by Bill Daly
‘I always judge a pub by its Guinness.’
‘The bar menus are on the tables,’ Tony said, indicating an empty alcove.
Charlie sat down on the circular bench seat and studied the menu while Tony went over to the bar. Charlie noticed that Kylie again hurried the length of the bar to serve him. He wasn’t close enough to pick up any of the conversation, but he recognized the tell-tale signals as Kylie was giggling away and Tony had a fixed grin on his face as she poured two pints of Guinness. While Tony was waiting for the drinks to settle, Charlie saw him take something from his inside jacket pocket and slide it across the bar. Kylie blew him an air kiss as she slipped the envelope into the hip pocket of her jeans.
‘What do you fancy?’ Tony asked, placing the drinks down on the table in front of Charlie and picking up a menu card.
‘It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you fancy,’ Charlie said. ‘I’d hazard a guess at – mid-twenties, five feet six, cracking figure, shoulder-length red hair.’
Tony felt his freckles redden. ‘This is my local. Kylie’s just a friend.’
‘I’m not cramping your style, am I?’
‘I told you – she’s just a friend. More the wife of a friend, actually. She’s married to one of my old schoolpals, Patrick O’Connor.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Would that be the Patrick O’Connor who was up in front of the beak last month for disrupting the Orange Order march in George Square?’
‘He was demonstrating peacefully,’ Tony said defensively.
‘That wasn’t how the judge saw it.’
‘No suprise there.’ Tony gave a shrug. ‘What do you want to eat?’ he asked.
‘I can’t remember the last time I had cullen skink,’ Charlie said, closing the menu card. ‘I think I’ll give it a try. How about you?’
‘I’ll have the same.’
‘Let me get these,’ Charlie said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘I wouldn’t want your reputation ruined by being seen chatting up a married woman.’
Charlie crossed over to the bar where a barman took his order. Having paid for the food, he came back to the table.
‘I didn’t notice Mrs O’Connor sprinting half the length of the bar to serve me,’ Charlie commented as he sat back down.
‘Give it a break.’
‘Well you might as well let Kylie know she won’t be seeing a lot of you for the foreseeable future,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ve been lumbered with the SIO role for the gypsy’s murder, so you can expect to be working all the hours God sends for however long it takes us to nail the bastard.’
Charlie broke off as the barman arrived with two bowls of cullen skink and two bread rolls on a tray. Placing the food down on the table in front of them, he handed them their cutlery, wrapped in paper napkins.
‘I’m going to need you full-time on this case,’ Charlie said as they were sipping at their hot soup, ‘so hand over everything else you’ve got on your plate to McLaren and Dawson.’
‘They won’t be happy bunnies. They’re both snowed under.’
‘They’re not paid to be happy. By the way,’ Charlie added, ‘Niggle’s lumbered us with some wet behind the ears kid called Malcolm Stuart. Apparently he’s been assigned to Glasgow from the Met for six months training. Niggle says he’s a sharp cookie, but I’ll be the judge of that. He’s coming to see me at three o’clock this afternoon. If I don’t like the look of him, I’ll try to get shot of him. We can’t afford to carry any passengers. But if we do get saddled, I want you to keep an eye on him. There may be nothing in it, but I suspect he might be Niggle’s mole.’
When he got back to his office, Charlie stripped off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair before rolling up his shirt sleeves and settling down to work his way through the pile of mail in his in-tray.
When he’d moved the last item to his out-basket, he slowly screwed the top back onto his fountain pen, his thoughts drifting back to Kay. Over breakfast, he’d been on the point of telling her about the amputated hand being sent to him, but he’d backed off at the last minute – he didn’t really know why. Of course, he didn’t want to worry her unduly, but this was the first time in his life he’d ever held anything back from her about his work.
A knock on the office door jolted Charlie out of his reverie. Glancing up at his wall clock, he saw it was exactly three o’clock. ‘Come in!’ he barked.
