Ways to Die in Glasgow

by Jay Stringer

‘I hope you’ve not got any plans for tomorrow morning,’ Cummings said. ‘Because we may have to hold you overnight for the full questioning.’

  Fine. At least Phil and I would be safe behind bars. That was one way of getting through the night. It would give me plenty of time to think about where Dad would have hidden the evidence. Did he have a bank vault? No, surely I would have been told about that when I got power of attorney. I was given access to all of his accounts and personal details. Fran had made sure of that.

  Fran, my dad’s solicitor.

  My solicitor.

  Crap.

  Of course. That was who had the evidence. If I’d used my brain, I would have figured it out as soon as Andy mentioned it existed. But I was new at this whole detection thing, and I decided after a day of figuring everything out, I was allowed a mistake.

  The door opened again, and Perera stepped back in. She waved my phone at me and then nodded for Cummings to join her outside. Cummings gave me a look that said, Don’t you fucking move. Then he stepped out into the hall and pulled the door behind him. They didn’t shut the door fully, so I could hear muted conversation, without being able to make out the details.

  As the door started to push inwards again, I heard Cummings say, ‘Who told her?’

  They then both turned to face me. Cummings opened the door wide.

  ‘Your solicitor is here to sit in on the interview.’

  ‘My solicitor?’

  Fiona Hunter walked in.

  Fifty-One

  Fiona made short work of Cummings and Perera. She scolded them like a schoolteacher, and they admitted that they didn’t wish to keep me and that they would be very grateful if I could provide them with a statement. They even said please. We listened to the recording, with them taping the process on the digital recorder. I already knew the information on the tape. I’d already spent the day piecing things together and being surprised by what I found. I made a great sport out of watching the reactions of the three people sitting with me as they heard the recording for the first time.

  Fiona cocked her head occasionally and made a few low interested sounds, like she’d been given a new fact in a pub quiz. Cummings and Perera didn’t seem surprised. If anything, it looked like most of it confirmed ideas they’d already had. It was when we got to the bit about Mackie being innocent that the cops showed a new emotion. They stared at each other, and Perera reached for the notepad that she’d stopped pretending to use earlier in the recording.

  ‘Go back,’ Cummings said. ‘Play that bit over.’

  I flipped the timeline of the recording back a few seconds and let it start playing again. Cummings let his eyes grow wider with each passing word, until I thought his face was going to vanish from sight behind them.

  ‘I worked that case,’ he said, managing to sound deflated and inspired at the same time. ‘Mackie doesn’t remember me, but I’m the one who arrested him. He looked like a wee boy. If I hadn’t found him over her, if he hadn’t been covered in her blood—’

  Perera nudged him. ‘Not on the recording,’ she said.

  Cummings reached out and paused the digital recorder.

  ‘This is going to be huge, if we can crack it. A retired cop, a serving officer, one of Glasgow’s most famous murder cases and a property scam that implicates the council. It’ll either make our careers or end them. If we can find a way to use any of this.’

  I didn’t understand. ‘Find a way?’

  ‘We can’t build a case around this. It’s a recording made by a civilian, with no video footage, and everything in it is hearsay. McLean’s solicitors would cut it down before it got even a whiff of going to court.’

  ‘Our bosses would never agree to it.’ Perera nodded along. ‘We may not be able to do anything based on this alone.’

  ‘Do they know that?’ Fiona spoke up for the first time since the tape started playing. ‘These men that are named in the tape. Joe McLean, Gilbert Neil. The one speaking is a cop, I assume? Okay. And one of them used to be a cop. But does that mean you couldn’t trick him into a confession?’

  ‘We could use this recording as enough for an arrest, if we ask nicely,’ Cummings said.

  He pressed record on the digital device again and then nodded for me to restart the audio. I pulled it back again to where it had been when the interruption had started. We listened to the whole thing, right up to when Andy had tried to make a grab for the device, where the recording stopped.

  ‘What happened at the end of the recording there? It just cut out?’

  ‘Yes. Andy—Lambert—he realised I was taping him and did a runner. He seemed pretty desperate at that point, and he looked injured. I’m not sure how badly, but he probably needed treatment. Also, I think he was the one who lifted Rab from his flat, or was part of a team that did it, though I couldn’t get him to say so on the tape.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I broke—um, visited Rab’s flat myself earlier today. If you go there, you’ll probably find a few of my prints. Anyway, Rab owned a dog, but there was no sign of it, and someone had used a lot of bleach. I reckon the dog tried to attack them, maybe defending Rab, and they had to kill it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Andy’s been wearing a bandage on his hand all day. Except he’d taken it off by the time we were talking to him on the tape. He said he’d done it at home, but the wound looked a lot like a dog bite to me. You could practically see the teeth marks. And whoever killed Hillcoat and Beth didn’t kill Bobby, the wee dog, so it was someone different.’

  ‘Interesting work, Sherlock. But something else that’s not really going to help us.’ Cummings scratched his chin, cupping it with his hand while he thought. It made a sound like sandpaper. ‘This pretty much confirms the two dead bodies we found in the lock-up in The Gorbals.’ Cummings turned to Perera. ‘And we can make educated guesses about what happened to Hillcoat and Carter. Killed to make it look like Mackie, see if they can pull the same trick on me twice. But how do we make a case?’

