the vest beneath Patrick Kennedy’s shirt, nodding his approval. ‘We’ll be in constant radio contact, sir. One of our senior officers will be sitting nearby, so no need to worry.’
Kennedy grunted in reply. The last thing he wanted was to appear flustered, especially in front of one of Strathclyde’s senior officers.
For years it had been his dream to see inside Kelvin FC’s inner sanctum but now that he was actually here, DCI Lorimer felt strangely uncomfortable. A tour of the trophy room had been preceded by drinks in the boardroom and was to be followed by a five-course lunch. Lorimer hung back as the steward described the many trophies on show. Each had its own particular history, some even dating from the late nineteenth century. These were large ornate cups engraved with faded, spidery writing. When he’d been a wee lad just what wouldn’t he have given for an experience like this? Now, as the SIO in a serious murder case, Lorimer looked at the people around him much more than at the objects within their glass cases. Most of them carried drinks in one hand and some were chatting amiably to one another as though this was something they did on a regular basis. He recognised Colin Sharpe and Frank Devine, directors of the club. They’d made their money in a lucrative legal partners
hip that specialised in commercial property. They were with another of the club’s directors, Jeffrey Mellis. Lorimer was not surprised to see them laughing and joking together.
Mellis was a property consultant whose name had figured in the DCI’s recent bedtime reading. If Patrick Kennedy and Mellis had their way then Kelvin FC as he knew it would very soon cease to exist. Big plans were afoot to sell the current grounds to a supermarket chain and to relocate the club to a brownfield site in Maryhill. Lorimer had seen the plans, read the figures and thought long and hard about why this had not yet found its way into the public domain. Jimmy Greer and every sports writer in the land would have had copy going to press the minute this was out in the open. But Jimmy was dead and all of the documentation that Lorimer had ferreted out was marked confidential in large red letters. Had the Gazette’s reporter stumbled across something that was meant to be kept secret? Something that was worth killing for? It didn’t make sense. If Kennedy and his cohorts wanted to keep quiet about the development of a new club, could it be for perfectly legitimate reasons? The information disquieted him; could it be one of the missing pieces in this jigsaw, which he was playing round and round in his head?
They had moved away from Kelvin’s silverware now and were heading down a long narrow corridor towards the dining room. Lorimer listened to the noise of laughter and people talking to one another as they found their tables. He glanced at his watch. The crowds would be coming into the stadium soon but these corporate guests would not make their way out into the directors’ area until just before kick-off. Would anyone be in custody by then? Lorimer hoped so, and knew he wasn’t the only one. Looking over to where Patrick Kennedy stood he could see the red flush spreading across the man’s face and guessed at his discomfort.
