by Bill Daly
‘Then you don’t know that John Preston’s dead?’ Charlie said.
‘Who the hell’s John Preston?’
Charlie held eye contact with Carter. ‘You knew him as John Murdoch.’
Carter’s eyes widened. ‘Murdoch’s deid?’ he said slowly. ‘Is that right? How did that happen?’
‘He was murdered on Saturday night,’ Charlie said.
‘You don’t say?’
‘Which happens to be a year to the day from when your son took his own life,’ Tony said.
‘Do you think I don’t fucking-well know that?’ Carter snapped. ‘I spent half an hour at Tommy’s grave on Saturday afternoon, in pissing down rain, cursing that pervert.’
‘Do you know who killed Murdoch?’ Charlie asked.
‘I haven’t a clue. But if you find out, be sure to let me know.’ There was a glint in Carter’s eye. ‘I’d like to buy the guy a drink.’
‘A man’s been murdered,’ Charlie said.
‘A fucking pervert got what was coming to him!’ Carter’s fist came hammering down on the kitchen table. ‘A pervert who raped my boy and was responsible for him taking his own life. Don’t give me any of that ‘a man’s been murdered’ crap. As far as I’m concerned, it’s good fucking riddance!’
‘A year ago, in the High Court, when Murdoch was acquitted, you threatened to take matters into your own hands,’ Charlie stated.
‘It’s no secret that I’ve been looking for him.’
‘Did you manage to catch up with him on Saturday night?’ Tony asked.
Carter shook his head. ‘If I’d got my hands on that bastard,’ he growled, ‘his death would’ve been very slow – and very painful. You can take my word for that.’
‘Maybe you didn’t have time for that?’ Tony suggested. ‘Maybe you spotted Murdoch in Cottiers and grabbed the opportunity while you had the chance?’
‘Where?’
‘In Cottiers. It’s a pub in Hyndland,’ Tony said.
‘I don’t hang out in that part of town.’
‘Where were you between nine o’clock and eleven o’clock on Saturday night?’ Tony asked.
‘Here.’
‘That was quick,’ Tony said.
‘We’re not all as slow-witted as the polis,’ Carter said with a smirk.
‘Was anybody with you?’ Charlie asked.
Carter’s features broke into a slow, confident grin. ‘This isn’t your lucky day, pal. A few of my mates came round here on Saturday night for a game of poker. They got here the back of seven and stayed until well after midnight, so there’s no way you’re going to be able to pin this one on me.’
‘How many of your mates were here?’ Charlie asked.
Carter stopped to think. ‘Five.’
Charlie took out his notebook and pen. ‘I’ll need their names and addresses.’
‘How the hell would I know their addresses?’
‘We’ll start with their names.’
Carter counted off on his fingers as he recited five names, which Charlie noted down.
‘And their phone numbers,’ Charlie said, pointing to Carter’s mobile phone, which was lying on the kitchen table.
Carter glowered, then picked up his phone and accessed his contacts’ list. As he read out the numbers, Charlie wrote them down.
‘Is there a Mrs Carter?’ Tony asked.
‘Not since she sloped off with a bookie from Paisley.’
‘When was that?’
‘About six years ago.’
‘How about your son, Gavin?’ Charlie asked. ‘Does he live here?’
‘He stays here off and on, if he doesn’t get a better offer.’
‘Where else does he hang out?’
‘He hooked up with some posh bird a while back and he spends a lot of his time at her place. Apart from than that, he sometimes kips down in his mate’s flat.’
‘What’s the posh bird’s name?’ Tony asked.
‘I’m his faither, for Christ’s sake! Do you think he tells me anything?’
‘He must have told you something about her, for you to know that she’s a posh bird,’ Tony said.
‘All I know is that when I asked him when he was going to bring her round here to meet me, he told me she had too much class to come to a dump like this.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘What about his mate?’ Charlie asked. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Stuart.’
‘Is that his first name or his surname?’
‘Search me.’
