by Daly, Bill
‘A bit early in the day for me, thanks all the same.’
‘How about a soft drink? Orange juice? Mineral water?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’
McGavigan tipped a splash of Highland Spring water into his whisky and came back to the settee where Charlie was seated, notebook and pen in hand. McGavigan was small and slimly built – in his early sixties, Charlie estimated. Charlie studied his profile as he tilted his head back to pour whisky down his throat. His hairline was showing signs of receding and his crinkly brown hair was slicked straight back from his high forehead. Small tufts of nasal hair protruded from his pinched nostrils. His lips were thin and his chin was weak.
‘Last I saw of Mike was when we packed in playing poker last night.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘About two o’clock in the morning. He was in a good mood because he’d picked up a few quid. Mike was nothing if not predictable. When he was winning he was the life and soul of the party, but when he was on a losing streak he could be a right miserable old fart. Sorry about that …’ McGavigan broke off and downed another mouthful of whisky. ‘Didn’t mean to, you know, speak ill of the dead and all that …’ His voice tailed off.
‘That’s all right. I’d rather hear it the way it was.’
‘Mike stayed over. He nearly always did after a poker session. But last night he told me he’d be heading off early in the morning so not to bother with breakfast.’
‘Did he usually leave early when he stayed over?’
‘Not at all,’ McGavigan said, shaking his head. ‘I often had to drag him out of bed after ten o’clock.’
‘Can you think of any reason why he would have gone to Kelvingrove Park this morning?’
‘I can’t think of any reason why he would go near Kelvingrove Park – not this or any other morning. Mike’s not – he wasn’t – what you’d call the outdoor type.’
‘Did he say why he was leaving early this morning?’
‘Not specifically. He dropped a few hints that he was going to make some easy money, but when I pressed him about it he clammed up. When I got up this morning at the back of eight his car had gone.’ Finishing off his whisky, McGavigan crossed to the cocktail cabinet for a refill. ‘Are you sure I couldn’t tempt you?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Who else was in the poker school last night?’ he asked.
‘The usual crowd,’ McGavigan said, flopping back down on the settee. He put his glass down on a coaster on the coffee table and started counting off on his fingers. ‘Besides me and Mike there was John McGill, Willie Grant and Don Higney – they’re all regulars – and we try to get someone to stand in for Bill McLelland – usually Jim Amos. Jim was here last night. By the way, your lot haven’t done us any favours by taking Bill out of circulation.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Charlie said, jotting down the names.
‘So you should be. It’s a real bummer not having Bill in the school. More money than sense – and he couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper bag.’
‘If he’d been using his own money instead of the Royal Bank of Scotland’s he might’ve been a bit more careful.’
McGavigan guffawed. ‘Could you not see your way to letting him out for a few hours every other Friday?’
‘I’ll have a word with the first minister.’
McGavigan started to laugh again, quickly choking it off with an embarrassed cough as he gazed down into his whisky.
‘Did any of these other guys stay over?’ Charlie asked, jabbing his pencil at the names in his notebook.
‘Apart from Jim Amos, none of them can get an overnight pass.’ He pressed his thumb down hard on the coffee table to reinforce the point. ‘And Jim stays within staggering distance so he always goes home.’
‘What was your relationship with Mike Harrison?’
‘What do you mean – relationship?’
‘Was it just social or were you business associates?’
‘We did a bit of business together, but it was mainly social. We were golf partners – we’ve both been members at Haggs Castle for as long as I can remember – and the poker school’s been going for God knows how many years.’
‘Did Harrison have any enemies?’
‘He upset a few people in his time. Who hasn’t?’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘If you’re asking if I know anyone who might’ve had a reason for seeing the back of him …’ McGavigan took a swig of whisky. ‘The answer is no.’
Billy McAteer drove through Dumbarton and headed north on the road towards Tarbet, negotiating the tight bends on the west bank of Loch Lomond. Shortly after passing the village of Luss he turned off the road and drove for half a mile up a bumpy, snow-covered track until he came to a copse of tall conifers.
He parked his Volvo in a clearing beside a circle of empty caravans, then got out of the car, opened the boot and lifted out a sheet of heavy-duty waterproof tarpaulin which he spread out on the snow. Pulling on his gloves he took the rifle barrel from his holdall and carefully wiped it clean with a dry duster before placing it on the tarpaulin. He repeated the procedure with the butt, the stock, the silencer and the telescopic sights. Having placed the two boxes of ammunition on top of the gun parts he rolled the tarpaulin into a tight parcel which he bound with rope. Taking a long-handled shovel from the car boot he slung the tarpaulin over his shoulder and marched into the copse. When he came to a patch of recently turned earth between two poplars he buried the tarpaulin in the same spot where it had lain undisturbed for more than twenty years.
Laura Harrison steeled herself as the white sheet was eased back to expose what was left of her husband’s head. She’d been warned what to expect. A cloth had been placed over the right side of his face and only his left cheek, one eye, and part of his forehead were visible. His bushy eyebrow was unmistakeable, as was the shrivelled brown mole at his temple. Clasping her hands to her mouth Laura gave a quick nod of the head. The sheet was immediately replaced.
