by Daly, Bill
‘But I’m not on duty this weekend, sir, and –’ Catching Charlie’s glare, O’Sullivan choked off his protest and took the proffered papers.
‘One more thing,’ Charlie called out as O’Sullivan and Renton were heading towards the door. ‘In future, if you ever get an uncontrollable urge to stick the heid on someone, make it a fair fight. Don’t do it when they’re cuffed.’
O’Sullivan’s attempt at a protest was cut short by Renton grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out of the office.
Laura Harrison sat in front of her television set watching the news. The gruesome murder in Kelvingrove Park was the lead story and the police were appealing for anyone who had been in the vicinity of the park around eight o’clock on Saturday morning to come forward. Her mind was churning, struggling to make sense of what had happened. She was convinced Mike couldn’t have been the blackmailer. She knew him too well. He could never have acted as casually as he had done if he’d seen that photograph of her and Simon. In which case, what on earth had he been doing in the park? Her confused thoughts were interrupted by the ring of the doorbell.
‘What in the name of God are you doing here?’
Billy McAteer pushed past her into the hallway and slammed the door behind him. ‘Is there anyone else here?’ he demanded.
‘No.’
He grabbed her by the forearm. ‘You’ve been pullin’ my plonker,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t like that.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she said, wrenching her arm free.
‘You set me up to bump off your auld man.’
‘I’d no idea it would be Mike.’
‘Don’t give me that crap!’
‘It’s true. Honestly!’
‘I don’t know what game you’re playin’, but the rules have just changed.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ve screwed me up good an’ proper. Your auld man was payin’ me five hundred a week in readies. Now I’ve got nothin’ comin’ in. I want the ten grand you owe me – and I want it now.’
‘You’ll get your money, but I’ll have to –’
‘And don’t even think about turnin’ me in to the polis,’ he said, ‘because you’re in this right up to your pretty little neck.’ He gripped her arm again painfully.
‘You’ll get your money – but it’ll take me time to raise the cash.’ Her face creased in pain as he increased the pressure on her arm. ‘I told you that already.’ He stared at her hard, slowly relaxing his grip. Pulling away from him, she massaged her arm. ‘In the meantime don’t come anywhere near here,’ she said. ‘For all we know the police might be watching the house.’
‘They’re not. I checked. I’m not stupid.’
‘In any case it’s too dangerous for you to come here. Someone might see you. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’ve got the money.’
‘We agreed on one week – max. That gives you until Friday – not a day longer.’ He turned round and eased open the front door. Peering out, he headed off down the drive.
CHAPTER 9
‘It’s very good of you to come round on a Saturday, Mr Glancey.’ Laura Harrison ushered the tall, slightly stooped figure ahead of her into the lounge. ‘And on such a filthy night as well.’
‘Under the circumstances it was the least I could do.’ Keith Glancey, senior partner of Glancey, Glancey, Layfield and Jackson, perched himself on the edge of the settee and pulled a folder from his attaché case. ‘Dreadful business, Mrs Harrison. Quite dreadful. I’m terribly sorry,’ he added, fiddling nervously with his bow tie. ‘I really don’t know what to say.’
‘Can I get you something? A cup of tea – or coffee?’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps you’d like something stronger?’
‘Nothing for me. Truly,’ he said, waving his hand in front of his face and clearing his throat. Laura sank down on the armchair facing him. ‘I went into the office this afternoon to check the files,’ he began as he sorted fussily through his papers. ‘I’m afraid things are even worse than I first thought.’ Laura moved forward on to the edge of her seat, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. ‘Effectively, Mrs Harrison,’ he said, coughing into his fist, ‘I’m afraid you’ve got nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Your husband remortgaged the house last year – to way beyond its current value. I think you’ll find you’re in negative equity.’
‘What about the betting shops?’
‘Four of the shops belong to Mr McGavigan. Your husband did own the other two but he sold them to a property developer a year ago and rented back the premises.’
‘Don’t we have any other assets? Stocks and shares? Investments?’