‘Do you know where Stuart lives?’
‘Nope.’
‘When did you last see Gavin?’ Charlie asked.
‘About a week ago.’
‘What about your brother?’ Tony interjected. ‘Do you know where he was on Saturday night?’
‘I can’t remember the last time I saw Andy. It must’ve been more than six months ago.’ Carter spread his arms out wide. ‘So what do you think the chances are that I know what he was up to on Saturday night?’
‘We can do without the smart arse stuff,’ Charlie said.
‘And I can do without having to answer a load of damn fool questions,’ Carter retorted. ‘Where are you going with this?’
‘A man has been murdered,’ Tony said. ‘A man you and your brother threatened to kill. Where do you think we’re going with this?’
Carter snorted. ‘Last week, down the pub, I told everybody who would listen that Partick Thistle were going to win the league this season. Unfortunately, not all my predictions come with a cast-iron guarantee. Now, if you don’t have any more daft questions,’ he said, yawning as he pulled himself to his feet, ‘piss off and let me get my breakfast.’ With a flamboyant gesture of his right arm, Carter indicated the door.
‘Don’t plan on going anywhere in the near future,’ Charlie said. ‘We’ll be back to see you soon.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
‘What did you make of that?’ Charlie asked as they were riding back down in the lift.
‘I’ve never heard such a load of rubbish in all my life, sir,’ Tony said. ‘Partick Thistle to win the league? Totally ridiculous!’
Terry Carter watched from his bedroom window as Charlie and Tony were walking towards their car. Hurrying back to the kitchen, he snatched up his phone from the table and clicked onto his brother’s number.
‘What do you want?’ Andy asked tetchily when he heard the familiar voice.
‘Have you heard the news?’
‘What are you on about? What news?’
‘Murdoch’s deid.’
Andy hesitated. ‘How did that happen?’
‘He was bumped off on Saturday night.’
‘Where?’
‘In Hyndland.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I’ve just had the cops round. It’s a fair bet you’ll be getting a visit from them before too long.’
‘Were they trying to pin it on you?’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing they’d like better, but there’s no way they can. I had a poker school going at my place on Saturday night and I’ve got five witnesses who will swear on their mothers’ graves that I never left the flat all night. How about you? What were you up to on Saturday?’
Andy hesitated again. ‘We need to talk – but not on the phone. Get your arse round to my place.’
Charlie Anderson reversed into the parking place he’d spotted in Maryhill Road, not far from Andy Carter’s tenement block.
‘How do you want to handle this, sir?’ Tony asked as they were trudging up the stone staircase to the third-floor landing.
‘A pound to a pinch of shit he’ll have had a call from his brother to let him know we’re on our way, so we’ll just play it by ear,’ Charlie said as he depressed the bell push. When the bell didn’t ring out, he hammered on the door with his closed fist.
After the third time of hammering, Andy Carter opened up.
<
br /> ‘All right! All right! There’s no need to knock the fuckin’ door down.’
‘Your bell isn’t working,’ Charlie said, flashing his warrant card.
Carter shrugged. ‘I’m no’ workin’ either. My bell’s probably come out in sympathy.’
‘You were expecting us, I suppose?’ Charlie said.
‘Why would I be?’
‘You mean to say your brother didn’t give you a call to gloat over John Murdoch’s murder?’
‘My phone’s not working either. I reckon it must’ve come out in sympathy with my bell.’
‘A right wee comedian we have here,’ Charlie said.
‘Is it all right if we come in?’ Tony asked, stepping across the threshold before Carter had time to object. ‘Just a minute!’ Tony stared at Carter, pointing at his face. ‘Haven’t we run into each other somewhere recently? Of course!’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘In was in The Ettrick yesterday. Only it wasn’t Andy Carter then,’ Tony said, turning to Charlie. ‘Let me introduce you to one of Jim Colvin’s business associates, sir. He goes by the name of Andy Pandy.’