As soon as the formalities had been completed Laura hurried out of the building towards her car. Flinging her handbag onto the passenger seat she fired the ignition. As she drove off she groped in her bag for her phone and when she pulled up at a red traffic light she clicked on the number for Simon Ramsay’s mobile.
‘Simon?’
‘Laura! Thank God! I’ve been worried sick. Did everything go to plan?’
‘We can’t talk on the phone. Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘I have to see you. Meet me in the Terrace Bar in the Hilton.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as you can get there.’
Laura pulled off Great Western Road into Grosvenor Terrace, but then had to crawl the length of the terrace and across the Huntly Road intersection before she found a parking place. It was difficult keeping her balance as she made her way back along the unsalted, rutted pavement. The pavement sloped down quite sharply and she gripped the wrought iron hand railing, her flesh stinging as her fingers stuck to the frozen metal. She rubbed the palms of her hands together briskly to try to get some feeling back into her fingers as she approached the Hilton Hotel, a long, three-storey, Victorian terraced building. The white sandstone had recently been cleaned but it was already taking on a grimy aspect from the incessant traffic fumes drifting across from Great Western Road. The steps up to the hotel had been cleared of snow. Laura hurried up the stairs and through the main entrance.
Barely-audible piped music was playing in the open-plan Terrace Bar which ran the length of the hotel. The lounge was empty apart from a middle-aged man in a dark blue business suit who was sitting at a table at the far end of the room, next to the bar. He glanced up from the laptop balanced on his knees when he saw Laura arrive, then huddled down again, peering at his screen. There was an untouched half pint of lager on the table in front of him. Laura sat down on a straight-backed armchair in the alcove near the entrance. When the waitress came across sh
e ordered a gin and tonic.
Ten minutes later Simon Ramsay entered the building through the basement level and climbed to the top of the staircase. Spotting Laura, he waved in acknowledgment and hurried across.
‘What happened?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper, glancing down the bar as he took the seat opposite.
‘Mike was in Kelvingrove Park this morning,’ she said quietly. Simon stared at her in disbelief. ‘It was Mike who was killed,’ she mouthed.
Simon tugged his top shirt button loose. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘The police came round to the house this morning,’ Laura said, stretching forward and tipping the remains of the tonic into her gin. ‘They told me Mike’s body had been discovered in Kelvingrove Park, down by the river, near the footbridge. He’d been shot several times,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Jesus wept!’
‘I had to go to the mortuary to identify his body.’ A shiver ran the length of her spine. ‘It was the most gruesome thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. What was left of his face was barely recognisable.’ Picking up her glass in a trembling hand, she took a long sip.
‘You mean – it was Mike who was blackmailing me?’ Simon asked incredulously.
‘I’ve been going over and over that in my head all morning, but I can’t make any sense of it. Mike couldn’t have been the blackmailer, Simon. If he’d seen that photo of us together he’d have killed me. He’d have killed both of us.’
‘Maybe he was planning to kill us – after he got his hands on the money?’
Laura shook her head firmly. ‘He wasn’t that good an actor. I’m telling you, if Mike had seen that photograph there is no way in this world he could have behaved civilly towards me. No way he could’ve laughed and joked his way through your dinner party last Wednesday.’ She broke off as the waitress approached to take Simon’s order. He asked for a Peroni.
‘Then what in the name of God was he doing in Kelvingrove Park?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.’
‘Have you spoken to … to you know who?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Does he know –’ Simon glanced over his shoulder towards the businessman who was engrossed in typing something into his computer. He turned back to face Laura and mouthed the words. ‘Does McAteer know who he killed?’
‘I don’t know if he recognised Mike. Maybe not. The police have issued a press release saying that a body’s been found in Kelvingrove Park, but they haven’t given out any details about the victim.’ The waitress brought Simon’s beer on a tray, placing it on the low table in front of him. Laura waited until she was out of earshot. ‘The only thing I can think of is that perhaps Mike was acting as a pick-up for someone else. Is it conceivable that the person who was blackmailing you paid Mike to collect the ransom money without him knowing what it was all about?’
Simon frowned. ‘Doesn’t sound like Mike’s style – acting as a messenger boy.’
‘It isn’t,’ Laura said. ‘But he was really strapped for cash. If someone had offered to make it worth his while he might have agreed to do it.’
‘If that’s the case, it means we still have the blackmailer to contend with!’ Simon downed half his drink in one swallow. His ‘Fucking hell!’ rang out down the lounge.
The typing stopped abruptly, the businessman looking up and staring in their direction. ‘Steady on, old chap!’ The accent was Home Counties. ‘There’s no call for that kind of language.’
Simon whipped round in his chair. ‘Why don’t you mind your own fucking business!’
Flipping the lid of his laptop closed, the man tut-tutted and scrambled to his feet. Bustling past them with a sideways glare he made his way down the staircase, muttering under his breath.
