by Daly, Bill
‘And your ship docked in Bangkok?’
‘That’s right. Jude and I didn’t get off the boat. We’d both picked up a stomach bug in Singapore and I didn’t risk leaving my cabin for three days. Mike and Simon went ashore, I think. I remember Mike saying something about wanting to sample the local beer.’
‘Mike told me all about it when he got back. He and Simon went on a pub crawl but they had a barney about something trivial and Simon stormed off in high dudgeon. Mike had a few more beers as he wandered round the city centre and he stumbled across a brothel offering sex with children.
‘I don’t know if you know anything about how the underage sex business is organised in Thailand, Laura? It’s run by so-called aunties – women who act as pimps for the kids. They agree with the clients what services the children will provide and they negotiate the price. The kids get paid peanuts – they’re usually spaced out on opium – and the aunties pocket the money. For a few quid extra the aunties will record the sex session for the punter so he can have a disc to take home with him as a souvenir.’
‘That’s just so sick!’ Laura said, getting to her feet and walking towards the French windows, shaking her head in disgust.
‘Mike ended up having a drunken chat with one of these aunties and when she realised he wasn’t interested in screwing kids she told him that the aunties often made extra copies of the DVDs without the client’s knowledge. She offered to sell him a batch of these and he ended up negotiating to buy a job lot and arranging to have them shipped back to Glasgow. The internet used to be the main vehicle for transmitting that kind of material but the cops have made so many successful busts in the past few years that a lot of paedophiles have reverted to using DVDs.
‘The consignment arrived a few weeks after Mike got back. He showed me some of them. Not to put too fine a point on it, they were pathetic. Most of the time is taken up with some saddo or other struggling to get it up, then maybe two or three minutes of action. However, Mike was convinced there was a market for the stuff. He had the idea of editing the discs down to the “highlights”, as he called it, and selling them as Asian Babes IV or some such crap. I don’t know how far he got with it. He offered to cut me in if I would help him with the distribution but I didn’t want to know.’
‘Why would he get involved with this kind of filth?’ Laura snapped, snatching up a disc and hurling it across the lounge.
There was a pause. ‘Did Mike ever discuss his finances with you?’
‘No more that he had to. You can be sure of that! He told me the bookie’s business was going through a rough patch. And I know he was worried about how nasty the Inland Revenue might turn.’
‘That’s not the half of it. Mike had serious financial problems.’ Laura gave McGavigan a puzzled look. ‘He’d been punting heavily for years and he was losing big time,’ McGavigan said, downing the rest of his drink. ‘I don’t know how often I told him to pack in the gambling but he wouldn’t listen. He always thought the next big bet would get him out of trouble, but he just kept digging himself in deeper and deeper. I’m sure that’s the only reason he got involved with this paedophile crap. He was hoping to make enough from flogging the DVDs to pay off his gambling debts.’ There was an awkward silence. ‘Do you want me to get rid of those?’ McGavigan waved his empty glass in the direction of the discs scattered on the carpet. ‘It’s not the sort of stuff you want to have lying around the house.’
‘I’d appreciate that, Ronnie. Let me top that up for you,’ Laura said, taking the empty tumbler from his grasp and crossing to the cocktail cabinet.
‘I could keep an eye on the bookies’ shops, if you like. There are always day-to-day problems that need sorting out.’
‘That would be very helpful.’
‘If there’s anything else I can do – funeral arrangements, anything like that – you know you just have to ask.’
‘Thanks, Ronnie, but I won’t be able to have the funeral for some time. The procurator fiscal told me there will have to be a post-mortem and it will be at least a week before the body will be released.’
‘Of course. Whenever.’ McGavigan spoke quietly. ‘Do you have any idea what Mike was doing in Kelvingrove Park this morning?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to fill me in on that,’ Laura said, handing him his glass.
‘Not a bloody clue!’ He clinked the ice round in his drink. ‘Last night, Mike was bouncier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He told me he’d be leaving early in the morning, so not to do breakfast. Gave me the old nod nod, wink wink. Said he was going to meet someone on Saturday morning and make a killing.’ McGavigan sipped at his drink. ‘Sorry!’ He held his hand up in a gesture of apology. ‘Poor choice of expression.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
McGavigan shook his head.
