by Jay Stringer
They were dangerous.
Behind the reception desk was a young woman dressed in sleek, dark clothes. She smiled up at Lambert and asked how she could help. He thought of telling her to run for her life, but instead flashed his warrant card and asked to see the boss.
‘Which one?’ She didn’t look at the ID. She kept her eyes and smile locked on Lambert. ‘Doug or Fiona?’
‘Both.’
‘Take a seat.’
She picked up a black phone that Lambert hadn’t even noticed was there and started having a hushed conversation. Lambert headed over to the large sofa and perched on the edge of it. He didn’t want to relax into the cushions in case it was a trap and he would never want to get up again. He caught the first smell since he walked in, and realised it was himself. Sweat, lime and sex. An unpleasant mix of everything he’d been through that day. His embarrassment was kept away by a swell of pride; he was stinking up an area that someone had paid a fortune to sterilise.
He checked his watch, and it was quarter past three. Where was the day going? Jess would be home from work soon, and today she was expecting him to be there, asleep.
The receptionist put down the phone. ‘Doug will see you now,’ she said without raising her voice. She didn’t need to, since they were the only two people there. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
She led Lambert through a glass door and up a flight of stairs to the top floor. He was out of breath by the time they reached the top, but didn’t want the receptionist to see that. He sucked in some air and tried to offer her a cool smile.
‘Right through there.’ She pointed at the frosted glass door ahead of them and then headed back downstairs without a breath or hair out of place.
Lambert knocked on the door and then walked straight through without waiting. Being a cop gave certain permissions. One of the perks of the job. The office was decorated the same as the reception, but with more glass. There were black and white pictures of the local area on the walls, each taken with a different arty lens, and a large glass desk in the centre with nothing on it. Not even a few stray coffee cup stains.
Behind the desk was a young man. Lambert sized him up as he walked over, and the man stood up to meet him. The best description Lambert could think of was ‘pretty’. He was thin and groomed, with elfin cheekbones and short blond hair that was left longer at the front to allow for a gelled quiff. It was almost translucent, and light shone through it from the window behind him.
When he spoke it was with a polished accent that carried a Scots brogue wrapped around a bland Englishness. ‘Hello, Officer. My name’s Doug—Doug Simpson. How can I help?’
He offered his hand and Lambert took it. The grip was firm, not what Lambert had expected, and he realised he’d already made certain assumptions about Simpson. He’d have to watch that—it was the quickest way to set yourself up for a fall. There was also no attempt at a Masonic handshake, which was unusual in this city.
‘Your partner not here?’
‘Fiona’s in a meeting with a client at the moment, and it’s not one she could duck out of. She’ll join us shortly when she’s finished, if you still have questions. This is official business, I take it?’
Lambert skipped by the answer to that one. He wanted to let Simpson’s own assumptions work in his favour.
‘I need to ask you about Rab Anderson.’
‘Rab Anderson?’ Simpson stared back at Lambert. He’d not blinked yet. ‘I don’t believe he’s a client of ours. Tell me again, is this part of an official investigation?’
The game had started. Simpson was fishing to see how much Lambert knew. Lambert, in turn, was trying to weigh up Simpson. Who was going to make the first move? Who was going to crack first?
‘When it comes to Anderson,’ Lambert said, spinning a half-truth, ‘it’s always official business.’
That was only part of a lie. There was an open file on Anderson. At any given moment there was someone working a case that linked to him. It was just that Lambert wasn’t one of them.
‘I see.’ Simpson smiled and offered his first blink. ‘So you have the paperwork to back this up?’
‘Call my superior, if you want. I’ll give you his number.’
Lambert didn’t get a chance to see if his bluff would be called.
The door opened behind him, and a young woman stepped in. Lambert turned in his seat to look at her. This had to be the ‘rich lady’ Sam had mentioned. She was dressed in clothes that probably cost more than Lambert’s car, and walked with a steel and poise that Simpson lacked. Lambert rose to shake her hand, but she stepped past him, coolly ignoring his presence and making him feel like a naughty little boy. No wonder Sam was impressed.
‘You look like you’ve had a hard day,’ Fiona Hunter said, finally turning her clear blue eyes to Lambert. ‘Department working you hard?’
Ouch.
‘Mr Lambert was asking about Rab Anderson,’ Simpson said.
‘Oh?’ She sat on the edge of the desk, her foot kicking out at the air. ‘What about him?’
‘I understand you’re handling a case involving Anderson. I’d like to know what it relates to. It might tie into a matter I’m investigating.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Let’s say, hypothetically, that I hired someone this morning to find Anderson and serve papers on him. The only way you could know this is if that person told you or if you read the papers that were to be served. That would be unfortunate for you, on a professional integrity level, but even more so for the person I hired. We take a poor view of that kind of confidence breach.’
Shit. Lambert had dropped Sam right in it. He’d not been thinking straight since last night—mistake after mistake. Things kept escalating.
‘I can assure you,’ he said, not sounding the least bit assuring, ‘that any information I have has come through the correct channels.’
