‘You will know that the body of a woman named Jennifer Cairns was found on site. I’m here to ask you some questions about that.’
Still nothing from him except that malevolent stare. Maybe she had to push it further.
‘It doesn’t look like you protected the premises very well.’
She heard a muttered ‘Fucksake’ from behind her along with an angry rush of breath. Mullen looked beyond her to the three men and gave a quick shake of his head. Narey felt she’d just been spared from something but didn’t feel much in the way of gratitude.
‘So tell me, DI Narey, why I shouldn’t have a lawyer present and you shouldn’t have another copper with you. You can’t take witness statements on your own. Why are you here playing Miss Marple all on your lonesome and doing your best to piss me off?’
Before she could answer, she heard the door to the snug open. She turned her head and saw a wiry guy in his twenties sliding in through it, his eyes going straight to Bobby Mullen. He seemed anxious for permission to go further in or just to keep breathing. Mullen beckoned him with a sharp nod of his head and the rabbit strode forward to pass a folded piece of paper to the big man.
There was something lacking in coordination, something not quite natural, about the way the underling handed the note over that made Narey look at his other hand. She saw that the fingers were crooked, hanging open in a misshapen grip.
She’d heard stories about Bobby Mullen’s favoured method of showing his displeasure. The people who seriously aggravated him had a habit of disappearing or getting caught in freak fires. But those who showed disrespect or disloyalty, they got a personal lesson. His signature reprimand was to get people to place their fingers into the jamb of the nearest door. They would be given the choice of doing that or having their knees smashed so that they’d never walk again.
Given the choice of that or taking their chances that Bobby might just be testing them or possibly feeling forgiving, most did as they were asked. Bobby rarely felt forgiving. He’d grip the door in his shovel-like hands and force it fully open, trapping and crushing the fingers of whoever had made him unhappy. It was much better than kneecapping them. Instead, they’d quite literally be walking adverts for the dangers of pissing off big Bobby Mullen.
The mobile billboard in front of her stood looking at the nearest wall while Mullen read the note and crumpled it into his hip pocket. He reached out a hand and pulled the guy close enough for him to whisper in his ear. The message, whatever it was, was understood and the hired help nodded furiously. ‘Sure, Mr Mullen. No problem.’
The big man turned in time to catch Narey’s glance at his minion’s ruined hand. Knowing that she’d made the connection, he smirked, satisfied that the advertising had paid off. He kept smiling quietly as the man left the snug.
‘So, you were about to tell me why you’re in my pub, annoying me.’
‘What’s your relationship with Saturn Property?’
‘Business.’
‘Legitimate business?’
‘Is there any other kind?’
One of the men laughed behind her. She didn’t like that at all.
‘Well, I’ve heard there are other kinds. Like protection rackets.’
It was clearly Mullen’s turn not to like what he heard. His mouth curled up at the side and his face darkened. ‘You’re in the wrong place to be throwing around accusations you can’t back up. I’d recommend you be careful about what you say.’
‘Is that a threat?’
He laughed. ‘Take it any way you want, sweetheart.’
‘Did you know Jennifer Cairns?’
‘No.’
‘Ever heard of her?’
‘No. You’re pushing your luck, missus. Get to the point. I’m a busy man and I’m no exactly famous for my patience.’
‘How can a woman be killed in a property you’re protecting? How did she get in? How did the person that killed her get in?’
He shrugged like he didn’t care. ‘My company protects the site. We don’t patrol the perimeter like it’s a high security prison. If someone’s determined to get in somewhere then they will. Somebody got killed. Tough shit. Nothing to do with me.’
‘You’d better hope it isn’t. Hope that it’s nothing to do with you or anyone that works for you. Because if it is then I’ll find it.’
‘You’ve got balls, Detective Inspector Narey. I’ll give you that. But maybe you should take them back to Stewart Street before you lose them.’
