Never Proven

by Bill Daly

Kay appeared in the doorway. ‘Do you fancy a dram before you eat?’

  ‘Not right now,’ Charlie said, stripping off his jacket. ‘I’ll maybe have one later.’

  ‘I’m prepared to bet it wasn’t a big sandwich you had for lunch,’ Kay said.

  ‘Not very,’ Charlie said, forcing a weak smile.

  When he’d finished eating, Charlie put down his fork. ‘I really did my best to duck out of it, love, but Niggle wouldn’t wear it.’

  ‘That’s okay, Charlie.’ Kay reached across the kitchen table and took Charlie’s hand in hers, gently squeezing his fingers. ‘I realise I’ve been tetchy recently. I was just hoping for your sake that you’d be able to see out the next few months without too much hassle. Would you like some more?’ Kay asked, pointing to Charlie’s empty plate.

  ‘No thanks,’ Charlie said, patting his stomach. ‘That was fine.’

  ‘How about some biscuits and cheese? I got a nice bit of Mull cheddar yesterday.’

  ‘You could tempt me with that.’

  ‘Go on through to the lounge and put your feet up. I’ll bring it through.’

  As Charlie was settling into his favourite armchair by the unlit gas fire, Blakey stirred in his basket. Stretching up on all four paws and arching his back, the cat padded quickly across the room and sprang agilely onto the arm of the chair. Stepping delicately from there onto Charlie’s knees, he circled twice before curling himself up on Charlie’s lap.

  ‘How was your day, old boy?’ Charlie asked, scratching gently at the top of Blakey’s bony, jet-black head. The response was a deep, satisfying purr.

  ‘It didn’t take his lordship long,’ Kay said as she came into the room carrying a tray, which she set down on the coffee table beside Charlie. ‘Do you want me to take him?’

  ‘No, leave him. He’s fine,’ Charlie said, continuing to scratch at Blakey’s head as the sound of purring rose in a crescendo.

  Charlie eyed the contents of the tray – several oat cakes and a thick slab of Cheddar cheese on a plate, alongside a large glass of malt whisky.

  ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Kay said, settling down on the armchair opposite. ‘You know that sometimes helps.’

  Charlie cut himself a thick wedge of cheese and munched on it slowly as he recounted the events of the day. ‘John Murdoch had changed his name to John Preston,’ he concluded, ‘but it appears that someone managed to track him down.’

  ‘Do you think one of the dead boy’s relatives was responsible for the murder?’

  ‘That has to be a strong possibility, but by no means the only one.’

  ‘Where do you go from here?’ Kay asked.

  ‘The usual routine,’ Charlie said with a sigh. ‘A pile of documents to plough through and a lot of people to interview. Hey, that’s enough of my problems.’ Charlie broke off to take a sip of whisky. ‘Tell me about your day,’ he said, doing his best to sound upbeat. ‘How were Sue and Jamie?’

  ‘They were both in good form. By the way, Sue and Tony seem to be hitting it off,’ Kay added. ‘She likes him a lot, Charlie. And it seems that he’s getting on very well with Jamie, which is important.’

  ‘Don’t read too much into things, Kay. They’ve only been seeing each other for a few months.’

  ‘I realise that. But never underestimate a mother’s intuition.’

  ‘That was great,’ Sue said, folding the last of the curry sauce into a piece of naan bread and popping it into her mouth.

  ‘Balbir’s best.’

  Sue settled down on the settee beside Tony and picked up the bottle of Rioja from the coffee table.

  ‘No more for me,’ Tony said, holding his hand over his glass. ‘It would put me over the limit.’

  ‘You don’t have to drive tonight,’ Sue said, nudging Tony’s hand aside and tipping a generous measure of wine into his glass.

  Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought you had school tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. You’re being invited to stay over. Nobody said anything about a night of unbridled passion.’

  ‘Oh, you know how to spoil everything,’ Tony said. Putting his wine glass down on the coffee table, he slipped his arm around Sue’s shoulders and drew her towards him. Their mouths met in a long, lingering kiss.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Sue said as she slowly untangled herself from Tony’s arms, ‘if you play your cards right, there might be the possibility of a bit of bridled passion.’

