by Daly, Bill
Fraser’s darting eyes never left the money as Freer licked his fingers and thumbed through the notes.
‘I make it one thousand six hundred quid, sir, plus the small change.’
‘You’ll be able to sponsor a lot of children with that, Fraser.’ Charlie interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles. ‘The generosity of the Glasgow public never ceases to amaze me. This time next year Africa will be awash with wee black Gerry Frasers – bless their cotton socks.’
Fraser spat his chewing gum out onto the floor.
Charlie unlocked his fingers and slowly clenched and unclenched his right fist. ‘You were just about to pick that up?’
Fraser held eye contact. ‘You wouldny dare, Anderson,’ he sneered. ‘No’ in here.’
Charlie turned to Freer. ‘Take that money over to main reception and ask the duty sergeant to lock it in the safe until someone from Save the Children can come across to collect it. Stop off for a coffee on the way back, son. No hurry.’
Freer scooped up the money and moved towards the door. Fraser made eye contact with Charlie, then bent down and snatched up the chewing gum. He rammed it back into his mouth.
Jude Ramsay caught her husband’s eye across the dining table as he was pushing tiramisu around his plate. ‘What’s the matter with the birthday boy?’ She didn’t try to hide her annoyance. ‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing tonight, Simon. Something wrong with my cooking?’
‘Sorry, Jude,’ Simon said, reaching for the wine bottle and refilling his glass. ‘Bit of an upset stomach. That’s all.’
Jude rolled her eyes. ‘It doesn’t seem to be having too much effect on your drinking.’
Mike Harrison pushed his chair back from the table and patted his bulging stomach. ‘Brilliant meal, Jude. As always.’
‘It’s a pleasure to cook for someone who appreciates it, Mike. How about some more dessert?’
‘You know me, Jude. I can never say no.’ As Jude stretched across the table for his plate Mike took a grip of her hand and made a production of kissing each finger in turn. ‘Just a spoonful now, Jude. And I mean that.’ He patted his paunch. ‘I’m in serious danger of exploding.’
As soon as Jude had disappeared into the kitchen, Laura leaned across to whisper in Simon’s ear. ‘What’s the matter with you tonight?’
He gulped at his wine. ‘It’s not been a good day,’ he mumbled.
‘Being the first of the crowd to turn forty can’t be all that traumatic. It’ll happen to the rest of us soon enough.’
‘It’s serious, Laura,’ he said quietly.
‘Anything I should know about?’ she whispered, furrowing her brow and glancing across towards her husband who was engrossed in telling Bjorn and Helen his latest crude joke.
Simon’s bloodshot eyes stared at her bruised face. ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle,’ he said unconvincingly. Reaching for the wine bottle he cursed when he saw there were only dregs remaining. He dragged himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily to the drinks cabinet, returning with a decanter of port, a bottle of malt whisky and a bottle of Armagnac balanced on a tray.
‘What’s your poison, ladies?’ he asked.
‘Do you have any Drambuie?’ Helen asked.
‘One Drambuie coming up.’ Swaying his way to the drinks cabinet he came back with a liqueur glass filled to the brim. ‘How about you, Laura?’
‘I’d like a port, please.’
Tawny port splashed onto the lace tablecloth as Simon poured from the decanter. ‘Let me make a wild guess, Mike. I’m prepared to bet you’ll be having an Armagnac.’
‘How does the man do it?’ Mike unclipped his silver belt and loosened the side buckles of his kilt. ‘It must be some kind of paranormal gift,’ he said, tugging the straining folds of material away from his stomach. ‘Thank Christ I wasn’t laying odds!’
‘How about you, Bjorn?’
‘I’d prefer to stick to wine, if there is any?’
‘There’s gallons of the stuff in the kitchen.’ Simon glanced in the direction of the closed kitchen door. ‘Do me a favour, Bjorn. Nip through and grab a couple of bottles. The wine rack’s just behind the door. I don’t want to go in there and have to face old misery guts whining on about –’
Simon broke off as Jude reappeared in the doorway carrying a plate stacked high with tiramisu.
