Black Mail (2012)

by Daly, Bill

  ‘Thanks.’

  Charlie followed the secretary along the wide corridor, the click of her heels echoing noisily off the tiled floor. When they reached the classroom she knocked sharply on the door and waved through the glass panel to Miss Appleton. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Inspector,’ she said, turning away as the door was opened by a sturdy, matronly figure dressed in a brown tweed suit.

  Walking into a primary school classroom for the first time in fifty years, Charlie was greeted by the animated chatter of ten-year-olds in groups of three or four, poring over large maps of the world spread out over their desks – a far cry, he thought, from the silence and regimented rows of his youth. Clare Appleton smiled warmly as she shook his hand.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to let me talk to them,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Not at all, Inspector. Dreadful business about John.’ Charlie saw the emotion welling up in her eyes, but she composed herself quickly. ‘All I’ve told them is that a senior policeman would be coming to talk to them this morning,’ she explained. ‘They do know it’s about John,’ she added in a hushed tone. She lowered her voice even further. ‘John’s best friends were Tommy McPhee, red pullover, second from the front, by the window and Lachlan Brown, striped jumper, sitting behind Tommy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Charlie nodded. ‘This’ll only take a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Boys and girls.’ Clare Appleton clapped her hands to get their attention. ‘This is the policeman I told you about. His name is Detective Chief Inspector Anderson and he works for the Glasgow Police.’ The buzz of conversation died away and all the curious eyes turned towards Charlie. ‘He’s come to ask you for your help so please give him your full attention.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Appleton.’ Charlie turned to the class. ‘You all know that John O’Hara died last month,’ he stated. ‘And you know his death was caused by taking drugs.’ A murmur ran round the room. ‘I’m not here this morning to tell you about the dangers of getting involved with drugs. You know all about that already. What I’m trying to do is find out who sold John the drugs and for that I need your help. What I want to know is if any of you saw John talking to a stranger near the school.’ Charlie’s gaze travelled slowly round the silent room, his stare settling on Tommy McPhee and Lachlan Brown. McPhee was making full eye contact and shaking his head from side to side, but Brown had looked away and was staring out of the window.

  Charlie turned back to the rows of blank faces. ‘You might not be able to recall anything straight away but if you remember anything after I’ve gone, please tell Miss Appleton and she’ll pass the information on to me,’ he said with a reassuring smile as the bell for the morning break clanged loudly down the corridor.

  ‘Is that everything, Inspector?’ Miss Appleton asked. Charlie nodded. ‘All right, children. You can go out now. Now remember – no running in the corridors!’ she said sharply as they filed quickly out towards the playground.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector. Not much help, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anything straight away – but someone might remember something later.’

  ‘Do you want to see your daughter while you’re here?’ she asked. ‘She’s in classroom 5.’

  ‘No, thanks. I won’t disturb her – but if it’s possible I would like to have a couple of minutes with Lachlan Brown after the interval.’

  ‘Do you think he might know something?’

  ‘I’m not sure – just a gut feeling.’

  ‘The staff room will be free after the break. I’ll show you where it is and I’ll send Lachlan along.’

  Lachlan Brown knocked timidly on the staff room door and entered on Charlie’s call. Charlie was seated at the far end of the large, rectangular table. ‘Sit down, son.’ Lachlan looked all around the room, as if afraid to take a seat. ‘It’s okay, Lachlan. There’s nothing to worry about. I just want to talk to you about John.’ Apprehensively, Lachlan took the seat next to Charlie. ‘I’m told you and John were best friends?’ Lachlan nodded, tugging a lock of curly brown hair back from his forehead. ‘Did you ever see John talking to a stranger near the school?’ Lachlan shook his head quickly. ‘Has anyone ever tried to sell you drugs, Lachlan?’ His muttered ‘no’ was barely audible. ‘I know how these guys operate, son. They tell you drugs are great, exciting – real grown up stuff. They give you some to try and then when you want more they demand money – a lot of money. They tell you to steal the money from your parents, or from anyone else, and they warn you they’ll beat you up if you mention anything about this to your parents or your teacher – and if you shop them to the police they threaten to mark you for life.’ Lachlan’s fingers were twitching on his knees as he gazed down at the floor. ‘I wouldn’t ask anybody to risk that, son, but you remember what happened to John?’ A whimper escaped from Lachlan’s clenched teeth. ‘You wouldn’t want that to happen to anybody else, would you?’ Lachlan shook his head slowly from side to side as he fought to hold back the tears. ‘However, if you don’t know anything, then you won’t be able to help me,’ Charlie said. ‘I understand that.’

