by Daly, Bill
‘That’s typical of Charlie! If you or I tried that he’d tear a strip off us, but he’s a law unto himself – very much an advocate of “Do as I say, not do as I do”.’
Tony pulled himself to his feet and fetched two more cans. ‘Apart from work, how’s Glasgow treating you?’ he asked, handing across the lager.
‘Okay. Though I think I’m going to need to take language lessons. Do you know if Linguaphone do a course in Glaswegian?’
Tony smiled. ‘You should try to get your hands on the Parliamo Glasgow tapes.’
‘What are they when they’re at home?’
‘An old Stanley Baxter routine – the foreigners’ guide to making yourself understood in Glasgow. Foreign includes the east of Scotland, by the way.’ Tony flopped back down on his chair. ‘I liked the one about the German tourist who asked someone to explain the meaning of the word “breeding”. He was told: “It all depends where you come from. In Edinburgh, it means good taste. In Glasgow, it means good fun”.’ Tom laughed as Tony wiped up the last traces of curry sauce with a piece of folded chapatti and stuffed it into his mouth, washing it down with a long swig of export. He pushed his plate to one side. ‘Now it’s time to get down to the serious business,’ he said. ‘Where would you like to start?’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘I’ve got Laphroaig, Glenmorangie, Highland Park, Talisker, Balvenie and Lagavulin.’
‘When in doubt, I tend to go for alphabetical order.’
‘Helen, I need your help.’ Laura Harrison’s voice sounded agitated.
Helen Cuthbertson transferred the phone to her left hand and picked up her glass of Chablis. ‘I’ll do what I can, sis. You know that,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I need to get my hands on money – a lot of money – and I need it quickly.’
‘How much is a lot?’
‘Ten thousand pounds.’
Helen hesitated. ‘I don’t know about that. I’d have to talk to Bjorn. He’s in Stockholm right now, but he’ll be back tomorrow night and –’
‘I’ve got to have it, Helen!’
‘Steady on! I don’t have that kind of money to hand.’
‘You’ve got five thousand a month going into the Cayman Islands, for Christ’s sake! Don’t try to tell me you don’t have it.’
‘Calm down, Laura. The funds in the Caymans aren’t readily accessible. I can’t just phone up and transfer cash to my Bank of Scotland current account. It doesn’t work like that.’ Laura started sobbing down the line. ‘What’s the problem?’ Helen asked gently. ‘Why do you need the money?’
‘Mike stitched me up,’ she said between sobs. ‘The bastard remortgaged the house, sold the bookies’ shops and cashed in his life insurance policies without saying a bloody word. He’s left me with debts that have to be cleared.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out. As I said, Bjorn will be back from Stockholm tomorrow night. He’s got a couple of days off. We’ll come across to your place first thing on Tuesday morning and talk things through.’
Tom Freer looked at his watch. ‘Hey, is that the time? I really ought to be making tracks. Mel will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘Give her a bell,’ Tony said.
‘She’s probably asleep by now, in which case she wouldn’t appreciate being woken up to be told I’m on my way. Okay if I call a cab?’
‘Sure. The number of the nearest rank’s on the side of the phone.’
Tom picked up the handset and dialled. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, replacing the receiver.
‘Time for a nightcap, then.’ Tony got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and fetched the Talisker bottle from the cupboard. ‘Not a lot left in this one,’ he said, angling the bottle and holding it up to the light. ‘Still, enough for a snifter.’
‘Tell me something,’ Tom said as Tony was pouring. ‘A couple of people at work asked me what school I went to. What’s that all about?’
Tony kicked off his shoes and swung his feet up onto the kitchen table. ‘Ah ha! They were trying to find out what foot you kick with.’
‘Come again?’
‘Are you a Billy or a Tim?’ He transferred his whisky tumbler from one hand to the other, then back again. ‘A blue-nose or a Bhoy? Do you frequent Ibrox or Parkhead? I realise this is difficult for you to get your head round, Tom – you have to be brought up with it. The English don’t have a clue about the west of Scotland mentality. They can’t begin to understand the bigotry.’
