Black Mail (2012)

by Daly, Bill

  ‘You are impossible!’ Switching off her light Kay rolled onto her side to face the wall.

  ‘It’s time we were making a move, Bjorn,’ Helen said, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s after one o’clock.’

  ‘Got to rush home and count all your money, I suppose?’ Mike Harrison slurred his words as he sat slumped on the settee.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t go on about that,’ Bjorn said.

  ‘Oh you would, would you?’ Mike reached for the Armagnac bottle and topped up his glass. ‘It’s okay for you, poncing around in your flash pad with money coming out your ears. You don’t give a bugger that some of us are struggling to get by.’

  ‘Back off, Mike,’ Laura said. ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m fucking-well not drunk!’ Mike yelled, slamming the Armagnac bottle back down on the coffee table. ‘That smug, self-satisfied Swedish prick gets on my tits. Who the hell does he think he is, lording it over us and boasting about what a smart arse he is?’ Mike glared at Bjorn. ‘How about spreading some of the largesse around in the family, Bjorn? That way, I might not need to have a chat with the police.’

  ‘Give it rest, Mike,’ Simon said. ‘You’re hardly in a position to threaten anyone with going to the police.’

  ‘Listen to Mr holier-than-thou,’ Mike sneered. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’ve never tried your hand at a bit of insider dealing?’

  ‘At least I’ve never been responsible for putting anyone in hospital.’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘You know fine well what I’m driving at. You’ve never earned an honest penny in your life.’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Mike said, struggling to get to his feet. He started peeling off his jacket. ‘Come outside and say that!’

  ‘Grow up, all of you!’ Jude screamed. ‘This is supposed to be a fucking party!’

  Thursday 16 December

  Gerry Fraser was chilled to the marrow and his feet were killing him as he hobbled down the Broomielaw in the direction of Glasgow Green. He’d been wandering around the city centre all night, too frightened to go back to his flat. It wasn’t yet daylight as he trudged the length of Clyde Street, yanking up his jacket collar and bending low into the stinging wind whipping off the river. The only consolation was that it had stopped snowing. When he turned into the Saltmarket he managed to get some shelter from the buildings as he headed towards Glasgow Cross. As he approached the Gallowgate he looked at his watch and quickened his pace. He knew Shuggie opened up at six.

  Fraser had a stream of unanswered questions churning in his head. He’d tried phoning Johnny Devlin several times during the night but there had been no reply – neither from his flat nor his mobile. Why not? Had the cops locked him up for the night? If so, why Devlin and not him? Were they trying to keep them apart? Trying to prevent them getting their act together?

  The blackboard in the steamed-up window of Shuggie’s café advertised an all-day breakfast at £5.99: sausage, bacon, egg, black pudding, tomato, fried potato scone and baked beans, with tea or coffee and toast. Three regulars were already installed, sitting side by side on a wooden bench with their backs to the door, their fingerless mittens wrapped around steaming mugs of milky tea. All the heads turned round when Fraser walked in. He nodded a curt greeting.

  ‘The usual, Gerry?’ The question had come from the squat figure perched on a high stool behind the counter.

  ‘Bung on double sausage an’ an extra egg, Shuggie. I’m starvin’. I didny get anythin’ to eat last night.’

  Shuggie Morrison wiped his hands on his grubby apron and rammed his shirt sleeves above the elbows, revealing thick, tattooed forearms. He got the fry-up going, regularly flipping the sausages and bacon, then took two eggs from the fridge and juggled with them expertly before cracking them into a smoking pan.

  Fraser sat on the wooden bench by the window from where he could see along the road in both directions. While waiting for his breakfast his red-rimmed eyes flicked constantly up and down the street, deserted apart from the first stirrings of the city’s cardboard kingdom in the shop doorways. When Shuggie brought across a heaped plate and a mug of black coffee Fraser sprayed the food liberally with salt and thin brown sauce from a plastic bottle before diving in. He kept one eye on the street while he munched.

  The phone behind the counter rang. ‘Aye, as a matter of fact he is,’ Fraser heard Shuggie say. This was followed by a pause. ‘About ten minutes ago.’ Shuggie had lowered his voice and Fraser strained to follow the conversation. Another pause. ‘Fine. I’ll let him know.’

