by Bill Daly
‘Aren’t they all?’ Kay said, appearing at the kitchen door and wiping her hands on her pinafore.
‘You’re not wrong there. But today was even worse than usual.’
‘What happened?’ Sue asked.
‘Don’t start me! I’m not going to bore you by talking shop tonight. Is the champagne open yet?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ Kay said. ‘But not for much longer,’ she added, looking pointedly at her watch.
Charlie went through to the kitchen and took the champagne bottle from the fridge. Removing the foil from the neck of the bottle, he uncorked it with a loud bang.
‘Did you miss Partick Thistle while you were away, Jamie?’ Charlie asked.
‘Yeah! But at least Sean sent me the programmes for all our home matches.’
‘Not long now till the start of the new season,’ Charlie said, lifting a flute from the drinks trolley. ‘You and I must go to the first home game.’ Holding the glass at an angle, he started to pour.
‘It’s against Dundee,’ Jamie said excitedly. ‘Is that all right Mum? Can I go?’
‘Of course you can.’ Sue smiled at Charlie.
‘Could I tempt you?’ Charlie asked, offering the glass to Sue.
‘No, thanks, Dad. Still strictly TT.’
Charlie handed the glass to Kay.
‘Would you like a tomato juice, Sue?’ Kay asked.
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll get it,’ Kay said, heading towards for the kitchen. ‘With Angostura bitters?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Please.’
‘How’s Linda making out?’ Charlie asked as he poured himself a glass.
‘She’s back on her feet now and she’s well on the way to recovery,’ Sue said.
‘Do you have something to drink, Jamie?’ Charlie asked.
‘I’ve got an Irn Bru, Grandad.’
Coming back into the lounge, Kay handed Sue her tomato juice.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Cheers!’ Charlie said, raising his glass and chinking it against everyone else’s in turn. ‘Welcome home.’
‘I’ll leave you two to catch up,’ Kay said, ‘while I finish fixing dinner.’
When Charlie settled himself on the settee, Sue came across to sit down beside him. ‘Jamie,’ she said, ‘Be an angel and go and see if Grandma needs any help.’ She waited until Jamie had trotted out of the room. ‘How are you, Dad?’ she asked quietly.
‘I’m fine,’ Charlie said, taking a long, slow swig from his glass.
‘You look tired.’
‘Och, that’s just old age catching up with me.’
‘Mum says you’ve been working all the hours God sends.’
‘I do have a lot on my plate right now.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Sue said, leaning across and planting a tender kiss on the top of Charlie’s bald head. ‘You do realise Jamie will be expecting you to play football with him every day when you retire?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Charlie said with a smile. Gulping down a mouthful of champagne, he reached for the bottle to top up his glass.
‘It’s just me!’ Mhairi Orr called out as she turned the key in her apartment door. Stretching up to hang her jacket on the hallstand, she kicked off her high heels.
‘I’m in the kitchen!’ came echoing down the hall.
When Mhairi appeared in the doorway, Rachel stopped unloading the dishwasher and came over to give her a peck on the cheek and a quick cuddle. ‘How was your day?’ Rachel asked.
‘Everything was going fine – until a couple of hours ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘I got a call from DCI Anderson’s secretary. He wants to see me tomorrow.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Rachel clasped her hands to her mouth. ‘It wasn’t me who shopped you for doing fifty along Great Western Road last Saturday. Honestly!’
Mhairi smiled. ‘He’s the one I told you about. Old Luddite Anderson.’
‘Wasn’t he the guy who gave you a hard time at the police seminar last year?’
‘It wasn’t so much a hard time. It was more a case of him rubbishing the very idea of criminal profiling, with a hefty dollop of cynicism ladled on top. The seminar was supposed to be an education session for me to bring the Glasgow CID up to speed with the improvements offered by HOLMES 2 and –’
Rachel held up a hand. ‘Remind me?’ she interjected.
‘Home Office Large Major Enquiry System.’
‘I knew that. I was just testing you.’
