Snapshot

by Craig Robertson

  So much for Winter’s change of subject. The line went dead and he was left wondering what nerve he’d touched. Addison had been treading in the brown stuff at the bottom of the sewer for a long time but hadn’t made a habit of blowing his stack, not at him at any rate. Maybe this was just the shit that broke the camel’s back. Something chimed in the back of his head that Rachel had said, about Addison not being a happy bunny at the scene of the Quinn killing and that she had a theory about why. He dismissed it. Addison had plenty on his plate and was five or six hours away from a pint, easily enough to make him grumpy. Winter expected normal service would be resumed soon enough.

  The pair of them went way back, almost to Winter’s first week on the force. It was just after he’d photographed Avril Duncanson after she’d gone through the windscreen of her Clio. The very tall, moaning DI with vicious one-liners that made other cops duck didn’t seem like someone Winter was going to get on with, not till Addison heard him say he’d been at Parkhead the night before to see Celtic beat Kilmarnock. That was all it took, a simple bond between two guys that supported the same football team.

  They were Tims and they had to stick together. Tims as in Celtic fans, not as in Catholics; they understood the difference. Winter hadn’t been to Mass since he was fifteen, much to the disappointment of his family, while Addison was a Proddy who’d seen the light. Like Winter, he didn’t give a damn for religion but was mad for Celtic.

  Addison liked to tell people that he used to be a Protestant atheist but that he was now a Catholic atheist. He was thirty-six but if anyone asked, he’d tell them that he was twenty-seven. It wasn’t that he was vain about his age, it was just that he didn’t count the years when Rangers won nine league titles in a row. As far as he was concerned, those years didn’t happen.

  They had Celtic in common and then there was beer. They both liked that quite a bit and demonstrated it whenever they got the chance. Winter knew it helped that he wasn’t another cop – Addison didn’t want to talk shop when there was drink to be drunk but equally the nature of the photographer’s job meant he knew enough about what was going on if the DI did want to bitch about it. They also both liked women, just as much as they liked Guinness or Caledonian 80. Winter liked to think he was more discerning but Addison would have shagged the hole in a dolphin’s head. If he was in the mood, which was most days that ended in a Y, his motto was ‘go ugly, early’. He was a terrible man.

  He knew something had been different with Winter the last year or so but had never come out and said it. There was no way he could have known about him and Narey, she’d made sure of that, but Addison had seen his mate was much less likely to disappear into the night with some piece of skirt. He’d done so a couple of times but it was never more than a diversion, dropping whoever it was off at theirs and continuing home in the taxi on his own. Addison knew he was no longer in the game but didn’t say anything. Winter was the wingman that no longer flew.

  Winter knew that Addison got flak from the plain-clothes boys for being so pally with a photographer but he got that info from Rachel rather than Addison. She also told him that anyone who tried to slag off Winter got a verbal pasting from the DI. He was a good man to have your back. As far as Addison was concerned, if anyone was going to be giving Winter pelters then it was him. His current favourite was Winter’s insistence that Didier Agathe had been Celtic’s best right-back since Danny McGrain. Addison reckoned he should be shot for even mentioning Agathe and McGrain in the same sentence and that Didier was a diddy, a speed merchant who couldn’t cross the road. Winter would usually just tell him to shut the fuck up and that someone who’d written Henrik Larsson off after one game had no right to an opinion. That was the way it was between them.

  Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn’t. Winter remembered the time they’d met in Jinty McGinty’s the night after Addison had to attend to a seventeen-year-old girl who’d died of an overdose. When Winter arrived in Jinty’s there were already two pints of Guinness poured and Tony had said, ‘Cheers’.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Addison complained. ‘Are we here to talk or to drink?’

  Winter’s phone rang, waking him again from his memories. Talk of the devil. An hour after he first phoned, Addison was back on the line, sounding more like himself, the snap gone from his voice.

  ‘If you’ve been stuck in your broom cupboard then you won’t have seen the early edition of the Evening Times,’ he chirped. ‘Don’t know if they were guessing or some dick has tipped them off but they are running with the one-killer angle. It wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘That killed them?’ Winter joked.