‘You know why we’re here, Andy whatever-your-name-happens-to-be-today,’ Charlie said. ‘So let’s not waste any more time. Where were you between ten o’clock and eleven o’clock last Saturday evening?’
‘Here,’ Carter said, tugging a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and tapping one out.
‘On your own?’ Tony asked.
‘As it happens,’ Carter said, lighting up and taking a long drag.
‘What were you doing?’ Charlie asked.
‘Not a lot.’
‘Did you watch any television?’ Tony asked.
‘No, I had a couple of cans of lager and I read the papers.’
‘You didn’t seem in the least bit surprised when I told you that John Murdoch had been murdered,’ Charlie said.
‘Didn’t I? Oh, sorry about that, officer. Goodness gracious me! What was I thinking of?’ Carter clasped his hands to the sides of his face. ‘John Murdoch’s been murdered, has he? Oh, dearie, dearie me! What a surprise!’ Carter burst out laughing. ‘Is that better?’
‘A man’s been killed,’ Tony snapped.
‘I’m fucking devastated.’
‘A year ago in the High Court, you and your brother threatened to kill Murdoch if you ever managed to get your hands on him,’ Tony said. ‘And as it looks like Terry has a rock-solid alibi for his movements on Saturday night – that sort of leaves you out on a limb, wouldn’t you say? I reckon the bookies will be laying heavy odds on you having killed Murdoch.’
‘So it’s no longer a case of trial by jury, is it? It’s trial by William Hill now? That sounds like a watertight case you’ve got there, officer,’ Andy sneered. ‘I reckon you might have to gather a wee bit more evidence to be a hundred percent sure of securing a conviction, don’t you think?’ Carter sucked hard on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift out slowly from between his teeth. ‘Unless, of course, you’re just planning to stitch me up?’
‘You’re telling us you were here on your own between ten o’clock and eleven o’clock on Saturday evening,’ Tony said with a dismissive shake of the head. ‘Which means no one will be able to corroborate your story. That’s what I call really unlucky.’
Carter grabbed O’Sullivan by his jacket lapels. ‘I told you, pal. I was here on my own.’
O’Sullivan prised Carter’s hands away. ‘Back off, Carter.’
Charlie stepped in between them. ‘That’s enough of that.’
The colour flared up in Carter’s cheeks. ‘Are you going to charge me with something?’
‘Not right now,’ Charlie said.
‘In which case, fuck off!’
*
When Charlie got back to his office he found a note from his secretary lying on his desk. The editor of the Daily Record had called and left a message, asking Charlie to phone him back as soon as he could.
‘DCI Anderson here,’ he said when the call was connected. ‘I got a message asking me to give you a call.’
‘A letter was delivered to our office this morning, Inspector. It was from the Avenging Angel.’
‘Shite! Not him again? What did he say this time?’
‘He’s claiming responsibility for the murder in Hyndland on Saturday night.’
‘I need that letter sent across to me – as soon as you can.’
‘I’ll see to that right away.’
CHAPTER 12
Gavin Carter was in the throes of a complicated dream when he was dragged back to consciousness by the shrill ringtone of his mobile. Fumbling on the bedside table for his phone, he saw the call was from Stuart.
‘What time is it?’ Gavin asked, yawning as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
‘It’s after twelve. Are you still in your pit?’
‘Aye, I had a hard night last night.’
‘So you haven’t heard the news?’ Stuart’s voice was animated.
‘What are you talking about? What news?’
‘I’ve just seen it on the Internet, Gavin. The guy who was murdered in Hyndland on Saturday night has been identified as someone called John Preston.’
‘So what?’
‘The bastard had changed his name. It was John Murdoch.’