‘I am assured.’ Her voice carried a wicked edge. Simpson smirked behind her. ‘But stop assuming we are fools. If the police had an official matter to raise with us, they wouldn’t send someone high on drugs and smelling like a pub. Now, if you’re here on your own, maybe acting on a side interest, that would be a different matter.’
Lambert decided to run with it. At least, he told himself, it was a decision, because that let him pretend he was still in a position to be making them. There was only one person controlling this conversation.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘If we keep the hypothetical conversation going for a moment, let’s pretend we both have ulterior motives in this. Maybe, for the sake of a good story, you’re a rogue cop who’s tied up in some of the same dodgy deals as Mr Anderson. Let’s also say that we hired a young private investigator to find Mr Anderson as a way of smoking out some of the people involved in these deals.’
‘That would be a clever way of doing it.’
‘Thank you. If we had done such a thing, it would have been my idea. Now, imagine that both of those things are true. I’d suggest that the rogue cop in question was not exactly the top of the chain of command in this little enterprise.’
Lambert stayed silent. There was nothing to gain by answering, and a hell of a lot to lose. He stared up at Hunter and waited until it was clear that he wasn’t going to fill the silence. Then he thought of something, a way of clawing back some control.
‘And if this were all true,’ he said, ‘would you be the kind of people to have ordered a hit on Anderson’s nephew, maybe as another way of drawing people out?’
Lambert smiled and sat in silence again. He made a show of checking his watch, timing the silence, and felt good.
‘Nice touch,’ Hunter said. ‘Maybe I underestimated you. But the point stands.’
‘What we’re saying’—Simpson leant forward—‘is that we don’t want to be sitting here talking to the monkey. We want the organ grinder.’
‘A
nd of course’—Hunter’s tone changed, becoming warm and conspiratorial, the good cop now in the routine—‘we’d pay the monkey a hell of a lot more than peanuts.’
Twenty-Seven
Lambert stood out on the street, trying to decide his next move. He felt the pavement moving beneath his feet. It had been moving ever since the whole thing had started, a couple of stray conversations leading to murder, kidnapping, and now who knew what. The promise of payment held his interest. This was a firm with serious money, and maybe a taste of that would be enough to get him and Jess out from under his father-in-law’s thumb. That could be between him and the lawyers.
Lambert headed back down the street. On the walk down to the river, he pulled out the unlisted phone and dialled the number.
‘New problem. Looks like there’s an extra player. Someone else is asking about Rab, and they have real money. They’re asking to meet you, though they don’t know your name yet. Only a matter of time. Give me a call when you get this. I think you should meet them.’
Jess would be home by the time he got there. He didn’t want to run the risk of her catching him before he’d had a shower, a chance to be more human and get rid of the grime of the day.
A pit stop. That’s what they’d always called it on the job. Changing your tyres and refilling your oil before you headed home. For some it was necessary after the grind of the job, getting rid of the smells that came from crime scenes, drug dens and dead bodies. A way to keep a clear line between work and home life. For others it carried a smuttier meaning, a chance to get rid of the smell of booze or sex before heading back to the husband or wife.
For Lambert, today, it was a mix of both.
He drove to his office in the police building on Stewart Street. It was a square modern building, decorated with blue glass in case people were in any doubt that it was a police station. He had an assortment of clothes in his locker. A pair of jeans, a spare work shirt, two odd socks, and the jacket off a cheap suit he’d bought from Asda. There were no briefs or boxers, but he could live with a little freedom. He left both phones charging in the power sockets beneath his desk and hit the shower.
Stepping under the warm water felt like heaven. It scoured his face and back and wiped away the sweat. He pulled off the bandage from his hand and let the water clean the wound beneath. It looked nasty. The skin had pulled back around the cut, and was pale and waxy. There was a blue tint to the very edge of the skin, maybe an infection. He’d get it looked at once everything else was fixed. The warmth of the shower brought on the tiredness in waves, and Lambert was yawning heavily by the time he stepped out and towelled down. Back at his desk he checked his emails and messages.
Fuck.
Callum had written up the floater as a suspicious death. That would mean an investigation. It would mean Lambert having to put in hours on a murder case, and might even mean he’d have to come in and work on his two days off.
He pulled the first aid kit from his desk drawer and started redressing the wound, and dialled Callum’s office number while he worked.
‘McGalty,’ Callum said. ‘How can I—’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, hi, Andy. I thought you were clocked o—’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Have you read my preliminary report?’
‘This better be good.’
‘Okay. Your cadaver is a Mr Rupert Prentice Venture. Yes, the name caught me too. It’s an unusual one. He’s from England, and the records still have him living down there, so it’s strange for him to wash up in the Clyde.’
Venture was the name Gilbert had given for the two dead fraternal hit men. That only left the mystery as to where the second one had been dumped. Gilbert had said one of them had been shot and the other beaten to death.
Callum continued. ‘Now, this is the interesting part. Our man has no water in his lungs. Not a significant amount, anyway. He wasn’t drawing in breath when he went in the water.’
‘He didn’t drown.’