‘I’d rather you didn’t go out of your way to attract attention to us, Simon,’ Laura hissed. She sipped at her gin. ‘The only way we’ll ever know for sure if Mike was involved,’ she said, ‘is if we find that video recording. If it’s somewhere in the house, then I suppose we’ll have to conclude that Mike was the blackmailer, though I still can’t get my head round that possibility. I suppose I could have his computer checked out,’ she added. ‘There must be some way to find out if that photo was sent to you from Mike’s PC – though I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about doing that. And I don’t think Mike knew how to do anything technical either. As far as I’m aware he only ever used his computer as a glorified typewriter. Bjorn would be able to find out for me, I suppose, but I can hardly ask him to check if there’s a photo on Mike’s computer of you and me screwing!’
‘It’s not worth busting a gut trying to find out,’ Simon said grimly. ‘If Liam Black’s still out there, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him soon enough.’ Getting to his feet he went over to the bar to pay for their drinks.
Laura walked down the staircase and crossed to the reception desk. ‘My name’s Mrs Petrie,’ she announced to the receptionist. ‘My husband and I stayed here a couple of weeks ago.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I’ve lost a contact lens. I’m not actually sure if it was here or somewhere else. Would it be possible for me to go up to the room to check if it’s still there?’
‘Which room would that be?’
‘301.’
Simon appeared by Laura’s side as the receptionist was keying into her terminal. ‘No problem. 301’s not occupied right now,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be very embarrassed if you do find it,’ she added with a smile as she handed across the key. ‘By rights it should’ve been in a vacuum cleaner ages ago.’
‘I know it’s a long shot.’ Laura returned the smile. ‘But since we’re here anyway I thought it would be worthwhile taking a look. I remember putting my contact lens carrying case down on the arm of a chair and the lens might’ve slipped down the side of the cushion.’
‘What on earth are you playing at?’ Simon asked tetchily as the lift doors closed behind them. ‘What’s all this crap about losing a contact lens?’
‘I want to have a look at the room,’ Laura said, leading the way along the corridor.
‘What, exactly, are we looking for?’ Simon asked as she turned the key in the lock.
‘I want to know where the camera was hidden.’
‘Why?’
‘I just want to know. That’s all.’
‘From the angle of the shot,’ Simon said, pointing towards the top of the wardrobe. ‘I reckon it must have been up there.’
Laura dragged across an upright chair and stood on it to peer at the top of the wardrobe. ‘There are scratch marks in the wood. They look newish. They could’ve been made by some kind of clamp.’
‘What the hell are you trying to prove?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, clambering down from the chair. ‘Do you think I should bring over a photo of Mike and ask the staff if they’ve seen him hanging around here?’
‘I think that showing the hotel staff a photo of someone who’s just been murdered would be a sure-fire way of drawing attention to yourself!’
As soon as she got back home Laura started working her way methodically through the house. Beginning with Mike’s study she checked all the bedrooms before searching through the rooms on the ground floor, but found nothing. Darkness was falling by the time she went out to the garage. Flicking on the low-wattage light bulb she found a step ladder and climbed up to check the high shelves. Hidden behind an old car battery she found a shoebox containing a stack of unboxed, unlabelled DVDs. Hurrying back to the house with the discs she switched on the TV in the lounge and loaded one into the player.
Her jaw fell slack when she saw the grainy image.
CHAPTER 8
The black and white recording was of a middle-aged man having sexual intercourse with a young girl who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. The girl was offering no resistance. Her features were Asian and she was smiling vacantly in the direction of the camera, a hollow look in her glazed eyes. Her lips were for
ming words but there was no soundtrack. Ejecting the disc, Laura slipped another one into the slot and saw a teenage boy being buggered by a naked, scrawny man who looked old enough to be his grandfather.
It was all she could do to avoid being physically ill as she switched from disc to disc. All the recordings were the same basic format – adults sexually abusing submissive Asian children. Laura forced herself to fast-forward through every DVD in the box, searching in vain for the recording of her and Simon in the Hilton.
By the time she’d skimmed through them all her hands were shaking and her head was reeling. She went to the kitchen to pour herself a stiff gin, then picked up the phone and dialled Ronnie McGavigan’s number.
‘Have you heard the news, Ronnie?’
‘Dreadful business, Laura. I had a visit from the police this morning. I was going to call you later this evening.’
‘Could you possibly come round straight away? I need to talk to you urgently. It’s very important.’
‘I’m on my way.’
*
‘Was Mike a paedophile?’ Laura asked, handing Ronnie McGavigan a tumbler of malt whisky.
He paused with the glass half-way to his mouth. ‘What sort of a question is that?’
‘I found a box of discs in the garage – they were all films of children being molested.’
‘Oh, those?’
‘You know about them?’
McGavigan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Stuff like that goes on all the time, Laura. Especially in places like Thailand.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, Ronnie.’ She sat down on the sofa beside him. ‘But how on earth was Mike involved?’
McGavigan cast his eyes down, nursing his drink in both hands. ‘You and Mike went on a cruise to Malaysia last summer, didn’t you?’
Laura nodded slowly. ‘We went with my sister and her husband.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