‘Bigotry’s not something we’re short of down south,’ Tom stated emphatically.
‘There’s bigotry …’ Tony transferred his whisky glass again. ‘And there’s bigotry. What I’m talking about is inherited, religious bigotry. Let me ask you a question.’ He put his glass down on the table and ripped the ring-pull from a can of export. ‘How many people did you work with in the Met?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Twenty, maybe – perhaps thirty?’
‘Of those, how many were Catholics and how many were Protestants?’
‘How on earth would I know something like that?’
‘Exactly! That’s my point. I can tell you what foot everyone in Pitt Street kicks with. And I mean everyone – from the chief constable down to the cleaners. In this part of the world you have to know everyone’s religion. It’s as much a part of their identity as their name. No one will ask you outright, of course – that would be unsubtle. So when you first meet someone, they’ll josh you about what football team you support. If you admit to Celtic or Rangers they’ve got you pigeon-holed. If you claim to support Partick Thistle, and you weren’t born in Maryhill, they’ll suspect you’re trying to duck the issue so they’ll pick their moment to slip the killer question into the conversation: “What school did you go to, pal?” Bingo! If it begins with “Saint” or “Our Lady” you’re a Tim, if not, you’re a Hun. No point in trying to qualify your response, by the way: “I went to such and such a school, but I’m an atheist, an agnostic, a Jew, or I’ve recently converted to the Church of Scientology.” None of that’ll wash. The rules don’t allow for opting out.’ Tony took a long swig of beer from his can. ‘You’re not going to believe this but a few years back a Sikh applied for a job as a trainee constable and the interviewer asked him if he was a Catholic Sikh or a Protestant Sikh.’
Tom burst out laughing. ‘You cannot be serious!’
‘It would be hilarious if it wasn’t the God’s honest truth. Let me explain how things work in this part of the world. From the age of four, children are segregated.’ Tony separated out the empty cans. ‘Protestants to one school.’ He slid the lager cans to the far end of the table. ‘Catholics to another.’ He wrapped his arms round the export cans and pulled them towards him. ‘Thus ensuring that everyone you’re in contact with during your formative years is of the same religious persuasion. This, in turn, defines the football team you’ll support, who your mates will be and, if your family has its way, who you’ll marry and how you’ll bring up your kids. It’s no exaggeration to say that the primary school your mammy sends you to defines the label branded on your forehead for the rest of your life.’ With a sweep of his arm Tony sent all the cans clattering to the floor.
Tom looked incredulous. ‘Surely that’s all a thing of the past?’
‘Don’t you believe it!’
‘I didn’t realise things were as bad as that.’
‘Just once, while you’re up in Glasgow, try to get your hands on a ticket for an Old Firm match and see what you make of it. The raw hatred between the rival sets of fans is almost tangible. The powers that be try to keep a lid on things but I can remember being at games, not all that long ago, when half the fans, the majority of them pissed out of their brains, were belting out “The Sash My Father Wore” and rejoicing in the slaughter of the papists at the Battle of the Boyne while the other lot were chanting “The Soldier’s Song” and wallowing in the glories of the 1916 Easter Rising.’
‘It sounds like a completely different world.’ Tom sai
d.
‘The Met might have a monopoly on institutionalised racism, but we’ve cornered the market when it comes to religious bigotry.’ Tony broke off to tip the dregs from the Talisker bottle into Tom’s glass, then drained his can. ‘And things aren’t a lot better at work,’ he added with feeling.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Pitt Street might as well be a branch of the Orange Lodge. If you don’t do the handshake and roll up your trouser leg at the appropriate time you might as well forget about having a career. I got knocked back for promotion to sergeant first time round because the high heidyins didn’t like the school I went to.’
‘How can you know that was the reason?’ Tom asked incredulously.
‘Because I know!’ Tony snorted. ‘Look at Charlie Anderson. One of the best cops in the division, yet left to fester at the rank of DI for God knows how many years. The only reason he eventually got a step up on the ladder was because there was nobody else. I’m telling you, the foot you kick with around here is a damned sight more important than any ability you might or might not have.’