Charlie Anderson glanced up at the clock on the interview room wall and saw it was almost midnight. ‘Let me try this one on for size.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Anderson! When are you goany let up?’ Gerry Fraser slumped forward in his chair and massaged his temples with his fingertips. ‘I’ve already telt you everythin’.’
‘How about this for a scenario?’ Charlie said. ‘A punter tells you what he wants to buy and he sticks his money in the collection box. You tick-tack the order to Devlin who then gets on the blower to someone else further down the precinct, telling him to hand the stuff over to the guy plastered in Save the Children stickers.’ He stood up to stretch his aching back. ‘How am I doing?’
‘You’re fuckin’ doolally.’
‘That way, you’ve got nothing on you apart from the collection box, Devlin doesn’t have anything more incriminating than a mobile phone, and neither of you is in the vicinity when the stuff’s handed over.’
‘You’ll be able to prove all that in court?’
Charlie stretched across the desk and grabbed hold of Fraser’s shirt collar, twisting on it hard until his pallid features turned red. ‘Tosh McCulloch’s been supplying kids,’ Charlie hissed in his face. ‘Primary school kids. A ten-year-old boy in my daughter’s school died from an overdose last month. Did you fucking-well know that?’ Tom Freer, sitting by the door, glanced up from his newspaper and then quickly cast his eyes back down. ‘You really don’t give a shit! Do you?’ Charlie roared in Fraser’s face.
When Fraser started to splutter and choke, Charlie relaxed his grip and sank back onto his chair.
‘I know my rights,’ Fraser whined. ‘I want a lawyer.’
Charlie glared at him across the desk. ‘On your bike,’ he snapped, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door. Fraser looked perplexed. ‘Thought I was going to book you? No such luck.’ Charlie stared ostentatiously at his watch. ‘I’ve still got plenty of time to make sure the story breaks in the morning papers. “A man who was suspected of using a Save the Children collection box as a front for selling drugs in Argyle Street last night managed to evade arrest by mingling with the Christmas shopping crowds.” Someone will be mighty relieved to know his one thousand six hundred quid is safe.’
Fraser shifted uncomfortably on his seat. ‘You wouldny do that?’
‘Try me. Unless, of course, you’ve got something you want to get off your chest?’
Fraser’s tongue flicked across his cracked lips. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as who you’re working for. If I happen to believe you I might just see my way to locking you up for the night.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Fine. Have it your own way.’ Grabbing the edges of the desk Charlie pulled himself to his feet. ‘See this chancer off the premises, officer, then get the night editor of the Record on the blower for me.’
Striding out of the room Charlie walked down the corridor and into the adjacent interview room where Tony O’Sullivan was sitting opposite Johnny Devlin. Devlin’s skinny frame was propped on the edge of an upright chair, his faded denim jacket draped around his hunched shoulders, his lank hair tumbling over his slow, cloudy eyes.
Charlie exchanged a nod with the craggy-faced officer leaning against the far wall. DC Colin Renton was the only person in Pitt Street with a longer service record than Charlie, most of it in the uniformed division. With Charlie’s encouragement, Renton had transferred to the CID late in his career.
Devlin twisted round in his seat when he heard Charlie enter. ‘How much longer do I have to put up with this crap?’ he demanded.
Charlie
ignored him. ‘A word, Tony,’ he said, inclining his head towards the door. ‘Are you getting anywhere with him?’ he asked quietly in the corridor.
‘He’s sticking to his story. Says he wasn’t in contact with Fraser. Claims to have no knowledge of tick-tack. Says he was phoning a pal to find out what he wanted for Christmas.’
‘Any grounds for holding him?’
O’Sullivan shrugged. ‘He had a couple of sticks of cannabis on him – nothing to get excited about. Claims it was for personal use.’
‘Unlucky for him that this happens to be zero tolerance week.’ Charlie winked. ‘Book him for possession, confiscate his mobile and have him locked up for the night. When you’ve done that, come up to my office.’
Tom Freer was waiting for Charlie at the far end of the corridor. ‘Did you really want me to put a call through to the night editor of the Record, sir?’
‘Don’t bother, son. I was just putting the wind up him.’