‘HOLMES 2 is a massive leap forward. It can link information databases, cross-reference them with witness statements and pinpoint repeat offenders. After the formal session, Superintendent Hamilton asked me to give a talk on how profiling techniques could be used in conjunction with HOLMES 2. So, you know, my computer module can compare a database of photographs against CCTV footage and highlight any matches. Tell me when you’re getting bored’.
‘About three sentences ago,’ Rachel said, lifting two wine glasses from the dishwasher and holding them up.
‘Talking about getting bored,’ Mhairi said. ‘Anderson sat throughout my session with a face like fizz. He spent most of the time staring out of the window. I don’t think he took in a word I said. As far as he’s concerned, the only Holmes worth the time of day is Sherlock. By his way of thinking, everything anyone needs to know about criminal detection techniques was covered on his basic training course sometime in the latter half of the nineteenth century. In the bar afterwards, one of the officers told me the uniformed boys call him Dino, after Fred Flintstone’s dinosaur. Very appropriate.’
‘Do you know why he wants to see you?’
‘I can only imagine it’s because he doesn’t have any other option. Superintendent Hamilton is a big fan of profiling – and he’s open to new ideas. After I gave my talk at the seminar he instructed everyone there to consult me if there was any suspicion of a serial killer operating on their patch.’
‘A serial killer? Good grief! Don’t tell me we’ve got one of those?’
‘I caught the news headlines in the car on the way home. The body of a young girl was fished out of the Clyde earlier this evening – and her hand had been chopped off. I can only imagine the police have established some kind of link with the murder of the gypsy in Port Glasgow on Monday, where the victim’s hand was also cut off.’
‘Sounds like you could do with a drink,’ Rachel said.
‘Your mind-reading gets better every day.’
‘Will that be small, medium or large, madam?’ Rachel asked, flourishing the bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc she’d taken from the fridge.
‘Large – and keep them coming,’ Mhairi said with a sigh as she flopped down on a chair.
The traffic was light and O’Sullivan and Stuart had no difficulty staying in convoy as they drove across the city, both of them finding parking spaces in Roxburgh Street, close to Malcolm’s red sandstone tenement building.
‘This is real class,’ Tony commented, running his fingertips along the wall as they mounted the staircase. ‘It’s what’s known as a wally close.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘It refers to the tiles,’ Tony explained. ‘Only the classiest tenements have them. ‘Très snob, as they say in Germany.’
When they reached the second-floor landing, Malcolm took out his keys and unlocked the glass-panelled front door, ushering Tony in ahead of him.
Tony let out a low whistle of appreciation as he admired the high, intricately-corniced ceiling in the lounge and the tasteful, modern furniture. ‘Looks like you landed on your feet with this pad all right, my boy. I assume you rented it furnished?’
‘You don’t think I could afford this kind of stuff? I was really lucky. I was flicking through a brochure in an estate agent’s office in Byres Road on Saturday morning when I overheard a bloke describing this place to an assistant. He wanted to rent it out, but he didn’t want students who might damage hi
s precious furniture. I introduced myself and told him I was looking for somewhere to rent in the area. He brought me round and showed me the place and I snapped it up straight away. I even sweet-talked him into letting me have a six month lease when he was after a minimum of a year.’
‘Not just lucky – the gift of the Blarney to go with it.’
Malcolm smiled. ‘I thought that would be more in your line, with a name like O’Sullivan. Do you have Irish blood?’
‘You need to ask?’ Tony said, tugging at his red hair.
‘It’s better than this,’ Malcolm said, dragging his fingers through his tight, blond curls. ‘Curly Top was one of the nicer things I had to put up with at school.’
‘Red hair’s never been an asset in this part of the world – especially not our line of work.’
Malcolm looked perplexed. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Red hair equates to Southern Irish, which equates to Catholic – and the Glasgow Division of the CID might as well be a branch of the Orange lodge as far as promotion prospects are concerned.’
‘You’ve done all right for yourself.’