The remark about the station made her hesitate, wondering about the note that was passed to Mullen and which was now crumpled in his pocket. She wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of asking but he had got inside her head. What else was written on that note? ‘Do you have CCTV covering the site?’ ‘No. Now get out of my face. I’ve had enough.’ The more he wanted her to go, the more she wanted to rattle his cage. ‘I’d like a list of all your employees who have worked on the Odeon site.’ ‘Then get a warrant. Or get to fuck.’ ‘Do you know Mark Singleton at Saturn?’ ‘Course I do. We do business together.’ ‘Singleton builds houses. Jennifer Cairns’ husband is an architect. Do you know him?’
‘The woman’s husband?’ Mullen seemed to give it some thought. ‘I wouldn’t think so. We look after the properties. We don’t get asked to design them.’ ‘Wouldn’t think so or no?’ ‘Okay, no.’
‘Is Singleton involved in any of your other business ventures?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Small world though. Who knows?’
You do, Narey thought. You do. But she tried something else, a little gamble. ‘Maybe Mr Syme here knows. He’s your accountant - he’s bound to know something like that.’
She didn’t turn her head to look at the man behind her; instead she just stared at Mullen looking for a reaction. She got one. He leaned forward and banged a large fist on the table.
‘Hey! You’re here to talk to me. Don’t go talking to anyone else. You ask me. You don’t even look at anyone else.’
‘So.’ She kept her own voice level. ‘Is Mark Singleton involved in any of your other business ventures?’
He stood, towering over her, his cheeks flushed. ‘Just get the fuck out of here. Walk out now or regret it.’
One last and risky card. ‘What happened to Christopher Hart?’
There was a marked silence from the men behind her, as if they’d all held their breath at once. Mullen’s face was like a winter storm about to break. After a few moments, it burst, uncontrollably and surprisingly, into a harsh laugh.
‘Jesus, I don’t believe you. I really don’t. You’ve some front, lady. Crispy? You’re seriously asking me about Crispy?’
He stared but she didn’t answer. He was making his own mind up.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you this and then you go. Crispy wasn’t down to me. And I’m actually fucking offended you even asked. The people responsible, let’s call them competitors, were dealt with.’
‘And who was responsible?’
‘Out. Now.’
Narey knew it was all she was getting and far more than Mullen had intended to give. For that, she was grateful. She returned his stare for as long as she dared, which really wasn’t long at all, then pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Nice chatting to you, Bobby. We’ll talk again.’
‘Aye? Well bring a warrant next time.’
‘Sure. And you bring a lawyer.’
She walked to the door of the snug in silence, the men parting in front of her and Mullen’s accountant holding open the door like a perfect gentleman. The silence continued until she had walked through the bar and onto the street. Then, all she could hear was the rush of her own breath.
She walked on auto-pilot, not caring in which direction she moved but in a hurry to get to the first corner so she could turn out of sight of the pub and let her back settle against a wall. Propped up by brick and adrenalin, she suddenly felt the need to talk to Winter, needed the reassurance of hearing his voice.
The phone rang half a dozen times be
fore he answered. She’d been just about to give up when he spoke.
‘Hey. How are you?’
‘Um, good question. A bit frazzled, I guess. I could do with a hug.’
She knew it wasn’t like her and wasn’t surprised to hear him go quiet. That kind of thing, rare as it was, usually threw him.
‘You okay?’ he said at last. ‘Is it the case?’
‘Yes and yes. I just let something get to me when I shouldn’t. I’m fine. Are you busy?’
A pause. ‘Yeah, a bit. Got something I have to do. Can I catch you later? I’ll be good for that hug but I can’t just now. You sure you’re okay?’
She heard something beyond the words but couldn’t put her finger on what.
‘I’m fine. Are you working?’
Another pause. ‘It’s a case. Nothing exciting.’
‘Okay. I look forward to that hug. You coming to mine tonight?’
‘Yes, but it will be late. I’m catching up with some pals I haven’t seen for a while.’
‘Okay, but make sure you catch up with me too. I have needs.’
She ended the call, breathed out hard and began to walk, leaving Laidlaw’s and her doubts behind.
