by Daly, Bill
‘Why Paisley?’
‘According to last month’s social work reports, Paisley’s got the highest incidence of pregnant virgins in Scotland.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind for next year.’
‘I didn’t think it was politically correct to put on nativity plays these days. Doesn’t that offend the Sikh and Muslim communities?’
‘Give me a break! We’re talking about a Catholic primary school in Dennistoun, for goodness sake! Sikhs and Muslims are welcome – as long as they can recite all five decades of the rosary. That’s a joke, by the way,’ she added quickly. ‘I thought I’d better point that out before you send the PC storm troopers crashing down on us. We actually cater for all religions – except Proddies, of course,’ she said with a mischievous grin. ‘Getting back to Monday night, what time does the gig start?’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s eight o’clock.’
‘The nativity play will be over by seven. I should be able to find a babysitter without any problem and if I can sweet-talk someone on the skiing trip into staying behind and locking up the school hall I might be able to get away in time. Where are they playing?’
‘Glasgow Green.’
Sue reached over to the back seat for her handbag and dug out a notepad and pen. ‘Take this,’ she said, scribbling down her phone number and ripping out the page. ‘If you can give me a call on Sunday afternoon I’ll be able to let you know if I’ve managed to sort something out.’
‘Fine.’
Tony’s fingers stayed in contact with Sue’s hand for a few seconds longer than necessary as he took the slip of paper.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said.
‘Thank you for the chocolates.’
Tony’s freckles flared up as he pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the pavement, taking care to avoid the large puddle of slush.
‘A very nice young man,’ Kay said, slipping off her dressing gown and sliding under the duvet next to Charlie. ‘Very well mannered.’
Putting down the Evening Times, Charlie peered over the top of his reading glasses.
‘That wasn’t the first time you’ve spoken to him.’
‘We’ve talked on the phone a couple of times, but never what you’d call social chit-chat. He only ever calls here when there’s a panic on.’
‘He seemed to enjoy himself.’
‘That was a lovely bunch of flowers he brought me. And very thoughtful of him to get Sue a box of chocolates.’
Slipping off his spectacles, Charlie leaned across to switch off his bedside lamp. ‘Kay Anderson – I hope you’re not matchmaking?’
Charlie folded his arms over his head to protect himself from the flailing pillow.
Saturday 18 December
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when Billy McAteer turned off Argyle Street into Haugh Road and pulled up by the kerb. Switching off the Volvo’s headlights he got out of the car and, having checked there was no one in sight, he opened the boot, kicked off his trainers, took out his Wellington boots and tugged them on over his black, shell suit trousers. Large snowflakes, caught in an up-draught, were swirling and billowing around the yellow street lamps high above his head. He stretched to the back of the boot for his holdall and rummaged in it for a torch which he clipped onto his belt. Turning up the collar of his camouflage jacket he threw his trainers into the boot and slung his holdall over his shoulder before slamming the boot shut.
McAteer didn’t encounter anyone as he headed back towards Argyle Street, his footsteps thudding dully on the compacted snow. Crossing Sauchiehall Street he walked along Kelvin Way, past the tennis courts and bowling greens. Another careful check to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then he threw his holdall over the head-high iron railings and clambered over after it into Kelvingrove Park.
On the other side of the fence the snow was powdery and deep. McAteer edged his way down the slope to the river and stepped into the icy water, half a mile downstream from the bridge where the handover was to take place. Unclipping his torch he directed the narrow beam of light onto the slow-running water as he waded through the shallows, the only sound being the breaking of thin ice as he inched towards the bridge, testing each footstep in turn before committing his full weight to make sure the freezing water wouldn’t flow over the top of his Wellingtons. It took him half an hour to reach the shelter of the footbridge by which time snow was falling steadily. He stepped up onto the shingly bank beneath the arch and lay down on his back, stretching out full length on the cold, clammy pebbles. He dozed intermittently.