  Shuggie came out from behind the counter and sat down on the bench next to Fraser. ‘That was Billy McAteer on the blower,’ he said quietly.

  Fraser’s jaw froze in mid-chew. ‘What was he wantin’?’

  Shuggie craned across to whisper in his ear. ‘He wanted to know if you were here.’

  Fraser gulped down his food. ‘What did you tell him?’

  Shuggie shrugged. ‘I don’t mess about wi’ the likes of McAteer, Gerry.’

  ‘Did he say anythin’ else?’

  ‘He told me to tell you to wait for him here. He’ll be over in five minutes.’

  Fraser stuffed a slice of toast into his mouth and washed it down a slurp of coffee. He scrambled to his feet. ‘How much?’ he demanded, pointing at his plate.

  ‘Six seventy-five, wi’ the extras.’ Shuggie placed a restraining hand on Fraser’s arm. ‘You’d be better off waitin’ for him, Gerry,’ he whispered forcibly. ‘You’ll only make things worse for yourself if you try to do a runner.’

  Fraser pushed Shuggie’s hand aside and dropped seven pounds onto the plastic tablecloth. As he bustled towards the door Shuggie’s voice was ringing in his ears. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to say to McAteer?’

  Fraser trotted along the Gallowgate, glancing over his shoulder every time he heard an engine, hoping it would be a bus. He was breathing hard by the time he reached St Mungo’s Academy, and he clung to the iron railings beside the football field as he struggled to get his breath back. He cursed aloud when he saw a bus approaching. ‘Too fuckin’ late, you useless bastard!’ Cutting across the road he headed up Whitevale Street, past the bricked-up swimming baths, his wheezing lungs on fire. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed before ducking into his close. ‘Grab a few things an’ head up to Oban,’ he panted to himself as he plodded up the worn stone steps. ‘Lie low at Andy’s place till the heat dies down.’

  When he reached the second-floor landing he leaned with his back against the door of his flat as he scrabbled in his coat pocket for his keys, then he suddenly stumbled backwards as the door swung open on its hinges. He stared in terror as his eyes were drawn to the jemmied lock.

  ‘Is that you, Gerry?’ He recognised the voice floating out from the kitchen. ‘Come on in. I made myself at home. Hope that was all right?’

  Fraser heard the slow, rhythmic ring of footsteps coming up the staircase behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck started to crawl and when he spun round he found himself confronted with Billy McAteer’s deformed features.

  ‘You’re awfy predictable, Fraser.’ McAteer’s scarred face was leering at him. ‘If I’d left a message for you to go home straight away I bet you’d have stayed on at Shuggie’s place.’ Fraser’s eyes darted all around, desperately looking for any way to escape, but before he could make a move McAteer dropped the holdall he was carrying and lunged forward, his fists locking around Fraser’s throat and lifting him clean off his feet. He was held dangling at arms’ length as his face turned blue, his feet flailing. ‘The boss wants a wee word with you.’ McAteer laughed in his face. ‘Lucky for you that he needs you to be able to talk, otherwise I’d be squeezin’ a lot harder than this.’ McAteer smiled as he drove his powerful thumbs into Fraser’s windpipe, causing him to black out.

  Gerry Fraser blinked slowly as he regained consciousness. He recognised his own living room but when he
tried to move he found he was bound hand and foot to an upright wooden chair. When he raised his head and blinked again, Billy McAteer’s profile came into focus, lying stretched out on the settee in the middle of the room, reading a newspaper and picking his nose. As Fraser stared at the recumbent figure through petrified eyes, he felt his bowels slacken involuntarily.

  McAteer scrambled to his feet when he saw Fraser stir. ‘He’s comin’ round, boss!’ he called out. Fraser’s eyes swivelled towards the living room door when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the kitchen.

  ‘You were supposed to deliver the money last night, Fraser,’ Mike Harrison snarled. ‘Billy waited for you in The Three Judges until closing time. Why didn’t you show up?’

  ‘We got nicked in Argyle Street, Mr Harrison,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Don’t give me that crap! Where’s my money?’ Harrison towered over the cringing figure, his fist hovering inches from Fraser’s jaw.