The sleet had turned to steady rain when Colin Renton pulled up near the junction of University Avenue and Byres Road. ‘How do you want to handle it, Sarge?’
‘You wait here,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘I’ll bring him out. Always assuming your snitch has got it right.’
‘If Bert Tollin says he’s drinking in Tennent’s, then he’s drinking in Tennent’s. Do you want a bet?’
‘Sod off!’ O’Sullivan got out of the car and ran diagonally across the junction, dodging through the heavy traffic.
He scanned the pub from the doorway. There were only a handful of early evening customers: three pensioners, half pints of heavy on the table in front of them, their eyes fixed on a large screen where the rerun of an Italian football match was being shown with the sound turned off; a teenage couple, sitting in an alcove, arguing heatedly; two tall men, propping up the bar.
As O’Sullivan approached the men he could see the reflection of McAteer’s scarred features in the mirror. He was leaning with one elbow on the counter, his back to the door.
‘Billy McAteer?’ O’Sullivan spoke quietly.
‘What’s your problem, pal?’ McAteer responded without turning round.
‘Detective Sergeant O’Sullivan, Glasgow CID.’ O’Sullivan cupped his warrant card in the palm of his hand and thrust it at arm’s length in front of McAteer’s face. ‘I’d like you to accompany me to police headquarters. Inspector Anderson wants a word with you.’
McAteer studied the badge, then without turning round he pushed O’Sullivan’s hand away and picked up his pint glass from the bar. Taking a sip, he resumed his conversation.
O’Sullivan tapped him on the shoulder. McAteer twitched his arm away and spun round quickly, flicking at his shoulder with his fingertips as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant. ‘Gauny no’ do that, pal,’ he snarled. ‘I didny pay good money for this jumper for you to wipe your manky paws on it.’
‘You heard me, McAteer.’ O’Sullivan spoke quietly but forcibly. ‘Either you come outside with me right now or I’m taking you out.’
‘It’s Mr McAteer to you,’ he spat, thrusting his face to within inches of O’Sullivan’s. The exchange had attracted no attention from the bar staff or the other customers.
McAteer took a step backwards and eyed O’Sullivan up and down. ‘An’ Anderson has the cheek to send a Papist to pick me up. You are a Papist, aren’t you, sonny?’ he sneered. ‘The red heid’s a dead giveaway. If there’s two things in this world I can smell a mile off it’s pigs an’ Papists. An’ right now the stench of a mingin’, Fenian pig is fillin’ my nostrils an’ makin’ me want to boak.’
Realising he was being goaded into reacting, O’Sullivan felt a hot flush redden his cheeks. McAteer took a sudden pace forward, again thrusting his face to within inches of O’Sullivan’s. ‘What does your Inspector want wi’ me, Paddy? Is he gauny make me say three Our Faithers an’ three Hail Marys for bein’ a naughty boy?’
O’Sullivan’s instinct was to grab McAteer by the scruff of the neck and frog-march him out of the pub, but he knew that a public display of unprovoked police violence was exactly what he was angling after. He didn’t r
eact to the taunts, but neither did he back off. He didn’t concede an inch. If anything, he pushed his face even closer to McAteer’s – so close he could taste the stale beer on his breath. For several seconds each held his ground, stock-still, staring unblinkingly. Stags with antlers locked – each defying the other to make the next move.
It was McAteer who made the move. Without lowering his gaze he took a step backwards and tipped the contents of his almost-full pint down the front of O’Sullivan’s trousers. ‘Oh! Terribly sorry about that!’ he exclaimed. He nudged his companion’s arm and burst out laughing as he placed his empty beer glass down on the counter. ‘My hand must’ve slipped. Barman! There’s been a wee accident. A towel for my friend, if you please.’ McAteer lowered his voice. ‘Now, if you’ll just change your nappy and wait over by the door, Paddy, I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished my discussion.’ Turning his back on O’Sullivan, McAteer resumed his conversation.