  Getting to his feet, Charlie took a batch of photographs from his jacket pocket and let them spill onto the floor. ‘Damn! My photos are all mixed up now,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour, Lachlan. I need to go to the bathroom. While I’m away could you pick up my photos and try to sort them into order for me? When you’ve done that just leave them on the table and go back to your classroom.’ Lachlan held full eye contact, nodding slowly. ‘That would be very helpful, son.’

  A few minutes later Charlie returned to the staff room and picked up his photos from the desk. He studied the one on top of the pile and nodded in grim satisfaction. ‘Thanks, Lachlan,’ he muttered.

  ‘Last bed on the left, Sergeant.’

  Putting away his warrant card and thanking the nurse, Tony O’Sullivan walked the length of the ward until he came to the bed where Gerry Fraser was sitting up, his back propped against two pillows. Fraser was dressed in a hospital bed gown and a hypodermic needle, attached to a drip feed, was bandaged into his left forearm. His face was a mass of black and blue, his nose twisted, his lips swollen and lacerated.

  O’Sullivan pulled out the bedside chair which bounced and squeaked gratingly on its rubber castors. He sat down and took out his notebook. ‘The doctor tells me you had a bad fall, Fraser.’

  Fraser’s neck craned in O’Sullivan’s direction. He inclined his head slightly in recognition. ‘Like I said to the doc, I was tryin’ to change a light bulb,’ he mumbled. O’Sullivan winced when he saw the stitches protruding from Fraser’s swollen gums. ‘An’ the fuckin’ chair I was standin’ on gave way.’

  ‘You fell on your face?’ Fraser nodded slowly. ‘And you tore out four teeth?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘By the roots?’ Fraser shrugged. ‘And I suppose your ponytail broke off as well?’

  ‘Thought I’d go for a change of style this Christmas. I hear ponytails are right out of fashion.’

  ‘Who did this to you?’ Fraser gazed back in silence through sad, red-rimmed eyes. ‘What are you trying to prove?’ O’Sullivan insisted. Fraser’s eyelids drooped. Getting to his feet, O’Sullivan flicked his notebook closed and slipped it back into his pocket. He leaned across the bed to look Fraser straight in the eye. ‘Don’t you want them put away?’

  Fraser’s eyelids flickered as he turned his head and stared vacantly across the ward at the empty bed opposite. With a shake of the head O’Sullivan spun on his heel and cursed softly as he strode back down the ward.

  The mid-afternoon traffic was light as Laura Harrison drew up outside the Rosevale Tavern in Dumbarton Road and signalled to the figure huddled in the pub doorway, sheltering from the sleet. When Billy McAteer saw the Rover pull up he folded his Sporting Life and balanced it on top of his head as he lumbered towards the vehicle.

  Laura looked anxiously up and down the street. ‘Get in. Quickly!’ she snapped, throwing open the passenger door. McAteer stooped to
lever his frame into the car and had hardly time to yank the door closed before the car revved away from the kerb. Running an amber traffic light, they turned into Crow Road.

  ‘What’s the panic?’ McAteer asked, clipping on his seat belt as they accelerated hard past Sainsbury’s towards the top of the hill.

  ‘I need you to deal with someone for me,’ Laura said, checking in her rear-view mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  McAteer gnawed at the torn quick of his thumbnail as he gazed across at her. ‘What, exactly, do you mean by “deal with”?’

  ‘I don’t care how you do it.’ Laura was struggling to control the tremble in her voice. ‘In fact, I really don’t want to know anything about it. The only thing is …’ Her knuckles were white as she gripped hard on the steering wheel. ‘It has to be permanent.’