Tony held the Talisker bottle up to the light. ‘This one’s dead. Okay with you if we go back to the Balvenie?’
‘As long as you’re not expecting me to go through the alphabet again,’ Tom said, holding out his glass.
*
Jude Ramsay lay quietly in bed listening to her husband’s steady breathing. After waiting until it had developed into a regular snore she slipped from underneath the duvet and tiptoed along the hall to his study. Closing the door quietly behind her she switched on the light and eased open the bottom drawer of the desk. She saw the half-full carton of Marlboro.
Monday 20 December
Tony O’Sullivan was waiting for Charlie when he arrived in the office. ‘We’ve arrested Tommy Hemphill,’ he announced. ‘He’s the junkie who tried to have Councillor Mullen’s eye out. We’ve also picked up Tosh McCulloch. How do you want to play it?’
‘You take care of Hemphill, Tony,’ Charlie said as they strode down the corridor. I want my pound of flesh out of McCulloch. Where is he being held?’
‘Over in Partick.’
‘Phone across and let them know I’m on my way.’
Charlie circled slowly round behind the nervous, scrawny figure hunched on the chair. Tosh McCulloch twisted round in his seat, his eyes following Charlie’s every move.
‘What are you playing at, Anderson?’
‘I’m weighing up if you’re worth losing my pension for,’ Charlie growled. McCulloch’s tongue flicked over his dry lips. ‘Tell you what,’ Charlie said. ‘How about if you start something?’ He kicked hard at the leg of McCulloch’s chair, causing it to almost topple over. ‘That would really make my day.’
McCulloch wrapped his arms over his head and cowered down. ‘I know my rights. Somebody else should be in here.’
‘Who should be in here?’
‘Anybody. I want a witness.’
‘You want a witness?’ Charlie snorted. ‘Well tough titties, sunshine. We’re understaffed. Everybody’s gone for lunch. So for the next hour, you miserable little runt, it’s just you and me.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Try me.’
‘What do you want?’ McCulloch whimpered.
‘I want names. I want to know who you buy from – and who you sell to.’
‘I’m sayin’ nothin’.’
‘The fuck you are!’ Charlie roared, grabbing him by the shirt collar and twisting hard. ‘I said I want names, you little shitbag – and I want them now!’ He ground his fist hard into McCulloch’s windpipe.
‘Get a fuckin’ grip!’ McCulloch gasped.
‘Anything to oblige.’ Charlie dug his knuckles in deeper.
McCulloch tried unsuccessfully to prise his fingers between his shirt collar and his neck. ‘I buy from Gerry Fraser,’ he spluttered.
‘Fraser’s small beer. Who does he work for?’
‘How the hell would I know? For Christ’s sake, Anderson! You’re chokin’ me!’
Charlie relaxed his grip. ‘Who do you sell to?’
‘Nobody in particular,’ McCulloch wheezed, twisting his head and massaging the bruise forming on the side of his neck.
‘How many of those nobodies are children?’
‘I don’t sell to kids.’
Charlie’s raised his fist high above his head and brought it hammering down on the table. ‘Wrong answer!’ McCulloch cowered down, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘A ten year-old boy is dead because of you. Did you know that?’ Charlie roared at the snivelling figure. ‘Do you even know his name?’ Charlie thumped his fist down on the table again. ‘It’s John O’Hara – remember that name – because it’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life. I’m going to make sure you get put away for a long time, McCulloch. When you eventually get out I’ll be long retired. But I’ve got a good memory – and I’ve got contacts – and I’ll be keeping in touch. And if I ever find out that you’ve been seen within a mile of a school playground, I’ll come after you, you miserable wee nyaff, and there won’t be a badge standing in my way.’
When Charlie arrived back in Pitt Street he found Tony O’Sullivan waiting for him in his office.
‘How did you get on with McCulloch, sir?’
