by Bill Daly
Praise for BILL DALY
‘Daly evokes Glasgow with a masterly touch’
ALEX GRAY
‘Impressive … a vivid new voice in Tartan noir’
MAGGIE CRAIG
‘A stylish police thriller … includes a beautifully formulated “locked room” mystery … a cracking read’
DAILY MAIL on Double Mortice
‘Brilliantly gripping and fast-moving … and the characters all have a rich credibility’
EUROCRIME on Black Mail
‘Daly effortlessly incorporates the seedy underbelly of the city… Black Mail can proudly sit alongside books by far more established writers in the Glasgow noir field … A highly enjoyable debut’ crimefictionlover.co.uk
CUTTING EDGE
Bill Daly
For Anne and Malcolm
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
Also by Bill Daly
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
Sunday 19 June, 2011
Waiting in a queue of traffic at a red light, he saw the car in front of him start to roll back down the incline. He gave a sharp blast on his horn. The Volvo was less than a yard away now, its engine revving fiercely. He glanced in his rear view mirror. There was a van right on his bumper – no room to back up. He slammed his hand down on the horn and kept it there as he braced himself for the inevitable crunch of metal as the two vehicles came together.
He saw the driver’s head swivel round.
‘You stupid idiot!’ he screamed, releasing the horn and thumping the steering column with his closed fist.
She looked at him, aghast, through her rear window.
‘Sorry!’ he saw her mouth.
‘Sorry?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know how to do a bloody hill start?’
As she was scrambling out of the driver’s seat, he took a deep breath to try to calm down. This was not the time to draw attention to himself. As he got out of his car his nostrils were filled with the acrid stench of her burnt-out clutch. He waved to the queue of traffic behind to overtake them.
‘Oh, my God!’ She slammed her hands to her mouth as she bent down to inspect the damage. ‘I’ve dented your wing. I’m really, really sorry,’ she said, dragging her fingers through her shoulder-length black hair as she straightened up. ‘I only passed my test last week,’ she explained. ‘I’ve never done a hill start on a slope as steep as this before. I don’t know what happened. It just started slipping back and I couldn’t hold it. It’s my father’s car,’ she added. ‘The insurance will cover your damage, of course, though he’ll kill me for losing his no-claims bonus. I’d better give you my address,’ she said, fumbling in her jacket pocket for a business card and handing it over. ‘We’ll need to fill out an accident report form, won’t we? I’ve got one in the glove compartment. I’ll get it.’
As she hurried to fetch the form, he studied her card, an idea forming in his mind.
‘I’ll admit full liability, of course,’ she said, unfolding the document as she came back. ‘Do you have a pen?’
‘It’s not worth the hassle,’ he said examining the dent. Exchanging insurance details was no longer on his agenda. ‘It isn’t worth losing your Dad’s no-claims bonus over this. I know a guy who’ll repair it for me. It won’t cost much.’
‘Really? Oh, thank you! But you must let me pay for it. I insist. Get in touch with me when you know how much it’s going to cost.’
‘Okay,’ he said, pocketing her card. He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll do that.’
Monday 20 June
‘Irene! Goany stop your fuckin’ dog barking!’ Archie Carter stood in the doorway of his caravan and shouted at the top of his voice. ‘It’s doin’ ma fuckin’ heid in!’ The barking persisted. ‘Irene!’ he yelled again. ‘What the hell’s going on over there?’
Cursing under his breath, Archie trudged down the five iron steps and made his way across the field towards Irene’s caravan, his bare feet squelching in the soggy turf. Stella stopped barking and hunkered down when she saw Archie approaching.
‘Easy, old girl,’ Archie said, holding out his hand in a reassuring gesture. ‘It’s only me.’
A deep-throated growl started building at the back of Stella’s throat and Archie saw the bared teeth just in time to whip his hand away as Stella’s attempt to launch herself at him was thwarted by the length of rope that tied her collar to one of the caravan wheels.
Archie hastily backed off. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you, you daft bitch?’
As Archie plodded up the caravan steps, Stella’s barking resumed, louder now, more insistent. He knocked tentatively on the door. ‘Irene?’ No response. He tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. He eased it open. ‘Irene?’ He raised his voice to try to make himself heard above the racket Stella was making.
He saw the figure lying face down on the single bed. ‘Irene? Are you okay?’ He blinked several times as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light.
Archie’s jaw sagged as his gaze was drawn to the arm dangling down the side of the bed. The caravan started rocking from side to side as Stella went berserk, leaping forward again and again, straining at her leash. Archie spun on his heel to get out, but threw up before he got as far as the door.
Superintendent Nigel Hamilton surveyed the assembled journalists as he walked into the room and took his customary seat behind the long table for his weekly press conference. Pulling a manila folder from his briefcase, he straightened his tie before spreading his notes out on the table in front of him. He switched on the microphone.
