‘Photograph him, Winter,’ ordered Alex Shirley. ‘And get a fucking move on. I want that hood off him.’
Winter found his feet the moment the superintendent spoke, glad to be able to move and not simply standing and staring. He circled the broken man, snapping as he went, aware of the open-mouthed, fearful cops in the rear of his shot. ‘Right, enough,’ barked Shirley. ‘Out of the way.’
Winter was done, anyway. He wanted to see the guy’s face as much as anyone else. Shirley strode forward, pulling the hood off the guy’s head and dropping it into an evidence bag that Baxter held out for him.
The right side of number four’s face was caved in, his eye out its socket, the skull and jaw both smashed. It brought images of Addison’s head screaming into Winter’s consciousness and he had to banish them fast. Had to concentrate or he’d be in deep shit. He knew he was close to losing it completely.
He stared at the guy’s left eye, saw that it in turn was staring away from the damage to the skull, either looking out for trouble from the other side or just desperate not to see what had happened. For a second he wished he was wherever number four was looking, somewhere safe, somewhere out of sight and out of mind. He snapped back into reality.
The guy only had half a face left but it was enough for him to be identified.
‘Harvey Houston?’ asked Shirley, looking for confirmation.
‘Yes, sir.’ Sandy Murray was the first to answer. ‘I’ve run into him a few times over the years.’
Shirley made a small nod of his head, looking angrier than Winter had ever seen him.
‘And the rest of them? Get them all fucking photographed, Winter. Names, people. Now.’
Winter focused on Houston’s shattered skull and photo graphed as he heard names being confirmed by Murray, Boyle, Williamson and Monteith, the last two having joined the party along with another two forensics that he recognized: Paddy Swanson and Lucy Stark. They would have their hands full.
The bloody mess was Jake Arnold, known as Beavis, bleed-to-death guy was Ginger George Faichney, and the gutted-stomach victim was Benjo Honeyman. All as expected and nothing that anyone could have seen coming. Four missing men and one missing cop, all snug as bugs in the same rug. Winter’s stomach was rumbling in a way that meant he was either very hungry or about to puke.
He moved from one man to the next as if he were in a dream, sidestepping the forensics as everyone tried to do their job at the same time. No sooner had he finished photographing every angle of Arnold’s battered-in nose or Faichney’s sliced veins than Swanson was daubing them with Luminol and waiting to see what developed. Winter snapped at Honeyman’s stabbed chest, zooming in on the signature rip of the knife, standing back to be replaced immediately by Baxter dusting the chair for prints that they both knew wouldn’t be there. None of it was futile but none of it was going to help.
Winter heard the shout from somewhere over his left shoulder.
‘Sir!’
It was Murray, his face ashen. Everyone followed his arm to the far corner of the warehouse and saw the homemade poster on the wall. Letters and cuttings from newspapers. From a distance all that could be made out was a headline, THE DARK ANGEL.
As they all moved closer en masse they could make out the two words that were pasted below.
Dirty
Cops
They were drinking in those words, swallowing hard on their implications, when another voice burst through the door. Narey. She stopped in her tracks for an age when she saw the four bodies, her jaw dropping before she recovered her composure and went up to Shirley.
She spoke to him quietly, out of earshot. Winter watched Shirley’s face wrinkle and his brow furrow. His eyes were blazing but he gave her a curt nod, before placing a reassuring arm on hers. He stood for a moment, weighing up his options before coming to a decision.
‘Constables,’ he barked, looking at Boyle and Murray. ‘Will you excuse us, please? Mr Baxter, your people, too.’
None of them looked too pleased but they had no choice. They left the warehouse and closed the door behind them.
Shirley looked at Winter, narrowing his eyes.
‘I think you should hear this too,’ he said, hesitating before going on. ‘The calls that DI Addison and DS McConachie received a few minutes ago have been identified from their phones. McConachie’s was from George Faichney. Addison’s was from Mark Sturrock, the mule from Harthill Services.’
Winter wanted to throw up the emptiness in his stomach or to deck Shirley. The two words on the poster screamed at him, mocking him.
Dirty. Cops.
CHAPTER 33
They were sitting on the bedroom floor in Highburgh Road, holding each other tight, head on the other’s shoulder. Him looking north and her south, neither seeing anything. They’d been like that for an age without saying a word. His guess was that they were silent because there was just too much to say.
It was only nine at night but it felt like past midnight. From the early morning dash to the industrial estate to the final visit to intensive care at the Royal, it had been a long, long day. Addison was alive but only just. They said the next twenty-four hours would be critical.
They’d both wanted to wait but Shirley was having none of it. He understood why they wanted to be there but his job was to catch the shooter and to do that he needed his team rested. There was also the small matter of whether Addison was shot because he was involved with the dealers. Shirley was insistent: they were to go home and get some sleep whether they liked it or not.
Sleep. That was a joke.
They’d climbed the stairs to the flat and Rachel had the fridge door open before the front door had shut. She cracked open a bottle of wine, picked up two glasses and poured. Winter didn’t even have the energy to make his usual moan about white wine.
