It hit him like a hammer.
‘Okay, so what does that prove and what are you going to do?’
The blue-and-white police tape went up between them again.
‘Just leave it to us. Let us do our job.’
Winter nodded and let her hold him but he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it at all. For a start, she’d been wrong. What happened to Addison was down to him. Unlike with his mother though, it wasn’t what he did but what he didn’t do. Now it was down to him to put it right.
Rachel was thinking hard, trying to decide if one more thing was better out in the open. She resolved that it was.
‘Tony, there’s something else.’
He heard the waver in her voice.
‘What is it?’
‘I wasn’t going to . . . but I can’t . . . I have to tell you. Those phones that the shooter took off Strathie and Sturrock . . .’
‘Go on.’
She was struggling.
‘As I said, Addy and Jan McConachie, it seems certain their names were listed as phone contacts.’
‘Means nothing.’
‘Tony, it means everything. Listen to me. It was why they got shot. It’s obvious. And . . .’
She left a chasm of silence as she tried to force out the words that were stuck in her throat. She finally managed it.
‘Tony, I’m scared.’
‘You’re scaring me too,’ he told her. ‘What is it? Tell me.’
Rachel put the palms of her hands to her forehead and clamped her eyes shut.
‘A couple of years back I caught Mark Sturrock with gear in his car. It was small beer stuff compared with what we knew he usually ran. It wouldn’t have been enough to put him away for serious time but it would have blotted his copybook big time with Malky Quinn. It gave me leverage with him.’
Winter said nothing but could feel the fear growing inside him as he watched her speak behind hands that trembled ever so slightly.
‘So I suggested to him that I could make the possession go away if he was prepared to co-operate. He was. He gave me enough information that I was able to bust a bigger deal. Terry Gilmartin had a lorry-load of skunk coming up from Manchester and thanks to Sturrock we intercepted it. So much for honour among thieves.’
Winter’s heart was thumping in his chest and his mouth was dry. He didn’t want to hear any more of this.
‘Jesus Christ, Rach. Why didn’t you tell me this after Harthill?’ he asked. ‘Have you told Shirley about it?’
She shook her head and continued.
‘So after that, Sturrock and I had a quiet little arrangement. He knew that if I could nail him for something major then I would. No question. But if it was small stuff then I’d let it slide as long as he would help the police with their enquiries.’
Winter asked the question that he didn’t want to hear the answer to.
‘So you and Sturrock . . . kept in touch?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Rachel peeled her hands away from her face and returned his stare.
‘It wasn’t often. A couple of times a year, if that.’
‘How did you contact him?’ Winter persisted.
She looked back at him.
‘By phone?’ he asked her.
Rachel’s gaze fell to the floor before she answered.
‘Yes.’
Winter pulled her head up so he could look her in the eyes again.
‘So your mobile number could be in his phone?’ She shook her head slowly.
‘No, not could be. Is. My number is definitely in his phone. I’m scared, Tony, I’m very scared.’
CHAPTER 34
Sleep overtook them eventually but not before Winter demanded that Rachel go to Shirley with everything she knew and that she stayed off the street and out of harm’s way. Rachel was having none of it though.
She told him that if she went to Shirley then she wouldn’t get within a mile of the Dark Angel case and might be out of a job entirely. She’d never registered Sturrock as an informer and worse than that, had never told Alex Shirley about it after Sturrock was shot. She kept it to herself, thinking it didn’t matter because she was clean and there was no point in dragging it up. Now it was too late.
Anyway, she wasn’t one for hiding away. Even if the maniac that was running around shooting people found that her number was in that phone and knew who she was, she’d take her chances.
They woke early, both bad-tempered and fearing the worst about the day ahead, following one another into the shower without a word being said. The television and the radio were replaying the previous day’s horrors and that was more than enough without either of them adding to it.
The morning was dreich; grey, wet and miserable to match their moods, as they went their separate ways towards Pitt Street and Stewart Street, both fuelled by a growing sense of urgency and apprehension and with thoughts of Addison and Sturrock’s phone writ large in their minds.
Winter was in the office before eight, meaning he had the place to himself for the best part of an hour and he could get on with what he’d decided to do undisturbed. He’d stopped to pick up a paper and threw it on his desk, seeing BLOODBATH in large red letters across the front of the Sun. They didn’t have any photographs from the scene at Dixon Blazes but they’d used their gun-site logo half the size of the page. There were only a few paragraphs of the bare facts and a whole lot of conjecture.
Thank God they didn’t have a photograph of Addison, he thought. A quick scan of the story showed there was no mention of any accusation against him, instead the keywords were ‘near fatal’, ‘severe head wounds’ and ‘critical but stable’. He couldn’t get the image of Addison out of his head and it didn’t help that he was going to have to file the photographs. That was part of his reason for getting in so early, to get the admin done and get out of the office before some fucker began noising him up with questions he didn’t want to answer.