‘I’m going to have that bastard,’ Charlie growled, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘I know he sold cocaine to John O’Hara.’
‘That reminds me,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘There was a phone call while you were out from a Miss Appleton – she left her mobile number and asked if you would call her back as soon as possible. She said it was to do with John O’Hara, but she wanted to speak to you personally.’
Charlie picked up the phone and dialled, switching to loudspeaker mode so O’Sullivan could listen in. ‘Miss Appleton?’ he enquired to a background of childish chatter. ‘This is DCI Anderson. You left a message for me to call?’
‘Hold on a minute, Inspector, while I go out into the corridor. That’s better,’ she said as the hubbub died away. ‘This morning one of the boys in my class told me he had information for you,’ she said, ‘but he made me promise not to tell you his name.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s a café called Trento’s, about two hundred yards from the school. He says he saw John O’Hara in there a couple of times talking to a scruffily dressed guy in his thirties.’
‘Would he be able to ID the guy?’
‘Probably, but he’s too frightened to talk to the police. However, I know Trento has a CCTV system installed so he can identify kids who try to steal stuff. I thought that information might be useful?’
‘Very useful, Miss Appleton. Thank you. We’ll follow it up.’
‘Check it out, Tony,’ Charlie said as he replaced the receiver. ‘See if you can get your hands on Trento’s footage for the month preceding John O’Hara’s death. And when you’ve done that,’ he added, ‘nip over to Glasgow airport and meet Bjorn Svensson off the Stockholm flight. It’s due in at half-past five.’
‘What’s the score with him? Do you reckon he’s got something to hide?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Just a gut feeling. It might be nothing, but I’d like to get a statement out of him about where he was on Saturday morning before his wife gets the chance to prime him.’
‘If she wanted to do that surely she’ll have phoned him in Stockholm?’
‘Possibly – but she might not have bothered if she assumed she’d be seeing him before we got to him.’
O’Sullivan was sitting in the café near the airport arrivals’ area, stirring sugar into his coffee, when the announcement came over the public address system that there had been a further delay to the incoming flight from Stockholm. The latest ETA was given as 18.45. He cursed under his breath as he did the calculation. On the ground at 18.45, passengers disembarking by 19.00. Assuming he could get into the baggage retrieval area it would take him five minutes to get a statement out of Svensson,
which would leave him twenty-five minutes to get to Glasgow Green. He fingered the tickets in his inside jacket pocket, then cursed again when he burned his tongue on the scalding coffee. Digging his mobile out he checked Sue’s home number and dialled. A cheerful female voice answered.
‘Hello!’
‘I assume I’m talking to Sue’s babysitter?’
‘You most certainly are.’
‘My name’s Tony O’Sullivan. I’m supposed to be meeting Sue at half-past seven to go to the Radiohead gig but I’m running late. Do you know if she has a mobile and if so, do you have the number?’
‘The good news is that she does have a mobile and I do have the number. The bad news is that her phone’s sitting on the coffee table in front of me. She put it on charge and forgot to take it with her.’
‘Wonderful!’
‘Can I take a message in case she calls home?’
‘No. Thanks all the same. I’ll do my best to get there on time.’
CHAPTER 11
Tuesday 21 December
‘I’m not kidding. I thought I was going to have a heart attack when that cop marched up to me in the arrivals hall waving his warrant card.’ Indicating right for the Bearsden Switchback, Bjorn Svensson drifted into the outside lane on Great Western Road. ‘I was sure my programming changes must’ve come to light. I couldn’t think of any other reason for the reception committee.’ Bjorn applied the Mercedes’ brakes smoothly as the Anniesland Cross traffic lights up ahead changed to red.
Helen Cuthbertson tugged down the sun visor to check her make-up in the vanity mirror. ‘I can imagine. A bit strange that Mr Plod went to all the trouble of going out to the airport to meet you, don’t you think? What was there that couldn’t have waited until this morning?’
‘Search me. It’s not as if he had any earth-shattering questions to ask. Where was I at eight o’clock on Saturday morning? Who was I with? That was about it.’