‘We’re ready to begin,’ he announced tapping the mike with his fingertips to check it was live. The buzz of conversation died away. ‘At this week’s meeting,’ Hamilton’s high-pitched voice intoned, ‘I will provide you with a summary of the crime statistics for the first half of this year in my division and I will then brief you on the new reporting procedures I intend to implement over the coming months, which will significantly improve the accuracy of crime reporting for the city.’ Hamilton was oblivious to the collective low groan that ran round the room.
Having summarised the stats, Hamilton launched himself into a twenty minute Power Point presentation on his new reporting methodology. When he’d concluded, he invited questions.
The first one came from a reporter on the Record, who wanted to know what progress had been made on the Keppochill rape investigation.
‘We are following up several lines of enquiry,’ Hamilton stated.
‘Is an arrest imminent?’
‘Not at this point,’ Hamilton said, acknowledging the raised hand in the front row.
‘Fran Gibbons, BBC Scotland. You’ve told us what you intend to do with regard to changing the way crimes are reported, Superintendent Hamilton,’ the lilting voice said. ‘However, while you might consider this to be an improvement, it appears to me that all you’re doing is manipulating the statistics, which will contribute nothing towards solving or preventing crime in the city.’
The room waited in anticipation as Fran continued. ‘Do you think the fifteen year-old girl who was gang-raped in Keppochhill last weekend will appreciate the fact that, statistically, there’s been a three point seven percent reduc
tion in violent crime in Glasgow during the past six months?’
Sitting at the back of the room, DCI Charlie Anderson was struggling to keep his face straight as he nudged DI Barry Crawford in the ribs.
Hamilton’s face was flushed as he responded. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he blustered, waving in the direction of a reporter from the Herald who had raised his hand. ‘What is your question, Tom?’
‘I don’t think I am missing the point,’ Fran persisted. ‘You appear to be a great believer in statistics, Superintendent. My point is this. If the officers who spent their time compiling those stats had been out on the beat, how many more man hours could have been allocated to patrolling the streets in Keppochhill – and what effect might that have had on reducing the incidence of violent crime?’
‘We have time for only a few questions today,’ Hamilton snapped, fixing Fran with a glare. ‘Everyone must get their turn,’ he said, breaking eye contact. ‘What was your question, Tom?’
Tuesday 21 June
Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Anderson was one of the longest serving officers in the Glasgow Division of the CID. Over six feet tall, he had broad, hunched shoulders and a permanent stoop, the legacy of acute arthritis, exacerbated by too many years huddled over an office desk. Puffy eyelids hooded his rheumy eyes and the greyness of the pouches beneath bore witness to several weeks of inadequate sleep.
As he stripped off his jacket and hung it over the back of his swivel chair, Charlie noticed that there was a brown-paper parcel on top on the habitual pile of mail in his inbox. Picking it up, he weighed it in his hand. The size of a shoe box, but too light to be a pair of shoes. He studied the address label. In bold typeface: C.I.D. Headquarters, Pitt Street, Glasgow. Beneath the address, in smaller, italic characters: For the personal attention of Detective Chief Inspector Charles Anderson, the franking on the package indicating it had been handed in to the main Glasgow post office in St Vincent Street at half past nine the previous morning.
Charlie puzzled as to what it could be. He hadn’t ordered anything. Perhaps Kay had ordered something – maybe a present for Sue or Jamie? But why would she have had it delivered here?
Sitting down behind his desk, he used his paper knife to slice through the sellotape that was looped several times around the package. Stripping the paper away, he saw that it was indeed a shoe box. A playing card, the nine of diamonds, was stapled to the side of the box and a bright-yellow emoticon of a smiling face had been stuck to the centre of the card. Intrigued, Charlie removed the lid and saw the dark-stained cotton wool. When he lifted the cotton wool away, the bile rose in his stomach. His eyes narrowed as he focussed on the contents: a grey, amputated human hand, palm down, fingers slightly curled, perched on another wad of blood-saturated cotton wool. Fighting back the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Charlie forced himself to examine every detail of the hand; the ingrained dirt embedded beneath the badly-bitten fingernails, the two buckled pewter rings on the scrawny middle finger, the mass of brown liver spots speckling the weather-beaten skin, the gristle and jagged bone protruding from the severed wrist.
Replacing the lid, he depressed his intercom.
‘Pauline, I want a copy of the forensic report on yesterday’s murder in Port Glasgow.’
Ryan Ferrie was roused from his sleep by the ring of his door bell. When he peered, bleary-eyed, at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he saw it was ten past eight. ‘Who the fuck?’ he muttered under his breath. The ringing became insistent, the caller holding his finger on the bell push. Ferrie clambered out of bed and shrugged on his dressing gown, yawning and running his fingers through his spiky, gelled hair as he made his way along the hall.