  ‘I huvny got it, Mr Harrison!’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Harrison backed off, wafting his hand underneath his nose. ‘What a fucking pong! Have you been shitting your breeks, you dirty wee midden?’ Producing a set of knuckle-dusters from his jacket pocket, Harrison slipped them over his fist. ‘I’m warning you. This is your one and only chance. What have you done with my money?’

  ‘I huvny got it,’ Fraser wailed. ‘I’m tellin’ you the God’s honest truth, Mr Harrison! Devlin and me got nicked in Argyle Street. The cops hung on to the collection box.’

  Harrison slammed the knuckle-dusters into Fraser’s nose, stepping back quickly to avoid the jet of blood that spurted from the gaping wound. ‘You don’t expect me to swallow that load of crap!’ he yelled in his face. ‘Where have you stashed my money, you snivelling wee bastard?’

  ‘I huvny got it! Honest!’

  Harrison lashed out again, splitting open both of Fraser’s lips. ‘Where’s Devlin?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he whimpered.

  ‘You and Devlin are in this together, aren’t you?’ Harrison growled. ‘You’re trying to play me for a mug.’

  ‘No!’

  Harrison stood over Fraser with the knuckle-dusters poised. ‘Billy phoned me at midnight to tell me you’d done a no-show. He had to interrupt me at a dinner party. I didn’t get to my pit until after two o’clock and I’ve got a very sore heid – and I don’t take kindly to having to get up at five in the morning to go chasing after a miserable wee nyaff like you! So, I’m warning you, Fraser. This is your last fucking chance.’ Placing the knuckle-dusters under Fraser’s chin, Harrison used them to lever up his head. ‘Either you tell me right now where my money is or one thing’s for sure – your heid’s goany be an awful lot sorer than mine.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ you the God’s honest truth, Mr Harrison.’ Fraser spluttered, choking on the blood swilling around in his mouth. ‘The cops hung on to the money.’

  On Harrison’s curt signal, McAteer took a faded yellow duster from his holdall and stuffed it into Fraser’s bloodied mouth. Tugging off his jacket, McAteer rolled his shirt sleeves above the elbow, then wrapped Fraser’s ponytail tightly around his fist. His whole body tensed as he strained to lift man and chair into the air. The veins on the side of Fraser’s neck turned purple and his eyes bulged in their sockets as he swung back and forth, inches off the ground, trying desperately to take in oxygen through his blood-caked nostrils. Rummaging in McAteer’s holdall, Harrison produced a large pair of scissors which he used to cut through Fraser’s hair at the point where his ponytail joined his scalp, snipping away until only a few strands of hair remained. McAteer’s biceps bulged and the tattoo of the Red Hand of Ulster on the back of his fist started throbbing. His whole body was quivering with the effort of supporting Fraser’s weight. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  ‘You can do it, Billy!’ Harrison shouted in encouragement, nudging his knee into Fraser’s dangling body and causing him to spin round slowly. ‘Hang in there! He’s going to go any minute!’

  There was a manic sparkle of triumph in McAteer’s eye as the last remaining strands of Fraser’s hair tore out by the roots and his body crashed to the floor, the wooden chair splintering on impact.

  ‘You know the score.’ Harrison spat on the moaning figure. ‘You’re responsible!’ he shouted, launching a swinging boot and catching Fraser full in the testicles. ‘Make sure he’s not holding out on us, Billy.’

  As Harrison turned and strode from the room, McAteer pulled a pair of pliers from his holdall.

  CHAPTER 4

  Niggle was on the phone when Charlie arrived to brief him. Superintendent Nigel Hamilton had acquired his nickname when he was a detective sergeant and it had stuck with him throughout his career. As far as Charlie was concerned, he embodied the worst possible combination – an inferiority complex along with a rank that allowed him to throw his weight around. Charlie had long since concluded that nothing he did would ever please Hamilton, with his round, unsmiling face, his sallow complexion and his narrowly-spaced eyes. Niggle had the irritating habit of continually sucking on his teeth, causing his thin lips to be permanently pursed and contributing to his pedantic manner of speaking – a slow delivery that made Charlie want to finish his sentences for him.