  ‘You’ve got a bridle?’ Tony said, feigning surprise. ‘I didn’t know you were into the kinky stuff?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to find out what happens when I get the bit between my teeth?’ Sue breathed into his ear.

  ‘It all depends on which bit you’re talking about,’ Tony said with an impish grin as he pulled her back into his arms.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bumping into Murdoch was a stroke of luck, but, when you come to think of, the West End of Glasgow isn’t all that big a place. It was in early March – about six months ago; a Friday night, just after ten o’clock. I’d popped into Stravaigin for a quick drink and I was about to head off when I saw him walk in. It looked like Murdoch, but I wasn’t sure at first. It was the beard that threw me. I did a double take, trying to imagine what he’d look like without it. The same height, the same build, the same, slightly-hunched shoulders. I heard him order a pint of lager at the counter – the same, breathy voice. It was him all right. The pub was crowded, so I moved down to the far end of the bar. I saw him carry his drink across to a table that had just been vacated. It looked like he was on his own. He took a paperback from his jacket pocket and started reading it. I ordered another Captain Morgan’s and stood at the bar, sipping at my drink, all the time watching him out of the corner of my eye.

  When he’d finished his pint, he closed his book, got to his feet and headed out of the door. I threw back the rest of my drink and followed him outside. Light snow had been falling when I went into the pub but now it was coming down steadily in large powdery flakes that were lying. I saw him up ahead, walking along Gibson Street. Keeping a respectable distance, I followed him up the hill. He turned right when he got to Oakfield Avenue. Half-way along the road, he went up the short drive to the entrance of a block of flats. I stopped and bent down to re-tie my shoe lace as he turned his key in the front door. A couple of minutes later I saw a light go on in a window on the second floor. I wandered casually up to the building and scanned the nameplates. There were only two flats on the second floor, the occupants’ names being “Singh” and “Preston”.

  The following Monday morning I was in position before seven o’clock, far enough away from the entrance to the block of flats so as not to be observed, but close enough to see anyone entering or leaving the building. It was half-past eight before I saw him come out. I followed him as he made his way gingerly along the pavement towards University Avenue, the weekend’s snow having turned to ice. He joined half a dozen people in the queue at the bus stop. I turned up my hoodie to hide my face as I waited in line. When a 4A bus arrived he got on board and went upstairs. I stayed down below. I followed him when he got off the bus at the last stop in Sauchiehall Street before the pedestrian precinct. He crossed the road and made his way up to Bath Street, where he went into a building. I waited for a while before going across to check the names of the firms occupying the premises. One name plate leapt out at me. “Murdoch & Slater, Computer Consultants”. I took out my mobile and looked up their phone number.

  It appeared that he started work at nine o’clock. I waited until the following morning and phoned Murdoch and Slater’s number at eight-thirty. A secretary took my call.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Preston, please?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, John’s not in yet. Could anyone else help you?’

  ‘Not really. I was dealing with John. He asked to send him some figures about a potential contract and I seem to have lost his e-mail address. Could you possi
bly give it to me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I allowed myself a self-satisfied smile as I noted down his address. There was no hurry to do anything else right now.

  Vengeance would be at a time of my choosing.

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday 5 September

  Charlie Anderson was already wide awake when he heard the first trill of his alarm clock. Snaking his arm out quickly to silence the bell before it woke Kay, he slid from under the duvet. Having had a quick shower, he shaved and brushed his teeth before dressing and tiptoeing down the stairs. In the kitchen, he tipped a generous helping of cornflakes into a bowl, added a splash of milk, then scoffed his breakfast as quickly as he could.

  Charlie was behind the wheel and heading towards the city before seven o’clock. He switched on the car radio, which was permanently tuned to Radio Scotland. The lead item on the news was the sensational revelation that the person who had been murdered in Hyndland on Saturday evening had been identified as John Preston, previously known as John Murdoch, the man who had been on trial in the High Court a year ago on a charge of child molestation. The report concluded with the statement that Preston had been acquitted on a not proven verdict.