‘I’d have been promoted to sergeant a year earlier if I’d kicked with the other foot.’
‘You really think that?’
‘I know it.’
‘Did your parents come across from Ireland?’ Malcolm asked.
‘My family’s been here a lot longer than that. My great-grandfather was involved in the Easter Rising, if that means anything to you?’
‘The Irish Republican Brotherhood’s occupation of the Dublin Post Office in 1916,’ Malcolm said. ‘And if I really wanted show off,’ he added with a grin, ‘I could tell you the uprising started on Easter Monday, the twenty-fourth of April.’
‘How come you know so much about it?’
‘I studied politics at LSE, and Irish political history was a major part of the syllabus. So what happened to your great-grandfather?’
‘He was put on trial, convicted, and shipped across to England where he served seven years in Reading jail. There was a lot of acrimony within his family because his brother was opposed to the uprising. Relationships broke down to such an extent that his brother refused to speak to him, even after he got out of prison, so he decided not to go back to Ireland. He wasn’t going to spend any more of his life in England, obviously, so he moved to Scotland. Our family has been in Saltcoats ever since. And the Irish connection’s as strong as ever it was, ‘cause my Dad married a girl from Donegal.’
‘Do you go to Ireland much?’
‘A couple of times a year. I’ve got so many cousins over there I can’t remember half their names.’
Malcolm produced a bottle of Balvenie and two crystal tumblers. ‘That’s enough politics,’ he said, pouring two generous measures. ‘Would you like anything in it?’
‘Do you have any ice?’
‘Sorry! I haven’t got round to filling the ice tray.’
‘No problem. It’s fine as it is.’ Tony took a seat on a high-backed, leather armchair and held up his glass. ‘Welcome to swinging Glasgow, Malcolm.’ They chinked glasses and sipped at their drinks.
‘What a start!’ Malcolm said, collapsing onto the settee. ‘After six months of pushing paper in Liverpool, I was hoping for a bit of action. But two mutilated corpses within forty-eight hours! This isn’t normal, I hope?’
‘We’re never short of a murder or two around here. There was a brutal rape and stabbing in Possilpark last month. Charlie was in charge of that investigation, but we didn’t get a result. And there were a couple of gangland killings not so long back. Fallout from a turf war, you know, drugs and that, but I wasn’t involved in the case.’
‘What’s Charlie Anderson like to work for?’ Malcolm asked.
Tony took a swallow of whisky. ‘Dino? He’s a hard taskmaster, and no mistake – though his bark’s a lot worse than his bite. He’s very old-fashioned. As you can guess from the nickname. And you heard this afternoon what he thinks of profiling.’
‘It sounded to me more like a sexist attack on the profiling expert.’
‘I wouldn’t call him sexist, actually – “ageist”, perhaps, or maybe that should be “youngist”. He puts a lot more store by experience than modern theory. And he’s dead set in his ways. He still takes down all his notes in shorthand. Computers scare him shitless. We’re supposed to handle our correspondence on our terminals, but Charlie refuses to even switch his on. He gets Pauline to print out his emails and he hand-writes his replies in the margins, which she then sends out from his email account. If Niggle knew what was going on he’d go ballistic. And Charlie’s a real stickler for detail,’ Tony added. ‘He’ll drive you nuts going over the same ground again and again until he uncovers The Key Question, as he calls it. If you haven’t heard that phrase yet, you will. Charlie’s theory is that if you analyse data to death, you’ll find a vital clue. There’s no denying he’s had his successes, but there’ve been a few occasions recently when we’ve spent half the night brainstorming to no avail.’
Malcolm uncorked the whisky bottle and topped up both their glasses.
‘Who are they?’ Tony asked, pointing to the two framed photos that were standing side by side on the coffee table.
‘The women in my life. This is my mother,’ Malcolm said, lifting up one of the photos and handing it across.
‘Is the other one your girlfriend?’
‘My sister.’
‘Even better!’ Tony said, picking up the photo. ‘When is she coming up to Glasgow? I’m looking forward to showing her around.’