Charlie had been predisposed to dislike Malcolm Stuart, however, as he now eyed him up and down, he had to admit that first impressions were favourable. In his early twenties, Stuart was tall, slim and muscular, with high cheek bones and intelligent grey eyes, set wide apart. Clean-shaven, he had a square jaw and a deep dimple indented the point of his chin. His short hair was a mass of natural, tight blond curls. Although more casually dressed than Charlie would have advocated, his open-necked shirt was restrained, his jacket was fashionable, his trousers well cut and his brown shoes were highly polished. Most important of all, he’d arrived for his briefing on time.
Stuart crossed towards Charlie’s desk. ‘DC Malcolm Stuart,’ he announced, proffering his hand. The voice was deep and resonant, the accent Home Counties. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, sir. It’s a pleasure to get the opportunity to work with you.’
Charlie half stood up and leaned across the desk to take Stuart’s hand. ‘I’d hold back on the pleasure for the time being,’ he said gruffly. ‘Before too long you might be wishing our paths had never crossed.’
‘Pleasure on hold, sir.’ Stuart grinned fleetingly.
‘Sergeant O’Sullivan will be joining us in a few minutes. He’s handing over his current work assignments to his colleagues so we can focus full-time on the murder enquiry. By the way,’ Charlie added, ‘full-time means exactly what it says. Don’t be making any plans to sample the local night life in the foreseeable future.’
‘I’ve heard you drive hard, sir. Night life also on hold,’ Stuart said with a disarming smile.
Charlie couldn’t help but return the smile. ‘Take a seat, son. Tell me a bit about yourself.’ Charlie leaned back in his chair and swung his legs up onto his desk.
Stuart sat upright on the edge of the chair opposite. ‘Originally from Sussex, sir. Twenty-four years old. I got a first in sociology and politics at LSE. I applied to join the Met last year. I went through basic training in London, graduated top of the class. I was assigned to Liverpool for the past six months for hands-on experience. A further six months is planned here, then back to London. My main outside interest is playing rugby. I had a couple of games last year for Harlequins’ reserves, but my posting to Liverpool put paid to any prospects for this season.’
Charlie nodded his approval – confident, clear, factual, succinct. No arrogance or boastfulness in the tone, but no false modesty either. Despite his initial misgivings, Charlie was starting to warm to him.
‘What position do you play?’
‘Open side flanker.’
‘That’s a good Highland name you’ve got. Is there any Scottish blood in your family?’
‘Though you’d never guess it from my accent, yes, sir. My mother’s from Ayr. She moved south when she was pregnant with me.’
‘And your father?’
Malcolm cast his eyes down. ‘I never knew my Dad,’ he said quietly. ‘He died before I was born.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘These things happen,’ Malcolm said, looking back up.
‘Does the SRU know about you?’ Charlie asked. ‘Scottish rugby needs all the help it can get.’
‘That would be good,’ Malcolm said with a wry smile. ‘But I’m afraid I’m nowhere near international standard.’
Charlie swung his legs down and picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. ‘I’m going for a leak,’ he said as he handed the papers across. ‘Have a look through that lot while I’m away. It’s the initial forensic report on Irene McGowan’s murder. We’ll get the full chapter and verse from the post mortem later today.’
Stuar
t was still studying the report when Charlie returned to the office a few minutes later. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said with a grunt as he sat down. ‘When you get to my age, you’ll know all about the joys of an enlarged prostate.’
When Tony O’Sullivan joined them, Charlie did the introductions.
‘Malcolm’s been assigned to us from the Met for six months, Tony. He’s going to be working with us on the McGowan case.’
O’Sullivan took Stuart’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Good to have you on board, Malcolm. By the way, sir, here’s the post mortem on Irene McGowan,’ O’Sullivan said, placing a document on Charlie’s desk. ‘Hot off the press.’
‘You’ll get used to my style soon enough, Malcolm,’ Charlie said. ‘It involves interviewing, taking notes, fact-finding and data analysis. Tony’ll tell you about it. It might drive you round the twist at times, but it gets results. Doesn’t it, Tony?’
‘Quite often – though it didn’t get us very far with the Possilpark murder enquiry last month.’