‘Thanks for coming round to look after Billy, Harry. It’s Molly’s birthday and she could do with a break. I’m going to take her down the pub for a few drinks, then we’ll go for a quick Chinese. We should be back by eleven.’
‘Take as long as you like, Stan.’
‘I want to go with you and Mummy!’ A child’s anxious, whispered voice. ‘I don’t want to stay with Uncle Harry.’
The sound of male laughter. ‘Billy’s got you sussed all right, Harry. Just turned six and he’s got your card marked already!’ More hearty laughter.
‘Have a good time, Stan.’
McAteer’s body quivered and twitched convulsively on the wet stones.
‘I don’t want to play the game we played last time, Uncle Harry.’
‘You want the big red train set for your birthday, don’t you?’
‘Yes. But I don’t want to play that game again. It hurts!’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s the game all the big boys play. I thought you were a big boy, Billy?’
Laboured breathing, coming in short, sharp bursts.
‘Just lie down, Billy, and face the wall. And keep still. It doesn’t take long. Think about the big red train set.’
Grunting; pushing; cursing; squeezing. Breathing getting faster and faster … then slowing down again …
‘There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?’
Gurgling, gulping sounds.
‘Mind now, not a word about this to your dad, Billy. He’ll belt the living daylights out of you if he finds out you’ve been playing big boys’ games.’
McAteer jerked back to consciousness with a start. Breathing heavily, he closed his eye for a few moments to try to slow his heart rate, then he sat up straight and took a long swig of whisky from his hip flask. It had stopped snowing. Depressing the button on the side of his watch to illuminate the face, he saw it was ten to six. He rubbed the sleep from his eye and peered in satisfaction through the gloom at the blanket of virgin snow covering the river banks in both directions as far as the eye could see, the white expanse lit up by the glow of the street lamps filtering down from Kelvin Way. Unzipping his holdall he laid the contents out carefully on the pebbles. He timed himself. Butt locked onto stock, slide the barrel home, clip on the magazine, position the telescopic sights, spin on the silencer. Twenty-five seconds. Not bad, considering he was out of practice. He’d been able to assemble the assault rifle in half that time in his army days.
Taking a black woollen balaclava from his holdall he rolled it down over his head, twisting it to line up the slits for his right eye and his mouth. He pulled on a pair of tight-fitting leather gloves and stretched out, face down on the gravel, rifle ranged by his side, then he inched forward in the shadow of the bridge until the drop-off spot on the far bank of the river was within his line of vision.
He took off his wristwatch and placed it on a rock where he could see the watch face without moving his head. He lay prone and flexed the fingers of his right hand, no other part of his body moving. He could feel the cold rising from the dank ground and penetrating his shell suit and his camouflage jacket.
Simon Ramsay slipped out from underneath the duvet and crept round the bottom of the bed. When he eased open the bedroom door the hinges groaned slightly. He glanced anxiously back over his shoulder at Jude’s sleeping profile. He froze, gripping the door handle tightly, as she rolled over onto her back and gulped a little f
or air before her steady, rhythmic breathing resumed. Not wanting to risk the hinges squeaking again, he left the door ajar and padded along the carpeted corridor to the study where he’d left his clothes. Dressing quickly he picked up his shoes and tiptoed down the staircase, taking care to avoid the squeaky step. He used the downstairs toilet without flushing it. Slipping his feet into his shoes he picked up a bunch of keys from the hall table and opened the front door as quietly as he could, turning the key in the Yale lock from the outside to avoid the tell-tale click when he pulled it closed behind him. Every nerve in his body was jangling as he negotiated the icy steps and made his way along the terrace and round the corner into Park Circus where he’d left his car.
Despite spraying the windows with de-icer it took several minutes with the engine running and the heater going at full blast before the windscreen had defrosted sufficiently to allow him to drive. There was little traffic about as he crawled down the hill and along Woodlands Road, his breath freezing on impact on the inside of the windscreen. It wasn’t until he’d reached the traffic lights at the top of Gibson Street that the screen had cleared completely. He drove past the University Union where, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tattered poster, attached to the front door, advertising ‘Daft Friday’ the previous evening – the formal, all-night ball that marked the end of the first university term.