‘No. It looks like he was beaten to death, though it could also be consistent with falling from a great height or maybe even certain kinds of traffic accidents, though none were reported yesterday, I believe.’
‘Okay, so he didn’t kill himself.’
‘Well, it’s possible he did, but he did it by beating himself to death before jumping in the river.’
‘Was that a joke?’
‘I thought I’d make an effort. Enjoy the investigation.’
The line cleared.
Okay. It was a murder investigation. What’s more, Lambert knew who’d done it. And now he also had an idea of why the Venture Brothers had been sent after Mackie in the first place. But he’d need to steer the case away from Mackie. Get Mackie a frame-up, or maybe just let the case go cold and take a hit on his closure rate.
Twenty-Eight
The unregistered phone rang as Lambert walked up the path to his house. He put the phone to his ear and answered, huddling in on himself as if it created a soundproof barrier to the world.
‘We’ve found Mackie,’ Gilbert said.
‘Where?’
‘Hospital. Don’t know the details, but he got picked up in town, taken to A&E. They’re stitching him up now.’
‘Cops?’
‘Two on the scene. One is Cummings—my two guys recognise him. There’s a woman with him, younger, Asian. We don’t know her.’
‘It’ll be Perera—she’s his new partner. They’re good.’ Subtext: They can’t be bought. ‘They can’t take him in.’
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘You know. He’s a sitting duck right now. Don’t wait. First chance, take him out of the game.’
Lambert hung up and unlocked his front door, stepping into the porch to kick off his shoes. He could hear the radio in the kitchen as he walked in the front door. Usually Jess would be singing along, unless he was in bed, but she was silent. He listened out for the sound of her working, maybe tidying something away, doing some washing or preparing a meal, but there were no other noises.
Maybe she thought he was already in bed. Maybe she hadn’t checked.
He opened the door to the living room and saw Jess sitting on the sofa, waiting for him. She looked nervous. She had subtle, pixie-like features that looked great most of the time, but they didn’t lend themselves to worry. Her small frame was hunched in on itself.
‘We need to talk,’ she said, with eyes that looked a little wet.
There was something in her expression that made the bottom drop out of Lambert’s world. It was the same look she’d had the night her mother died, and the time one of the children from her school had gone missing. The same look she’d had the first time she thought he was cheating on her, when she’d found another woman’s underwear in the dirty laundry.
Had she heard him on the phone?
Had she figured it out?
He ran off a mental inventory of all the other things she might be upset about, and then started figuring out which version of the truth to tell and how to blame it all on Joe. She patted the space on the sofa beside her, and Lambert sat down slowly.
He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed.
‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ Jess noticed the bandage. ‘You get hurt?’
‘Got bit by a dog on a call-out. It’s nothing.’
‘A bite? You should get it looked at, get a tetanus shot.’
Lambert nodded, pulled his hand back towards him.
‘I’ve been late for a while now,’ Jess said.
‘At work?’ He spoke before his brain engaged, and before the words were done leaving his mouth, he knew what she actually meant. ‘Oh.’
She squeezed his good hand.
‘I’ve taken the test,’ she said. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Twenty-Nine
Mackie
&n
bsp; Whut?
Takes me a minute to figure it out.
I’m lying on my back, on top of a bed. It’s flat and hard, like my old prison bunk but less comfortable. There’s a pillow beneath my head that feels like a dead cat. Someone’s nicked my trackie bottoms and trainers. I’m just wearing a T-shirt and pants. There’s the smell of bleach or medicine in the air. Maybe both. Oh, my leg has been bandaged. I’m in a hospital. I’m in one of those wards where they put you in a bed and pull a curtain around you, hide you away. I can hear people being treated either side of me, behind the curtain. I try to move but I feel woozy and light-headed, maybe drunk.
How did I get here?
Well, that’s a deep question, I suppose.
But no, really, how?
One minute I’m in Glasgow, walking down a street. Then I blink, and it’s all beeping and bright lights being shone in my eyes and people asking if I know where I am.
‘I’m in fuck off and leave me alone,’ I say. ‘You know the place?’
I close my eyes again, and when I open them, it seems to be a long time later and I’m in here. I stay still and try to remember details.
Follow the money. That’s what I’d said. Except I didn’t know where the trail started. Gaz had the cash, but it wasn’t going to be getting up and moving for me to follow. That left Gilbert, right? He said he didn’t know what the cash was for, but he’s a lying cunt, so I figured he’d know what was going on. I stood at the bus stop at the end of Drury Street and waited.
People were starting to look at me funny—I remember that. I gave them the evil eye, and they moved on. I saw Gilbert step out of the pub and turn the other way, heading towards West Nile Street. I gave him a head start and then followed. My leg didn’t want to take my weight, so the going was slow, but I kept at it. I felt like I was slowing down with each step, and I shivered a couple of times, cold in the middle of a heatwave. Gilbert walked down Mitchell Street, past all the nice titty clubs, and then crossed over to St Enoch’s. I thought maybe he was going to go down into the subway station, but he kept going, heading towards the Clyde.
