Black Mail (2012)

by Daly, Bill

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You come over to our place for Christmas lunch.’ He replaced the receiver before she could blurt out her thanks.

  *

  Tony O’Sullivan dialled Sue’s number.

  ‘We’re on for the Chip tomorrow night,’ he said.

  ‘Great!’

  ‘The table’s booked for eight. How about we meet at half-seven in the upstairs bar?’

  ‘If you’re not there by nine o’clock, would you like me to order for you?’

  ‘Just watch it! By the way, what is your mobile number?’

  Wednesday 22 December

  Charlie Anderson was in his office early, ploughing through his paperwork, when Colin Renton stuck his head round the door.

  ‘Have you got a minute, sir?’

  ‘Sure.’ Charlie slid a memo into his out-basket and put down his pen.

  ‘I followed up on a hunch last night,’ Renton said, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his features. ‘Remember Harry Robertson – McAteer’s uncle?’

  ‘Of course. Shot in the head and his body dumped in the Clyde twenty-odd years ago – on the same day he taunted McAteer in the pub about his “arse-features”.’

  Renton nodded. ‘The murder weapon was never found so I dug out the ballistics report and checked it against the bullets that were lodged in Mike Harrison’s skull.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘In both cases 5.56 millimetre shells were used and, according to the boffins, there’s a ninety-nine percent probability that the shots were fired from the same gun.’

  ‘Nice one, Colin!’

  ‘From the striations on the bullets the lab guys told me the weapon was an SA80 assault rifle, which was the standard army combat weapon when McAteer did his tour of duty in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘How the hell would he manage to get his hands on a combat rifle?’

  ‘Bribe the quartermaster? Maybe claim the IRA had nicked it?’ Renton suggested. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Charlie depressed his intercom button. ‘Pauline, find O’Sullivan and tell him to come to my office right away. It’s time we did a bit of brainstorming.’

  Charlie rolled up his shirt sleeves and turned over to a fresh sheet of paper on the flipchart board. Picking up a marker pen he lobbed it in Renton’s direction. ‘You be the scribe, Colin. No one can read my shorthand.’ Tony O’Sullivan rocked back in his chair and swung his feet up onto Charlie’s desk. .

  ‘Let’s summarise what we’ve got.’ Charlie strode up and down the office as he spoke. ‘Billy McAteer seems to be the common thread in all of this. Harrison hires him as his muscle and not long after that Harrison is killed by McAteer’s gun – not in a fit of temper, but in a cold-blooded, well-planned assassination. Someone must’ve been paying McAteer big time to get him to bump off his source of income.’

  ‘Always assuming McAteer knew who he was killing,’ Renton said.

  ‘What are you driving at?’ O’Sullivan asked.

  ‘I’ve been studying the forensic report,’ Renton said. ‘From the angle of the shots, the rifle bullets were fired from underneath the archway of the bridge and Harrison was shot in the back. The sniper might never have seen his victim’s face. Maybe he didn’t know it was Harrison he was firing at? Perhaps he was expecting someone else to be in the park at that time?’

  ‘Good point! A nice wee bit of lateral thinking there.’ Charlie clapped his hands enthusiastically. ‘That would go a long way towards explaining something that’s been nagging at the back of my mind ever since you told me Harrison had been shot with McAteer’s gun.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Renton asked.

  ‘If McAteer wanted to do away with Harrison, why make such an elaborate production of it? He had easy access to him. A bullet in the back, drop his body in the Clyde with a couple of lead weights attached and Bob’s your uncle – no one would ever have been any the wiser.’

  ‘Should we pull McAteer in for questioning?’ O’Sullivan asked.

  ‘That is an option.’ Charlie settled down on his chair. ‘But I’d rather not show our hand right now. We wouldn’t be able to hold him for long, unless, of course, we could persuade Gerry Fraser to press charges. What do you think, Tony? Now that Harrison’s out of the way, what do you think the chances would be of getting Fraser to testify against McAteer?’

  O’Sullivan looked dubious. ‘I reckon Fraser’s a lot more terrified of McAteer that he ever was of Harrison.’

