Cutting Edge

by Bill Daly

  All the way home in the car Charlie’s mind was racing, trying to come to terms with what Malcolm had said. He knew Tony had a chip on his shoulder about religious discrimination in the force. He knew Tony’s family had Irish Republican leanings. He also knew Tony considered himself hard done by when his promotion to sergeant had been deferred for a year. And something had been nagging at the back of his mind ever since he’d seen Tony handing over a cheque to Kylie. Her husband was a known Republican activist. What had that cheque been for? There could be an innocent explanation. Tony might’ve been settling his bar tab. But was it likely he’d do that with a cheque? Whatever the reason, it didn’t mean Tony had become an IRA sympathiser, far less a contract killer. Charlie told himself that there couldn’t be any substance to Malcolm’s suspicions, however, he also told himself he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t have it checked out.

  When he pulled up in his driveway he glanced up at his bedroom window. There was no welcoming light to greet him. He tugged the Sunday Herald from the letterbox in the front door as he turned his key in the lock. The house felt cold. He opened the back door and whistled for Blakey, but there was no sign of the cat. The food bowl by the cat flap was empty. He took a tin of cat food from the cupboard above the cooker and, tugging the ring pull from the can, he forked the contents into the bowl.

  Although he didn’t feel hungry, he knew he ought to eat something. He found a wedge of Cheddar cheese in the fridge and munched on it as he went through to the lounge where he tipped a generous measure of whisky into a tumbler before going back to the kitchen to add a splash of water from the tap. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he carried his drink up the steep staircase. He gave his teeth a cursory brush and changed into his pyjamas. Propping himself up in bed, he sipped at the whisky. He struggled to concentrate on the sports pages, but try as he might, his mind kept returning to the conversation he’d had with Malcolm Stuart.

  CHAPTER 14

  Monday 27 June

  When he drifted back to consciousness, Charlie had a foul taste at the back of his mouth. He was still propped up in bed, the newspaper wedged between his fingers. The bedside lamp was still on, the half-drunk whisky sitting on the bedside table. He peered at his alarm clock and saw it was almost four o’clock. He set the alarm for seven, then swallowed the rest of the whisky in one gulp before switching off the lamp and pulling the duvet up to his chin.

  Charlie cut two thick slices of brown bread and popped them under the grill before putting on the kettle to make himself a pot of strong tea. Sitting at the kitchen table, buttering his toast, he made up his mind. He was convinced Tony couldn’t be involved in any of this, but it still had to be checked out. It was how he’d worked all his life – the only way he knew – sifting through a sea of conflicting data, eliminating the impossible and challenging the improbable in order to get at the truth.

  The sun was shining and the sky was clear apart from a few wisps of high, fluffy cloud drifting aimlessly under the influence of a light, swirling breeze. He decided not to go via Glasgow and pick up the M77. Although the motorway would be quicker, he preferred the scenic route. The Monday morning traffic was heavy as he drove, stop start, across the centre of Paisley, past the Abbey, then through the Glenburn housing estate before starting the steep climb towards the Gleniffer Braes. This had always been one of his favourite spots – at least, until a few months ago when a body had been discovered in a clump of trees halfway up the hillside. As he drove past the copse, his gaze was drawn towards the spot where the victim had been found. He recalled vividly arriving at the scene to identify her mutilated body. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach returned.

  Charlie wound down the car window to clear his head, taking deep breaths of the fresh, clean air as he drove along the crest of the Braes. When he reached the hamlet of Lugton, he took the left fork in the direction of Stewarton and continued on the road towards Kilmarnock.