Chapter 29
Winter slipped the phone back in his pocket with a heavy conscience and stared up at the tenement flat opposite him. At least he hadn’t lied, not quite.
Cordiner Street in Mount Florida was just a corner kick from the national football stadium, Hampden Park. It was a mix of sandstone tenements and neat newer bungalows. Number 13 was a tenement, two doors along from a nail bar.
It had never seemed right to Winter that Euan Hepburn would be homeless yet that was what he’d been presented with. Homeless and living in a hostel with drunks and addicts. Instead he’d been living here on the South Side for at least six months. It had been easy to track an address; no need to have asked Rachel and much less troublesome not to. But it was easy enough for him to have done it while Euan was alive.
There were eight surnames listed on the ground floor of the tenement and Hepburn was on the top floor of four. Winter pressed the intercom against the name just in case the sister had been contacted and had come to sort through his belongings. There was no answer. The name for the flat opposite was Nicol. That would do.
He pressed a couple of the other intercoms and, after a few moments, a man’s voice answered from the second floor. ‘Hello?’
‘I’ve got a parcel for Nicol. Could you let me in?’
There was a hesitation then a sigh. It wasn’t his problem. Why not?
The door buzzed and Winter pushed against it. He climbed the stairs quickly but quietly, turning his face away from 13e and hoping the neighbour wasn’t paying him any attention.
If Euan had been found dead in his flat then the place would have been secured by the police and there would have been next to no chance of Winter getting inside the building, never mind the flat. That wasn’t the case though and he was betting – hoping – that there had been no reason for them to think that someone would try to break in.
Of course the cops would have been through everything in the hope of finding out who had killed him but Winter had a better idea than they did of what to look for. Even if he didn’t have much idea of where to look for it.
They would have taken his PC or laptop away and would be going through his hard drive if they hadn’t already. He’d no idea what they’d find on there but he was aware that he was hoping it wouldn’t be much. For all that he wanted Euan’s killer to be caught, he wanted to do this.
Once he was on the top landing, he took out both a thin piece of plastic and the knowledge that his Uncle Danny had given him. In less than a minute, he was inside.
He closed the door behind him and stood in the near darkness for fully five minutes, waiting to hear if he’d drawn attention on the way in. Not that he could have done much in terms of getting away if he had. He’d locked himself in and if the cops came then the options were capture or a drop from the fourth-floor window.
Standing there in silence, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, he could feel Euan all around him. Nothing supernatural, not even a presence as such, just him. His things. His life. It felt intrusive because it was. He couldn’t help but see his former friend coming through that front door after an explore, making his way along the hallway to the rooms going off it. It made him more than uncomfortable.
Finally, he moved along the hall himself, picking the door at the far end and finding it to be the living room. Euan was everywhere. There was a framed Nirvana poster on one wall. Two shelves full of DVDs that were so him: early Steve Martin movies, The Shawshank Redemption, The Usual Suspects, a box set of The Thick of It and what looked like the entire collection of Bilko. Other than that there was just clutter, mainly clothes strewn about and a large pile of photographic magazines. This was Euan’s flat, no doubt about it.
A desk was pushed against one wall with a comfortable chair in front of it. Behind, there was a tangle of leads that made it clear that it was used as a computer desk. The printer was there but the computer, probably a laptop, was missing as expected.
He sat in the chair and reached out over the desk, imagining Euan doing the same. He ghost-typed, trying to get a feel for where Euan would have looked in the room, for where he would have put things. It was a mistake. All it did was let him feel the absence of his ex-friend, hear him talking and laughing. All it did was ramp up the guilt that he was already suffering.
He shook it off, trying to concentrate on what he’d come for. Information in whatever form he could get it but, above all, the one thing he knew would be able to help him. Euan’s camera.
There hadn’t been one in Euan’s backpack in the Molendinar but there was no doubt he’d have taken one with him. No chance he’d have made an explore like that without a lens. It stood to reason that whoever killed him took that camera, probably for his own protection. Maybe in case he showed up on it.