O’Sullivan took the bar towel he’d been handed and dabbed ineffectually at the sticky beer clinging to his trousers. He could feel the cloying liquid seeping through to his skin. Reaching out, he grabbed McAteer by the shoulder. ‘Either you walk out of here with me this instant,’ he hissed in his ear, ‘or I’ll fucking-well drag you out.’
‘This is harassment.’ McAteer stared unblinkingly at O’Sullivan. ‘I’m warnin’ you, Paddy,’ he growled, prodding O’Sullivan hard in the chest. ‘You’re fuckin’ claimed!’ With a quick nod to his companion McAteer snatched his leather jacket from the adjacent bar stool and slipped it over his shoulders as he marched towards the pub door, O’Sullivan following close behind.
Steady rain was still falling as they stepped out into Byres Road. O’Sullivan gripped McAteer firmly by the arm and, staying within the shelter of the pub doorway, signalled to Renton who was parked on the other side of the junction. As the car engine kicked into life he grabbed McAteer’s wrists and rammed both his arms up his back, holding him in that position while he snapped on the handcuffs.
‘So you think you’re a right smart-arse?’ O’Sullivan grunted. ‘I won’t forget this in a hurry, you Orange bastard! Before I’m finished with you, you’ll be the one who’s wetting your pants.’
‘Shut your fuckin’ geggie!’
Charlie Anderson walked into the ground-floor interview room where O’Sullivan and Renton were standing by the door. McAteer was perched on a chair at the other side of the room, being tended by the police doctor.
Charlie wandered across. ‘Afternoon, doc. What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, inclining his head in McAteer’s direction.
‘Nasty cut above the eye,’ Dr Kent replied. ‘It’ll need a couple of stitches.’
‘Can you do it here?’
‘No problem. I’ve given him a local anaesthetic.’
Charlie crossed the room to where O’Sullivan and Renton were standing. He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘What happened?’ he mouthed.
‘McAteer tried to make a break for it when I was leading him to the car outside Tennent’s,’ O’Sullivan said quietly. ‘He banged his head on the car roof.’
‘You’re a lyin’ cunt!’ McAteer yelled and struggled to get to his feet.
‘Stay still, man!’ Kent roared, pushing him back down on to the chair. ‘Or I’ll have your other eye out with this needle.’ McAteer settled back in his seat and Kent held his head steady while he inserted four neat stitches to close the wound. ‘There. That should hold it.’
‘Managed to change your trousers, I see!’ McAteer sneered in O’Sullivan’s direction. He turned to Charlie. ‘I want a lawyer. This is fuckin’ harassment, Anderson. I’ve done nuthin’. You’ve no right to pull me in. And I’m filin’ a complaint against that bastard for assault.’ He jabbed a finger in O’Sullivan’s direction. ‘Banged my heid on the car roof, my fuckin’ arse! That cunt put the heid on me while I was handcuffed.’
Charlie looked enquiringly at Dr Kent who shook his head and shrugged. ‘Can’t comment, Charlie,’ he said, packing away his equipment. ‘The wound’s compatible with both versions of the story.’
‘Thanks for your help. I’ll take it from here.’ Charlie sat down behind the desk in the middle of the room and indicated to McAteer to take the seat opposite. ‘Let’s get this over with. Where were you this morning between seven and nine o’clock?’
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Hardly the attitude of someone who’s got nothing to hide.’
‘Go an’ fuck yourself!’
‘Answer the question, McAteer. Where were you between seven and nine?’
‘In my pit.’
‘Anyone who can vouch for that?’
‘Kylie Minogue.’
Charlie locked his eyes on McAteer. ‘When did you last see Gerry Fraser?’
‘Who the fuck’s Gerry Fraser?’
‘The guy you beat up on Thursday morning.’
‘Says who?’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘I’m no’ workin’. I’m on the dole.’
‘Who told you to give Fraser a doing?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re witterin’ on about.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘In Govan.’
‘Where in Govan?’
