by Daly, Bill
‘We all have our little secrets we’d prefer our employers not to know about, Bjorn. I’m only in breach of internal company procedures. I’m not breaking the law,’ he added forcefully.
Bjorn narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this some kind of threat?’
‘Spare me the melodrama. All I’m asking you to do is pay a cheque into your account and do whatever you have to do to the computer programs to make sure the money’s transferred to me today. I don’t want to know about having to wait three days for the cheque to be cleared.’
‘I can’t touch the programs that deal with cheque deposits. They’re classified as “sensitive”, which means written management authorisation is required before any software changes can be made.’
Simon stared long and hard at the cheque, then ripped it into shreds. ‘I’m in the shit, Bjorn. Right up to my fucking neck. I have to find a solution. I’ve got to have fifty thousand in my account by lunchtime tomorrow.’
‘There’s no way I can get my hands on fifty grand as quickly as that. It’s just not possible!’
‘You’ve been salting away five thousand a month for years,’ Simon hissed. ‘Make it possible.’
Bjorn rubbed hard at his dimpled chin. ‘I’ll get in touch with the Cayman Islands this afternoon and see what can be done.’
‘That’s more like it.’
‘I’ll give you a call this evening and let you know.’
‘I won’t be at home. Call me on my mobile when you’ve spoken to your contact in the Caymans. And if you want your little secret to remain safe,’ he added as he got to his feet, ‘you’d better come up with a solution.’ Turning on his heel he stomped out of the café.
Billy McAteer checked to make sure he wasn’t being followed before pushing open the door of Shuggie Morrison’s café.
‘Give me the works, Shuggie,’ he called out to the squat figure behind the counter. ‘I’m starvin’.’
‘Tea or coffee, Billy?’
‘Tea.’
The conversation at the table by the window stopped and the three customers on the bench seat craned round to see who had come in. Bert Tollin looked casually at his watch. ‘Is that the time, boys?’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’d better be on my way. See you tomorrow.’
‘Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?’ The Red Hand of Ulster was pointing straight at Tollin.
‘To the bookies, pal. I’ve got a cert for the three-thirty at Kempton.’
‘Plank your arse back down there. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere until I say so.’
Tollin hesitated. ‘I need a pee. I’m burstin’.’
‘On you go, then,’ McAteer said, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the toilet as he sat down at the table nearest the door.
Tollin hurried to the toilet and went into the solitary cubicle, locking the door behind him. Fishing his mobile from his inside pocket he paged down to Colin Renton’s number. He held the phone hard against his ear as it rang out and as soon as a voice answered he flushed the toilet. ‘Billy McAteer is in Shuggie Morrison’s café, Mr Renton,’ he gabbled over the sound of rushing water. Disconnecting immediately, Tollin scuttled back to the café and took his seat on the bench.
Sue Paterson dropped into the Southern General on her way home from school. Climbing the two flights of stairs she traipsed the length of the ward with Jamie holding onto her hand, a book clutched tightly to his chest. When they came to Tony O’Sullivan’s bed they found him lying on his back, snoring gently through a heavily bandaged nose.
‘Is that Mr O’Sullivan, Mummy?’ Jamie asked, standing on tiptoe to peer over the bedclothes.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘What happened to his nose?’
‘As far as I know it was a clash of heads.’
‘Is he a forward or a defender?’
‘I don’t actually know, Jamie,’ she said, smiling.
‘Can I show him my book now?’
Sue put a finger across her lips. ‘It would be a shame to disturb him while he’s sleeping,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe we could show it to him later?’ Sue stopped a male nurse who was walking past. ‘Can you tell me anything about Mr O’Sullivan’s condition?’ she asked.
The nurse lifted the clipboard from the end of the bed. ‘His nose was reset this afternoon. No complications. The doctor will see him on his rounds in about half an hour and he’ll probably let him out later on today. We like to clear as many beds as possible before the weekend,’ he explained. ‘A&E gets overrun when the pubs come out. Especially so near Christmas,’ he added with a grimace.