Glancey took a spotless white handkerchief from his breast pocket and used it to dab his brow. ‘There are some, but the value isn’t significant and the little that there is will be more than swallowed up by the outstanding claim from the Inland Revenue.’
‘Mike had a couple of life insurance policies.’
Glancey shook his head. ‘He cashed both of them in some time ago.’
‘The bastard!’ hissed out from between Laura’s clenched teeth. She composed herself quickly. ‘What about the cars? They must be worth something?’
‘Both your car, and your husband’s, are leased.’
Laura got to her feet and walked towards the French windows, staring vacantly out into the darkened garden. ‘I need to raise ten thousand pounds urgently, Mr Glancey. In fact, within the next couple of days.’ She spun around. ‘What would be the best way of going about that?’
Glancey fiddled with his bow tie. ‘I’m sorry to be so negative at a time like this, Mrs Harrison, but I really don’t see how you’re going to be able to do that.’
Simon Ramsay was sitting in front of his computer screen when there was a sharp rap on the study door. ‘What is it?’ he demanded irritably, reaching for the packet of cigarettes on the desk.
Jude walked in and stood by the door. ‘I want an explanation.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he snapped. ‘An explanation for what?’
‘I tried phoning you at the office on Thursday morning. They told me you’d taken a few days off.’
‘Oh, that.’ He pulled a cigarette from the packet and tapped it on the desk. ‘I needed a break. That was all. The pressure of work was getting to me.’
‘Why didn’t you mention anything about that to me?’
‘There’s no way you’d have understood!’ His fingers were trembling as he cradled his cigarette lighter in both hands. ‘You don’t realise what a bastard your father is to work for.’
Jude stared at him. ‘Why did you sneak out of the house at half-past seven this morning?’
Simon got to his feet, pulling hard on his cigarette. ‘Jesus Christ! This is worse than the fucking Spanish Inquisition!’ He exhaled noisily. ‘Anyway, I didn’t sneak out this morning. I’d run out of fags so I nipped out to get some. I went out quietly so as not to wake you up.’
‘Quite a coincidence that Mike was murdered while you were out of the house,’ Jude said in a matter-of-fact tone.
His face turned scarlet. ‘What the hell are you driving at?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! I’m not accusing you of murder. I know you wouldn’t have the balls to do anything like that. However, it’s still one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think? The police are coming here tomorrow to take our statements. Don’t expect me to cover up for you.’ Jude turned away and gripped the door handle. ‘And for your sake, I hope whoever sold you the cigarettes this morning remembers doing so.’
Sunday 19 December
Charlie looked up at the kitchen clock and quickly folded The Sunday Post. ‘I’d better not hang about. Jamie’s expecting me at half-past,’ he said, buttering a slice of toast
‘Will you be going into the office afterwards?’ There was resignation in Kay’s voice as she refilled his tea cup.
‘I’m meeting Tony O’Sullivan in Pitt Street at ten
. He’s set up interviews with Mike Harrison’s relatives this morning. Got to strike while the iron’s hot, love.’
‘Just for once, couldn’t someone else –’ Kay’s comment was interrupted by the ring of the phone. Charlie took the call.
‘Charlie, it’s Hugh,’ a breezy voice announced. ‘Glad I caught you. I might be able to get my hands on a spare ticket for the match and I wanted to know if you’d be interested.’
‘Match? What match?’
‘The match, of course. Wednesday night. Champions League. Celtic versus Dynamo Zagreb.’
‘You know I only go to a football match if there’s half a chance of a Scotsman appearing on the pitch.’
‘The day Thistle are in the Champions League is the day you can start being picky. Seriously, big brother, are you up for it?’
‘Sure.’
‘I can’t promise about the ticket. I won’t know until Wednesday afternoon whether or not I’ll be able to get it. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know.’
‘Thanks, Hugh.’ Charlie replaced the receiver. ‘Sorry, love. What were you about to say?’ he asked.
‘I just wanted to know if you’d be home in time for dinner.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘It’s stovies.’