  ‘Here we go!’ Charlie sighed to himself as he switched off the radio.

  Sue woke with a start when she heard the sound of the toilet being flushed. Staring through the gloom at her bedside clock, she saw it was twenty-five past seven. Grabbing Tony by the shoulder, she tugged him over onto his back to still his heavy snoring.

  ‘What’s happening?’ the bleary voice protested. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Keep quiet!’ Sue whispered forcibly, placing her index finger firmly across Tony’s lips.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I completely forgot that Jamie was getting up early this morning because my Dad’s coming across to play football with him.’ Scrambling out of bed, she hurried to the window and peered round the corner of the curtain. ‘He’ll be here any minute. It’s high time you were out of here.’

  Tony levered himself up into a sitting position and ran the fingers of both hands through his tousled hair. ‘You mean I’m not getting my breakfast in bed of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs?’

  ‘Stop messing about. Get out of there and get dressed. As quickly as you can. Oh, bugger!’ Sue exclaimed as she saw a car come round the corner and pull up outside her gate. ‘Where are you parked?’ she demanded.

  ‘Down the street – about twenty yards away.’

  ‘I hope to God Dad doesn’t recognise your car.’

  Charlie was taking his gardening shoes from the boot of his car and slipping them on when Jamie appeared at the front door, already kitted out in his yellow goalkeeper’s jersey, white shorts and football boots. As Charlie was closing the boot, his eye caught the registration plate of the black Ford Focus parked a few yards further along the street. Glancing up at the front bedroom window, he thought he saw the curtains twitch.

  Frowning, Charlie followed Jamie round to the back garden to play the familiar game, Charlie firing shot after shot at the makeshift goal while Jamie dived about, trying to save as many of them as he could. They had been playing for ten minutes when Charlie heard the sound of a car engine starting up.

  Charlie was breathing hard by the time he got back to his car almost an hour later. As he was changing his shoes, he noticed that the black Ford Focus had gone.

  The commuter traffic was heavy as Charlie was heading towards the city centre. When he arrived in his office, just before nine o’clock, he found Tony O’Sullivan waiting for him.

  ‘Is Renton here yet?’ Charlie asked as he took off his jacket and hung it on the hook on the back of the door.

  ‘He got in about ten minutes ago, sir,’ Tony said. ‘I think he’s gone to the loo.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Charlie asked pointedly.

  ‘Okay, sir,’ Tony mumbled, feeling his freckles flare up as he avoided eye contact.

  ‘Good morning one and all,’ Renton announced as he breezed into the office.

  There was a stack of newspapers lying on Charlie’s desk. He picked up one of the tabloids from the top of the pile. “Murder Victim Had Been Accused Of Rape”, the banner headline proclaimed. The secondary heading, in small, italic type, stating: “He was acquitted on a verdict of not proven.’

  ‘Why can’t they just say he was acquitted,’ Charlie complained. ‘Why do they always have to add that it was not proven?’

  ‘The red-tops consider you’re guilty unless you’re proved innocent,’ Renton said. ‘As far as they’re concerned, not proven doesn’t cut it.’

  ‘What’s that lot?’ Charlie asked, pointing towards the documents stacked on top of his filing cabinet.

  ‘The reports on the Carter family from the Drumchapel social work department,’ Tony said. ‘And also the transcript of Murdoch’s trial.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to look at them?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I had a quick look through the transcript,’ Tony said.

  ‘Did you find anything of interest?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘In essence, it confirms what you were told by Judge Ramsay and Mark Houston. There’s not a lot by way of additional information.’

  ‘Have you arranged for someone from forensics to go with you to Preston’s flat this morning, Colin?’ Charlie asked.

  Renton nodded. ‘I’m meeting Eddie McLaughlin there at ten o’clock. As soon as we wrap up here I’ll go across to the mortuary and pick up the keys for Preston’s apartment.’