  When he arrived at Crosshouse Hospital, he managed to find a parking space at the far end of the car park, then walked back to the main entrance. There were two girls sitting behind the reception desk, one of them dealing with a middle-aged man who was trying to find out what ward his father was in. Charlie showed his ID discreetly to the other receptionist.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘Would it be possible to talk to someone who was on reception last Thursday morning?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said, stretching for the clipboard under her desk. ‘Thursday morning, you said.’ She ran her finger down a column of names. ‘That would’ve been Lorna.’ She indicated her colleague. ‘And Maurice Struthers. Maurice is on his day off today.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Charlie waited until the person Lorna had been dealing with had walked away before showing her his ID. ‘Last Thursday morning, Lorna,’ Charlie said, ‘did a guy in his late twenties – tall, slim, red hair – come here looking for information about his mother who had supposedly been brought into A&E, the victim of a hit and run – but it turned out to be a hoax?’

  Lorna took off her tortoiseshell spectacles and twiddled with them in her fingers. ‘I don’t recall anything like that happening.’

  ‘Think hard. It’s important. I need a definite answer.’

  ‘Then, no.’ She shrugged. ‘The answer’s definitely no.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure? He would have asked to see Doctor Wilson.’

  ‘We don’t have a Doctor Wilson.’

  ‘What about your colleague who was on duty with you?’ Charlie looked at the other receptionist. ‘Maurice Struthers, you said?’ She nodded. He turned back to Lorna. ‘Could Maurice have dealt with this guy without you knowing about it?’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’ Lorna sounded highly sceptical. ‘But I very much doubt it. As you can see, we sit alongside each other.’

  ‘Perhaps you might have been away from the desk at the time? In the toilets – or on a coffee break?’

  ‘I suppose that could have happened,’ she said, ‘though I’d be very surprised that Maurice didn’t mention anything about it when I got back. I’ve got Maurice’s mobile number. Would you like me to give him a call and ask him?’

  ‘Please.’

  Lorna took her phone from her jacket pocket and paged down her contacts’ list. ‘Maurice? It’s Lorna. Sorry to disturb you on your day off, but the police are here making enquiries about last Thursday morning when we were on together. Did you talk to a guy in his late twenties who thought his mother had been brought into A&E as a hit and run victim, but it turned out to be a hoax?’ Lorna made eye contact with Charlie and shook her head. ‘You’re quite sure? Did anything like that happen on Thursday – or any other day last week?’ Again she looked at Charlie and shook her head. ‘Was there anyone here asking to see a Doctor Wilson?’ There was a pause while Lorna listened. ‘I know we don’t have a Doctor Wilson, but was anyone asking for him?’ Lorna shrugged her shoulders. She ended the call, slipping her phone back into her pocket. ‘Nothing like that happened, Inspector. Not on Thursday, or any other day last week.’

  Charlie put his foot down on the motorway on the way back to Glasgow, trying to make sense of what was going on. Could he have misheard which hospital Tony had been called to? He very much doubted it, but he’d have to check. He wasn’t at all happy at the idea of Tony telling him a pack of lies about going to Crosshouse, but that didn’t make him an IRA sympathiser. There were a hundred and one reasons he might have wanted to sneak time off, Kylie, the red-headed barmaid in Òran Mór, being but one of them. Perhaps he had nipped over to her place for a bit of early morning hanky-panky after her husband had gone to work?

  He allowed himself a wry smile as he recalled the antics of Kirton and Malone. It must have been the best part of thirty years ago. Two coppers on the beat. For more than ten years, every Friday afternoon, between three and four o’clock, Kirton got Malone to cover for him while he supposedly went to visit
his mother in a retirement home. In fact, he was nipping over to Bearsden to have it off with Mrs Malone, safe in the knowledge that her hubby would be fully occupied.

  Would it be better to confront O’Sullivan with the facts and have it out with him? Or should he give him enough rope to hang himself? Charlie decided to play it by ear.

  Charlie’s mobile phone rang as he was getting out of his car in Pitt Street’s underground car park. He saw the call was from Harry Brady. Connecting, he put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Jack Williams isn’t prepared to play ball, Charlie. He’s too scared of what might happen to his missus.’

  ‘Are you still willing to take the stand?’

  ‘There’s no point to it, Charlie. As you said yourself, if it comes down to my word against theirs, they’ll walk.’