‘With my brother.’
‘Do you know Mike Harrison?’
McAteer hesitated. ‘You mean the bookie?’
‘That’s him.’
‘I know him to see.’
‘Ever done any work for him?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know that he’s dead?’ Charlie held McAteer’s one-eyed stare.
‘Deid?’ Glancing down quickly McAteer raised his fist to his mouth and started gnawing hard on his thumb nail. ‘Since when?’
‘Since this morning – murdered – in Kelvingrove Park.’ McAteer looked up with a start, his one eye flickering rapidly.
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Weren’t you supposed to be looking after him?’
‘You’re mental, Anderson.’ McAteer jumped to his feet. ‘I’ve done nuthin’. You canny hold me.’
Charlie pulled himself stiffly to his feet. ‘You’re free to go.’ He gestured to O’Sullivan. ‘See him off the premises – and when you’ve done that, I want to see you and Renton in my office.’
There was a light tap on Charlie’s door. He peered over the top of his reading glasses, then put down his pen and pushed the pile of memos to one side as O’Sullivan and Renton walked in.
‘Tell me again what happened,’ Charlie said, slowly screwing the top back on to his fountain pen. ‘How did McAteer’s eyebrow get cut?’
Renton glanced sideways at O’Sullivan, inviting him to respond. ‘Like I said downstairs, sir, when I came out of Tennent’s, Colin was parked at the bottom of University Avenue. I waved him across and when I opened the back door of the car and told McAteer to get inside he tried to make a break for it. I grabbed at him and his head hit the car roof at the top of the door frame.’
‘Was he cuffed at the time?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Charlie paused. ‘You’re telling me that McAteer tried to make a break for it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He tried to run off down Byres Road with his hands cuffed behind his back?’
O’Sullivan’s face flushed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s the way you saw it, Renton?’
Renton shuffled his feet and gazed at the floor. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled.
‘So if I check the car, I’ll find blood on the roof and on the door frame?’
‘I expect so,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘Though it’s been pissing down all afternoon. It might’ve got washed off.’
‘McAteer mentioned something about you changing your trousers. What was that all about?’
‘A pint got spilled on me in the pub. It was an accident.’
‘An accident? Nothing deliberate? Nothing that would make you want to get your own bac
k on McAteer?’
‘No, sir.’
Charlie removed his spectacles and set them down on the desk. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and sat motionless for some time. When he replaced his glasses he peered over them at O’Sullivan.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said quietly.
‘But, sir –’
‘Don’t you fucking-well argue with me!’ Charlie roared as he grabbed the sides of his desk and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘Do you think I came up the Clyde in a fucking banana boat? I’ll say it again, O’Sullivan.’ Charlie measured every syllable. ‘I don’t believe one fucking word of it.’ He glared long and hard, first at O’Sullivan, then at Renton, before settling back down on his chair. ‘However, as I can’t prove anything, it won’t go any further this time. But I’m warning you – both of you,’ he said, jabbing a crooked index finger at each of them in turn. ‘As long as I’m running this show – and that may not be for very much longer – but as long as I’m here you’ll do things by the book. Even with scum like McAteer. Is that clear, O’Sullivan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That goes for you too, Renton.’ Renton nodded. ‘Here’s a nice wee job to keep you out of mischief on a Saturday night,’ Charlie said, taking out his notebook and ripping out a page. ‘These are the names of the punters who were playing poker with Harrison last night – along with Ronnie McGavigan, the last people to see him alive. Find out where they live and pay them a visit. I want to know what Harrison talked about last night and I want to know if he gave any indication as to why he was planning to go to Kelvingrove Park this morning. While you’re at it, find out where these guys were between seven and nine o’clock this morning. And when you’ve done that,’ Charlie continued, digging through his mail and handing a sheaf of paper to O’Sullivan, ‘Niggle wants an explanation as to why violent crime is up by 9.6 per cent this year. As you’re well qualified on that subject, you’re the ideal person to analyse the data and prepare a report. Have your draft response available to review with me first thing on Monday morning.’