When he got back to his office Charlie found an even bigger stack of paper than usual in his in-basket. On top of the pile was a note from his secretary. He skimmed her scrawly handwriting:
The first draft of your year-end report is due to be submitted to Superintendent Hamilton on Monday. I’ve consolidated the spreadsheets on the statistics (there are copies of all the graphs in your mail). The bottom line is a 4.3% year-on-year increase in reported crime up to end-November, however, the overall figure for violent crime is up by 9.6% and, within that, knife crime is up by 15%. The ratio of solved to unsolved crimes is 7% worse than last year. The Super. has seen the preliminary figures and he sent you an email this morning asking for your comments and an explanation for the adverse trends.
Heaving a weary sigh Charlie flicked through the rest of his correspondence, starting with the printouts of his emails. Anticipating his early retirement he had sat through the computer literacy seminar back in April without taking anything in, spending the time day-dreaming about how he was going to lay out his allotment. Now his lack of attention had come home to roost. His boss was not only computer literate, he was wildly enthusiastic – there was a rumour going around that Niggle was more proficient on an Xbox than his nine year-old son – and he used emails incessantly to issue directives and demand information. Charlie, who had barely mastered how to log on, had come to an arrangement with Pauline whereby she printed out his emails and he hand-wrote his replies, which she then transmitted from his account the following day.
Charlie was wading through his mail, scribbling his responses in the margin, when O’Sullivan walked in.
‘Devlin’s been booked for possession,’ he stated.
‘Fine. Get in touch with his mobile phone company first thing in the morning and find out whose number he was calling at whatever time it was,’ he said, raising the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m whacked.’
‘Anything else need doing tonight?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s high time both of us were out of here. Grab some kip and we’ll pick up the threads in the morning,’ he said, interlocking his fingers and stretching both arms high above his head. ‘Tony,’ he said as O’Sullivan was heading towards the door. ‘Have you got anything planned for Friday night?’
O’Sullivan turned back. ‘If you’re thinking about another stakeout, I can feel a sick granny coming on.’
Charlie smiled. ‘I was thinking more about a steak-in. How about coming round to our place for dinner? Nothing fancy, mind. Just a bite to eat and a few beers.’
‘That’s a nice idea, sir. Thanks.’
After O’Sullivan had left, Charlie spent another half hour ploughing through his emails and jotting down replies, then he sorted through the memos, shuffling the priority items to the top of the pile. Lifting the heavy stack of paper he dropped it into the bottom drawer of his desk and turned the key in the lock.
There was little traffic about and the lights were in his favour as Charlie took his usual route home – along Pitt Street, down the steep slope of West George Street, left into Holland Street and past the row of concrete and glass buildings before turning into Waterloo Street and joining the Clydeside Expressway. He couldn’t stop yawning. There were still a few flakes of snow gusting in the light wind but the roads had been well gritted. He had once worked out how many times he’d driven home from Pitt Street, but he couldn’t remember the number. He tried to do the calculation again in his head to keep himself awake; twenty years, times forty-seven weeks, times, on average, six days a week. His tired brain soon gave up the struggle. He flicked on the car radio, permanently tuned to Radio Scotland. Frank Sinatra was crooning ‘Strangers in the Night’. Turning up the volume he joined in, straining unsuccessfully to hit the high notes.
Charlie merged with the light traffic on the M8 and after a few miles he filtered off the motorway at the Renfrew exit to head along Paisley Road. When he turned into Wright Street, a row of neat, 1940s, semi-detached houses, he found himself driving on hard-packed snow. He pulled up at the kerb outside his gate, deciding against trying to negotiate the short, steep drive alongside his pebble-dashed house. Last week’s attempt at that manoeuvre had resulted in a dented bumper and a couple of bricks dislodged from the wall – another repair job added to the ever-expanding list of ‘things to do when I retire’.
Picking his steps carefully up the snow-covered drive, he glanced up at the front bedroom window and saw the light was on. He turned his key in the lock and called upstairs. ‘Just me, love.’
‘Everything all right?’ Kay’s voice came drifting down the staircase.