  ‘Tell Eddie to fingerprint the place and get him to check out Preston’s computer. And while you’re there, have a word with the neighbours,’ Charlie added. ‘Find out if any of them know who Preston hung out with.’

  ‘Will do,’ Renton said. ‘Tom Freer managed to contact Preston’s service provider yesterday,’ he added. ‘They sent us the data on all the calls, to and from his mobile, for the past twelve months. I haven’t had a chance to study the information in any detail, but one thing I noticed straight away was that the last three communications Preston made, between nine-thirty and ten-thirty on the evening he was killed, were all texts to the same number.’

  ‘Tell Freer to trawl through the reports and see what they throw up.’ Charlie said.

  ‘Okay,’ Renton said. ‘Do you need me for anything else here, sir?’ he added.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Charlie said.

  ‘In which case, I’ll head over to the mortuary.’

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Charlie said, looking pointedly at Tony when Renton had left, ‘but I didn’t get much by way of breakfast this morning, so go and get the coffees and biscuits in while I have a look through the social work reports.’

  Lifting the stack of documents from the top of his filing cabinet, Charlie carried them across to his desk. As he was working his way through the files, he noticed that most of the reports had been compiled by the same person – a social worker called Lesley Adams.

  When Tony came back with two coffees and two packets of biscuits on a tray, Charlie put down his pen. ‘Here’s what I’ve got so far,’ he said, referring to his notes as he stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘Terry and Alice Carter had two sons – Gavin, who’s now nineteen, and Tommy, who committed suicide a year ago. Terry Carter has been on the dole for most of his adult life – he claims he’s unable to hold down a job because he suffers from chronic lower-back pains. He has an older brother, Andy, who has a criminal record as long as your arm, including convictions for drug-dealing, extortion and GBH. Six years ago, Alice Carter did a runner with a bookie from Paisley, a bloke called Mitch Weir. The social work department first got involved with the Carter family when Gavin started getting into trouble,’ Charlie continued, ‘which was round about the time his mother jumped ship. Mainly it was dogging school, petty theft and getting into fights. He was up in front of the Children’s Panel on three separate occasions. That’s as far as I’ve got,’ Charlie said, blowing
on the hot coffee before taking a sip.

  ‘Do you want me to go through the rest of that stuff?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Most of these reports were compiled by the same person – someone called Lesley Adams,’ Charlie said. ‘Rather than plough our way through this lot,’ he said, waving his hand in the direction of the stack of paper on his desk, ‘it would make more sense if we had a word with her. As well as saving us time, social workers often have more information about a family than they’re prepared to put on file. Give her a call and try to set something up.’

  When Tony phoned the Drumchapel social work office he was told that Lesley Adams had transferred to the Anniesland branch. He called that number and asked to be put through to her.

  ‘This is Sergeant O’Sullivan, Glasgow CID,’ he said when his call was connected. ‘DCI Anderson and I would like to have a word with you about the Carter family.’

  ‘Would that be the Carters from Drumchapel?’ Lesley queried.

  ‘That’s correct. I believe you had quite a lot of dealings with them?’

  ‘I did.’ Lesley hesitated. ‘You’ll find all the information about them on file in Drumchapel.’

  ‘We have a copy of those files.’

  ‘So why do you want to talk to me?’

  ‘We’d like some background information.’

  ‘When were you thinking of, Sergeant?’

  ‘How are you fixed today?’

  Lesley hesitated again. ‘I’ve got a very busy schedule. I have three family visits lined up for this afternoon.’

  ‘Would it be possible for us to come to see you this morning?’

  ‘This morning? I.. I don’t know if I could fit that in.’

  ‘We wouldn’t take a lot of your time, Ms Adams.’ Tony covered the mouthpiece and addressed Charlie. ‘How about right now, sir?’ Charlie nodded. ‘We could be across in your office in half an hour, if you could see us then?’

  ‘I… I suppose so. Do you know where the office is?’

  ‘It’s the one on Great Western Road, isn’t it? Near Anniesland Cross?’