by Daly, Bill
‘Doing what?’
‘Floggin’ stuff.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
Devlin caught O’Sullivan’s eye. ‘What do you think?’ he mouthed.
‘I’m not paid to think.’ O’Sullivan pointed towards the tape recorder. ‘Answer the question.’
Devlin cast his eyes down to the floor. ‘Sherbet,’ he said quietly.
‘What flavour?’
He shrugged. ‘Bit of this – bit of that.’
‘How were you selling it?’
‘We’ve got a system. Fraser hangs about outside Marks & Spencer’s with a collection box an’ the punters give him their orders an’ hand over their cash. Fraser gives them a code word an’ tells them where to pick the stuff up. Last night, it was from Ted Wilson at a sandwich bar in St Enoch’s. Fraser tick-tacks the order to me an’ I get on the blower to Wilson an’ tell him to get a package ready to hand over when someone with Save the Children stickers stuck to his jacket gives him the code word.’
‘Who’s Ted Wilson?’
‘Fraser’s cousin.’
‘Where does he live?’
Devlin stared across the desk and shrugged. ‘I’m no’ sure. Elderslie, I think. Or it might be Johnstone. Somewhere over there.’
‘How much did you sell last night?’
Devlin stopped to think. ‘There were three big orders and a few footery ones.’
‘Who was buying big?’ Devlin screwed up his face. ‘And what were they buying?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ he mouthed. O’Sullivan jabbed his finger at the microphone. Devlin rubbed hard at his chin. ‘Dan Atherton paid five hundred for half an ounce of China white,’ he said. ‘Tosh McCulloch picked up a load of crack – canny remember how much he paid – an’ someone I’ve never seen before got three hundred quid’s worth of heroin.’
‘Who were you selling for?’
Devlin was sweating profusely. ‘I have to have protection,’ he whined.
O’Sullivan leaned forward and depressed the pause button. ‘I said a full statement, Devlin. If I’m happy with what I hear, then I’ll consider protection.’ He released the pause button. ‘Who were you selling for?’ he repeated.
Devlin moved to the edge of his seat and stared wide-eyed at the revolving cassette. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head and collapsed back into his chair.
CHAPTER 5
Charlie Anderson depressed the buzzer on his desk intercom. ‘Pauline, try to find Tony O’Sullivan and ask him to come to my office.’
Charlie was standing by the window, gazing out at the drifting snow and lost in his thoughts when O’Sullivan’s discreet cough jerked him out of his reverie.
Charlie turned round with a start. ‘Sorry, Tony, I was miles away.’
‘Pauline said you wanted to see me.’
Charlie indicated the seat opposite. ‘Got a bit of a sensitive one here. He slid a manila folder across the desk. ‘I’d like you to handle it. It appears that the bloke who got stabbed with a syringe at a cashpoint last night was Councillor Frank Mullen.’
‘You don’t say!’ O’Sullivan exhaled noisily.
‘Not my favourite person, as you well know, but you still have to feel sorry for the miserable wee sod.’
‘Was the needle dirty?’
‘They’re checking that out.’
O’Sullivan pursed his lips. ‘He’ll be demanding we bring back the death penalty for this.’
‘Absolutely! Nothing less than hanging will do.’
‘What do we have to go on?’
‘The attacker was a white, male teenager. He assaulted a young girl at the cashpoint and tried to force her to give him two hundred quid. He told her he needed the money to pay off his dealer. She got a good look at him so she should be able to ID him without any problem. She’s downstairs right now giving her statement to Lillian McArthur. The cashpoint should’ve been covered by CCTV. Have a word with the bank and see what they can come up with.’
DC Colin Renton made a call from his mobile. ‘Is that you, Bert?’
‘What can I do you for, Mr Renton?’
‘Gerry Fraser had a nasty accident this morning. I was wondering if you might know anything about it?’
‘This morning, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know Shuggie Morrison’s café in the Gallowgate?’
‘Sure.’
‘That’s one of Fraser’s regular hang-outs. He went there this morning for his breakfast.’
‘And?’
The voice hesitated. ‘Not on the phone. Can you meet me?’
‘Where?’
‘How about Shuggie’s place?’
‘What time?’
‘Would half-past three be okay?’
‘Fine.’
When Renton walked into the café he was eyed up and down by both the owner and the solitary customer. Producing his warrant card he waved it in under Morrison’s nose.
‘Would you like the all-day breakfast, officer?’ Morrison asked, wiping his greasy fingers down his apron front.
‘No, thanks. I’ve already eaten.’
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’
‘What can I do for you then?’
‘I believe Gerry Fraser is one of your regulars,’ he said, taking out his notebook and pen.
Shuggie hesitated. ‘He drops in from time to time.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
Another pause as Morrison exchanged a quick glance with the customer. ‘He was in this mornin’.’
‘Anybody with him?’
Shuggie shook his head. ‘On his tod. He had the full monty,’ he added.
‘With extras.’ The comment had come from the sallow-faced customer sitting on the bench seat by the window, nursing a mug of tea.
‘What did you say?’ Renton turned to face him.