But he also wanted in and out as quickly as he could because he had other things to do. As soon as he got in, he had left a message on Cat Fitzpatrick’s answerphone, asking if he could stop by and see her as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure what she’d think of the message but it didn’t really matter, not compared to the rest of it. If it became complicated then it was too bad.
The full-length shot he’d taken of Addison was on screen in front of him, uploaded from his camera. It was surreal. His best friend stretched out, cut down, dark suit and crimson collar. He struggled to match the person lying there with the one that he went to the pub with, went to the match with, the one that called him ‘wee man’ and chased anything in a skirt. He could only see someone on the cusp of eternity, one foot in the grave and the other limping badly. It wasn’t Addison, it was too lacking in life for it to be him.
He cropped a section of his face, trying to make it look more like him, to make the connection with the Addison he recognized but still all he got was skull and blood and bone and concrete and shards of being. None of that added up to him. It was a subject, a still life.
Jan McConachie was different. She’d already crossed the threshold and the bullet that had taken off the top of her head left no room for argument. Flat on her back with arms and legs spread wide, she pleaded for a redemption that would never come. Her lights had gone out so fast that it didn’t register on her face. It seemed her life had been stolen from under her nose and she simply hadn’t noticed. The only evidence of it was a vaguely stupid, open-mouthed look as if she didn’t know the answer to the final question. She was looking to the skies for the answer but Winter doubted she would find it there.
The phone made him jump, a testament to his state of mind.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi Tony. How are you?’
‘I’ve had better days, Cat. I need a favour. Can I come to your office?’
‘Sure. I’ll be in all morning. Whenever suits you.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Cat
Fitzpatrick looked up from a microscope as he pushed the door open, the hint of a sympathetic smile on her face, then turned her eyes back to whatever was under the glass. It gave Winter a few seconds to look at her without her noticing. The weak sunlight that struggled through the window still managed to pick out highlights in her flame-red hair which was tied back severely. Even in a lumpen, white lab coat she looked stunning. The second-best looking woman in Strathclyde polis, he told himself.
‘Sit down,’ she said, without looking up. ‘Two minutes.’
Winter cast his eye around the lab, never failing to be amazed at how there always seemed to be a new piece of kit every time you visited. These guys had to go back to school every five minutes or technology would outstrip them. Dinosaurs like Baxter were continually in danger of being left behind as they clung on to what they knew.
Cat pushed the scope aside and looked up, studying him.
‘How is Addison?’
He sighed and closed his eyes.
‘Not good. He lost a lot of blood and the bullet passed through his skull. They think it missed his brain, though, and there’s some hope. They are giving him a thirty per cent chance of survival.’
Cat looked at him, another question waiting to be asked, but when he didn’t offer an inroad she let it go.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s awkward. But it’s important.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was a drug dealer killed last week at Blochairn. A guy named Sammy Ross.’
She shrugged.
‘The name doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘No reason it should. He was found stabbed Saturday night, Sunday morning. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘So?’
‘So I think that there might have been more to it than there first appeared. I might be completely wrong but I’m guessing that something might have been missed in the post-mortem.’
Her mouth opened then closed again.
‘That’s . . . I’m not sure if I’m more astonished by the possibility of something being missed or that you have some reason for thinking it. What’s this all about?’
‘I can’t say, Cat.’
‘Then I don’t see how I can help you.’
‘Look, it’s important. If I’m wrong and there was nothing missed then there will have been no harm in checking, right?’
She weighed it up.
‘Maybe. Has this got something to do with Addison being shot?’
‘It might have. I can’t be sure. But I need to find out. I need your help, Cat.’
‘If you need help then what the hell are you standing here for? You should be going to Alex Shirley with this, not me. You know that.’
‘I can’t, not yet anyway. Addy is lying there half dead and I need to do this for him. There are things I need to sort out for him.’
The look on her face told him she’d heard some of the shit that had leaked from the warehouse in Rutherglen. She sighed.
‘I must be off my head . . .’
He smiled at her.
‘Don’t get carried away,’ she scolded him. ‘I’m only going to check his file and see if this is possible. You are going to have to tell me at some point what’s going on here. When was this Ross killed?’
‘The body was found last Sunday morning, the eleventh.’
She kick-started her chair and wheeled across a few feet until she was in front of her computer screen, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was doing. Her fingers flashed across the keyboard and within seconds she had what she was looking for.
‘Samuel Kenneth Ross. Cause of death blah blah, puncture of major organs caused by a knife or similar sharp-bladed instrument. Pronounced dead at the scene by Campbell Baxter. Time of death estimated at 3.15 a.m. The body’s still in the morgue. Okay, what else am I looking for and how do you suggest I find it?’
He grinned at her apologetically.
‘I don’t know. I think there might be something else there beyond the stabbing, something that no one knew to look for. Or bothered to. And I was kind of hoping that you could have a second autopsy done.’
‘You have got to be kidding me. On the basis of what? Some half-arsed guess that you won’t explain to me?’
‘Yes. And I was also kind of hoping that no one would need to know about it.’