‘And Sergeant O’Sullivan’s getting far too big for his boots because he knows he’s only got to suffer me for a few more months. He wouldn’t have dared make a crack like that a few years back. Have you heard of brainstorming, Malcolm?’ Charlie asked.
‘Basic training, sir. Day two.’
‘Good. Let’s summarise what we’ve got. Have you had a look at the post mortem, Tony?’
‘I had a quick flick through.’
‘What does it tell us?’
‘Not a lot we don’t know already. Irene McGowan was strangled in her caravan on Monday morning. There were no marks on her body to indicate that any kind of struggle took place before she was killed. Thumbs were driven into her windpipe by a powerful person, but there were no fingerprints on her neck or her throat – her attacker was almost certainly wearing gloves. There was no sexual assault involved. As you know, her left hand was amputated at the wrist – apparently sawn off using some kind of serrated blade.
‘The victim’s hand was sent here in a shoe box, Malcolm,’ Tony explained. ‘Addressed to Inspector Anderson.’
‘Really?’
‘If you want to see the evidence,’ Charlie said, ‘It’s across in the mortuary. But I warn you, you’ll need a strong stomach. What about Irene McGowan, Tony? What do we know about her?’
Tony referred to the report. ‘Aged seventy-eight, gypsy lifestyle, never married. Her origins are obscure, but she’s been travelling in caravans and vans for most of her life. She was shacked up with a bloke in a campsite near Perth for a long time, but she left him about twenty years ago. According to one of the old timers on the site, it was because of the repeated beatings he was dishing out. She has a son in his mid-forties. He lives somewhere in the Glasgow area, but the uniformed boys haven’t managed to track him down yet. That’s about it.’
‘The sawn off hand – any ideas?’ Charlie asked.
‘Isn’t cutting off a hand an Islamic punishment?’ Tony suggested. ‘For theft, or adultery, or something like that?’
Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow in Malcolm’s direction. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘Chopping off a hand is certainly a method of Islamic punishment. But as far as I’m aware, it’s used primarily as a deterrent. Seems pretty pointless trying to deter someone after you’ve strangled them.’
‘Good point,’ Charlie said, turning back to Tony. ‘Love-fifteen, Tony. Still your service.’
‘Are you not playing today, sir?’
‘I thought I’d try my hand at umpiring for a change. You never know, I might get to like it.’
‘Well, if ritual punishment’s a non-starter,’ Tony said, ‘let’s look at it from another angle. The murderer was taking a big risk going into the post office in St Vincent Street to send the parcel to you. One of the counter clerks might remember him – might be able to give us a description. To justify sticking his neck out that far, he must’ve been awfully keen for you to receive the dismembered hand. So what does he stand to gain?’
Charlie scratched at the tufts of hair on the nape of his neck. ‘I have no idea.’ He looked at Stuart. ‘Malcolm?’
Malcolm sucked hard on his bottom lip and shook his head.
‘And why the nine of diamonds and the smiley?’ Tony asked. Malcolm looked puzzled. ‘A playing card – the nine of diamonds, with a smiley emoticon attached, was stapled to the side of the shoe box,’ Tony explained.
‘Is there some significance?’ Malcolm asked.
‘The nine of diamonds is known as the Curse of Scotland,’ Charlie stated.
‘I’ve heard of that,’ Malcolm said. ‘If I remember right, the order to start the Glencoe Massacre was written on the playing card, wasn’t it?’
‘Good to know someone was paying attention in school,’ Charlie said, looking pointedly at Tony. Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay,’ Charlie continued. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by speculating at this stage. We need facts to work on. Let’s pull together a plan of action. Tony, you and Malcolm go to St Vincent Street post office first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve checked – it’s the same shift who were on duty on Monday. Talk to everyone. See if anyone can remember who handed in that parcel. Take the wrapping paper and the address label with you as a memory jogger.’
‘I’ve a bit of a problem there, sir.’ Malcolm spoke hesitantly.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘I’m supposed to be at an estate agent’s in Byres Road at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to sign the lease for my apartment. Should I change the appointment?’