  ‘Permanent, is it?’ McAteer whistled softly and turned square on in his seat to study her tense profile. ‘Permanent doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘How much?’

  McAteer stroked his chin reflectively as if he’d never considered that question before in his entire life. ‘You’d be looking at ten grand.’

  Checking her rear-view mirror again Laura filtered left into Broomhill Drive. ‘Okay. Ten thousand it is. But it might take me a week or two to raise the money.’

  McAteer furrowed his scarred forehead. ‘I don’t work for tick, Mrs Harrison.’

  ‘Ten thousand’s a lot to come up with. I assume you’ll be wanting it in cash?’ she added.

  He continued to study her tight-lipped profile. ‘Like I said, I don’t do tick.’

  ‘I’ll need to take out a loan to raise the money,’ Laura said, pulling out to overtake a slow-moving lorry. ‘In itself, that won’t be a problem. However, I don’t want to do it through the bank, so it might take me a few days to get it organised.’

  ‘In which case I’ll deal with your problem when you’ve got the money.’

  ‘It has to be tomorrow, Billy.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ McAteer sat back in his seat, mulling this over and chewing hard on his thumbnail as they looped back down the hill. ‘Okay,’ he nodded as they were about to rejoin Dumbarton Road. ‘I suppose your credit’s good. But just a few days, mind. One week – that’s the limit.’

  Laura stopped at a red traffic light and turned to face him. ‘This has to remain strictly between us.’ Her face was flushed. ‘Mike must never get wind of this.’

  McAteer chortled. ‘I didn’t think you were giein’ me a hurl in your new motor to impress me wi’ your drivin’.’ Laura spun back round to face the road. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, who has to be “dealt with”?’

  ‘A blackmailer.’

  ‘You’re being blackmailed?’

  ‘Not me – a friend.’

  ‘Does your friend have a name?’

  ‘Does he have to?’

  McAteer shrugged and grinned. ‘I suppose not.’

  As they crawled along Dumbarton Road, hopping from one red light to the next, Laura explained the handover instructions.

  ‘Following the blackmailer after the pick-up won’t be easy,’ McAteer mused. ‘Likely as not he’ll have transport lined up. And he’ll be on the lookout for anyone tryin’ to tail him. He’s picked a good spot.’ He nodded his approval. ‘Kelvingrove Park’s got a lot of wide open spaces.’

  ‘Can you handle it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he stated confidently. ‘Tell your friend to follow the instructions and drop an empty briefcase over the side of the bridge. Leave the rest to me.’

  As they were approaching the Rosevale Tavern from the opposite direction McAteer unclipped his seat belt and gripped the door handle.

  Darkness was starting to fall as Simon Ramsay shivered alongside three other smokers at a wooden trestle table outside The Rock in Hyndland Road, a bottle of Budweiser in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. When his mobile started to ring he got to his feet and distanced himself from the other smokers before taking the call.

  ‘It’s Laura. Everything’s taken care of.’ Her voice was trembling.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘All you have to do is follow the instructions and drop an empty briefcase over the side of the bridge.’

  ‘What’ll happen then?’

  ‘The blackmailer will be taken care of.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘A guy called McAteer. He works for Mike.’

  ‘What’s this McAteer character going to do?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘I have no idea!’ Laura’s voice was on the point of cracking. ‘And I don’t fucking-well care!’ He could hear her fighting to hold back the tears.

  ‘Okay, Laura. Try to stay calm. Sorry! I didn’t mean to snap. I’m on edge, too. Is McAteer going to get the video for us?’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything about a video.’

  ‘What are we going to do about that?’

  ‘That question has been uppermost in my mind all day – believe you me!’ Her words were coming in bursts between gulps for breath. ‘We’ll have to worry about that later. When the police find the body, presumably they’ll be able to identify him. Once we know his name and address we’ll have to break into his house and recover the recording – or … or … something …’ Heavy sobs came pulsing down the line. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Simon! I don’t know!’

