Snapshot

by Craig Robertson

  What a mess the nasty little fuckers had left him in. The thought hit Winter that he was glad Ryan’s mother couldn’t see him now. Poor tortured Rosaleen had suffered enough already and no mother should ever, ever see what was in front of Winter at that moment. Chewed, eaten, bitten, gnawed. None of that was what had killed him though. Not unless rats had learned how to break a man’s neck. The tortured angle of his head to his body left no doubt. Winter’s guess was that the blood that matted his hair could have been from another blow before he was snapped or as he fell to the ground.

  Mouth open, lips ashen, his one good eye rolled back and distant. Limbs tucked beneath him in an unnatural fashion where rigor had set in then reversed itself. The splashes of blood were far from being red, they were carmine, almost maroon, dirtier than rust and just as uninviting. His skin was purple and tight, his nails white, his clothes dirty. That poor wee woman could never see this.

  Winter had photographed more than his fair share of death but this was horrific. He was normally there when they’d just gone, when they had one foot in the grave and one in the gravy. McKendrick was long gone and although that was hardly a first for Winter, the mess he was in made it so much worse. Cold compassion wasn’t the option it might otherwise have been.

  He zoomed in as much as the compact would allow him and photographed McKendrick’s blotchy, algae-green neck. Snapped it. The ugly bulge of the broken vertebrae under the discoloured skin. He moved to his other wounds, the ones caused by the rats, and photographed them too. The position of the body, its place in the room, the blanket, the shelves, the printed photographs and the boxes. Everything from every angle. He had no idea how or if this could ever get to court without landing him in deep shit but he knew his job.

  Having done it, he looked through what else there was in there. All the time with an ear to the door and the corridor, waiting for footsteps, either on two legs or four. A corrupted line from Animal Farm flooded his mind. Four legs bad, two legs worse. Whatever happened to McKendrick, someone had taken the trouble to move him and cover him up yet hadn’t taken away the stuff in the cupboard. That someone could be coming back.

  The cardboard box held the remains of packets of energy bars, chocolate, brown biscuits, cheese and meat spreads, instant coffee and water purifying tablets, instant soups and oatmeal block. Some were intact; some had been ripped open and eaten, probably by the rats. They were survival rations but hadn’t allowed for the eventuality of a broken neck.

  Winter fingered open the boxes marked Naval Issue, lifted up the cardboard flaps and peered inside. Ammunition. Lots of it. He took out a single bullet and felt the weight of it in his hand, coming to the conclusion that it was heavier than whatever it measured in grammes. Mindful of not leaving any more traces of himself than was strictly necessary, he wiped the bullet on his shirt and popped it back into the box still clutched in the cotton. Mindful too that it was probably a complete waste of time.

  They were obviously the bullets for the L115A3. Three of the boxes were full, the other one less than half so. There was no knowing if there had been other boxes or if the someone who had killed and covered up McKendrick had taken away a box or two of ammo. One thing was certain, there was no sign of the rifle itself. He’d looked everywhere, including under the body, but could see nothing. If it had been here, and his betting was that it had, it was gone now. Which had to make him wonder if it was being used. There would be no point in taking it out of this perfect hiding place for no good reason.

  He knew he’d been avoiding the stack of photographs on the shelf, leaving the best or worst to last. He picked up the top one, annoyed at the obvious tremble in his hands, and began to study it. It was printed on plain paper in black and white, straight from a computer by the look of it. Right away, he knew where it had been taken. Smeaton Drive in Bishopbriggs, recognizing it immediately from the television pictures when they covered the Johnstone shooting. He could make out Alex Shirley and Baxter, then there was a bunch of indistinct figures in bunny suits.

  He placed the print down next to the pile and lifted another one, his eyes growing wide. It was taken at Dixon Blazes and Rachel and McConachie could just be made out looking at each other in disbelief. He worked his way through the photos, fingers and eyes moving faster. Harthill Services. Glasgow Harbour. Central Station. Smeaton Drive. Kinnear Road. Location photos taken with a zoom. Some had been taken before the killings, either reconnaissance or trial runs with the camera rather than the gun. Others were taken after. He’d gone back, somewhere, somehow, and photographed his hunters. Or were they the hunted?

  There were groups shots of the Nightjar team. There were some individual pictures too, some close enough and over-extended enough that you couldn’t see where or when they were taken. Alex Shirley looking furious. Addison pissed off. Jan McConachie worried. Colin Monteith transfixed. Winter himself, busy. Baxter serious. Cat Fitzgerald detached. Rachel.

  Rachel.

  She was in a white coverall at Central Station, standing over the body of what he knew to be Cairns Caldwell. Winter’s throat choked with the bile of trapped anger. He swallowed it back down just as he fought the urge to kick McKendrick’s corpse or throw something. He suppose he should have expected a close-up of her too but the sight of it still hit him hard. Rachel. Christ.

  Shakily, he put her picture on the pile, aware of the tension rising in him, and the hairs on the back of his neck electrified.