But if Winter knew Euan owned more than one and would have used a different camera depending on the shoot and his mood. So where was it? Had the cops taken it? Cordiner Street was a decent address but Euan was the cautious type, borderline paranoid even. Not with his own safety, far from it, but with his cameras, definitely. He’d have made sure they were secure, just in case. After all, anyone could break in.
There were no drawers in the desk but then that would have been too easy. Look. See what he would have seen. Think like him. Jesus, this was difficult. He could feel Euan all around him and it wasn’t helping him think straight.
He went through the cupboard that formed the bottom of an inset near the window with more hope than expectation. As expected, there were no cameras to be seen. He looked behind and below the worn leather sofa and found nothing. He moved the clothes on the floor and the magazines, he went back to the sofa and lifted the cushions, looked behind the curtains. Nothing.
There were no cameras under the only bed in the only bedroom, nor in the wardrobe or chest of drawers, nothing in the bathroom. The walk-in cupboard in the hall held a couple of bags and a suitcase plus more magazines. No cameras. Euan clearly hadn’t lived here for long and hadn’t had the time to accumulate much in the way of belongings. What there was had been easy to look through.
He went back to the living room, stung by the very definite sense that he’d missed something. He sat at the desk again and looked, channelling his friend as best he could. The magazines, the DVDs, the lack of much actual stuff. It was all so him.
The desk and the rest of the furniture looked old, maybe second-hand. The wooden mantelpiece over the fire looked original, maybe stripped back and re-varnished by someone who had the sense to see what it was. The fire had Victorian insets and a grate but there was no way it would be working: city by-laws prevented it. It was for show only.
A bell rang somewhere in his past, memories of a conversation in the darkness of a near-ruin on the edge of the Gorbals. He and Euan had crept inside the old Line
n Bank building in the wee small hours. It was a dense maze of rubble and dust, cobwebbed spookiness and creaking floorboards. They explored every nook and cranny they could and Winter remembered Hepburn thrusting his hand up each room’s chimney. He’d asked what the hell his pal was doing and was told that if he’d been working in the building then that’s where he’d have hidden cash or bonds or whatever before they finally closed it down. Winter had laughed at him but now he wasn’t so sure.
He jumped off his chair and made for the fireplace at the far wall. Crouching in front of it, he placed one hand on the mantle and reached up the chimney with the other. Nothing. He groped right and left and then . . . there. There. His hand brushed against something solid that wasn’t brick. He leaned further in so he could twist his arm round, grabbed and pulled it out.
The camera was safe inside a bubble-wrap bag. Typical over-the-top caution from Euan. If only he’d taken half as much care of himself.
It was a Nikon D750 with a 24-120 millimetre telephoto zoom lens. Nearly two and a half thousand pounds worth of kit stuffed up a chimney. Only Euan.
With adrenalin coursing through him, he took the camera back to the desk, sat down, punched the on button and began flicking through the photographs on the memory card. The most recent was dated 14 September, less than a week before the date Euan was thought to have died.
It was a series of shots from Gartnavel Royal Hospital on Great Western Road, the old asylum that was known as the black building. Winter was sure he would have recognized the place inside anyway but an external shot, an opening scene-setter, gave that game away. Inside there were blistered walls in faded shades of pink and yellow, laden with graffiti. Steel piping lay across the floor, and an old fire hose, uncoiled. In the next, a table and chairs sat isolated in an empty room surrounded only by fallen plaster. In another, an old bath and sink stood lonely in a room that had otherwise been gutted. There was shot after shot of decay and neglect.
In one of them, a pale blue room with wooden-panelled walls and a dirty tiled floor, the light from above had reflected the photographer on the glass doors on the far wall. Except he wasn’t alone. Another figure stood by his side, a blurred silhouette standing with his or her arms on their hips. The camera flash had obliterated both heads but Winter had no doubt the photographer was Euan. Who the hell was he with?
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