‘You sure know how to tempt a man.’ Charlie bent down to give Kay a peck on the cheek. ‘I will try to get home at a respectable hour. I’ll give you a bell some time in the afternoon and let you know how things are going.’ Picking up his gloves and his car keys from the hall table, he pulled on his heavy overcoat.
Charlie drew up outside his daughter’s semi-detached bungalow just before eight-thirty. Jamie, already kitted out in his bright yellow goalkeeper’s jersey, white shorts and football boots, was watching from his bedroom window. When he saw his grandfather’s car approach he ran outside, waving his new football aloft.
‘Hello, Grandad!’ he squealed as he careered down the path. ‘Mum’s still in bed so we can start straight away.’
Charlie pulled off his overcoat and rummaged in the car boot for an old pair of gardening shoes. ‘How’s the birthday boy?’
‘Great. Thanks a million for the book you and Grandma gave me. It’s smashing. It tells you everything about the World Cup ever since it started.’
‘You haven’t read it already?’ Charlie asked as he was changing his shoes.
‘I’ve flicked through it. There’s photos of all the teams and pictures of the best goals. Do you remember Archie Gemmill scoring against Holland in Argentina in 1978?’
‘Indeed I do. It was a belter.’
‘There’s a photo of that goal in the book. I’ll show it to you later.’
‘What else did you get?’
‘These,’ he announced proudly, holding up the football in one hand and tugging at his new jersey with the other.
‘Have you tried them out yet?’
‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Let’s go then.’
Jamie raced ahead to the back garden where he’d already positioned two dustbins as goalposts in front of the hedge and marked a penalty spot with a handful of dirt. ‘The hedge is the goal, grandad.’ Placing the ball on the spot, he ran to take up his position on the goal line.
‘Are you sure this is twelve yards, Jamie?’
‘Grandad! It’s eleven metres. Nobody says twelve yards any more.’
‘It’ll always be twelve yards for me, son. Right. Who’s playing?’
‘Scotland versus Brazil. World Cup final 1978 in Argentina.’
Charlie guffawed. ‘I think we’d better check some of the facts in that book of yours.’
‘It wasn’t really. It’s only pretend.’
‘Fair enough. What’s the score?’
‘Scotland are leading 1–0. There’s only a minute to go and the referee’s given Brazil a dodgy penalty. It was never a foul, but the referee’s English so what can you expect?’
Charlie’s grin broadened. ‘Who are you?’
‘Alan Rough.’
‘Who am I?’
‘Pele.’
‘Pele? He doesn’t miss many penalties.’
‘But he’s never scored against Scotland in a World Cup final, has he?’
‘That, I cannot argue with!’
Jamie bent forward, hands wide apart. Charlie struck the ball low and hard to his right, burying it in the hedge. Jamie recovered the ball and ran to replace it on the spot before sprinting back to the goal line.
‘Ready!’ he shouted. The next shot lodged in the hedge on the other side.
For twenty minutes the game continued unabated, Jamie tirelessly replacing the ball on the spot after each shot. Charlie checked his watch. ‘I’ll have to be going now. Last one, okay?’
Jamie crouched very low – concentration written all over his face. As Charlie side-footed the ball Jamie flung himself to his right and the spinning ball flicked his outstretched fingertips, struck the dustbin and ricocheted back into his arms as he lay on the ground. ‘Does that count as a save, Grandad?’ he implored as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Does it?’
‘Of course, Jamie. That counts.’
Throwing the ball high in the air he danced a triumphant jig. ‘That makes six saves,’ he yelped. ‘That’s a record! I’ve never saved six before.’
‘You did really well today, son,’ Charlie said, ruffling Jamie’s unruly crop of black hair as they walked round the side of the house. ‘You’re reading the direction of the shots a lot better. Your second save was a real cracker.’
‘When can we play again?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Soon, I promise. Now make sure you take off those muddy boots before you go into the house – and I’m not at all sure what your mother’s going to say when she sees the state of your new jersey,’ he added, eyeing the mud-splattered mess.
‘You can’t be a goalkeeper and have a clean jersey. You told me that. Remember?’