  Perera announced the time and those in attendance, and then reached over to stop the device from recording. ‘Ms Hunter may be right,’ she said. ‘We can maybe get a confession off the back of it. Lean on Gilbert; roll him into McLean.’

  ‘If I may, there is another option.’ Fiona tapped the table idly with her forefinger, drawing everyone’s attention to her. ‘Entrapment is a dirty word. But I’ve never seen a crime that can’t be solved by catching someone in the act. Just speaking as a concerned citizen, of course, because this will not implicate my client in any way.’

  Cummings stared at her; the wheels were spinning behind his eyes. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, there’s the matter of the missing evidence. If word got out about its location. I’m sure my client has figured out where it is by now.’

  All three of them turned to me and waited. I’d been holding onto this through the interview, waiting to see if there was a best time to use my get-out-of-jail-free card—the moment when I might need it to pull myself out of trouble or to seal a deal that was being made.

  I nodded. ‘I know where it is.’

  Cummings and Perera shared a silent moment and then left the room together to confer.

  Fiona turned in her chair to face me. ‘You’ve had quite a day,’ she said.

  ‘You can say that again. And you, you’re quite the schemer. All that stuff you just did, you try that for every client?’

  ‘Just the ones I like. You’ve impressed us. You and your brother. We hire you to serve a few simple papers, and you bring a whole conspiracy down around us. Corruption. Fire raising. Murder. They’re going to be talking about this for years. They’re going to be wanting to talk to you for years.’

  She smiled. It was a smile that came with more than one tone. She was humouring me, patronising me and sizing me up all at the same time. I thought back
to what Fran had said about her breed of solicitor, wanting to work celebrity cases to make their names. I’d just landed her the golden ticket.

  ‘But speaking of my brother,’ I said, ‘is someone in with him?’

  ‘Yes, my partner, Douglas, is in with him now. When we’re done, the two of you should come back to our place. We’ll get some food in, some wine, and talk about our future.’

  ‘Our place?’

  ‘Yes, mine and my partner’s.’

  The penny didn’t so much drop as lower itself slowly into view in my brain, before the cord was cut and it crashed down into a pile of other moments of stupidity. ‘Oh, I see. Douglas is your partner. Right. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d thought you were—’

  ‘We get that a lot. But we’re married. We kept our separate names, and it helps with the firm’s name—gives off a different impression. But I notice you picked up on that bit but ignored the part where I mentioned us having a future.’

  I hadn’t ignored it at all, but I wanted to play it cool. The way my dad would have done, with an easy nod and a non-committal gesture, pretend like it didn’t mean the whole world.

  ‘I was just playing it cool,’ I said, ignoring everything I’d thought about. ‘Pretend like it didn’t mean the world.’

  It was time to stop playing at being my dad and start being myself. For the first time, though, I could see a version of myself that wanted to be doing this job. A version of myself that liked the chase and the adrenalin, that liked putting together the clues and making mental leaps of logic.

  Cummings and Perera stepped back into the room.

  ‘We’re on,’ Cummings said. ‘If you’ll agree to it, Sam?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Who needs Philip Marlowe?

  Fifty-Two

  I knew that package was trouble. Always knew. If it had been anyone else, I would have said no. But your old man, I couldn’t let him down.’

  Fran was seated on the sofa across from me in my living room. He was wearing a large woollen housecoat. Beneath it I caught a glimpse of flannel pyjamas; he’d pulled a pair of jeans on over the trousers. His hair waved across his scalp like an explosion, and his beard was sticking out at funny angles. He looked like a bear that had been woken from hibernation too early. His arms were folded across his chest, and he was staring at a brown manila package shaped like a brick that was sitting on my coffee table.

  Until around fifteen minutes earlier, it had been taking up space in his safe.

  I’d called him from the police station, a chance to run up their phone bill rather than mine, and given a brief explanation of what was going on. As soon as I’d mentioned my dad’s name, I’d heard him chuckle. He said he’d been wondering when I would call. He agreed to meet us at the office in half an hour, which then started a long debate among Cummings, Perera and Fiona.

  ‘My client is certainly not going to the scene with you while armed criminals are on their way there.’ Fiona stood in front of both cops, staring them down. ‘And I’m not comfortable with you leaving her here until we’ve worked out if Lambert is the only dirty cop in on this.’

  ‘Listen, love. I mean—’ He faltered under an icy stare from Fiona. ‘Ms Hunter. The cop who denies some of his colleagues are corrupt is the cop who is corrupt. It happens in every walk of life. But it would be safer if—’

  ‘It would be safer for us to not do this at all. But since my client is cooperating and allowing you to use her as bait in a trap, you will play by our rules.’

  Our rules, she’d said, as if I’d been playing a part in planning this. I just sat back and watched. She was pretty fearsome when she needed to be. Cummings threw his hand up in the air theatrically and then turned to face the wall while he calmed down and thought things through.

  ‘Okay, okay, fine. Sam can go home. But I want people with her.’