  ‘That phoned the Times.’

  The photographer took the bait.

  ‘Fuck off, ya prick. I’d be less insulted if you had asked if I’d bumped them off. You know full well I would never go to the press with anything you tell me.’

  ‘Course I do. Calm down, wee man. Jeezus, you are too easy to wind up. Takes all the fun out of it. Anyway, the Times is going with one killer. They’re calling him an executioner. Bunch of dicks.’

  ‘They are that right enough. You’d fit in just fine.’

  ‘Ha. Cool your jets, wee fella. Still up for that pint? I should be finished here by six and I’ll get you at Pitt Street.’

  Winter was just over six foot tall and Addison was one of the few people that had the opportunity to call him ‘wee man’ and the only one that had the cheek to do it. Hang on, he thought, why would Addison want to meet at Pitt Street if they were going drinking?

  ‘Why meet back here? Why not in the pub?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to have to sit through some CCTV before I can hit the boozer. It’s already been watched once and there was nothing but I’d like a look for myself. I thought you could keep me company.’

  ‘Oh, wait a minute . . .’

  ‘Look, just sit on your arse for half an hour then we can hit the pub. My shout. Deal?’

  ‘You want me to sweep the fucking floor while I’m waiting?’

  ‘I’m sure the cleaners would appreciate that. Thanks.’

  ‘Fuck off. Okay, I’ll wait. But we go to the Griffin, okay?’

  ‘You know I hate the Griffin.’

  ‘Exactly. Deal or no deal?’

  ‘See you at six.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Winter was sitting with his feet up on the desk in front of the bank of CCTV screens, knowing full well it would irritate Addison. Small pleasures, he thought. It also earned him a disapproving glance from the CCTV operator, a WPC named Rebecca Maxwell.

  Addison nodded at her and she began running the tapes from cameras around the red-light area in the time before and after the prostitute – who, thanks to Rachel, they now knew was called Melanie – was murdered. It didn’t make for pretty viewing. Men skulking round West Campbell Street and Waterloo Street and points in between, collars up and heads down. Hookers standing under streetlights, taking their chances with passing trade. All just two minutes’ walk from where they sat in Pitt Street.

  It was a long, slow trawl. Sulphur-lit shadows loitering with intent didn’t make for riveting viewing. Maybe it was a voyeur’s paradise but it did nothing for Winter. Addison had Rebecca stop every now and again, freezing images of likely lads but more in hope than expectation. It was a needle in a haystack job. The girls might have a quiet word with the passing customers and direct them somewhere for business to take place. When the punters disappeared into the darkness of the lanes and the doorways there was no way of knowing who did what to who. Including strangle them.

  ‘Even if we could identify every punter in those frames, even if we pulled every one of them in, then we have to know which of them went with Melanie,’ said Addison. ‘And we have to know which of them killed her. If it even was one of them.’

  For half an hour there was a succession of stops and starts and swearing while all the time the taste of the Guinness with Winter’s name on it was tickling his mind.

  ‘S
o who do you fancy to take over Quinn’s operation?’ he eventually asked Addison. ‘McGurk? Brother Lenny?’

  Addison didn’t take his eyes off the tapes but shook his head.

  ‘McGurk lost his balls the second he saw Malky’s head blown open by that sniper’s bullet. I saw the look on his face and I’d say there’s no way he fancies some of the same. People I talk to say he was always a natural number two. Same with wee brother Lenny. He just didn’t have the cojones for the big job in the first place and certainly doesn’t now. The gunman might as well have shot them with the bullet that took out his brother.’

  ‘So who?’

  ‘Ten-million dollar question, mate. A name that’s kept coming up since yesterday is Ally Riddle. You know him?’

  Winter shrugged.

  ‘Young guy, maybe only twenty-five but a smart cookie. Been with the Quinns since he was in his early teens and fast-tracked through the organization. He’s been running a scrap yard of Malky’s off London Road for a few years now and there’s a helluva lot of money goes through there. Shows Quinn rated him highly. He never put McGurk or Lenny’s nose out of joint by bigging it up but word is it was well known Riddle was the coming man.’