‘Fine,’ he said, tugging off his overcoat and hanging it on the hallstand. ‘I’ll be up in a wee while. I could fair use a nightcap.’
The central heating had long since cut out. Charlie went to the kitchen and poured himself a generous measure of Springbank, adding a splash of water from the tap. He wandered into the lounge and switched on both bars of the electric fire before pulling his favourite armchair close to the source of heat and slumping down on the seat.
Blakey stood up in his basket, stretched his long legs and arched his back. Padding purposefully across the room, he leapt straight up onto Charlie’s lap and turned twice in a full circle before settling down with his head nuzzled between Charlie’s knees. Charlie took a long, slow swallow of whisky as he rubbed the cat’s jet-black fur up the wrong way. He picked up the Evening Times from the coffee table and flicked through the sports pages. After a few minutes he could feel himself nodding off due to the combined effects of the alcohol and the heat from the fire. Finishing off his whisky, he lifted the limp cat in both arms and struggled to his feet to carry him across the room and place him gently back in his basket. Having switched off the fire he trudged up the narrow staircase and when he went into the bedroom he found Kay sitting up in bed reading a paperback, a white cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Her close-cropped black hair was sticking out like an urchin’s where she’d towel-dried it before going to bed.
‘How did it go tonight?’ Kay asked, placing a bookmark in her page and closing the book.
Charlie tugged at his tie knot. ‘Not wonderful. We managed to nick a couple of small fry but we didn’t nail anyone who really matters. By the way, Sue was right – Tosh McCulloch is involved.’
‘She was sure it was him.’ Kay gave a quick shake of the head.
‘We might be able to make some progress tomorrow,’ Charlie said, draping his jacket over the back of the chair at the foot of the bed. ‘How was your day?’
‘Pretty uneventful.’ Kay stretched across to switch off her bedside lamp. ‘I went across to see Sue this afternoon,’ she said, slipping off her cardigan and plumping up her pillow before settling down on her back. ‘I was there when Jamie got home from school and, of course, he was desperate to know when his grandad would be coming over to play football with him. It’s his birthday on Sunday – or ‘Rainday’, as he now insists on calling it. I’m going over in t
he afternoon to help Sue prepare the food for his party and I promised him you’d drop by on Sunday morning. Was that okay? Sue’s getting him a new football and I told him you’d go across and try it out with him.’
Charlie’s face lit up. ‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,’ he said, stripping off his clothes and pulling on his pyjamas. ‘By the way I’ve invited Tony O’Sullivan over for dinner on Friday night,’ he added casually.
Kay opened her eyes wide and propped herself up on both elbows. ‘You’ve done what?’
‘I’ve invited Tony over for dinner. Is that a problem?’
Kay looked puzzled. ‘Not a problem. Just a bit of a surprise. I can’t remember the last time you invited a work colleague home for dinner.’
‘Och, I was feeling sorry for the lad. It’s Christmas, his family are all down in Ayrshire, he’s been working his arse off for the past few months and, to top it all, his fiancée gave him the old heave-ho last week. I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to socialise a bit. He’s not the type to take advantage. Is that okay?’
‘Fine by me,’ Kay said as Charlie ambled along the corridor in the direction of the bathroom. ‘Charlie!’ she called out after him. ‘You do know Sue’s coming over here on Friday night?’
Charlie appeared in the bedroom doorway with his toothbrush rammed into the side of his mouth. ‘Is she?’ he mumbled. ‘I’d forgotten.’ He headed back towards the bathroom. ‘No matter.’
‘Forgotten?’ Kay muttered under her breath. ‘That would be a first.’ She switched her bedside light back on. ‘Charlie Anderson!’ She had to shout to make herself heard above the noise of the running tap. ‘I hope you’re not matchmaking?’
‘She could do a lot worse,’ was interspersed with the sounds of coughing and spitting.
‘The last thing this family needs is another copper!’
‘I’ve invited him round for dinner, for God’s sake,’ he spluttered, wiping his mouth on a hand towel as he came back into the bedroom. ‘I suppose he might bring a bottle of wine or a bunch of flowers, but I’m not expecting him to turn up with an engagement ring!’