‘Too late.’ Malcolm smiled. ‘She’s engaged.’
‘You can’t win ’em all,’ Tony said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘You got a girlfriend?’
‘There’ve been a few over the years, nothing serious. I move around a lot.’
‘First time in Glasgow?’ Tony asked, taking a sip of whisky.
‘No, I’ve been here a few times. As I was telling Charlie earlier, I’m more Scottish than English. Most of my relations live in Ayrshire.’
‘But you ended up down south?’
‘My Dad died before I was born.’ Malcolm hesitated. ‘And my mother wanted to get away from some painful memories, so she moved to Brighton to be close to her sister.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tony said. ‘Are you planning to visit your family while you’re here?’
‘The way Anderson was going on I’ll be lucky to fit in a pint in the next few weeks, never mind see the relations.’ Malcolm took a bigger sip of whisky than he’d intended, screwing up his face as he spluttered and choked. ‘I’m not used to drinking this stuff neat,’ he said with a grimace as he put his glass down on the coffee table.
Tony glanced at his watch. ‘Christ, is that the time?’ He got to his feet quickly and threw back the rest of his drink. ‘I’ve got to hit the road. And by the way – a word of advice. When Charlie says we’re meeting in his office at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, he doesn’t mean five past.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘Thanks for the drinks. You must come round to my place sometime and sample a few malts.’
‘I’d like that.’
The train from Glasgow Queen Street pulled into Oban Station on schedule. Getting off the train, Pete Johnston asked a porter for directions to the Mull ferry, then walked the short distance along the quayside to board the waiting boat.
It was a clear, moonlit night with a flat calm sea, but Johnston was the only person who remained on deck throughout the crossing, all the other passengers having gone below deck to escape the chill in the evening air. Johnston lit a cigarette and leaned on the starboard rail as they headed across the Firth of Lorn. When they entered the Sound of Mull he could make out a large cluster of lights on the island, a long way to the north, but the street lights of Tobermory quickly vanished when the ferry turned in a gentle arc towards Craignure Bay, the smaller batch of twinkling lights of the town of Craignure shining ever more br
ightly as they approached the jetty.
Johnston’s fellow passengers appeared on deck in dribs and drabs as the ferry was preparing to dock. A lot of them seemed to be acquainted; several bored, briefcase-clutching commuters returning from a late night in the office; four teenage girls giggling about the boys they’d met in the café in Oban while the attractive redhead, clearly the ringleader, was trying to get them to agree on a plausible excuse for having missed the earlier ferry; a group of boisterous youths, slightly the worse for wear from their visit to a mainland pub, arguing the merits of their respective football teams. There was a steady drone of conversation, interspersed with complaints about the so-called summer weather, while everyone waited for the ferry to tie up. Johnston avoided all eye contact. He was the first to disembark.
On leaving the harbour, Johnston saw a road sign indicating the direction for Salen. He tramped along the tarmacadamed surface and soon found himself beyond the limits of the street lighting. He reached into his anorak pocket and pulled out his torch but, when his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realised there was no need for the flash lamp, the moon providing more than enough light to pick out the road ahead. There was only an occasional car using the road, but every time he heard an engine approaching, he stepped across the ditch at the side of the road and waited in the deep shadows of the tree-lined verge until the vehicle had passed.
Johnston made good time, coming across the sign for Drumairgh Cottage sooner than he expected. The tree-lined dirt path cut inland through the depths of the forest and, as he threaded his way along the rutted track, the dense foliage overhead soon obliterated the light of the moon.
Fishing in his pocket for his torch, he directed the beam low to illuminate the path in front of his feet. Progress was slow as he moved haltingly along the narrow, overgrown track. The path re-awakened memories of the Burmese jungle. He froze every time he heard an unexpected noise; an animal scurrying through the woods; the piercing hoot of an owl. A cold sweat broke out all over his body when he thought he heard someone approaching from behind. He spun round and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the shadows danced crazily in the sweeping light of the torch.