  ‘He in the frame for killing him?’

  ‘Doubt it. He was much better off with Malky alive than the mess there is now. Might be too soon for him, too. And it’s stretching it a bit to think he did Caldwell as well. We’re keeping our eye on him though. Well, I say “we” but if I’m stuck with this one,’ he nodded towards the screen, ‘then it might be someone else’s job. Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

  Winter drank in Addison’s words and a game plan began to form in his head.

  ‘Biggest case round here in a long time . . .’ he began.

  ‘Like I haven’t noticed,’ Addison replied. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘And it could get bigger yet. They really should have the top men on the job. Is that you?’

  ‘Damn right it’s me. There’s no way they should be running something on this scale without me being involved.’

  ‘So what you going to do about it, Addy?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Go see Alex Shirley. Tell him straight out that you want it. Direct approach never fails.’

  Addison looked at him thoughtfully, chewing it over in his mind. Just as he was about to answer, there was a knock at the door and Cat Fitzpatrick strolled through, all flame-red hair and sparkling green eyes. The DI’s attention to the tapes was instantly forgotten and Rebecca Maxwell switched it off when she realized he was no longer watching.

  ‘I was told you boys were hiding in here. Got a minute?’

  ‘For you, Ms Fitzpatrick, I’ve got all the time in the world,’ Addison grinned.

  Cat rolled her eyes and shared a mutual look of despair with the WPC.

  ‘Given how discerning you are, DI Addison, that’s very flattering to know,’ she replied with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

  Addison took no offence whatsoever and misguidedly thought of it as flirtation.

  ‘You wanted to see my report as soon as I was done with it so here you go,’ Cat continued, handing him a folder. ‘Do you want details or highlights?’

  ‘Highlights.’

  ‘Quelle surprise. My best estimate of time of death is half an hour either side of midnight. Cause of death was asphyxiation and the bruising to the neck indicates manual strangulation. There was also some internal haemorrhaging caused by the blow to the skull but that was not, in itself, fatal. The angle of the fingermarks suggests someone approximately six inches taller than the victim, so just under six foot. The body was, as you know, moved after death and that has been confirmed by lividity.’

  ‘That it?’

  Cat smiled sweetly and shook her head, determined not to rise to Addison’s bait.

  ‘That’s it for now. You did ask for a rush job.’

  ‘Ah, don’t take offence, Cat,’ he soothed. ‘We’re going for a drink once we’re done here. Why don’t you join us?’

  ‘No offence, boys, but I’d rather not. Today has been rough enough without ruining it completely by drinking with you pair.’

  ‘She loves us really,’ Addison mouthed to Winter in a stage whisper.

  Winter said nothing. Cat was about to answer instead when Addison broke in again.

  ‘You do love us, right?’

  He was nothing if not persistent.

  ‘Boys, I love chocolate. I love Petit Chablis. I love Matt Damon. I love shoes. You two? I love cellulite more than I love you two. I’m dropping this back at the lab then I’m going home. You boys have fun though.’

  ‘Methinks she doth protest too much,’ said Addison as Cat left, the door closing behind her.

  ‘Sexy bitch and what an arse. Oh well, back to reality. Rebecca, you can start the tapes again.’ Maxwell rolled her eyes at Addison.

  ‘Addy, I’ve been thinking. If I’m going to sit through the rest of these tapes for you, there’s something I’d want in return.’

  ‘Guinness?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, but something else.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘You’re convinced there will be more killings by whoever topped Caldwell and Quinn, right?’

  ‘I’d bet on it.’

  ‘Well, if you speak to Alex Shirley about getting on the sniper case, then I want you to ask him if I can be designated to photograph anyone else that gets hit.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, you don’t want much, do you?’

  ‘No, I just want to photograph anyone else that gets hit.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you. Okay, I’ll ask.’

  ‘Thanks, Addy.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. I’ll try. Best I can do.’

