Danny smiled at him through his efforts.
‘You did well. Always told you that you should have gone into the polis.’
Narey shot an angry look over her shoulder.
‘He did well? My arse he did well. He nearly got himself killed. He should have gone to the polis not into the polis. He’s an idiot and he knows it.’
Danny smirked at him behind Narey’s back. He obviously approved. They were getting higher now, slowing as they climbed and ran out of breath. They could still hear Monteith ahead of them but they didn’t seem to be closing on him. A couple of times they ran into things in the corridor, a box then a breeze block that Monteith had obviously dragged into their path. Narey crashed her shin into the block but only let out a yelp and a swear then carried on.
They charged through a set of double doors and found themselves confronted by a tall set of stairs that the torch suggested went up a couple of flights. There was some daylight swarming around the top of them too and for the first time since Monteith ran, they could see him above them. The higher they climbed the clearer it got above them and they saw him turn and look back. A plank of wood and some stones came hurtling towards them causing all three to flatten against the wall and see them thud harmlessly by. A minute or two later though, half a brick came down and caught Danny unawares on the same shoulder that Monteith had clouted with the rifle butt, making him groan loudly.
‘I am going to kill that fucker when I get my hands on him,’ he gasped. ‘But you will need to catch him for me. Go on without me, I’m holding you back. Don’t worry, I’ll follow on.’
Narey and Winter swapped glances but knew Danny was right. She turned and started up the stairs again, him following on closely and thinking it wasn’t really the time to admire her bum but he couldn’t help himself. With Danny left behind, they were at last gaining on Monteith.
They could have been no more than twenty feet below him when he reached the top of the stairs, bathed in light now from the street walkway, and burst through a door on his right. They were at it in moments and pushed at it, only to find it blocked and barely budging. Winter took a few steps back and charged it with his shoulder, knocking it open far enough that they could get through, sprawling on the ground and seeing the breeze block Monteith had placed there.
‘My hero,’ she laughed.
‘Fuck off,’ he grinned.
She pulled him up and they took off after Monteith, maybe fifty yards behind him now. He went through another door and they headed for it too, finding this one opened easily. The tiles on the wall were a similar murky yellow to the hallway that Winter had entered just below street level near McDonald’s and he was sure they were near the surface. They charged on, hearing Monteith’s footsteps and knowing they were close behind.
A bang rang out, like a door hitting against a wall and sure enough when they rounded the next corner, there it was, a fire door flapping open, and they burst through it and found themselves in what had obviously been a gents toilet but looked like it hadn’t been used for years.
They hurried through, the smell of stale urine nothing compared to the stench Winter had been putting up with in the storage room, and found themselves facing a small set of narrow stairs and they hurried up them. There was noise everywhere now, Monteith’s feet loud on the tiles, a buzz of people, then suddenly the clang of metal. At the top of the stairs was an open set of rusty green gates and behind them was the concourse of Central Station itself. Monteith was standing there, anxiously fiddling with a padlock, obviously trying to lock them in. They were only a few feet away though and he had to settle for swinging the gate towards them. He hurtled into the crowded station, pushing people aside and heading for the main entrance.
They were after him, Winter’s eyes blinking at the light that flooded in through the glass ceiling, past the white beams and the famous four-faced clock that hung from one of the supports. Monteith was making his way towards the stone arches that led onto Gordon Street, sliding as he ran along the floor and clattering into more and more people. Behind him, Winter and Narey pushed apologetically past the same passengers, desperate to get to him. Monteith skidded to a halt and changed direction, hurtling right. They looked beyond where he had been going and saw a dozen uniformed cops at the main entrance and knew that he had seen them too.