‘Okay if I leave a note for him?’ Sue asked.
‘Of course. Do you need something to write on?’
‘No thanks, I’ve got a notebook,’ she said, tapping her handbag.
Lifting the visitor’s chair noiselessly from beneath the bed, Sue sat down, took her notebook out of her bag and began to write:
Assuming you’ve got nothing more exciting planned for this evening, how about coming round to my place for a bite to eat? It’s just chilli con carne. Ever since Dad told Jamie that you were a football fanatic he’s been dying to impress you with his book on the World Cup. But I’m warning you – there are liable to be some rather tricky questions to test you out!
I’ll expect you any time after seven. Give me a bell if you’re not able to make it.
Sue.
Having added her address and phone number at the bottom of the note Sue tore out the page, folded the sheet of paper and propped it among the discarded grape stalks in the bowl on the bedside table. Getting to her feet she shepherded Jamie back down the ward.
Sergeant Andrew Shearer deployed his resources: two men round the back of the building and two at each end of the block containing Shuggie Morrison’s café. All six were wearing bulletproof body armour and had hand guns strapped to their waists. One man in each pair carried a walkie-talkie.
Shearer directed operations from his car parked at the end of the street from where he had an unobstructed view of the café entrance. His walkie-talkie crackled into life.
‘Unit A in position round the back, sir. There appears to be only one door at the rear of the building and it’s closed.’
‘Stay in position and await further instructions,’ Shearer ordered. He watched as an animated group of half a dozen men and women crossed the road away from the café – they looked like workers making their way back to the office after a very long Christmas lunch. A teenage girl, pushing a pram, turned the corner where two of his officers were leaning casually against the wall and she headed along the pavement in the direction of the café. ‘Units B and C,’ he barked into the mouthpiece. ‘Hold position.’ The pram stopped outside the café and the girl studied the menu in the window. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t go in!’ Shearer muttered under his breath, willing the girl to move on. Glancing at her watch, she used the pram to nudge open the door and went inside. ‘Shit!’ Shearer’s men heard the exclamation reverberate through their walkie-talkies. They’d also seen the girl go into the café and four pairs of expectant eyes turned towards the parked car.
‘We still have to bring McAteer out, boys.’ Shearer spoke into his mouthpiece. ‘The girl and the pram are just an added complication. Maximum speed and maximum caution will be required. Units B and C, approach the café rapidly, staying as close to the wall as you can.’
Shearer watched his men hug the buildings as they closed in on the café from both sides, stopping when they got to within a couple of yards of the entrance, their bodies flattened against the brick wall. ‘Unit B,’ Shearer said, ‘withdraw firearms and go in when you’re ready. Unit C, hold position and don’t make any move unless you hear shots fired.’
A solid shoulder almost took the door off its hinges as Unit B went through the café door together, arms outstretched, pistols levelled. Billy McAteer scrambled to his feet and pulled out his flick knife. He froze when he saw the guns, one aimed at his head, the other at his chest.
&nbs
p; ‘Police! Drop the knife, McAteer.’
McAteer spun round to face the counter. ‘Which one of you fuckin’ bastard shopped me?’ he roared, lancing his knife across the room, the blade whipping over the pram by the counter and burying itself in the wall above Shuggie’s head, bringing down a cloud of white plaster.
McAteer glowered in Shuggie’s direction, but offered no resistance to being handcuffed.
‘Unit B, sir,’ crackled in Shearer’s ear. ‘Subject has been subdued and apprehended. No rounds fired. No police or civilian casualties.’
Simon Ramsay was sitting on his own outside The Rock, nursing a Budweiser and smoking a cigarette, when a call came through on his mobile.
‘Simon, it’s Bjorn.’
‘Did you manage to get it organised?’
‘You’ll have your fifty thousand pounds tomorrow.’
‘That’s great, Bjorn! I knew you’d be able to do it if you put your mind to it.’
‘I’ll need your bank account details to transfer the funds.’