She’d kicked off her shoes then fell out of her trousers and her blouse, causing him a pang of guilt at watching her body when he should have been thinking about Addison. Then he remembered that Addison would have been exactly the same, if not worse, and he’d laughed out loud before he knew it, strangling it once he caught the thought. Rachel threw him a look of surprise but didn’t bother asking. Instead she pulled on pyjama trousers and a T-shirt and padded into the bedroom.
Winter followed her through, losing his own shoes and got down on the floor where Rachel knocked her glass of wine back in one gulp. She immediately poured a second but left it untouched. She put her arms out without looking at him and he fell into them. That’s the way they were nearly an hour later. It was Rachel who finally broke the spell.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course you can,’ he replied.
‘You probably won’t like it.’
He tensed.
‘Go on.’
How much worse can things get, he thought?
‘When Addy was shot, why did you get up and take his photograph? Why did you do that when the Temple told everyone to stay down? You knew that maniac was probably still out there.’
‘It was my job.’
‘Bollocks, Tony. I need you to do better than that. Why did you get up?’
‘It was my job. It was the only small thing I could do to help catch whoever did that. Make sure the evidence was there when it goes to court.’
He could feel her head shaking against his.
‘Okay, I buy part of that. But that doesn’t explain it all. You could have been killed. What was so important that you risked that?’
He hesitated, partly because he wasn’t sure what the answer was. Or maybe because he did.
‘Is that all I’m getting? Silence? An answer would be nice.’
‘I don’t know.’
Her voice softened.
‘I think you do know, Tony. Trust me.’
‘I . . . I just got up and did it. I didn’t feel like I had much choice. My legs were there before I knew it.’
‘Okay. But that’s still only half an answer. Why did you want to do
it?’
He shrugged. She swore.
‘Fuck, Tony, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been more alive than when you’re photographing death. We both know that’s the truth. I used to accept that it was your thing but now, today, it’s freaking me out. When you risk your life to photograph someone else’s death then I can’t accept that. I’m just not sure I can deal with that at all. I’m not sure I can be part of that.’
He was glad he couldn’t see her face. He didn’t want to see the look on it. He knew ducking it again wasn’t going to work but he tried.
‘Look, Rach, I don’t know. Okay?’
‘Not okay. Let me keep it simple. You tell me why the fuck you did that or we’re done. I can’t handle it if I can’t understand it.’
‘You know I’m not good with ultimatums.’
‘Tony, I’m beginning to wonder what you are good with.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that. But I need to know. And I need to know now.’
He closed his eyes and screamed silently into her shoulder.
‘Tell me.’
He breathed hard.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you best as I understand it myself.’
‘Okay.’
‘When I see something like that, when I get to photograph something like . . . you’re right, it does make me feel alive. It’s like I’m seeing the other side . . . like I’m getting a glimpse into . . . into death. It’s as if there’s a chance to make sense of the whole thing, you know?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
‘Life doesn’t make much sense on its own so maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe if you can understand death then you can get a handle on the rest of it. Maybe if you can get your head round it then it won’t seem so bad and there’d be nothing to be scared of. Maybe death’s what it’s all about.’
‘Christ, Tony. Why would you think that?’
‘Because death . . .’
He hesitated.
‘Death what?’ she demanded.
‘You want to hear this or not?’ he shouted at her. ‘It’s because of my mum and dad, alright? It’s because my parents were murdered. You fucking happy now?’
She gasped, trying to snap her head away and round so she could see him but he held her tight. He wasn’t ready to be seen. She fought it but he was too strong and she finally let her head rest on his shoulder again.
‘You told me that your parents died in a car crash.’
‘I lied.’
More silence. More thinking.
‘So what happened? Who killed them?’
He screwed his eyes shut, wishing the moment away.
‘They were killed. That’s all that matters. It might be hard for a cop to understand but sometimes the dead are more important than the killer.’
She thought about that for a moment and he felt her nodding.
‘I do understand that. But tell me what happened, Tony. Please? Who killed your mum and dad?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I did.’
He could feel her tense, frightened. Not of him but of what he might say. It wasn’t going to stop her asking though.
‘Tell me.’
Winter bit on his bottom lip, pinching the skin hard with his teeth, trying to make it bleed, trying to bring pain. He deserved pain, he craved it.
‘I killed my mother. They say it wasn’t my fault but I know differently.’ He released a small, bitter laugh. ‘Cars don’t kill people, people kill people.’
‘She died in a road accident?’ Rachel asked.
‘No, you’ve not been listening? She was killed in a road accident. By me.’
Rachel was desperately trying to keep the shock from her face.
‘Okay, Tony. It’s okay. Go on.’
His eyes were closed.
‘She was just twenty-three. Really pretty. My dad was a school teacher, history. She was going to train to be a teacher too. Till I got in the way.’
Rachel tried to interrupt but he didn’t let her.
‘We lived in Arlington Street. You know, just off Woodlands Road?’
She nodded.