‘Be off with you!’ Charlie smiled, ruffling his hair again. ‘Tell your mum I couldn’t wait to see her. Tell her I’ll call her later in the day.’
‘Bye, Grandad.’ Jamie kept waving until Charlie’s car was out of sight, then he sat down on the doorstep and started to untie his bootlaces.
Tony O’Sullivan was waiting in Charlie’s office.
‘How did you make out with the poker school crowd?’ Charlie asked as he draped his coat on the stand.
‘Between us, Renton and I managed to track them all down. Not much joy, I’m afraid. They all claim that the extent of their conversation with Harrison on Friday night was “raise you a fiver”. They say he didn’t mention anything about going to Kelvingrove Park on Saturday morning.’
‘Do they have alibis for the time Harrison was killed?’
‘McGill, Grant and Higney all have wives who will vouch for them. Amos lives on his own. He claims he was still in bed at eight o’clock yesterday morning – no reason not to believe him.’
‘Give me a rundown on Harrison’s relatives.’
O’Sullivan referred to his notebook. ‘He had no immediate family, apart from an elderly maiden aunt who lives in a residential home on the outskirts of Stirling. His wife, Laura, is the eldest daughter of a bloke called Jim Cuthbertson. You might have heard of him?’
‘The stockbroker?’ Charlie rubbed his thumb and forefingers together meaningfully.
‘That’s the one. He’s got offices all over the country. He disowned Laura when she took up with Harrison because he didn’t approve of his business activities. Apparently he hasn’t spoken to Laura for the past ten years. There are three younger sisters,’ O’Sullivan continued. ‘Alison’s the next in line. She’s married to a teuchter called Norman Mitchell. They have two young kids and they run an organic farm near Ballinluig in Perthshire. Then there’s Judith. She made her reputation as the editor of a fashion magazine. She’s married to a bloke called Simon Ramsay, originally from Greenock. Ramsay dropped out of university and was bumming around on the dole when he h
ooked up with Judith. The rumour is that the only reason they got hitched was because she got pregnant, but then she miscarried. He’s got a couple of previous for cocaine possession during his university days but nothing recent. Cuthbertson gave him a job in his Glasgow office in some sort of administrative capacity. The word on the street is that Cuthbertson doesn’t think a lot of Ramsay either, but he tolerates him because he thinks the sun shines out of Judith’s backside. The Ramsays and the Harrisons used to socialise a lot together – holidays, concerts, restaurants, dinner parties, that sort of thing. Which leaves Helen. She’s quite a bit younger than the others. She was a fashion model – middle of the road – until she packed it in quite recently. She’s shacked up with a Swedish computer programmer, name of Bjorn Svensson. They live in a flash pad in Giffnock.’
‘What’s our schedule for today?’ Charlie asked.
‘We’re seeing the Ramsays at eleven o’clock and Helen Cuthbertson at two.’
‘Not Svensson?’
‘He’s gone to Sweden for the weekend for his mother’s sixtieth. He’s not due back until tomorrow night so we won’t be able to talk to him before then, unless, of course, the expense account will run to a couple of return tickets to Stockholm?’
Charlie grimaced. ‘Mileage to Perthshire would be pushing it.’
‘I didn’t know if you’d want to go up there today. The A9 is open again but the Mitchells’ farm is twenty miles from Ballinluig and their road is still cut off. According to the Met Office it might be reopened later this afternoon, but there’s no guarantee.’
‘I’m too long in the tooth to take up cross-country skiing. Let’s see what we get out of the Ramsays and Helen Cuthbertson. We can decide later if it’s worth our while making a trip to Ballinluig.’
Charlie reversed into a parking place at the far end of Park Terrace and switched off the ignition. He levered himself out of the driver’s seat and leaned with both elbows on the car roof, shielding his eyes from the watery sun as he scanned the city centre and the sprawling conurbations. ‘You get a cracking view from up here,’ he said. ‘Can you see my house?’ he asked, pointing a gloved finger towards the specks on the horizon.