Pulling his chequebook from his jacket pocket, Ramsay read out the relevant information. ‘How soon can I have access to the money?’ he demanded.
‘By lunchtime tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Bjorn. That’s one I owe you.’
It was two hours and several Budweisers later when Ramsay’s mobile rang again.
‘Good evening, Pervert,’ the familiar, Dalek-like voice intoned.
‘I’ll have the money tomorrow,’ he whispered into the mouthpiece.
‘Excellent!’
‘There’s just one problem.’
‘That’s not what I want to hear, Pervert.’ The tone was menacing.
‘The money will be in my account by lunchtime tomorrow but I can hardly walk into my bank with a suitcase and ask for fifty thousand pounds in cash in small-denomination notes, can I?’
‘That’s for you to sort out,’ he snapped. ‘Either I get the fifty grand tomorrow or the world and his wife – which includes your wife, by the way – will get to hear about your little indiscretion.’
‘Be reasonable, for Christ’s sake! How about if I pay you in instalments over the next few days? Say, a few thousand at a time?’ There was an ominous silence at the other end of the line ‘There’s no way the bank will let me withdraw fifty thousand in cash all in one go. How about it?’ he pleaded.
‘You’re leaving me with a difficult decision, Pervert.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Whether your photo will appear in the papers tomorrow – or whether I should save it for a big splash on Sunday.’
‘Hold on a minute!’
The communication was cut.
CHAPTER 16
Friday 24 December
When Charlie Anderson arrived at Pitt Street early the following morning he found someone waiting for him at reception. Having introduced himself, Jim Cuthbertson followed Charlie up the stairs.
‘How bad is this, Inspector?’ Cuthbertson asked as they were entering Charlie’s office.
‘It couldn’t be much worse. Your daughter has confessed to hiring a hit man to murder a supposed blackmailer. However, we have yet to establish whether or not any blackmail attempt was actually made.’
‘What has she been charged with?’
‘Conspiracy to murder.’
‘Where is she being held?’
‘Cornton Vale.’
‘Will you oppose bail?’
‘That won’t be my decision.’
‘Have you arrested Simon Ramsay?’
‘No.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Cuthbertson exploded. ‘Laura told you he was the instigator of all this!’
‘Mr Ramsay claims to know nothing about it.’
‘I don’t give a shit about what he claims! He put Laura up to it, for Christ’s sake! Why is he not under arrest?’
‘I’m not prepared to discuss Mr Ramsay’s situation with you, Mr Cuthbertson.’
‘You mean to say you’re going to charge my daughter with conspiracy to murder and let that miserable little bastard walk away scot-free!’
‘That’s not what I said. If Ramsay’s implicated he’ll be charged in due course.’
‘That’s not good enough!’
‘Mr Cuthbertson, your daughter has confessed to hiring McAteer to commit a murder. Instead of getting hot under the collar about Simon Ramsay you would be well advised to direct your energies towards ensuring that she gets the best possible legal representation.’
‘When I want your advice on what’s in my daughter’s best interests, I’ll ask for it!’
Charlie bristled. ‘And when I want your advice on who I should be arresting, I’ll be sure to let you know!’
Cuthbertson stared hard at Charlie. ‘Have you tracked down this McAteer character?’
‘He’s in custody.’
‘Surely he’ll be able to point the finger at Ramsay?’
‘I realise I’m in danger of repeating myself, Mr Cuthbertson, but forget about Ramsay! If there’s a case for him to answer, we’ll deal with it.’
‘Laura is sensitive and impressionable. She would never have got herself mixed up in anything like this unless that bastard had pushed her into it.’
‘Perhaps you should try to find out who gave your daughter the money to pay off McAteer, Mr Cuthbertson? Whoever it was certainly didn’t do her any favours. If he’d come to us instead we might have been able to apprehend McAteer before he had the chance to scar your daughter for life.’
‘I don’t like your attitude, Anderson,’ Cuthbertson snarled. ‘I’ll have you know I’ll be taking this up with Superintendent Hamilton!’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Your prerogative.’ Jim Cuthbertson cursed under his breath as he stomped out of the office.
