‘Bullet’s still in there,’ one of the forensic team says to him, breaking his train of thought.
Taking in the room. Two wine glasses on the dresser, one empty wine bottle. She hadn’t mentioned that. Need to find out about that. He can see that the forensic mob want him out of their way. They have their scientific wonderment to be getting on with, and he’s blocking the path to the body. Fisher steps back to the bedroom doorway. So the killer kills. Then what? You turn out a light when you leave a room. Did he? Need to find that out as well. Find out the ID of the first cop on the scene, get some proper detail. Don’t rely on a report. Get it from the horse’s mouth. Few people write with the same sense of detail as they speak. You don’t get the mood of the place and people from a report.
Back down the stairs. His mate standing just inside the living room. The living-room door is directly opposite the bottom of the stairs. His cohort hears him coming down the stairs, no need to speak. They leave. Back out the front door, back to their car. Did they have a driver? Could be looking for three men rather than two. May not have felt they needed one. They didn’t. Textbook job. Easy. You avoid using a third man if you can. The pros make sure they use no more people than is necessary. Probably no driver. Can’t rule it out, though. Got to talk to that taxi driver, and the guy who shared the taxi.
Fisher is standing out on the front doorstep. Breathe in the cold night air. Did any of the neighbours hear the gunshot? They’re all up now. Lights in every house. Nosy bastards peeping around curtains. Heard the sirens, heard the chatter. One of them might have something interesting to say about their deceased neighbour and his girlfriend. One of them might have seen a strange car in the street. Sort of place where people notice that sort of thing. Sort of place where people have nothing better to do. If one of them hears the gunshot and runs to a window, they might have seen the killers leave. Might have seen what car they got into.
Hard to catch a pro. Relying on a lot of unreliable things. Give her a few hours, then question Cope again. Find out what club they were at. Get CCTV from there. They might have been followed home from the club. Slim chance, but worth the trouble. It’ll help them to ID the taxi driver who took them home. That’ll help. She won’t know who it was. Don’t trust the taxis. Too many of them tied up in the criminal business. Find out who the driver was. Find out if he might have tipped people off about movements. Then question the guy who shared the taxi. Is he involved in the criminal world? Was he there to make sure Winter got home safe and sound? Get him home pissed. Make the hit that much easier. Possible.
Not a lot more that he can glean from the scene. The first thing he’ll do is find out who the first cops on the scene were. If they’re still on shift, then have them come and see him. If not, get them as soon as they’re back on tomorrow. Not urgent enough to warrant getting them out of bed if they’ve already gone home. They’ll have filed reports. That’ll do for now. Only for now.
Fisher is driving back to the station. You never know how these investigations will pan out, but it already feels like a long shot. As the police become more professional, so do the people they’re up against. People learn how to avoid all the new tricks they develop. More and more, the ones they’re catching are the dregs. They get the occasional good one, but that takes so much more work than it used to. Smart lawyers make life difficult. The police spend so much time on that one good catch that they lose sight of other targets. Fisher has become convinced that the approach is wrong. They need to better target the people at the top of the tree, forget about the gunman halfway down.
26
It’s after ten o’clock when Calum wakes up. He often sleeps late. He still feels the exhaustion of last night. It was after four when he finally got to sleep. Most people don’t sleep at all after that sort of job. The adrenalin won’t let them. They stay up, they do things. There’s not a lot that can be done in the middle of the night. Perhaps those with girlfriends have something to do, he’s thinking. And then he’s thinking about what sort of girlfriend he could have in his life. One who understands what he does for a living. One who knows the business. Otherwise he would have to try to hide it all from her. Impossible. It would have to be one who knows the business, and he doesn’t want the sort of woman who knows the business.
It’s the buzz after the job that catches a lot of people out. They go and do something that draws attention to themselves. A lot of people get caught by drink. They can’t sleep; they can’t slip back into a proper routine. They go home and they open a bottle. Deadens the nerves. Helps them get to sleep. A necessary part of the job, they say. It becomes a bottle after every job. Then they’re using it more often – a tonic to cope with the work they do. Every time their nerves jangle they go for a bottle. Before too long you can’t even do the job because of your dependency. Not a mistake Calum will make. He doesn’t drink. Not at all. He just copes. No great secret to it. No great skill. Just deal with it.
He’s getting out of bed and going through the same routine he goes through almost every single day. Toilet. Brush teeth. Shower. Breakfast. Something light. He’s not in the mood to eat. Not in the mood to do much. It’s the comedown. An inevitable consequence of the highs of the job. Something else a lot of people don’t cope well with. The higher the buzz from the job, the steeper and more damaging the comedown when the buzz wears out and it’s back to life as you knew it. Some people chase that buzz. Some do a lot more jobs than is safe. Again, not Calum. Studied. Methodical. Keep the jobs spaced safely apart; don’t do too many or too few. Don’t get too high during the job, don’t get too low afterwards.