‘Gerry had extra sausage an’ an extra egg this mornin’, didn’t he no’, Shuggie?’ Bert Tollin tilted back his head and swilled down his tea. ‘Said he was starvin’. Said he hadn’t eaten anythin’ last night.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No’ to me,’ Tollin said, getting to his feet and winking at Renton on Morrison’s blind side. ‘Time I was makin’ tracks,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve got a cert for the four o’clock at Market Rasen. Do you want a piece of the action, Shuggie?’
‘I think I’ll take a chance an’ pass up the opportunity of a lifetime, if it’s all the same to you, Bert.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Tollin gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It’s your funeral.’ He shuffled towards the door. ‘See you tomorrow, Shuggie.’
‘See you, Bert.’
Thanking Morrison, Renton put away his notebook and stepped outside. He strode along the Gallowgate, catching up with Tollin opposite the Meat Market. As he drew alongside he slowed to match Tollin’s pace.
‘Good information about the drug dealing in Argyle Street last night, Bert. Inspector Anderson told me to let you know he appreciated the tip-off.’ Tollin nodded without turning to look at Renton. ‘You said on the phone that you might know something about what happened to Gerry Fraser?’
‘Someone phoned the café this mornin’, Mr Renton. Shuggie took the call, then he went over an’ whispered somethin’ in Fraser’s ear. Gerry looked like he’d seen a ghost. Took off like a bat out of hell. Didny even finish his breakfast.’
‘Do you know who was on the phone?’
Tollin shrugged. ‘Might have a wee idea.’ Renton fished a twenty-pound note out of his wallet and slipped it into Tollin’s waiting fist. ‘Shuggie shouted after Fraser as he was runnin’ out the door. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to McAteer?”’
Renton caught his breath. ‘That wouldn’t happen to be Billy McAteer by any chance?’
‘If I was a bettin’ man, Mr Renton, I’d be prepared to risk a few quid on that one.’
‘That would explain a lot. You would
n’t happen to know where Fraser lives?’
‘It’s not far from here. I don’t know the address but I could show you where his flat is.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Follow me – but not too close, mind. I’ve got my reputation to think of.’
Renton gave Tollin a fifty-yard start before following him along the Gallowgate and into Whitevale Road. Turning into Fraser’s close, Tollin waited for Renton to catch up before leading the way up the staircase to the second floor.
‘It looks like McAteer might’ve caught up with him already,’ Tollin said, pointing towards the splintered door lock. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he added, turning round and plodding back down the staircase.
Renton nudged the front door open with his toe cap. When he stepped into the hall he was greeted by a strong smell of dampness and stale tobacco. He eased open the door off the hall and saw the splintered chair and bloodstained linoleum. The stench of excrement permeated the room. Whipping out his handkerchief he used it to cover his nose and mouth. His eyes caught sight of four tobacco-stained teeth, their bloody roots still attached, neatly arranged on the threadbare carpet. Feeling his stomach starting to heave he turned around quickly and ran out of the door and down the stone staircase, gulping for air.
Tony O’Sullivan showed his warrant card to the security guard at the entrance to the St Enoch’s Shopping Centre. ‘How many sandwich bars are there in there?’ he asked.
‘Sandwich bars?’ The guard looked perplexed. ‘Christ, let me think.’ Easing back his peaked cap, he scratched at his forehead. ‘Just two, as far as I know. Both on the ground floor. One half-way along,’ he said, pointing. ‘And the other one down the far end.’
‘Thanks.’
O’Sullivan walked past the first sandwich bar which was staffed by three young girls. The small, grey-bearded man behind the counter at the second one was looking harassed. O’Sullivan waited until he’d finished serving his customer before flashing his ID. ‘I’m looking for Ted Wilson,’ he said.
‘You and me both, pal,’ he growled.
‘Meaning what?’
‘You try to give these people a break – and this is the thanks you get,’ he complained. ‘I got the old sob story from the probation services lassie last week. The guy’s just out of jail. He’s done his time, paid his debt to society. All the usual guff. I normally tell them to get stuffed – I’ve got enough misfits in my own family without taking on the rest of the world’s. But it’s Christmas, I could use an assistant, so I agreed to take Wilson on part time. I do the morning shift, eight to two – and he’s supposed to do two to eight. What time is it? Half-past fucking five,’ he said, answering his own question, ‘and no fucking sign of him. I tried calling his mobile but he’s not answering and when I phoned his digs his landlady told me he’d done a runner last night without paying the rent. I’m knackered. I’ve been on my feet since half-past seven this morning. Where am I going to find someone else in the week before Christmas? The next time I see that wee lassie from the probation I’m going to tell her to go and take a running jump.’
Having asked for Wilson’s address and phone number, O’Sullivan extracted himself from the conversation as quickly as he could.
Friday 17 December
Simon Ramsay scraped the last piece of boiled egg from its shell and opened up The Herald at the sports pages.
‘Busy day in prospect?’ Jude asked casually as she stretched across the kitchen table for the coffee pot to refill her cup.
‘Looks like it might be a bit of a bugger.’ He spoke from behind the newspaper. ‘I’ll probably be late home tonight.’
‘Not too late. Don’t forget we’re going to the opera.’