‘He’s going for the Union Street entrance,’ shouted Narey, frantically waving towards the police and urging them to cut him off. They were nearer and faster though, gaining on Monteith with every step. He knocked a little old lady flying and she fell into their path. Narey hurdled the woman without breaking her stride but Winter caught the whack of her walking stick as he ran round her. Monteith plunged into the narrow doorway of the entrance and hurtled down the stairs towards Union Street. They were just a couple of feet behind and could see a uniform positioned at the bottom the stairs with his back to them and Monteith. Narey shouted out but too late and as the cop half turned, Monteith barged past him, the momentum of coming down the stairs taking the officer clean off his feet.
Monteith ran again and they were after him, emerging to see a number of cops further down the street towards Gordon Street and knowing he was not going to get away. He stopped and looked round anxiously and saw his options severely limited at either end of the street. He dashed between two cars into the four lanes of one-way traffic, causing a series of others to slam on their brakes in a cacophony of squeals. Monteith edged to the right and saw an opening, looking back to see where his pursuers were before running straight in front of a silver Golf. The car slammed into Monteith, whipping his legs away and throwing him back onto the bonnet with a sickening thud and a shattering of glass.
The Golf came to a screeching halt a few yards further on with Monteith splayed across the bonnet and puncturing the windscreen.
Winter and Narey were on him immediately but there was no need to hurry, the rogue cop was going nowhere. Blood trickled from his mouth and a violent gash on his temple. His legs were surely broken and probably his pelvis as well, but he was alive if only just.
In seconds, the car and Monteith were surrounded by uniformed cops. A heavily panting Danny Neilson pushed his way through to join the party. Behind the wheel, a young woman sat open-mouthed and completely frozen.
Winter reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, patting it down until he remembered that Monteith had smashed it hundreds of yards below them. He reached an arm across Narey, neither of them taking their eyes off the man on the car, patting at her pocket to get her attention.
‘What?’
‘Phone. Please.’
Without looking at him, Narey found her mobile and handed it over.
Winter quickly found the camera function, briefly shaking his head at the miserable four megapixels that it offered, and framed Monteith’s broken body through the viewfinder.
‘Got him?’ Narey asked as the sound of an approaching ambulance closed in on them.
‘Yes, got him.’ Winter replied. ‘I got him.’
Narey nodded at him before continuing.
‘Colin Monteith, I am arresting you for the murder of Jan McConachie, Graeme Forrest, Harvey Houston . . .’
CHAPTER 49
Going along the corridor to Ward 52, it struck Winter that he hadn’t been in the Royal since he’d gone to photograph the baseball bat damage to Rory McCabe’s knees twelve days earlier. A nothing photo of a nothing injury, so routine that it had bored him but he ought to have known better. Every bit of everyday crime feeds into the whole rusty machine.
He pushed through the doors into 52 and saw him straight away, sitting propped up in bed with a huge grin on his face and a nurse by his side. The jumble of gauze, bandage and scaffolding on his head didn’t seem quite as shocking now that he was awake and talking and didn’t seem to be bothering him in the slightest.
‘Awrite, wee man? Thought you were never going to make an appearance.’
His voice was slightly slurred but Winter was used to t
hat with him. He shook his head ruefully, thinking that some things never change.
‘Good to see you, Addy.’
‘And you too, wee man. I’m forgetting my manners. This is the lovely Tricia,’ he said with a wave of his hand towards the petite red-haired nurse. ‘Tricia, wee man, wee man, Tricia.’
She giggled and left them alone, doubtless aware that Addison’s eyes followed her as she wound her way down the ward.
‘As soon as I’m out of here I’m in there,’ he grinned.
‘Are you not supposed to be ill?’ Winter asked him.
‘Oh aye, I am. But I’m only ill, not dead. A man would need to be dead not to look at that.’
‘Aye well, there are enough people dead to be getting on with.’
‘Amen, brother.’
‘What’s the prognosis on that then?’ Winter asked, nodding towards Addison’s broken skull.
‘I’ve got to keep the turban on for a while but I’ll be fine. They’ll put a plate in to replace the bit of skull that the bullet took out and they say there’s no brain damage.’