She gave a derisory laugh.
‘You are crazy. Give me one good reason. And it better be good.’
It was his last gambit. The card he was hoping not to play.
‘The only reason I’ve got is what we had together.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘Christ, I was wondering if you would try that one. What we had? What we had was one drunken night of admittedly fabulous sex. And you think that entitles you to a voucher for a free postmortem at a time of your choosing? Not to mention a career-threatening cover-up?’
‘You did say it was fabulous . . .’
She smiled ruefully.
‘Arsehole. Anyway, I exaggerated for the sake of your ego. It was merely very good. Tony, what we had was sex—’
‘Fabulous sex,’ he interrupted.
‘Sex followed by awkwardness and tension and sly looks and no explanation of why you never came back for more. Or why you never thought to ask me out. That’s what we had. And you think that’s good enough to get help like this?’
‘I’m hoping it is. It’s all I’ve got.’
‘Arsehole,’ she repeated. ‘Okay, okay. There is someone who could be persuaded to have a look. There’s a junior pathologist in the morgue who . . . well, let’s just say he likes me. A lot.’
‘Okay.’
She smiled wickedly at his discomfort.
‘I’m sure he will help me out if I ask very nicely.’
She was enjoying watching him squirm.
‘I’ll call him.’
‘Thanks, Cat. And I’m sorry about . . .’
‘Out. I’m not speaking to him when you’re here. I’ll call you back in when I’m done.’
A few minutes later, Winter was back in the lab, like a naughty schoolboy called before the headmistress. ’Okay, he’s going to do it. I didn’t quite promise him anything but he seems to have got the idea that he is in with a chance. If you know what I mean.’
Winter knew exactly what she meant and a steel toe-capped boot of inappropriate jealousy kicked him in the nuts.
‘You’ll call me if he finds anything, Cat?’
‘If he does, I’ll call. It will probably be tomorrow before I can get back to you. Okay, go. Run along now. I’ve got things to do.’
She turned her head back to the microscope and, duly dismissed, he turned for the door.
‘Tony,’ she called at his back.
‘Yes?’
‘I really hope Addison is okay. I don’t know what’s going on but I’ve heard the rumours. Whatever the truth is, I hope he makes it.’
He nodded at her silently and left.
CHAPTER 35
Tuesday 20 September
Narey had half expected, half hoped, for the phone call that she received that morning when she got into the office but it brought as many problems as it did promises. With Addison shot and Jan McConachie dead, the Nightjar team were two officers down and Alex Shirley needed her back on the team.
She couldn’t help but think it was where she should have been in the first place. It was a thought that scared her; she’d seen with her own eyes what had happened to the officers that were on it. More than that, whoever did it, whoever it was that had the phones that once belonged to Sturrock and the others, had her number too. Had her name. She shouldn’t have told Winter about it the night before, it was information he didn’t need and now he was going to plague her to keep out of sight. Fat chance of that.
For a start, the pressure was on to get the McCullough killing wrapped up as quickly as possible. The message was clear: it was way down the priority list compared to Dark Angel and if necessary it
would be put aside until there was time to deal with it. Narey wasn’t for having that. As desperate as she was to be part of the sniper investigation, with her own neck on the line, she hated to let this one go completely and leave the McCulloughs without an answer.
She had to get back to the basics. It was all she knew to do when she ran into a brick wall and that was what was staring her in the face this time. Oonagh’s parents hadn’t been much help and Pamela had told her all that she knew or was willing to tell. All that was left was to go back to the slog of going through the CCTV tapes from the night that Oonagh was killed. Addison had already been through them but that was no excuse not to try again. It was the only bit of available footage they had and there just might be something he’d missed.
She felt a surge of guilt for doubting Addison when he was at death’s door but the truth was he was probably thinking about nothing other than Quinn and Caldwell when he watched the tapes so missing something was a real possibility. Christ, she hoped he pulled through. The tapes made for slow, depressing viewing. There was just her and the CCTV operator, a WPC named Imelda Couper, and neither had much stomach for frame-by-frame examination of the life forms that crawled through the red-light area. What made it bearable was the thought that they might just be able to put one of these pervs away.
The two of them watched every frame for half an hour before the estimated time of Oonagh’s killing and every frame for half an hour after it. Nothing but half-hidden sleaze bags and passing cars. Nothing that held out any real hope of finding a murderer among the punters. Still it was all Narey had, so she’d keep going, jotting down meagre notes and hoping for the best.
When they had exhausted the two half-hour windows, Narey had the WPC go back till an hour before Oonagh was killed, with the intention of doing the same for an hour after it. It meant they would have been sitting there three hours in all by the time she was done. Narey’s bottom was already starting to go numb and she could see that Couper’s eyes had glazed with boredom.
They were half an hour into the second sitting, back to the point where they’d started and the temptation was to skip that rather than going over it yet again but no, she’d make herself sit through it. She owed it to Oonagh’s mother and to prove to the father that some of them did actually care.
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