‘Oh shit!’ He crumpled the newspaper in his fists and quickly got to his feet. ‘Look – why don’t you get someone else to go with you? I can’t be sure of getting away from the office in time and it would be a shame to waste the ticket.’ Jude didn’t respond. ‘What do you think?’ he insisted.
‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ she said slowly. She stopped spreading marmalade on her toast and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’ll give Laura a call. She’ll jump at the chance. Mike was supposed to get them tickets but he conveniently managed to forget because the date happened to clash with one of his poker nights. By the time Laura found out he hadn’t booked anything it was sold out. She was spitting blood at the time.’
Simon lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it over his shoulders. ‘That’s a good idea. Go with Laura.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Must run.’ He bit the end off a slice of toast and picked up his briefcase. ‘If I’m not home before you go out,’ he called from the hall, ‘have a good time.’
Simon drove across town to the car park beneath his office block and again parked at the lowest level. Glancing at the car clock he saw it was half-past nine. He took out his diary to check a phone number and tapped it into his mobile.
‘Could you put me through to Bjorn Svensson, please? He works in the computing department.’
The line clicked and an extension rang. ‘Bjorn? It’s Simon Ramsay. Sorry to bother you at work.’
‘No problem. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a bit of technical advice.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Someone’s trying to wind me up by sending me an email under a false name. I was wondering if there’s any way I could find out who actually sent it?’
‘Who’s his service provider?’
‘All I’ve got is a phoney ID, followed by “hotmail.com”.’
‘It all depends how much trouble he’s gone to.’
‘How’s that?’
‘If he used his own name and address when he set up the ID then Hotmail will have a record of it, but I doubt if they’d give that information out. On the other hand if he used a false name when he established the account I don’t think there’s any way they would know. It’s a free service and a user ID can be set up online without an identity check.’
‘I was afraid you’d say something like that.’
‘If you’re really serious about finding out who sent it, an email can usually be traced back to the originating computer, but if someone wanted to cover their tracks they wouldn’t use their own PC. They’d go to an internet café and send it from there. If they did that the most you’d ever be able to find out is what café the message was sent from. I suppose, if the sender paid for his computer time with a credit card, that could be traced, but if he paid in cash you’d be none the wiser. Tell you what, I’ll drop round to your place this evening on my way home from work and have a look at the email on your machine. If I play around with it there might be something I can do to trace the source.’
‘No thanks. Don’t bother.’
‘It wouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘I said – no thanks!’ He cut the call quickly.
Simon was still huddled and shivering in his car when his mobile rang on the stroke of ten o’clock. He felt his skin creep as he snapped the phone to his ear.
‘Liam Black here,’ the disembodied voice intoned. ‘Have you got the money?’
‘I’ll have it by tomorrow.’
‘Excellent! I knew you’d see sense, Simon. Listen carefully to these instructions. Put the money into a briefcase and drive, on your own, to Kelvin Way tomorrow morning. At eight o’clock precisely, leave your car and take the first entrance to Kelvingrove Park. Follow the path down to the river and cross the footbridge at the bottom of the slope. Just beyond the wrought iron decoration on the right hand parapet of the bridge, drop the case over the side onto the embankment. When you’ve done that go straight back to your car. Have you got all that?’
‘What about the video?’
‘When I have the money, you’ll get the video.’
‘No way! I want the recording in my hands before I hand over any cash.’
‘This is not a negotiation, Simon.’ Again, his name was stretched out. ‘You have
to trust me on this.’ A metallic chuckle echoed down the line. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. As soon as I have the money your precious video will be in the post. And don’t even think about getting up to any smart-arsed tricks,’ he added. ‘If you deviate from these instructions in any way whatsoever the photo will be in the hands of the tabloids in time for a big splash on Sunday.’
The line went dead. Simon sat hunched in his seat, chain-smoking and gnawing at his fingernails, until his phone rang fifteen minutes later.
‘It’s me.’ Laura’s voice was calm. ‘Did he call?’
‘Right on time.’ She listened attentively while Simon repeated the instructions for the handover. ‘Where the hell do we go from here?’ he demanded.
‘There’s someone I need to talk to. I’ll call you back later.’
Laura’s phone rang as soon as she’d disconnected. ‘Laura, it’s me.’ She recognised Jude’s voice. ‘Great news. I’ve got a ticket for you for the opera tonight.’
‘That’s very good of you, sis, but I’m really not in the mood.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not in the mood? You went ballistic when Mike didn’t get tickets because it clashed with his poxy poker school!’
‘I know. But I’ve got a stinking headache and I’m absolutely stuffed with the cold. I’m going to have an early night.’
‘The hell you are! You’ll never get another chance to see this production of La Traviata. If you don’t feel like driving I’ll come over and pick you up.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Jude, but I really don’t think I could face it.’
‘I’m not taking no for an answer. Besides, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll tell you tonight.’
‘But –’
‘No buts. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
*
Charlie Anderson arrived at the primary school in Dennistoun just before ten-thirty. He introduced himself to the secretary and showed her his warrant card.
‘Good morning, Inspector. Miss Appleton told me she was expecting you. I’ll show you to her classroom.’