‘I was five and was always dashing off to play in the street as soon as she turned her back. She was always on at me not to do it. Always. If she’d warned me once about running across that road when cars were coming then she’d done it a thousand times. I never listened though.
‘This particular day, she was washing dishes and I sneaked out of the house with a football and was booting it from one pavement to the other. Cars were always coming round the corner fast at the Arlington Bar but I always thought I had time to get out the way. This time though . . .’ He choked back the memory. ‘This time I was too busy watching the ball and by the time I heard the engine, this car was nearly on top of me. The driver hadn’t seen me till he was just a few feet away. All I could see was the front of the car, it filled the world.
‘The next thing I was flying through the air away from it. I didn’t know what had happened but I heard the crunch, this terrible, terrible noise . . . Then she landed on top of me.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes. She’d seen me playing outside and had come out to call me back in. When she saw the car about to hit me, she threw herself into its path and pushed me out of the way. She was hit full on the head. I was lying there, her blood dripping onto my face. She died on top of me. I could see the guy get out of the car with his mouth hanging open and neighbours running out, screaming their heads off but I couldn’t hear a thing. All I could feel was her blood hot on my face.’
‘You were in shock,’ Rachel soothed. ‘Tony . . .’
‘The neighbours eased her off me to see if I was alright. Of course I was. Barely a scratch. I had nothing more than a grazed knee. She . . . she . . .’
‘Tony, that wasn’t your—’
‘Oh it was. It was my fault. She’d told me a thousand times but I still did it. If I’d just done what she’d said then she’d have been alive. She didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve her.’
A single tear was running down his cheek.
Rachel hugged him fiercely.
‘What about your dad?’ she asked eventually, almost fearful of the answer.
‘He managed to drink himself to death in under four years. Good going, even by Glasgow standards. Can’t blame him. Bad enough that he had lost his wife but he also had to put up with the miserable wee bastard that had killed her. I was greetin’ my eyes out every moment I was awake, which was most of the day and the night. He just couldn’t bear to look at me. Must have driven him crazy. Certainly drove him to drink.
‘He got sacked two years after she went. My uncle Danny says the school was sympathetic but just couldn’t put up with it. He started turning up drunk in class and took a swing at some kid who was winding him up. That was it finished. All it meant was that he had more time to drink.’
‘And who was looking after you?’
‘Him, until it got too bad. Till the whisky and the sight of me had him in the boozer full-time. My auntie and uncle, Janette and Danny, took me off him. Think he was glad. All I ever did was remind him of what he’d lost. His liver packed in. Alcohol hepatitis leading to chronic liver failure. Dead at twenty-nine.’
‘Jesus Christ, Tony. I’m so sorry. Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’
‘Not the easiest thing to tell. Not when it’s your fault.’
‘It wasn’t!’ she insisted, tears soaking his shoulder.
‘Don’t think I haven’t tried telling myself that. Don’t think psychiatrists and psychologists haven’t told me. But it doesn’t change a thing. It was my fault. Killed my mum. Drove my old man to death. Only memories I have of him, he’s unshaven and rough as fuck, shouting at me to shut up. Just made me cry all the more.’
‘So you stayed with your aunt and uncle?’
Winter nodded.
‘Until I was seventeen and got out of there as soon as I could. Went straight to
university from fifth year. Janette and Danny were great but I probably drove them daft too. I wasn’t the easiest kid to bring up.’
‘That’s not really surprising, Tony.’
‘Maybe not. But I must have been a pain in the arse. I remember I was in primary three or four and a big black crow was found lying dead in the playground. I think some wee bastard had hit it with a stone. Everyone had gone to look at it, poking it with a stick and turning it over. Everyone else got bored soon enough but I couldn’t stop staring at it. Looking at those empty black eyes and wondering what they could see. Wondering about its soul and its ghost. Wondering where the life inside it had gone to.
‘Guess it made me a weird wee boy. It was just that though, nothing else. Every other way I was the same as the rest of them but I had this wonder about death and it sorted of infected other stuff, made me miserable and lonely.’
‘But that’s not the guy I met,’ she said.
‘University cured me.’ He laughed a bit. ‘I discovered beer and girls and snooker and that life could still be fun. I drank and shagged my way through uni and things looked brighter. I didn’t learn as much about algorithms as I should have done but I learned how to put a face on things. How to stop being the morbid kid.’
‘But it’s still there?’ she asked. It was as much a statement as a question. ‘It’s why you got into this job and why you want to photograph death?’
‘Yep. Still poking the crow with a stick in the playground. Still looking for answers. Trying to make sense of it. Like with Addy. Makes no sense at all.’
She couldn’t help herself.
‘Okay, I’m going to tell you something I probably shouldn’t. And I’m telling you because this isn’t down to you. Not what happened to your mum and dad and not what’s happened to Addison. When we were at Harthill Services, Addy said he didn’t know or recognize Mark Sturrock.’
Winter didn’t want to hear this.
‘And he got phoned by him. So what?’
‘Tony, we know he got phoned by him because the name showed up on his phone. Sturrock’s name and number are in Addison’s phone.’
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