Random memories of that arcane rite of passage came flooding into Ramsay’s hyperactive brain; queuing for hours along with dozens of other hopeful freshers to get a ticket because the popular belief was that going to Daft Friday was synonymous with getting laid; stumbling across Sam Davis, supplier of drugs to half the science faculty, wanking off into a condom in the toilets at four o’clock in the morning so he would have a trophy he could show off to his mates; lying, ashen-faced on top of a snooker table in the billiards room and puking all over his hired dinner suit; staggering down to the refectory at six o’clock in the morning and trying to force down a few sips of black coffee while fighting back the urge to throw up again as the smell of greasy cooked breakfasts came wafting out from the kitchen.
These jumbled, disjointed images dissipated as quickly as they’d appeared and when he reached the bottom of Kelvin Way he pulled into the side of the road, switched off his lights and cut the engine. He checked the time on the car’s clock. Quarter to eight. Fifteen minutes to wait.
Through the closed car windows Ramsay heard muffled shouts that seemed to be coming from behind and when he glanced into the rear-view mirror he saw two girls, one blonde, one redhead, at the top of the University Union steps. Both were wearing knee-length coats over ankle-length ball gowns. The blonde had a medical faculty scarf wrapped around her neck. She was pointing in his direction and jumping up and down, waving her arms above her head, shouting and seemingly trying to attract his attention. She looked to be very drunk. Ramsay slouched as low as he could in his seat while angling the rear-view mirror so he could still observe the girls. Giggling hysterically, the blonde grabbed her friend’s arm and was trying to pull her down the steps but the redhead was resisting and struggling to hold her back. A taxi came down University Avenue and when the redhead succeeded in flagging it down both girls staggered down the stone steps and piled into the back seat.
Ramsay could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage as his befuddled brain struggled to figure out who the drunken girl might have been. Perhaps the daughter of a friend or a work colleague? Surely there was no way she could have recognised him from that distance? Maybe she’d recognised his car? As the minutes ticked by he failed to come up with any coherent explanation.
Pulling his briefcase over from the back seat he tipped the contents out onto the passenger seat, then closed the case and locked it. His eyes were glued to the time and on the stroke of eight o’clock he snatched up the case and got out of the car. Yanking open the boot he took out his Barbour jacket and pulled it on, zipping it up to his chin.
From the bottom of University Avenue he could see the full length of Kelvin Way, as far as Sauchiehall Street. Two people in the far distance were walking their dogs. A young couple, who appeared to be refugees from Daft Friday, were sitting on the grass on the opposite side of the road, gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes – the boy wearing a crumpled dinner suit, the girl in a red satin dress, a black anorak pulled tightly round her shoulders.
Closing the boot, Ramsay hurried towards the park entrance and as he made his way down the steep, snow-covered incline towards the river it was all he could do to prevent himself from breaking into an involuntary run as his toes pitched forward painfully inside his shoes. His leather soles suddenly hit a hidden patch of black ice and his arms flailed in the air as he struggled to retain his balance, the briefcase slipping from his grasp and skating to the bottom of the slope before slithering to a halt near the plinth of a statue. Ramsay’s imagination went into overdrive as he glanced anxiously around the deserted park. Was the blackmailer watching him? Had the briefcase given the game away? Was it obviously too light – bouncing too high from the ridges of ice? He thanked his lucky stars it hadn’t burst open. Edging towards the side of the path where the snow was softer and deeper, he shuffled to the bottom of the incline to recover the case.