‘How can they tell? You got shot in the head and it manages to miss your brain, what does that say? I knew all the space in there would come in handy one day.’
‘Size doesn’t matter,’ he chipped back. ‘It’s what you do with it.’
‘Addy, you keep telling yourself that if it makes you happy.’
Addison looked away for a moment and when he turned back his face was much more serious.
‘You know what would make me happy?’
‘That nurse?’
Addison ignored him.
‘If that cunt Monteith was dead instead of taking my bed in intensive care before it even had the chance to get cold. It makes me sick that he thought he could just pish all over the force by doing what he did. It leaves the rest of us smelling as bad as he did. That bastard had always been bitter about what we could do and what we couldn’t with the likes of Caldwell and Quinn. He was even more frustrated than I was that we couldn’t get at the bawbags and just put them away once and for all. But I’d never have thought he’d . . .’
‘Addy, what if it was you that had found McKendrick rather than Monteith?’
‘What? Would have I taken on the job and done what Monteith did? Is that what you are asking me, wee man?’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘Well don’t be such a dick. Ask something else.’
‘When did they tell you what Monteith had done?’
‘Right after they asked me about Sturrock. That was the first thing they asked me when I came round. There was no, “How are you, how’s the head, can we get you something to eat?” No, it was “What’s your connection to Mark Sturrock?” straight off the bat. I had no idea what the fuck they were talking about so I just told them. The wee dickhead is an informant, my snout, my grass and why the fuck did they want to know. So they told me how the phone call that I answered was from him. Must admit I hadn’t seen that one coming.
‘You’re supposed to declare grasses on the official informants list but toeing the party line’s never really been my thing. Sturrock gave me a few tasty tidbits over the years and there’s a good few locked up in Barlinnie thanks to him. I didn’t think it was in his interest for people to know that. I’m not completely stupid though and I had documentation locked away at my lawyer’s, signed and dated, in case the shit ever hit the fan. Not that I expected it to be like this. Anyways, they checked it out and it turns out I’m not a dirty cop after all.’
‘I never thought you were.’
‘And I’d fucking hope not too. They tell me you’ve been a right little boy scout while I was asleep. I knew you were up to something but I didn’t figure it would be that. I leave you alone for two minutes and you go off chasing murderers. The sooner I get back to keep an eye on you the better. Seems like our Rachel Narey isn’t up to the job of looking after you.’
‘She did okay,’ Winter hit back, more defensively than he should have done and seeing the hint of a smirk on Addison’s face. ‘She’s close to clearing up that prostitute killing and managed that while you were in here sleeping. She’s already made an arrest in the case.’
‘But not the killer?’
‘Maybe that too but she’s nicked the girl’s boyfriend. You know Tommy Breslin?’
‘Mental twat that calls himself T-Bone? I know him.’
‘He was Oonagh McCullough’s boyfriend and Rachel has busted him.’
‘How did she manage that?’ The DI looked confused.
‘Arithmetic,’ Winter answered. ‘Breslin was the father of Oonagh’s daughter. The daughter is seven, the mother was twenty-three, Breslin is thirty-two. He was twenty-five and she was still fifteen when he got her pregnant before she ran away from home. She has done him for statutory rape.’
Addison burst out laughing.
‘Nice one,’ he admitted. ‘Sounds like you are becoming quite a fan of our Rachel.’
Addison looked at Winter knowingly, waiting for a response but he could go to hell as far as Winter was concerned. As far as anyone else knew, Narey had got a call from Danny who was worried about him and they followed him below the station. Nothing more they needed to know, she said. Addison was just fishing, probably thought that being the hero of the hour might have got Winter a sneaky lay.
‘Aye well, you better get yourself back on your feet then,’ Winter said, changing the subject. ‘I need someone to drink with in the Station Bar.’