  ‘It’s okay, Laura,’ he said soothingly. ‘Take it easy. You’ve done brilliantly. Once the blackmailer’s out of the way we’ll find a way to get the video. Don’t worry. I’ll follow the instructions to the letter.’

  It was Laura who broke the connection.

  ‘We’ve got it all on film, sir.’ Tony O’Sullivan walked into Charlie Anderson’s office and placed a report on his desk. ‘Good clear footage from the bank’s CCTV cameras. Especially of Councillor Mullen copping his lot,’ he added.

  ‘What’s the latest on him?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Nasty stab wound in the side of his neck, but it looks like his pride will be the biggest casualty. It appears that the needle was clean.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that!’

  ‘Of course that hasn’t stopped him blowing his proverbial top. All the usual guff. No policemen in the vicinity when they’re needed. Any law-abiding citizen walking the streets of Glasgow after dark does so in fear of his life, etc, etc. He’s called a press conference for eight o’clock tonight to give vent to his spleen.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot more important things to worry about than Frank Mullen’s temper tantrums. How’s the lassie who was assaulted making out?’

  ‘She’s quite badly traumatised. Her ear’s lacerated and she got two skint knees and a split lip for her trouble, but it doesn’t look like there will be any permanent injury. She’s given us a statement and a counsellor’s talking to her.’

  ‘Have we managed to identify who did it?’

  O’Sullivan patted the report on the desk. ‘It’s all in there. His name’s Tommy Hemphill, nineteen years old, never been employed, lives with his parents in Ferguslie Park.’

  ‘Ferguslie Park! Why does that not surprise me?’

  ‘He’s got three previous convictions for substance abuse,’ O’Sullivan continued. ‘His mother claims she hasn’t seen him at all in the past couple of months. According to her he went down to London in October to look for a job and she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him since. We’re keeping the house under observation.’

  ‘Okay, keep me posted. No doubt I’ll get a call from Mullen before the day is out demanding to know if we’ve made an arrest yet’.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, I think that’s it. Still all right for tonight?’

  ‘Sure. What time do you want me round?’

  ‘I think Kay’s planning on eating about eight. Tell you what, why don’t you leave your car here and come with me? That’ll give you the chance to unwind and have a few bevvies.’


  ‘I was planning to go home first and get changed.’

  ‘On your way, then. I’ve got a couple of things to finish off here. I’ll pick you up at the bottom of Wilton Street at seven.’

  Tony hesitated. ‘Will I be able to get transport back into Glasgow?’

  ‘Sue’ll give you a lift. She has to go across town on her way home.’

  ‘Sue?’

  ‘My daughter.’ Charlie picked up a silver-framed photograph from his desk and handed it across. ‘She’s coming round tonight as well. Did I not mention that?’

  ‘Don’t think so, sir.’

  O’Sullivan studied the picture of a tall girl in her late twenties with shoulder-length, straight black hair tumbling down over one eye. Her broad nose was slightly crooked and she had an engaging smile. She was wearing fell boots, figure-hugging red jeans and an open-necked jacket. Beside her stood a tousle-haired boy wearing a faded goalkeeper’s jersey several sizes too big for him, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his foot balanced on a football.’

  ‘I took that one a couple of years back in Braemar,’ Charlie said. ‘Jamie will be seven on Sunday. He takes after me, you know,’ Charlie stated proudly. ‘He wants to be a goalkeeper, like his grandfather. In my youth, I used to play in goal. I wasn’t too bad, even if I say so myself – only junior level, mind. I had a couple of senior trials but they never came to anything. Despite the arthritis I can still give the ball a fair whack as long as I don’t have to go running around after it. There’s nothing Jamie likes better than his grandfather firing shots at him for hours on end.’

  ‘What does your daughter do?’ Tony asked.

  ‘She’s a primary school teacher in Dennistoun. That’s where she met her husband. He taught there as well. Once a month Paul’s parents take Jamie off Sue’s hands for the weekend and she usually comes over to our place on the Friday night.’

  ‘Won’t Sue be wanting to unwind as well?’ Tony asked, handing back the photo.