A young girl nervously approached the main reception desk in Pitt Street. ‘Is this where I come to give information about the murder in Kelvingrove Park last Saturday?’ she asked hesitantly.
PC Lillian McArthur looked her up and down. Early twenties, she reckoned. The girl had a fair complexion, deep-green, intelligent eyes, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was fastened back with a wooden clasp. She was wearing a light blue anorak and had a Glasgow University medical faculty scarf wrapped round her neck.
‘It’s as good a place to start as any,’ Lillian said reassuringly. ‘What have you got for us?’
‘I saw a car pull up at the bottom of Kelvin Way just before eight o’clock on the morning of the murder. I know the registration number – or at least, part of it.’
‘Hold on a minute.’ Lillian picked up the desk phone and tapped in Colin Renton’s extension. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked as the phone was ringing out.
‘Lesley McDougall.’
‘Lillian McArthur at reception, Colin,’ she said when Renton picked up. ‘There’s a young lady here called Lesley McDougall who thinks she might have some useful information on the Harrison murder. Can you talk to her?’
‘Sure. Send her up.’
‘I think it was a Jaguar.’ Lesley McDougall twisted nervously on a strand of loose hair as she took the seat opposite Renton. I can’t be a hundred per cent sure of that but the registration definitely contained the letters LAM. I’m certain of that.’
‘How come you’re so sure?’
‘LAM. Lesley Anne McDougall. My initials. I’d been at Daft Friday. Have you heard of it? It’s an all-night ball in the University Union.’
‘I tend not to mix in those circles, Ms McDougall.’
Lesley blushed, twisting harder on her hair. ‘Lindsay – she’s my flatmate – and I came out of the Union about eight o’clock on Saturday morning. The guys we had gone to the dance with were both the worse for wear and they’d crashed out in the Beer Bar so we decided to leave them to it and head off home. We were standing at the top of the Union steps, trying to flag down a cab, when I noticed a car driving past and pulling up at the bottom of Kelvin Way. It caught my eye because the registration was the same
as my initials. I thought it was a sign.’ She blushed even deeper. ‘I was at the giggly stage, I’m afraid. So was Lindsay. I was, like – let’s go across and chat up the driver, but Lindsay wasn’t having any of it. She was, like – no way! Let’s get a taxi and go home. I tried to pull her across the road but a cab came by and she flagged it down and dragged me into the back seat.’
‘Did you notice any of the numbers on the Jag’s licence plate?’
Lesley shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Why did it take you so long to come forward with this information, Ms McDougall?’ Renton asked.
‘I don’t listen much to the news. It was only when some of my friends were discussing the murder in the pub yesterday that I realised it took place round about the time Lindsay and I came out of the Union.’
‘Hold on a minute, Dad.’ Helen Cuthbertson transferred the phone to her other hand and closed the kitchen door to drown out Bjorn’s strident singing which was emanating from the shower. ‘Okay, go on. I can hear you now.’
‘Brace yourself for a shock,’ Jim Cuthbertson said tersely.
‘Shock?’
‘Laura has been arrested for conspiracy to murder her husband.’
‘What!’
‘She’s apparently been having an affair with Simon Ramsay for the past couple of years.’ There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. ‘It appears that Mike found out about their affair,’ Cuthbertson said, ‘and resorted to blackmail. It seems that he managed to get his hands on a photo of Laura and Simon in bed together and he contacted Ramsay, threatening to expose him if he didn’t come up with fifty thousand pounds. Simon told Laura about the threat and he talked her into hiring someone called McAteer to kill the blackmailer, though at that stage they had no idea that Mike was involved.’
‘My God!’
‘To make matters worse,’ Cuthbertson continued, ‘Ramsay is now claiming he knows nothing about any blackmail attempt and he’s told the police that Laura was acting on her own when she hired McAteer to kill Mike. The little shit is trying to wash his hands of everything and leave Laura to carry the can.’