  ‘Okay,’ Charlie said. ‘For now, let’s settle for putting a round-the-clock tail on McAteer. Colin, get a rota organised as soon as we’ve wrapped up here.’

  ‘To follow up on Colin’s idea,’ O’Sullivan chipped in. ‘Assuming McAteer didn’t know who he was firing at, then whoever hired him to carry out the hit presumably knew the score. He must have set Harrison up to be in the park on Saturday morning.’

  ‘He – or she,’ said Renton.

  ‘Is that another bit of lateral thinking, or do you have someone specific in mind?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Wife beating has been known to drive people to extremes.’

  ‘Laura Harrison paying her husband’s hit man to do in her old man?’ Charlie mused. ‘Nice touch of dramatic irony – and stranger things have happened. Definitely worth our while having another chat with Mrs Harrison. We should also probe her about the mugging incident outside the cinema. For one thing I’d like to know if she reported the assault at the time and, if not, why not.’ Charlie got to his feet. ‘Tony, you nip across to Bearsden and have a chat with Mrs H. I’m going to have another go at Simon Ramsay. He seemed awfully keen to let me know that he suspected Mike Harrison was a wife beater. How would he know something like that?’

  ‘And was he acting as a concerned bystander,’ O’Sullivan said, ‘or was he trying to point the finger at Laura Harrison?’

  The sun was struggling to filter through the high clouds when Tony O’Sullivan pulled up in the Harrisons’ driveway. Laura hurried to the door when he rang the bell but she was clearly taken aback when she saw who it was.

  ‘Is this a bad time, Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘No … Sergeant,’ she stammered. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘You were expecting someone else?’

  ‘My father said he’d drop over this morning. I thought it would be him.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. Just a couple of questions.’ O’Sullivan took out his notebook and pen.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you would be as quick as you can.’ Laura fiddled nervously with her hair.

  ‘We’re trying to establish your husband’s movements last Friday in case he might have mentioned to someone why he was going to Kelvingrove Park the following morning. We know he arrived at Ronnie McGavigan’s place around eight-thirty for the poker school. Can you tell me where he was before then?’

  ‘He left for work on Friday morning as usual – around nine o’clock. He never came home for dinner on poker nights. He usually picked up a fish supper or a pizza and ate it in one of his betting shops.’

  ‘Did he have a set routine?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did he always go to the same betting shop on Fridays?’

  ‘He tended to base himself in Bishopbriggs but I can’t be sure if he was there last Friday. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll have a word with the Bishopbriggs staff. Perhaps one of them might be able to cast some light on the matter.’ Tony put away his notebook and slipped his pen into his pocket. ‘By the way,’ he added casually as he was turning to leave, ‘we’re still trying to track down the yobs who tried to snatch your handbag. There’s been a spate of that sort of thing recently. Could you give me a description of them? Age, height, clothes, make of bike? Anything at all might be useful.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘It all happened so quickly.’

  ‘Did you report the assault at the time?’

  ‘Didn’t seem much point. I hadn’t act
ually lost anything and I couldn’t even begin to identify them.’

  ‘The chief constable will be pleased.’ Laura looked puzzled. ‘If you’d reported the incident you would have added another unsolved crime to his statistics.’ Tony smiled at Laura but his smile wasn’t returned. ‘Were there any witnesses?’ he asked.

  ‘The cinema had just come out and there were a lot of people milling around. I suppose someone might have seen what happened but I was so upset at having been punched in the face that I just wanted to get into a taxi and get away from there as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Outside which cinema did this happen?’

  ‘I can never remember the name.’ She twisted her fingers into her hair. ‘The multiplex near the top of Renfield Street.’

  ‘The UGC?’ Tony suggested. ‘In Renfrew Street?’

  ‘I think that’s what it’s called.’

  ‘What film did you see?’

  Laura hesitated. ‘An American cop thing. Can’t remember the name of it. Not at all my type of movie but Mike was a big fan.’

  They both turned round when a white Rolls-Royce came into the driveway and pulled up behind O’Sullivan’s car. Jim Cuthbertson stepped out. Short, thick set with improbably black, short-cropped hair, he was wearing a sports jacket and a pair of light brown trousers. A mat of grey chest hair protruded from his open-necked shirt.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Sergeant?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Not for now.’