  ‘I’m not going to let this drop, Harry. There are other things that can be done – such as setting up hidden CCTV cameras in your shop. But this isn’t something we should be discussing over the phone. I’ll come across to your place and we can talk it through.’

  Brady hesitated. ‘Not right now. I’m on my way out. I’m meeting my brother for a pint.’

  ‘Will you be in the shop this afternoon?’

  Brady hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay if I drop by?’

  Brady gave a resigned sigh. ‘I suppose so.’

  Tony tried calling Sue’s mobile, puzzled when he got a response to the effect that the number he was calling was no longer in service. He checked her number in his notebook and punched it in again, only to receive the same recorded message.

  Harry Brady was walking along Woodlands Road towards The Halt Bar when a car pulled up at the kerb alongside him. The rear door was flung open, blocking his path. When he stepped to one side to avoid walking into the door, the man who had been following him appeared at his shoulder. Grabbing Brady by the wrists, he rammed his arms halfway up his back and bundled him into the back seat of the Mercedes before climbing in after him.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Brady demanded.

  The driver didn’t turn round. ‘We’re not playing, Brady,’ he said.

  Harry recognised Terry McKay’s wheezy voice the instant before the cosh crashed into the base of his skull.

  Charlie looked up the phone number of the Tobermory police station and made the call.

  ‘DCI Anderson, Glasgow CID here. Would you put me through to whoever’s in charge today.’

  ‘That’s me, sir. Sergeant Jerry Condron. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you know a taxi driver on Mull called Gunn?’

  ‘Sure. That’ll be Lachlan.’

  ‘Late last Wednesday night, he picked a man up on a remote stretch of road a couple of miles north of Craignure. I need to know who his passenger was.’

  ‘I’m on duty until seven o’clock, sir. If you like, I could drop in and have a word with Lachlan on my way home. He lives round the corner from me.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Sergeant. Give me a call and let me know what you find out. Do you have a pen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Charlie recited his mobile number.

  Harry Brady heard the twitter of birdsong as he came round. He felt a dull, throbbing pain at the base of his skull. He massaged the back of his neck with his right hand as he slowly opened his eyes, struggling to focus. ‘Where the hell am I?’

  ‘Hell’s not a bad guess.’ He recognised Terry McKay’s voice.

  Blinking his eyes, Brady found he was sitting on a wooden garden bench, wedged between McKay and Hunter. When he looked around he saw they were in a high-walled garden at the back of a large, detached, stone-built house.

  ‘I waited for you in The Rock until after one o’clock yesterday,’ McKay wheezed. ‘Why didn’t you put in an appearance?’

  ‘You know why. I don’t have the money.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, Brady. What kind of signal would it send to the others if word got out that I’d let you off the hook?’ Brady didn’t respond as he continued to massage the back of his throbbing neck. ‘And you thought you could get away with telling your daughter to make herself scarce?’ McKay laughed. ‘How naïve can you get?’

  Brady’s hand froze on his neck. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought you might try to stop us having a chat with Sheila, so I sent Alec over to keep an eye on her house. When he saw her coming out the front door last night, he offered her a lift. Well, “offered” might not be the right word – perhaps, “persuaded her to accept a lift” would be more like it.’

  ‘Fuck you, McKay! What have you done with her?’

  ‘Nothing – yet. She’s upstairs,’ McKay said, pointing towards a second-floor window with the curtains tightly drawn. ‘Once we’ve dealt with you, Alec and I are going to toss up to see who gets first shot at her – and when we’ve both had our way with her, we’re going to dump her body in the Clyde.’

  ‘If you as much as lay a finger on her,’ Brady shouted, trying to scramble to his feet. ‘I’ll strangle you with my bare hands!’

  ‘You mean, with this one?’ Hunter said, grabbing hold of Brady’s bandaged left hand and crushing it in his fist. ‘I don’t think so.’ Brady screamed in agony.

  ‘You just don’t learn, do you?’ McKay said, taking his inhaler from his inside jacket pocket. Cupping both hands in front of his mouth, he depressed the plunger. ‘You’re as pig-headed as McHugh.’