Gavin’s features eased into a broad grin as he sat bolt upright in bed. He ran his fingers through his gelled hair. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Stuart.’ Cutting the call, Gavin clambered out of bed and got dressed as quickly as he could. Lighting a cigarette, he pulled on his coat, then yanked the apartment door closed behind him before trotting down the two flights of stairs to ground level. He ran along Dumbarton Road to the newsagent on the corner where he bought copies of the Daily Record, the Scottish Sun and The Herald. Flicking his cigarette butt into the middle of the road, he went into the café next door where he ordered a cappuccino and a bacon roll at the counter. Having carried his breakfast across, he flopped down on an upright chair at a table against the far wall. He scanned the front pages of the newspapers, all of them leading with the same story – that the murder victim, John Preston, was the same person who, as John Murdoch, had been on trial for molesting a young boy a year earlier.
Gavin squeezed a thick wedge of tomato ketchup into his bacon roll before taking a large bite and swilling it down with a slurp of hot coffee. Turning to the inside pages, he read every word of the report of the murder in all three newspapers.
As soon as he’d finished eating, Gavin scrambled to his feet. He ran along the road to the nearest bus stop. When a bus bound for Maryhill drew up, he clambered on board.
Sitting behind her desk, Lesley Adams unwrapped the tinfoil from the tuna sandwich she’d brought from home for her lunch. She took one unenthusiastic bite, then wrapped the rest of the sandwich back into the tinfoil and dropped it into the waste paper basket. She had no appetite – her mind was in turmoil. Why hadn’t she told Inspector Anderson? She’d been about to tell him, just before he left, but she hadn’t gone through with it. But why should she have to tell him? she asked herself. It was none of his business. It wasn’t in any way relevant. But, of course, the police wouldn’t see it like that. They were going to find out sooner or later, so it would’ve been a lot better coming from her. But if she contacted Anderson now to tell him, he’d want to know why she hadn’t said anything about it earlier this morning. Cursing under her breath, Lesley rummaged in her handbag for her phone and clicked onto a number in her contacts’ list.
‘It’s me,’ Lesley said when Myra answered.
‘How are things?’
‘I had a visit from the cops this morning.’
Myra hesitated. ‘What did they want?’
‘They asked me a lot of questions. They’d identified the guy who was murdered in Hyndland on Saturday night as John Murdoch and they’d linked him to Tommy Carter’s suicide. My name cropped up in the Drumchapel social work reports on the Carter family and they wanted to do some digging into the family
background.’
‘How did it go?’ Myra asked.
‘Okay – sort of. I told them what they wanted to know, but….’ Lesley’s voice tailed off.
‘But what?’ Myra demanded.
‘Not the phone. What are you doing after work?’
DC Tom Freer rapped on Charlie Anderson’s office door before walking in.
‘I’ve been going through the data Preston’s mobile phone company sent across, sir,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Renton asked me to give you an update.’
‘Did you come across anything interesting?’ Charlie asked, putting down his pen and sliding the memo he’d been replying to into his out-tray.
‘The reports tell us all the numbers Preston called, or texted, over the past year, as well as the dates, times and durations of the transmissions, but, of course, not the contents of the messages.’
‘Where is phone hacking when you need it?’ Charlie grumbled.
‘Preston’s last three communications were all text messages to the same number – and they were all transmitted within the hour before he was murdered. None of them were replied to. Another curious thing,’ Freer added. ‘The number he was texting was one he had never previously phoned or texted.’
‘Do we know anything about that number?’ Charlie asked.
‘The phone was purchased two months ago from the Carphone Warehouse in Braehead. I got in touch with them. Their records show that it was a cash transaction for a pay-as-you-go phone – so no contract – and no contact details for whoever bought it.’
‘Just because Preston texted the same number three times shortly before he was killed,’ Charlie said, ‘that doesn’t necessarily mean that the person he was trying to get in touch with is implicated in his murder. There might be a simple explanation, such as whoever he was trying to contact had his phone switched off at the time.’
‘The reason it’s significant, sir, is that that phone went off the radar at the same time as Preston’s.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘According to Preston’s service provider, his phone disappeared from their network at ten forty-two last Saturday evening, and within one minute of that happening, the same thing happened to the phone he’d been texting. Neither of those phones has been switched on since.’