  Cuthbertson strode towards them. ‘Good morning, Laura.’ His voice boomed out.

  ‘This is a police officer, Dad,’ she said, nodding towards Tony. ‘He’s investigating Mike’s murder.’

  Cuthbertson took Tony’s proffered hand. ‘Terrible business, officer.’ Tony felt the tentative, probing thumb of the Masonic handshake as Cuthbertson’s fingers slid across his palm.

  ‘Detective Sergeant O’Sullivan, Mr Cuthbertson.’ Tony delivered his name in a lilting, Irish accent. Cuthbertson’s groping fingers froze, then withdrew to give a limp handshake, fingertips only.

  ‘Do you have any idea who murdered Mike, Sergeant?’

  ‘Nothing much to go on yet, I’m afraid.’ Tony turned to Laura. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Harrison. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘My car’s not blocking you?’ Cuthbertson looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  Jim Cuthbertson followed his daughter into the lounge. ‘Won’t you tell me what this is all about?’ Avoiding eye contact, Laura stared at the wall. Cuthbertson pulled a thick brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket and weighed it in his hand. ‘You know, there may be a better solution.’

  ‘There isn’t, Dad,’ she said quietly, struggling to hold back her tears.

  He handed her the envelope. ‘Are you sure this is going to solve your problem?’

  Laura threw her arms around her father’s neck and sobbed into his jacket collar.

  As Billy McAteer parked his Volvo in Maryhill Road, opposite Cluny Park, an unmarked police car pulled up fifty yards further down the road.

  ‘It would be better if I tailed him, sir,’ Tom Freer said. ‘There’s no chance of him recognising me.’

  ‘Okay, but no matter what happens, don’t confront him,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘The guy’s a complete psycho. Don’t hesitate to radio for backup if you think you might need it.’

  Freer got out of the car and fell in behind McAteer as he headed towards the roundabout at the end of Maryhill Road. Crossing from there into Canniesburn Road, Freer watched him stride up a gravel drive and ring the front door bell. Laura Harrison answered and ushered him inside.

  Laura led the way to the lounge. ‘Glad to see you’ve come to your senses,’ McAteer said, opening the envelope he’d been handed. He pulled out the thick wad of notes and started thumbing through it.

  ‘There’s no need to count it.’ Laura stood by the lounge door with her arms folded. ‘It’s all there.’

  ‘It’s better that I check it now.’ He grinned at her coldly. ‘You wouldn’t want me havin’ to come back because you were a few quid short, would you?’

  ‘Count it quickly, if you must,’ she fumed. ‘Then get out of here.’

  McAteer stopped counting and stuffed the money back into the envelope. Slipping the envelope into his pocket, he moved towards Laura. ‘I was hoping there might be somethin’ else in it for me.’

  ‘Get out of here at once!’ She pointed towards the front door.

  Gripping both her arms, McAteer twisted them behind her back and pulled her body towards him. ‘How about a wee bonus for your business partner?’ He pressed his deformed mouth against her lips and tried to force his tongue into her mouth. Laura struggled to twist her head away and lashed out with her foot, the point of her toecap catching McAteer full on the shin bone. He cursed as he released his grip.

  ‘Get out of here right now!’ she screamed.

  McAteer rubbed hard at his bruised shin, then rushed at Laura and grappled her to the ground, one hand groping for her breast, the other tugging at her skirt.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she yelled.

  ‘Mike told me you liked playin’ the field,’ he said, breathing heavily as he knelt astride her body. Grabbing both her wrists, he pinned them to the floor above her head and held them there with one hand. ‘That was why he had to slap you about, wasn’t it?’ He leered at her as he cuffed her violently back and forward across the face. Reaching under her skirt, he grabbed at her pants and started tugging them down. Laura screamed as loudly as she could. Suddenly the front doorbell rang. McAteer clamped his hand tightly over her mouth. ‘Not a peep out of you,’ he hissed, ‘or you’ll go the same way as your auld man.’ The bell jangled again.