  ‘What was the result of last night’s operation, Anderson?’ Hamilton demanded as he replaced the receiver.

  ‘The tip-off was good. We arrested a couple of small-time dealers in Argyle Street and we confiscated their money but we didn’t lay our hands on any drugs.’

  ‘The object of the exercise was to find the source of the supply. Did you manage to achieve that?’

  ‘We gave the dealers a grilling but they’re not talking.’

  ‘So that’s a “no”?’

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. ‘If that’s the way you want to look at it.’

  ‘What I want to look at is results!’

  Charlie bit into his bottom lip. ‘I’ll keep you posted, sir.’ Spitting out the last word, he strode out of the office.

  Simon Ramsay drove down the steep ramps beneath his city-centre office block until he reached the lowest level, where there were only a few vehicles parked. Manoeuvring his Jaguar head-on to the concrete wall he switched off the engine, his eyes glued to the digital clock. He drew hard on his umpteenth cigarette of the morning as he peered through the gloom at the luminous display, swallowing hard as it flicked over to ten o’clock. Snapping open his briefcase he fumbled for his mobile phone and gripped it tightly in his fist as he shivered in the unnerving silence, his gaze continually flitting between the clock and the phone.

  It was a further twenty minutes and two more cigarettes before he felt the phone start to vibrate in his palm. On the first trill of the bell he depressed the button to make the connection.

  ‘You got my message?’ The voice sounded mechanical, as if disembodied.

  ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘If you got my email, you know who it is – Liam Black.’

  ‘How the fuck did you get your hands on that photograph?’

  There was a low chuckle. ‘That’s hardly relevant. As I said in my note, that was just a sample. I’ve got the full, two-hour, uncensored video.’

  The phone was twitching in Simon’s trembling fingers. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘That’s more like it. I’m not an unreasonable man,’ the deep, metallic voice intoned. ‘I’ll settle for fifty grand.’

  ‘You’re off your fucking head!’ He screamed into the mouthpiece. ‘I can’t lay my hands on that kind of money!’

  ‘Come on now! Flash pad in Park Terrace, top of the range Jag, round the world cruises, winter skiing in St Moritz.’ He chuckled coldly. ‘It might take a wee effort, Simon.’ His name was dragged out. ‘But it’ll be well worth it.’

  ‘Don’t you fucking-well “Simon” me!’

  Black’s tone changed abruptly. ‘You’re not calling the shots around here. What do you think your wife’ll call you if she sees
that photo? It sure as hell won’t be “Simon”. Probably “Pervert”. That suits you right down to the ground. I can see it now – “Pervert Ramsay” – splashed across the front page of the Sunday papers.’

  Simon stubbed his cigarette into the already overflowing ashtray and lit up again immediately. ‘Nobody would publish it,’ he croaked.

  ‘That particular photograph? Probably not. A bit on the crude side for a family newspaper, don’t you think? But the tabloids would fall over themselves to get their hands on the story. How much do think I’d get for an exclusive? ‘Son-in-law of leading Glasgow stockbroker caught in flagrante’. I reckon that would be worth fifty grand of anybody’s money. So you see, I’m not being unreasonable, Simon – just asking the market rate.’

  ‘I need time … I need time to think,’ he blurted out, grabbing a tissue from the packet in his briefcase and using it to dab away the perspiration from his brow.

  ‘It’s a bit late in the day for that, Pervert. The time to do your thinking was before you dropped your breeks. Now’s the time to focus on how you’re going to raise the cash. I want it in used notes – fives, tens and twenties, nothing bigger. You’ve got forty-eight hours to get the money together. I’ll call you at the same time tomorrow and give you instructions for handing it over.’

  ‘You’re crazy! I’m telling you I can’t lay my hands on that kind of money!’

  ‘Forty-eight hours, Pervert.’ The staccato words reverberated in his ear. ‘If you don’t come up with the cash by Saturday morning the story will break in the Sunday papers. It’s up to you. By the way, that’s a nasty-looking big plook you’ve got on your bum. If I were you I’d get that seen to.’ The connection was broken.