  McKay slipped his inhaler back into his pocket and produced a flick knife. Snapping the blade open, he tested the point with his thumb before holding the tip against Brady’s throat. ‘This is your last chance, Brady. Either you pay me today, or you and your daughter will face the consequences.’

  ‘I don’t have the fucking money!’

  ‘That is not the right answer,’ McKay said, twitching the blade. ‘Think about Sheila.’

  ‘If either of you lay a hand on my daughter, I’ll fucking well kill you.’ Brady’s voice was shaking. ‘I mean it, so help me God!’

  A cruel smile played on McKay’s lips as he pricked the tip of the blade into Brady’s neck. ‘Have it your own way,’ he said, plunging the knife deep into Brady’s jugular, causing a jet of warm blood to spurt out. He looked up towards the sky. ‘It might be time to help him, God.’

  As the death rattle echoed in Brady’s throat, Hunter produced a hacksaw blade.

  ‘It’s the left hand, Alec,’ McKay said.

  CHAPTER 15

  Charlie Anderson pulled up outside Harry Brady’s hardware store in Woodlands Road. He could see the door blind was down. He got out of the car and tried the door handle. It was locked. He checked the time on his watch. Just after four o’clock. The card in the window said the opening hours were from 09h00 to 12h00 and 13h00 to 18h00, Monday to Saturday. When he peered through the window, there appeared to be no one inside. He hammered on the door and rattled the handle. Taking out his phone, he called Brady’s number. There was no reply.

  Sergeant Condron walked along the narrow street of terraced houses, stopping in front of a red-painted door. When he rang the bell, a tousle-haired, teenage girl came trotting down the stairs to open the door.

  ‘Is your father in, Alice?’ he asked.

  ‘Dad! It’s Sergeant Condron!’ she called out. Turning her back, she traipsed back up the steep staircase, leaving Condron standing on the doormat.

  An unshaven, tubby figure appeared from the lounge. ‘What can I do for you, Jerry?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of questions for you, Lachlan. All the way from the Glasgow CID.’

  ‘It must be important, then. Come on in.’

  Lachlan Gunn moved aside to allow Condron to step into the cramped hall. Closing the front door, he led the way to the lounge. ‘What’s it about?’ he asked, waving towards an armchair.

  Condron sat down and took out his notebook and pen. ‘The Glasgow boys want to know if you were driving your taxi late last Wednesday night.’

  ‘Wedne
sday night?’ Gunn scratched at the back of his head. ‘Aye, as a matter of fact, I was.’

  ‘They want to know who your passenger was.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. A bloke came round to my garage on Wednesday afternoon and booked me to pick someone up on the main road, a mile south of Tobermory, at three o’clock on Thursday morning. My instructions were to drive him down to Scallastle Bay, to the track leading to Drumairgh Cottage. I was told to wait there for him, then drop him back off where I’d picked him up.’

  ‘Do you know the guy who made the booking?’

  ‘Never seen him before in my life.’

  ‘Did you not find that a bit strange?’

  ‘Bloody weird, if you ask me. But he was paying in advance, in cash, and with the amount of money he was putting on the table, he could be as weird as he liked as far as I was concerned. He told me where to park my cab at three o’clock in the morning and said I was to wait there until I saw someone coming along the road, flashing a torch on and off.’

  ‘Did you recognise the guy you picked up?’

  ‘Never seen him before. Big bloke – heavily built – carrying a briefcase. When he got into the cab he didn’t say a word. I drove down to Scallastle Bay, as I’d been told. He got out of the car and walked up the dirt track towards Drumairgh Cottage and about half an hour later he came back down the path with someone else. He’d given his briefcase to the other guy, who headed off in the direction of Craignure. My passenger got back into my cab and I dropped him off at the pick-up spot.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  Gunn shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  Condron closed his notebook and got to his feet. ‘Thanks, Lachlan.’ Charlie was sitting at home, watching the television news and nursing a glass of Glenmorangie, when his mobile rang.