  The next photo was of him. It was a side-on view, barely making out his face, and at his feet was a dark object that he knew to be the leather coat that Jimmy Adamson was wearing when he was shot. The photo was taken at Glasgow Harbour as Winter lined Jimmy up in his heavy leather cowl. Was it irony that someone had photographed him as he photographed the body? Or just threatening?

  He saw the next photo, again taken at Dixon Blazes industrial estate. It was slightly out of focus as if it was rushed but it showed the whole group of cops looking at the warehouse door where the unseen crucified body was hanging. He and Addison weren’t there and it must have been before they entered the fray. Winter put it down, wondering just how the fuck the Dark Angel had the nerve or stupidity to stay to take that, and lifted the next one. Rachel again. Close up.

  This time emerging from the front door at Highburgh Road. Home. Business suit on, going to work. A realization exploded in Winter’s mind. He knew where she lived.

  CHAPTER 41

  The room spun and Winter’s senses rang as if he’d been smacked over the head with something heavy and hard. The wall behind him was holding him up and he slid down it till he was on his arse, the photograph in his hands. He wasn’t scared for himself but he was terrified for her. Terrified and ready to fight. If it was McKendrick that had threatened her and he’d still been alive then Winter would have killed him himself. If it was whoever had killed McKendrick then he’d kill him instead.

  There was no doubt where the photograph had been taken. He’d seen that door a thousand times, the red brick, the four steps to the intercom, the hedge to the left with the lamppost in front, the lace curtains to the right. The low, black railing, the ‘Please Close The Door’ sign stuck inside the glass pane and the beginning of the cycle lane on the road. The photograph had been taken from Caledon Street which ran at right angles to Highburgh and faced right onto the close at number 21 where Rachel’s flat was on the top floor.

  She was in a dark trouser suit with a dark-green blouse under it, pushing her hair away from her face. When had she been wearing that blouse? He racked his brains, knowing it was the sort of thing she’d rebuke him for not paying attention to. Was it just yesterday? Either that or the day before. The more recent it was the better, he reasoned. Less time for whoever it was to do whatever . . . He couldn’t finish the thought. It wouldn’t happen anyway, he’d see to that.

  Suddenly something hissed to the side of him and he spun his head to see a single rat standing on its hind legs in the doorway. It didn’t flinch when Winter looked at it
, maybe sensing his fear or just angry at him for keeping the hordes from their meal. What it couldn’t know, whatever it smelled, was that Winter wasn’t afraid of it. The rat might have scared the shit out of him earlier but now it was way down the list of things that frightened him.

  He got halfway to his feet and began to move towards it, like a dog chasing a car, having no idea what it would do if it caught one. It was enough and the rat whipped round, disappearing in a whisk of its pink tail as if it had never been there.

  Winter fell back, letting himself thud into the wall, comforted by the chill of it, and considered the paucity of his options. He decided that if the rat was a hint for him to get the hell out of there then he was going to take it.

  He fished the compact out of his back pocket again and, calmly as he could, photographed each of the print-outs in turn. Any pretence at calm disappeared at seeing the pictures of Rachel. He needed to get out of there and back up above ground. He needed to do that really quickly. Grahamston, Alston Street, Central Station, wherever he was, it was closing in on him fast and he was developing a claustrophobia that he’d never known before. He had to get out.

  He tossed the blanket back over McKendrick’s body, not particularly worried about replicating the placement of it as the rats had doubtless already moved it and would do so again. The printed photographs were back in their pile and the boxes were back where he’d found them. Exhaling hard, he backed out of the storage cupboard and set his sights on the way he’d got there. He was pretty sure of the way back out, knowing there were only two points at which he’d need to choose between alternative ways to go. The thought made him realize that there must have been a number of ways in because the metal sheet that he’d moved behind McDonald’s looked like it hadn’t budged in a long time. Not only that but he only noticed the footprints that had disturbed the dust on the floors once he was a fair way down and in, obviously having picked up another path.

  He knew he could try and follow the footsteps and see where they’d entered but didn’t want to hang around down there and anyway, it wouldn’t matter. He’d got in, McKendrick had got in and so had his killer. It didn’t make any difference if there was one entry point or three. All that mattered was Rachel.

  He scuttled through the passageways as quickly as his legs and the light would allow him. Round, along and up. Double doors and damp hospital corridors, by the recess with the generator, the white tiles then the yellow ones, passing under the walkway on Union Street which was now lit by neon. It was only then that the fear gripped him with the realization that someone could have replaced the metal sheet over the hole. Either a deliberate ploy to keep him in there or just some civic-minded twat with nothing better to do with their time. Getting out again had never occurred to him but if the sheet was back over the hole then he’d never shift it.

  It was only when he passed through to the faintly moonlit hallway that he breathed again, knowing that the sliver of pale light meant the sheet was as he’d left it. He climbed the stairs gratefully and popped out onto the overgrown corridor behind the burger joint.

  As soon as he was out he reached for his phone and was glad to see that the buildings weren’t cutting off his signal. He didn’t have time to go through his contacts and trusted his fingers to punch in the numbers quicker. Come on. Thank Christ, after four rings she answered.

  ‘I can’t talk just now. I’ll need to phone you back.’