It’s a solitary job. If you want to do it well, then you must learn to work alone. You must learn to live alone. You must be a solitary person. The best gunmen all are. It gets harder as you get older. The need to have other people around you. The need to be a part of something bigger than yourself. So far, that’s not an issue for Calum. He’s used to being alone, used to living alone and working alone. This job required a second pair of hands, so he used George. Usually he works alone and is more comfortable that way. He’s lived alone since he was nineteen years old. He’s had girlfriends, some who stayed over, but he has never allowed a relationship to reach the point where they expected to stay over every night. No danger of them moving in. He needs space. Needs it to the extent that he now worries he can’t live any other way.
You see a lot of them in the business. Guys in their forties and fifties, chasing younger women. Not just chasing them for sex. They look like dirty old men, but there’s more to it. They want a younger woman they can settle down with. They want a family. They want all the things they avoided earlier in life. To hell with the risk – life isn’t worth it any more if they can’t have the things they want. It’s a chilling thought. You work hard, take risks and make sacrifices when you’re younger, and all you end up with is a craving for the things you sacrificed. There are so many of them. Of course, those old guys won’t admit that they were mistaken in their youth, but it seems obvious.
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, dressed and eating a bowl of cereal. Thinking about the usual things gunmen think about when they find themselves with time and opportunity to think after a job. What did I do wrong? Were there any mistakes that might catch me out? What are the police doing right now? What are the other people involved doing right now? It’s impossible not to think about the consequences when they’re so monumental. A lifetime in prison. He’s never been inside. Knows some people who have. Hears the stories. Some bad, some terrible. Mostly about how crushingly boring life is. How you’ll want life to end, because carrying on is too tedious for words. His one consolation is that he’s good at coping with boredom.
No mistakes. No obvious mistakes anyway. Take nothing for granted. Try to remember every detail. No mistakes. The police? It’s possible to find out how their investigation is progressing, but it’s better not to. There’s danger in asking questions. People will wonder why you want to know. Better to stay silent a
nd glean what you can without asking. Sometimes they make it easy for you. A murder is likely to get some reporting, certainly in the local media. But it won’t go big these days unless the police want it to.
A lot of gangland killings don’t get reported on the national news. Not newsworthy enough – niche story. If the police make an issue out of it, then it is reported. The police do a public appeal; ask people if they saw anything. Then it is reported. Then the journalists flock around and speculate about death, destruction and the moral collapse of society. They link one crime to a number of others. It becomes a good story. You don’t want that. You don’t want the killing that you carry out to be the one the media latches onto. You don’t want it to get a name for itself. The ‘something’ killing. Once it has that profile, you have problems. Potential employers don’t like working with people whose crimes gain notoriety; even if the crime itself was no better or worse than any other gunman’s.
There are two reasons the police go to the media. One is that they have nothing. They have no clues, no leads, nothing that can point them in the right general direction. They need help. Desperately. They go begging for clues. Sometimes people see a police appeal on the TV and decide that they remember something. Sometimes that something can lead to a conviction. The begging is worth it. The other reason is that they have something very specific. They have a clue that they know will nail the killer – they just need other people to see it. Maybe a piece of clothing, an accurate description. Something. They put it on TV and they know that people will recognize it. Then they get the name they need.
If it makes the news, then he’ll read about it, or see it. If not, then he waits. Typically you hear nothing for some time. Sometimes you never hear another word about it. You know the police are investigating, but if it’s obviously gangland, and the victim is obviously scum, then the motivation to catch the killer is slighter. The police won’t admit it, but they want to help victims who deserve their help. They’ll say they never differentiate. They’re human – they differentiate. They want to help people who have been treated appallingly and don’t deserve it. Their emotions lead them towards the undeserving victims of crime. They’re human. That’s their weakness.
So you hear nothing, and the investigation is wound down, and nothing happens. Other times you get cops who chase after you for years, but they have nothing to go on. They might even suspect the right person, but they can’t find the evidence they need to take it to court. It’s infuriating for them. They think they know who did it. Everyone keeps telling them the same name, but it’s all rumour. They have nothing that they can put before a jury. You simply can’t go before a court with a hunch. There’s a lot of cases like that. They’re damaging because you don’t want to be a gunman with a cop looking over your shoulder.
The first two weeks. That’s when there’s nothing but uncertainty, and worry. You’re thinking about what everyone else is doing. You’re wondering how close to you the police are. You’re worrying that this might be the crime that tips you over the top. You go from being off the police radar to being in their sights. You become the target. It’s almost bound to happen at some point. Calum tries to be as careful as he can, but one really smart cop might come along and catch him out one day. Technology may move forward and catch him out, not just on one job, but on every job he’s ever done. He’s met people who committed crimes twenty years ago, thought they’d got away with it, and are now terrified that the police will reopen the case and catch them with modern technology. ‘Modern technology’ have become dirty words to some in the business.
He’s wondering what the others are doing. He won’t be able to find out. George will be going about his business as he always does. He’ll be making sure that he does nothing to suggest he ought to be in hiding. Jamieson and Young may or may not know that the hit has happened. Sometimes they find out within a few hours. Word goes round, police contacts tell people in the business, and they find out. Sometimes it takes an age to find out. The person’s body isn’t discovered as soon as you would expect. The police keep things under wraps. For some reason your employers don’t find out for a couple of days. They just have to trust. So do you.