The plinth at the base of the statue was overgrown with twisted vegetation. As he stooped to pick up the case the inscription in the white stone informed him that it was a memorial to Thomas Carlyle. Dusting the snow from the dented briefcase he turned to face the bridge, furtively scanning the rising ground on the other side of the river, the wide-open, snow-covered parkland stretching as far as the eye could see. All the paths leading to the bridge were deserted, as were the towpaths running alongside the river. There was nowhere for anyone to hide, except, perhaps, behind the statue of a mounted Highland Light Infantry officer on the opposite bank. As he walked towards the bridge the icy air caught him in the back of his throat, causing him to wheeze and splutter. Hacking up a mouthful of phlegm he spat it into the snow.
Billy McAteer’s body tensed when he heard the coughing and the muffled footsteps on the bridge above his head. He lay completely still. The twittering of the dawn chorus had just broken out and the first rays of daylight were appearing low in the sky. His watch showed four minutes past eight. He glanced upwards when a cloud of snow billowed from the parapet of the bridge, disturbed by the briefcase being slid across, then he saw the case arc down silently and almost disappear from view in a puff of powdery snow. McAteer heard the pad of rapidly retreating footsteps, interspersed with coughing, as he eased his rifle into position, the sights trained on the spot where the case had landed. It was the first time he’d squinted down rifle sights since he’d lost his left eye. It was a strange sensation not having to wink.
Within moments he heard the laboured breathing of someone sliding down the far bank while holding onto the bushes growing out of the steep embankment to prevent himself slithering all the way down to the river. He stopped when he reached the briefcase. McAteer’s view was restricted by the arc of the bridge and he could see only the back of a pair of jeans as far as the top of the thighs. Training the cross wires on the left knee, he wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip and squeezed the trigger. There was an agonised curse as the figure slumped down on to his knees in a cloud of soft snow, bringing his back into the line of sight. McAteer’s second shot was aimed between the shoulder blades, slightly off centre, going for the heart. The victim’s arms jerked backwards in spasm, clawing at the point of impact as his body started to pitch forward, slowly at first, then accelerating rapidly when the next bullet slammed into the nape of his neck.
McAteer got to his feet and quickly massaged some life back into his frozen legs. Draining his hip flask he slipped his watch onto his wrist, slung the rifle over his shoulder and picked up his holdall. He scrambled up the near bank and checked to make sure the coast was clear before crossing the bridge and slithering down the opposite bank. Blood was oozing from the motionless figure, crim
son at the point of contact with the snow, diffusing to a soft pink as it seeped away from the body. Placing the tip of the short rifle barrel against the back of the half-buried head he pumped three rounds into the skull. He dismantled his rifle quickly and stowed the parts in his holdall before picking up the briefcase and clambering back up the steep embankment.
As he headed along the towpath in the direction of his car he tugged off his balaclava and stuffed it into the pocket of his camouflage jacket.
Charlie Anderson was sitting in his office, trying to interpret the crime statistics, when his phone rang just before nine o’clock. Swearing at the unwelcome interruption he snatched up the handset. ‘Anderson,’ he barked.
‘Good morning, sir.’ He recognised Colin Renton’s voice. ‘I realise you’re not on duty today but there’s news coming in of a homicide. I thought you’d want to know.’
Dropping his pen onto the desk, Charlie’s fist gripped the handset tightly. ‘Where?’
‘Kelvingrove Park.’
‘What do we have?’
‘It’s all rather sketchy at the moment. It seems a girl was walking her dog in the park this morning when she came across a body half-buried in the snow, down by the river. The initial report from the uniformed boys is that half the victim’s head was blown away. I’m going across there now with the scene-of-crime officers and the forensic team.’
‘Keep me posted, Colin.’ Charlie replaced the receiver and tried to pick up the threads of his analysis, but he found it impossible to concentrate.
Colin Renton was updating Charlie when Tony O’Sullivan ambled into the office just after ten o’clock. Charlie raised an open palm to acknowledge his presence.
‘Thanks for the alarm call,’ O’Sullivan yawned.
‘Thought you might appreciate a bit of overtime on the run-up to Christmas.’
‘Nice of you to think of me.’ O’Sullivan stifled another yawn. ‘I was getting bored. I must’ve been in bed for almost six hours.’