  ‘Naturally, one of you two will accompany us.’ Us? ‘And you will have an armed officer outside, just in case.’

  Cummings and Perera took it in turns to stare at Fiona like she’d just taken a dump on their shoes, then at each other like she’d just asked if they had any bog paper. Then Perera made the decision.

  ‘I used to be in the old Armed Response Team before the forces merged. I transferred out to CID. I can do both—I’ll sit with you, and I can sign out a gun. It’ll take me a while to clear that, though, so you better get comfortable.’

  ‘Oh jeez-o,’ Cummings spoke under his breath, and then to the room. ‘We’ll be filling in paperwork until I take my pension.’

  It took another forty minutes, which gave time for me to get in touch with Fran again and ask him to meet us at my place instead of the office. Cummings and Perera took it in turns to brief me on the details of what was going to happen, and Fiona made a few hushed phone calls. The tension ramped up with each attempt by any of them to tell me to relax. I was handed a number they said was Joe McLean’s mobile. It was important that the call come from my phone. I typed it in and pressed delete, then did the same again, then typed it in and stared at it for five minutes. I swallowed a load of air and pressed to dial the number.

  ‘Aye?’ He answered straight away. He was out of breath but sounded wide awake.

  The minute I heard his voice, my nerves went away. I was too busy being angry at everything this man had done and at all the years’ worth of guilt that my dad must have been carrying around. Was it any wonder his brain gave out on him and that his memory decided it didn’t want to remember anything? It may have had no scientific backing, but in that moment Joe McLean was the reason for my father’s illness.

  ‘I gather you’re looking for me.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’ll be at Crowther’s. You know where it is?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you know what they do?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So you’ll know why I’m there. Come and make me a good offer. I want out of this game.’

  Perera drove Phil, Fiona and me to my flat, where Fran was already waiting in his car. Phil made himself busy getting tea and coffee for everyone while Perera hovered by the window like a caged animal waiting for the latch to spring open. I brought Fran up to speed on the whole story.

  He placed the package on the table and then eased back into the sofa.

  ‘I wish you’d taken the divorce case,’ he said. ‘I knew that package was trouble. Always knew. If it had been anyone else, I would have said no. But your old man, I couldn’t let him down.’

  He settled back into his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the package.

  ‘Do you know what’s in it?’ I said.

  ‘No. Never wanted to. One day Jim asked me to keep it safe and never to tell anyone. A while later he updated his will, gave me instructions on where to send the evidence when he died. Then you got power of attorney, and that meant I was going to leave the decision to you. You know, when the time comes.’

  I stood up and walked over to the table, running my hand across the top of the package. This thing had kept me alive and kept my dad working, right up till his health had got the better of him. How much must it have taken out of him to make the deal? How much of his own pride had he locked away in that safe?

  ‘Don’t open that.’ Perera stepped forward and put a hand out, still a few feet away from me, but making the intent clear. ‘That’s police evidence.’

  ‘Bollocks it is. Whatever it is, it’s my dad’s, and it’s mine, and I’ll turn it over to you once I’ve had a look.’

  Phil handed me a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and I ripped through the paper. There were three or four layers, each one wrapped tight with parcel tape. Once the final layer came off I found a shoebox, crushed and warped into a smaller size by all the tape that had been surrounding it. The box was filled with papers and photographs, and full case files compiled b
y my dad. Some of the documents were typed on his old typewriter, the square inked letters that I remembered running my hands over as a little girl, when his files had seemed so exciting to me. Some were written in his neat block handwriting. There were others written in a hand I didn’t recognise, a young and feminine swirling pattern in faded blue ink. The photographs were a mix of grainy printouts from old-fashioned CCTV, a world removed from the quality we could get today, and glossy Polaroids that must have been from his own surveillance. In the centre of the bundle lay a Dictaphone and three tapes. I slipped the first one in and pressed play.

  ‘Why’d you kill her, Joe?’ My father came out loud and clear above background noise. I heard the striking of a snooker ball. ‘Why’d you kill the Towler girl?’

  I choked a little as I heard my dad’s voice. This was as I wanted to remember him, young and strong, confident. There was a steel and a comfort in his words that you couldn’t fake, and they’d all faded from the old man I visited at 4.00 p.m. most days. Phil stepped to my side and put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Had to. She’d set us up. Rab’s fault.’ Joe’s voice was slurred with alcohol and bravado. He was drunk and showing off. Confident and untouchable. ‘I’d asked him to find us a girl who could pass as a secretary, and he said she was the best typist he knew. He didn’t say why she was so good.’

  ‘Because she wanted to be a journalist.’

  ‘Aye. Fuck’s sake. He went and picked the one wee daft lassy who had big plans. And she stitched us up. Fucking Rab. She’d got a file. She was writing the whole damn story, taking pictures of us. Fucking joke.’

  I stopped the tape and looked again through the files. The handwriting that I hadn’t recognised now made sense as Jenny Towler’s, building a file, showing the corruption, including documents from the council for planning permission and newspaper clippings of buildings that had burned down on the same site. The planning permissions in most cases predated the fire. The sort of thing people could get away with in the old days before everything was traceable.