The key is not getting twitchy. You trust them not to bottle it; they trust you to do the same. You don’t call them up to find out how things are going. You don’t get in touch to let them know you’ve done the job. Such is the job. Silent trust. They will find out at some point that you carried out the hit, and that you did it about as well as it could be done. They’ll know, they’ll be happy, but they’ll keep it to themselves. You don’t go near them for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe longer. Depends on the developing situation. If there’s heat, then you might not go near them for a month, and even then only through a third party. You have to get paid. Established people like Jamieson don’t screw you over on the money. If they do, and word gets out, then who wants to work for them in the future?
The last thing they want is you calling them or turning up to see them. What if the police check phone records? So, Mr Jamieson, why did Calum MacLean telephone you the day after he murdered a man? The police have their link. They know who ordered it. Your stupidity brings down many powerful people, who won’t forgive and forget. They could be watching you. They could be watching Jamieson. You must be careful, and give them nothing. So you sit tight. The clock ticks. The world goes on around you. You do nothing.
27
Fisher is run off his feet. That frantic period, in the immediate wake of a killing, when there’s so much to do. This is the bit he enjoys. You can see it in his face, in his mood. He’s loving this. He knows it won’t last, for one thing. He’ll either catch the killers, the investigation ends and he goes back to more mundane things while he waits for the next one, or the investigation will run out of steam. Depends on how good they are. Depends on how good he is. For now, though, there’s everything to do. Revel in it. Immerse yourself in it. This is what makes it worthwhile.
He’s on his way to meet Zara Cope again. She slept at the station last night, she’s still there. Just a few more questions, little things. Find out what club they went to, for one. Get CCTV, if there is any. Find out what taxi they took home, what driver. Find out who the other passenger was. See what these people have to say for themselves. He already knows who the first plods on the scene were. One of them was Paul Greig. Jesus fucking Christ! That crook seems to be able to stick his nose into places it shouldn’t be, even when he’s just doing his job. Fisher knows him well enough to know that he shouldn’t trust him. Not one single damned word. Okay, Greig hasn’t done anything wrong in this case, yet. Wouldn’t put it past him, though. There are cops who are paid to be the first on the scene, remove any evidence left behind. Fisher knows it happens. Wouldn’t be surprised if Greig was one such cop. It’s always worth being suspicious when that lying bastard is first on the scene. Why has nobody complained about him yet? Why in hell hasn’t he been kicked out of the force?
Back in the station. Little bit of paperwork. Boring, stupid paperwork. A report about the contents of the house waiting for him. Nothing deemed suspicious by the detective constable who looked around. No drugs found. Little bit of money, but just loose cash. Nothing that would raise eyebrows. Going to take longer to work out the other details. How much money does Winter have in bank accounts, and can we prove that it came from drugs? Difficult with a dead guy. Difficult if he didn’t leave any easy evidence behind. Initial search of the house suggests that he didn’t. Disappointing. Someone else will decide what happens with his assets, and whether they can be taken.
As he walks down to the suite where Cope’s stayed the night, he’s annoyed that he has nothing to throw at her. No drugs. No suspicious documents. No suspicious money. Not a huge surprise. A dealer of Winter’s experience would know how to be careful, would know how to hide the things that need to be hidden. They plan for the worst-case scenario. Doesn’t get worse than this. If there had been drugs, he would have her over a barrel. H
e could ask her whatever he wanted. Put the pressure on. Get some proper detail from her.
People would scowl if they knew how he was thinking. He knows what people make of his attitude. You mustn’t be so aggressive towards the woman. She’s a witness. She’s a victim. She had a gun pointed at her. You must treat her with the sympathy that she deserves. Bullshit! Complete bullshit. She’s the girlfriend of a drug dealer. She lived with the man. She knew that he was a dealer, a peddler of filth. She went along with that. It’s inconceivable that she doesn’t know some detail about the business he was involved in. Names. Dates. Amounts. She’ll be sitting on all sorts of information. Smart little girl. Knows that she can’t give too much away. Knows what’s safe for her and what’s not. If something had been found, then he could dangle it over her. Not now. Not yet.
He’s knocking on the door and waiting outside. The female cop answers it, nods to him, invites him in. He can’t remember her name. Not important. Cope is sitting on the couch again. Dressed properly now. Someone must have brought her clothes. No family with her. There usually is, morning after something like this. People rush to comfort.
‘How are you feeling this morning, Zara?’ he’s asking her. He sounds like he’s concerned. He’s not. Years of practice.
‘Okay, I guess,’ she says with a nervous shrug. She looks afraid. She is.
‘There’s just a few little questions I want to ask you about last night,’ he’s saying to her. ‘A few details I need to know, then we can let you go. Do you have somewhere you can go to?’ he’s asking her, presuming she knows that the house is out of bounds for a few more days.
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Page 12