  She hadn’t used his name, meaning there was probably someone else there. Someone who couldn’t be allowed to know she was talking to him.

  ‘No. I need to talk to you now. Right now.’

  ‘I can’t do that, sorry. Things are really busy.’

  She lowered her voice.

  ‘There’s been another shooting.’

  ‘Fuck. Who? In fact it doesn’t matter, just listen to me.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘No! This is really important, Rachel . . . Rachel. Rach! You have to get away. Listen to me—’

  ‘I’m going into a press conference. I’ll call you once I’m home. Bye.’

  ‘Fucksake, Rach!’ He was talking to himself. She’d already hung up. He switched the phone to text and began frantically typing in a message.

  He scrubbed it. Would just scare the hell out of her. And pose too many questions. He started again.

  Don’t go home. Go to my place and text when on way.

  Again he deleted it. The press conference would last a while and it would be at least half an hour, probably longer still, before she left Pitt Street. At least she’d be safe there. Instead he hurried back to his car where he’d left it off St Enoch’s Square, immediately turning the radio on when he got there and pushing the button for Radio Clyde.

  Good timing. The presenter was announcing that they were interrupting the programme to go to a live news conference at Strathclyde Police Headquarters where there was news about the killing which they’d exclusively told their listeners about earlier. Another voice took over but only got out a few whispered words of unnecessary explanation before loud familiar tones began to talk above it. Alex Shirley.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending at such short notice. I am going to read a prepared statement then take questions but I must warn you in advance that there are operating issues that I cannot and will not discuss. I’m sure you understand that and I thank you in advance for your co-operation in this matter.’

  Shirley paused and Winter could imagine him glaring at the press and daring them to disagree.

  ‘At 20.30 hours this evening, officers received a 999 call from Causewayside Street in the Tollcross area, just off London Road. On arrival outside the premises of Eastern Salvage, they found the body of a man they identified as Alastair Riddle, the owner of the scrapyard. He had been shot in the head at point-blank range and was already dead when officers reached the scene.’

  Winter could hear a flurry of background noise breaking out and Shirley paused until there was silence again.

  ‘Mr Riddle was twenty-five years old and a known associate of members of Glasgow’s criminal fraternity and had close connections with Malcolm Quinn. Owing to the specific characteristics of Mr Riddle’s injuries and the nature of his business, we are – subject to full and proper forensic examinations – linking his death with the others under the remit of Operation Nightjar.

  ‘The investigation into the other killings are ongoing and a matter of the utmost priority for Strathclyde Police. We are working round the clock to apprehend the person or persons responsible for these killings and will not rest until they are in custody. We are determined this will be done as quickly as is possible.

  ‘Now I’ll take questions.’

  ‘Who found the body, Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘Two local men heard the shot and they were first on the scene. I am not prepared to release their names at this stage.’

  ‘Will they be available for interview later?’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ll let you know if that situation changes.’

  ‘Can you reassure the public that you have firm leads in this case?’

  ‘I can reassure them that everything that can be done is being done. We have several leads and every one of these is being fully explored. I cannot say that an arrest is imminent but I can say that we are closer to an arrest than at any other time during this investigation.’

  ‘Can you tell us what information leads you to say that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell us the nature of this information?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent, the Dark Angel case has attracted worldwide publicity. Is this something that Strathclyde Police are comfortable with?’

  ‘The Nightjar investigation has now involved the deaths of fourteen individuals and that is something we are not comfortable with. The extent of the publicity these killings has received is perhaps inevitable but it is not something that affects this force one way or the other.’

 
; ‘Chief Superintendent, are you happy that drug dealers and crime bosses are being shot? Many members of the public say they are not unhappy with what the Dark Angel is doing.’

  There was nothing but dead air coming from his car radio. Eventually Shirley responded icily.

  ‘Thank you for attending, ladies and gentlemen. This press conference is now at an end.’

  The station cut back to the studio where the presenter segued slickly into ‘Psycho Killer’ by Talking Heads. Winter switched it off.

  He sat looking out of the car window and drumming his fingers. He gave it five long minutes until he couldn’t stand it any more and called Rachel back. Straight to voicemail. Winter swore at the phone then paused, waiting till he could leave a message.

  ‘It’s me. Call me back as soon as you can.’

  Ten minutes passed that seemed to last an hour. He called again and again but only got the answering service.

  He fingered through the contacts book looking for another number even though he knew it off by heart. As usual, it picked up on the third ring.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Uncle Danny? It’s Tony.’

  ‘I know who it is,’ he growled back at him. ‘Are you going to tell me what it is this time?’

  ‘Danny, it’s complicated . . .’

  ‘Fuck off, Tony. Let me rephrase, you are going to tell me what it is this time. What kind of trouble are you in?’

  ‘It’s not me.’

  ‘So is it the guy in the Special Boat Service or is it your mate the cop who’s been shot? Or is it to do with the latest guy that’s been shot and just been on the news?’

  It stunned him into silence.

  ‘I did this for a living, son.’

  ‘I need your help, Danny.’

  ‘I’d kinda gathered that. Okay, what do you need?’

  ‘There’s a friend that I . . . my girlfriend. I need you to look after her.’