  ‘Good enough.’

  They both turned their attention back to the turgid task of viewing the tapes from the red-light district even though they both knew it was hopeless. If their man was in there then he was hidden from plain view. The area’s natural camouflage of shadows and alleyways came with the territory and meant it suited the hunter and the hunted a lot more than it did those viewing it through a lens. After another half-hour of fruitless observation, Addison called an end to it.

  ‘Enough’s enough,’ he muttered. ‘We’re out of here.’

  ‘Right, the Griffin it is then and not before time,’ said Winter enthusiastically.

  ‘Not quite yet, wee fella. I’m fed up with this game already and I’m going to do what you suggested. I’m going to see if Shirley is still in the building. You go ahead, I’ll see you in there.’

  ‘Good move,’ Winter replied, with more than half a mind on his own vested interest in the outcome. ‘And if he says yes . . .’

  ‘Christ, enough already. Will see what I can do. No promises, mind.’

  ‘None expected. Thanks, Addy.’

  It was only a few hundred yards to the Griffin but the walk was far enough for Winter to get a proper thirst on. He wanted his favour from Addison but he also wanted a few pints of the black stuff. His tongue was aching for it. The old sgriob was working overtime. But his other sgriob, his real itch, was tingling more.

  The thought of Shirley giving him the go-ahead to join the case, the only real case in town, was overpowering. Two pints of Guinness and he’d be dreaming about a hole in the middle of a drug lord’s head. And he’d like it.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Griffin was always more Winter’s kind of pub than it was Addison’s. For him it was a local in the city centre, the kind of everyman bar that Glasgow did best. Old man’s pub, student hangout and theatre crowd all thrown in together. For Addison there were never enough women in it to keep him happy but then again there was never a pub with enough women in it for him.

  It had stood on the corner of Bath Street and Elmbank Street for over a hundred years, curving round the corner in splendid wood and leaded glass. Between the Griffin and the lounge bar, the Griffinette, the exterior looked massive with more than enough ent
rances to make it confusing but inside it was split into three rooms making it much more intimate than it appeared from the street. The leather speakeasy seats facing each other across wooden tables meant the place filled up without a lot of people actually being in it.

  That night there were maybe twenty people in the main bar and it gave it the busy, cosy feel that Winter liked. He and Addison were propped up on stools at the bar and the DI was refusing to say how his meeting with Shirley had gone, simply saying that he was waiting for a phone call and didn’t want to jinx it. Instead he was moaning about the lack of talent and suggesting they move on elsewhere. Winter dragged the conversation back to the gangster killings every chance he got.

  ‘Tell me more about this Ally Riddle,’ he began. ‘Is he going to be able to run Quinn’s business? Surely the hyenas will be moving in to pick over the bones.’

  ‘Course they will,’ nodded Addison. ‘Jo-Jo Johnstone, Bumpy Scott, Tookie Cochrane or the Gilmartins, you can bet they’re interested. Their kind always have an eye on someone else’s territory if they sense it’s ripe for taking over. But Ally Riddle is still the bookies’ favourite. The word is that he’ll be able to hold Quinn’s mob together.’

  ‘What about Caldwell’s operation?’

  ‘Same thing. A couple of his lieutenants, Fraser Gray or Tommy Wright maybe, will have first crack at it but if they don’t show enough balls then Johnstone, Terry and Davie Gilmartin et cetera will be chapping at their door. Whoever killed these two bams has created a vacuum that needs filling. And it will be filled.’

  There were some questions he knew were better not to ask but Winter never could help himself.

  ‘Addy, if you guys know so much about what these cunts are up to and who is running what for who, then why aren’t more of them in the nick?’

  Addison’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Oh right, why didn’t we think of that? Tony, if it was that simple . . .’

  A tune suddenly burst from Addison’s jacket, saving Winter from whatever was coming next. It was the theme tune to Top Cat, the indisputable leader of the gang, and by the time Addison had wrestled the phone from his pocket Winter had worked out that meant it was Alex Shirley. His guess was on the money.