  Whipping his knife from his jacket pocket he flicked open the blade and pressed the tip against her temple. Slowly, he dragged the razor-sharp point down the side of her face, the blade coming to rest flat against her throat. ‘The slightest noise,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘an’ I’ll finish you off right now.’ Drops of blood, seeping from the yawning wound in her cheek, were dripping onto the carpet. Laura felt her head start to spin. When the doorbell rang again McAteer scrambled to his feet. Looking round the room he flung open the French windows and sprinted outside, vaulting the low, stone wall at the bottom of the garden. Laura staggered to her feet, her hand clasped to the side of her face to try to stem the flow of blood. She lurched along the hallway leaving a trail of blood splattered on the carpet. When she threw the front door open there was no one there.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Freer saw McAteer’s Volvo start to pull away from the kerb he raced the last twenty yards to the waiting car. Seeing him coming, O’Sullivan flung open the passenger door and fired the engine. As soon as Freer had scrambled inside he set off in pursuit.

  ‘What happened back there?’ O’Sullivan demanded.

  ‘He went into a house in Canniesburn Road,’ Freer panted, ‘which I assume was Laura Harrison’s place. He rang the bell and a woman let him in. I made my way round to the back of the house and saw them together in the lounge, through the French windows. She gave him an envelope and he started counting what seemed to be a lot of money. Then he had a go at her.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘He flung himself at her and wrestled her to the ground. I could hear her screaming through the closed windows. It looked as if he was about to rape her. You said not to confront him but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing so I raced round to the front of the house and kept ringing the doorbell. I heard the French windows being thrown open and when I looked round the side of the house I saw McAteer clambering over the garden wall. I followed him back here.’

  ‘Quick thinking, Tom.’ The traffic was comparatively light and O’Sullivan had no difficulty keeping the Volvo in sight as it turned right at Anniesland Cross and headed out Great Western Road towards Drumchapel. ‘So, Mrs H. was paying McAteer off, was she? That can only mean one thing – she
hired him to bump off her old man.’ O’Sullivan pulled up, several cars behind the Volvo, at a set of traffic lights.

  ‘And it would appear that he fancied his chances of taking advantage of the situation,’ Freer said. ‘Mrs Harrison is hardly in a position to report a rape. Looks like she might’ve bitten off a lot more than she can chew.’

  ‘Radio in,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘Let them know we’re tailing McAteer. Give them his licence number and a description of the vehicle in case we lose him.’

  McAteer drove through Drumchapel and headed north towards Balloch, O’Sullivan staying as far back as he could without letting the Volvo out of his sight. When he saw McAteer indicate left just beyond the village of Luss, O’Sullivan pulled over at the side of the road.

  ‘Are we not going to follow him?’ Freer asked.

  ‘I know that track. It doesn’t lead anywhere. I don’t know what he’s up to but we might as well wait for him here. He has to come back down the same way.’ O’Sullivan slipped the car into first gear and drove slowly past the turn off, then kept going for another hundred yards until he spotted a gap in the trees. Reversing off the road, he cut the engine.

  Charlie was about to call Simon Ramsay when his phone rang.

  ‘Turnbull here, Anderson. Drop whatever you’re doing and come to my office straight away.’

  Charlie replaced the receiver. He got to his feet and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. It was the first time he’d ever been summoned by the chief constable. When he got to Bill Turnbull’s office he was ushered straight in by his secretary, who closed the door behind him. Turnbull was sitting behind his wide desk, talking on the phone. Acknowledging Charlie’s presence with a wave, he indicated a chair. To Charlie’s surprise it appeared that the meeting was going to involve only the two of them.

  When he’d finished his call Turnbull pressed his desk intercom. ‘No interruptions, Margaret.’ Boxing the edges of the papers in his hand, he slipped on his reading glasses and peered over the top of them. ‘I’ve had a call from the first minister. Bit of a tricky one here, Anderson.’ Turnbull’s reputation went before him. When he resorted to understatement it invariably meant trouble. ‘The conversation we are about to have is in the strictest confidence. We have received information about a planned bomb attack at Celtic Park tonight.’