‘Who is it?’ he called out as he was unlocking the apartment door. ‘What do you want at this time –?’ He broke off when he saw the tall figure standing in the doorway, a black balaclava covering his head completely, apart from narrow slits for his eyes and his mouth. Ferrie’s jaw fell slack. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ the man snapped. Stepping across the threshold, he bundled Ferrie down the hall and pulled the front door closed behind him.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ The words died on Ferrie’s lips as a vicious rabbit punch crunched into the side of his neck
*
Charlie Anderson rocked back in his chair and swung his feet up onto his desk, his stubby fingers fumbling under his shirt collar to loosen his tie knot. As he stretched across his desk for the forensic report he felt a sharp, stabbing pain shoot up from the base of his spine. Wincing, he remained frozen in the outstretched position until the spasm had subsided before picking up the document between thumb and forefinger and easing himself back into his seat.
Charlie scanned the report, then his gaze flicked back to the shoe box. It was amazing, Charlie thought, how much could be deduced from just a hand. He reckoned he could have made a reasonably accurate guess as to the sex, age and lifestyle of the appendage’s erstwhile owner. However, he had no need to surmise. The report in his hand said it all. He referred to the document.
‘Irene McGowan,’ he read. ‘Age seventy-eight. Resided in a travellers’ encampment on the outskirts of Port Glasgow. Body discovered by Archie Carter, who lives in the adjacent caravan. Time of death was between eight and nine o’clock on the morning of Monday the twentieth of June. The cause of death was strangulation. The left hand of the victim had been severed at the wrist. The amputated limb was not found in the caravan or in the immediate vicinity.’
Charlie dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and picked up the brown wrapping paper in which the parcel had arrived. The address label left no doubt as to the intended recipient, but there was no note of any kind enclosed, only the incongruous playing card with the smiley face attached, stapled to the side of the box.
Charlie pulled off his half-moon reading glasses and folded them carefully before slipping them into the case in the breast pocket of his shirt. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes with the heels of both his hands, his gaze inexorably drawn back to the shoe box. ‘Why you, Irene McGowan?’ he mused. ‘And why the hell me?’
Charlie’s train of thought was interrupted by a sharp rap on his office door.
‘Come in!’
‘I heard what happened this morning, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Tony O’Sullivan caught sight of the shoe box lying on the desk. ‘Is that it?’ he asked, pointing.
‘Unless there’s been a spate of them delivered today,’ Charlie grunted.
O’Sullivan’s freckles flared up. Screwing up his eyes, he lifted the lid from the box and squinted at the amputated hand. ‘What do we know about her?’
‘Only what’s in the forensic report,’ Charlie said sliding the document across the desk.
Tony flicked through the report. ‘Did you have any connection with her, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’d never heard of her before this morning.’
‘Why would the killer chop off her hand and send it to you?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
‘And why the nine of diamonds?’ O’Sullivan queried as he studied the playing card. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘It’s known as “The Curse of Scotland”,’ Charlie said.
‘Why?’
‘Did they not teach you any history at school?’
‘My history teacher was rubbish. And the only history that ever got talked about at home,’ he added, ‘was Irish.’
‘The nine of diamonds is associated with the Glencoe Massacre in the seventeenth century,’ Charlie explained, ‘when the McDonalds murdered the Campbells in their beds. There are several theories about the role the nine of diamonds played, the popular one being that the order to carry out the massacre was written on a nine of diamonds playing card.’
‘What about the smiley?’ Tony asked.
‘As far as I’m aware,’ Charlie said, ‘emoticons weren’t around in the seventeenth century.’
‘
This is weird,’ Tony said, replacing the lid on the box.
Charlie eased himself to his feet.
‘Arrange for the hand to be packed in ice, Tony, then have it sent across to the mortuary so it can be matched up with the corpse.’
When Ryan Ferrie came round he found himself bound hand and foot to a wooden chair. He opened his eyes slowly and saw his assailant sitting on the opposite side of the kitchen table, flicking through the Sunday Times sports section. The intruder folded the newspaper and put it down when he saw Ferrie stir.
‘Who are you?’ Ferrie grunted. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Are you Zoe Taylor’s boyfriend?’
‘That’s none of your fucking business.’
‘I’m making it my business. Answer the question.’
Ferrie licked hard at his lips. ‘What if I am?’ he mumbled. ‘What is it to you?’
‘Where is Zoe?’ Ferrie didn’t reply. ‘I asked you a question,’ he snarled, springing to his feet. ‘Where the hell is Zoe?’
Ferrie hesitated. ‘At her work.’
‘This early?’
‘She leaves here at eight o’clock.’
‘You’re going to make a phone call.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re going to phone Zoe.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to call her and arrange to meet her at half-past twelve.’
Ferrie shrivelled his brow. ‘The fuck I am!’
The intruder walked slowly round the kitchen table and stopped directly in front of Ferrie. Producing a set of knuckle-dusters from his jacket pocket, he slipped them over the fingers of his right hand, then he drew back his fist and smashed it into the side of Ferrie’s face. ‘There’s an easy way to do this,’ he said, holding his fist poised for a moment before hammering it into the bridge of Ferrie’s nose, the crack of breaking bone resounding around the kitchen. ‘And there’s a hard way.’