‘Oh don’t, you’re killing me. I’d give another bit of my head to be in there right now. Talking of the TSB, that night you walked into there with that boot mark on your cheek and that load of old bollocks about slipping in the bathroom, I knew you’d taken a kicking. I made the mistake of mentioning it to Monteith though. I’m thinking that helped you get into this mess.’
‘Maybe a bit, yeah. But it helped me get out of it too. Let’s just leave it at that.’
Addison laughed.
‘Listen to Joe 90. Am I going to have to be looking out for my job?’
‘Nah, you’re safe on that count. I’m sticking to taking photographs. I know which side of the lens I want to be on from now on.’
‘Wise words, wee man. Best not to get carried away thinking you’ve cracked the crime of the century. Anyway, something Alex Shirley said to me made me think he was on to McKendrick as well so you weren’t the only one.’
‘What? You think Shirley knew about McKendrick? How can that be? You must have picked him up wrong.’
‘Aye, probably. I can’t even remember what he said, it was more the way he said it. I don’t know. I’m probably talking rubbish. I was still a bit woozy when they spoke to me.’
‘Aye, probably. And you’re a bit woozy at the best of times.’
‘Funny, funny. Why don’t you do something useful for a change, wee man?’
Addison lowered his voice.
‘Go and see if you can smuggle me in a can or two of Guinness? Purely medicinal, you understand. And how about getting me some proper food, maybe a cheeseburger and fries? I’m starving.’
‘Addy, you’re always fucking starving.’
CHAPTER 50
The sound of the October rain lashing against the window just made it all the better to be inside. Rachel was standing by the window with one of Tony’s shirts on, watching the cars go by on Highburgh Road down below. Winter was lying naked on the bed looking at her, in no doubt that he was the one with the better view.
He stole quietly from the bed and padded over, hoping to sneak up behind her but, ever the detective, she saw him coming in the reflection of the window.
‘Hey, you,’ she smiled at the glass.
‘Hey.’
He snuggled in behind her, pressing himself against her and letting his lips fall onto her neck. She purred appreciatively and thrust back against him. He reached round with both hands and fondled her through the shirt.
‘Hey,’ she said again. ‘Who said you could do
that?’
‘It’s my shirt, remember.’
‘That’s a very good point. Carry on.’
Winter didn’t need to be asked twice, squeezing at her, running her nipples between his fingers and gently biting at her neck. He was rising to meet her and she was beginning to moan. Then suddenly the name came from the television and they both froze. Winter tried to pretend he hadn’t heard it but she eased herself out and away from his grasp.
‘Leave it,’ he urged her.
‘No. I want to hear this.’
She pulled his shirt over her head once she was away from the window and threw it aside, sprawling out on the bed to watch the news. He sat down behind her, no less interested in what was happening.
‘. . . a spokesman for the Crown Office said that Detective Sergeant Monteith has been charged with thirteen counts of murder and three counts of attempted murder. He has also been charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice and unlawful possession of a firearm.
‘The Crown Office spokesman listed each charge individually. They were namely the murders of Cairns Caldwell, Malcolm Quinn, Steven Strathie, Mark Sturrock, Alasdair Turnbull, James Adamson, Andrew Haddow, Inspector Graeme Forrest, Detective Sergeant Jan McConachie, George Faichney, Benjamin Honeyman, Harvey Houston and Jacob Arnold. The attempted murders were of John Johnstone, Detective Inspector Derek Addison and civilian worker Anthony Winter.
‘The Crown intimated that it intends to offer both witness testimony and video evidence to prove that Detective Sergeant Monteith carried out the killings. The case attracted global publicity and it is thought that media from many countries will attend the trial which is expected to last several months.’
‘That’s what they think,’ murmured Rachel.
‘He’s definitely going to plead guilty then?’ Winter asked.
‘So he says. And there’s no reason not to believe him. He’s adamant that’s what he’ll do and he’d gain nothing by changing his mind at the last minute to throw the prosecution. He’s bang to rights and he knows it.’
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