‘No, there’s no point postponing that. Life won’t get any quieter around here over the next few days. You go ahead and get your flat sorted out. I’ll get Colin Renton to go to the post office with Tony.’
Charlie stabbed at his intercom button. ‘Pauline, try to find Renton and ask him to come to my office.’ Charlie released the button. ‘Check if the forensic boys managed to lift any prints from the shoe box, Tony, and see if they were able to identify where it came from. They should have established the make of the playing card by now, so find out who sells them. When you’ve done that, set up an incident room downstairs. I’ll go down to the campsite in Port Glasgow this afternoon and see if I can dig up anything about Irene McGowan’s background.’
DC Colin Renton stuck his head round the door. ‘Pauline said you wanted to see me, sir?’
‘I want you to go to the St Vincent Street post office with Tony tomorrow morning and help him interview the staff,’ Charlie said.
Renton hesitated. ‘I’m supposed to be doing a door-to-door on the Keppochhill rape tomorrow, sir.’
‘Any point to it?’ Charlie asked.
Renton shook his head. ‘We’re just going through the motions.’
‘Then forget it and give Tony a hand.’
Renton looked doubtful. ‘Inspector Crawford won’t be happy.’
‘I’ll square it with Barry. Any questions?’ Charlie asked, pulling himself to his feet and stretching his spine. They all shook their heads. ‘In which case, we’ll meet back here at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon and pool what we’ve got.’
Pete Johnston was jolted awake by the shudder of the train rumbling to a halt in Glasgow Central station. He recalled little of the trip from London, having spent most of the journey semi-comatose. Although they’d arrived ten minutes behind schedule, he still had more than two hours to kill before his connection for Oban.
Johnston walked across the station concourse and out through the main entrance into Gordon Street. He bought an early edition of the Evening Times from a street vendor. ‘How long does it take to walk to Queen Street Station?’ he asked as he was being given his change.
‘Ten minutes – max.’
‘Will I pass any pubs on the way?’
‘You’ll see quite a few. Whether or not you pass them is up to you, pal.’
Johnston pushed open the door of The Drum and Monkey and looked around. The first thing that caught his eye was the
motto printed in large gold letters on the wooden rail above the horseshoe-shaped bar: “Beer is the looking glass of the mind”.
There were only a few early-evening customers, all clustered around the bar. He ordered a pint of lager and, while his drink was being poured, he made his way to the toilets. He went into a booth, locked the door, took off his anorak and sat down on the toilet seat. Rolling up the sleeve of his sweater, he took a syringe from his anorak pocket and primed the plunger. Selecting a vein, he injected a fix.
When he went back to the bar he paid for his drink and carried it across to a table by the window. He flicked through the Evening Times as he sipped at his pint.
The man in black, sitting in the raised area at the other side of the bar, swallowed a mouthful of tonic water before replacing his well-chewed matchstick with a fresh one.
When Constable Glancy walked into Sergeant Condron’s office at five o’clock, he found him putting the finishing touches to his report.
‘What’s the score on the boat’s engines, Tosh?’ Condron asked.
‘It’s nothing too serious, sir. Just a fractured fuel pipe. We might need to get a few bits and pieces from the mainland to fix it properly, but we should have it repaired by the morning. It’s not clear what caused the problem – and it’s a waste of time trying to get anything out of the crew, although apparently one of them speaks a bit of Spanish, if that’s any help?’
Condron snorted. ‘My Spanish is every bit as fluent as my Russian. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I don’t think they’re in the business of communicating. There’s something fishy about that lot – and I’m not talking about the contents of their hold.’
‘Sir?’
‘Are you trying to tell me six professional fishermen couldn’t diagnose a broken fuel pipe and patch it up at sea? Pull the other one. They’re here for a reason.’
‘Do you think they might be running drugs?’
‘The recent glut of cocaine has to be coming from somewhere.’ Condron shook his head. ‘But they’d be taking a hell of a risk trying to smuggle anything in this way. They must realise we’ll crawl all over their vessel. And there’s not a lot of room to hide stuff on a boat that size. Have you checked their papers?’
