Lethal Intent bs-15

by Quintin Jardine

  'So I did,' the chief constable admitted, 'and I should have included it. I can't deny him that. Mr Murtagh has a talent for climbing. He started off as a labourer on a building site, and in no time at all he was a general foreman.'

  'A wee chap like him? Building sites can be hard places.'

  'Don't let his size fool you, Andy. He's as hard as nails; the legend was that a big brickie had a go at him one day and wee Tommy laid him as broad as he was long. Real foreman material from the start, you might say. Anyway, he gave that up pretty soon and went to Dundee University as a mature student; he did a degree in politics and economics. He was elected to the council in his final year, and when he graduated he went back to work for his old firm, Herbert Groves Construction, with the title of contracts manager.'

  'And did his firm win many council contracts?'

  'They got their share, but Tommy always declared an interest at every stage, and the officials always noted these in the minutes. But the fact was that he didn't need to vote in the debates: the council was heavily Labour, and his colleagues voted the right way. To be fair, most of them were competitive tenders and Groves came in with the lowest quote.'

  'Insider knowledge?'

  'There was never any evidence of that, and none of the unsuccessful firms ever complained.'

  'What was Councillor Murtagh's lifestyle like?'

  'Pretty decent, but the company was successful. So why did he give it up to become an MP? That's what you're going to ask next, isn't it?'

  'I suppose so.'

  Morton smiled. 'He never said, but we all just assumed he'd outgrown Dundee. I wasn't sorry to see him go; there was talk of him becoming chair of the police authority, and I did not want that to happen. You see, he was anti-police even then, Andy.'

  'Why?'

  The chief constable raised his eyebrows, 'I'm damned if I know.' He paused. 'I do know this, though: you've been picking my brains.'

  'No, I haven't, Graham,' Martin protested. 'We've been talking about something that concerns you as much as it will everyone else. What I began by asking, if you remember, was what you think ACPOS will do if he comes after us. You still haven't answered.'

  'You're right, I haven't. Okay: ACPOS will talk around it behind closed doors and then we'll decide to do nothing at all. I had Jimmy Proud on the phone this morning, dropping the same hints you are, and trying to talk me round to the view that we can't afford to have a public fall-out with the First Minister.'

  'And did he succeed?'

  'Of course he did, because he's right. I don't trust Tommy as far as I could chuck you, but he's a persuasive wee sod, and he knows which of the public's buttons to push, and when. We might not like him, but we can't oppose him overtly. I suspect that you know that too.'

  It was Martin's turn to grin. 'And that's why you were feeding me all that information about him?'

  'Was I? And here was me thinking we were just passing the time of day.'

  'Of course we were, Graham. Is there anyone else I could pass the time of day with, anyone who knew him better than you in the old days?'

  The chief constable paused for thought. 'His worst enemy on the council was Diana Meikle, the Tory leader. She's out of politics now, like most of the rest of the Tories, but she's still around. She lives up in Broughty Ferry, if you want a chat with her.'

  Martin nodded. 'Thanks.'

  'And then there's Roy Greatorix. Our head of CID's been around for as long as I have, and there's nobody has his ear closer to the ground. It'd be worth talking to Roy, but…'

  'But what?'

  'But be very careful, and trust no one. I can read what's going on, and I can guess who's behind it. Just remember, the guy's network is everywhere, and it's still at its strongest here. You've got a fine career ahead of you, son, even if it's not going to be on Tayside in the long term, or maybe even in the short term. I'd hate to see your head being one of the first that Mr Tommy Murtagh sticks on a pole.'

  Thirty-seven

  Willie Haggerty liked being home. As he drove along Argyle Street the old song rang out in his head: 'I belong to Glasgow, dear old Glasgow town…' He did too. He had been born in Rotten Row, the city's bizarrely named maternity unit, and brought up in a council house in the Garngad, a part of the city that spawned few policeman.

  Leaving the place had been a wrench, but he had spent his career waiting for an offer he could not refuse, and when the ACC job in Edinburgh had been offered to him on a plate, he had gone for it in an instant. Truth be told, it was not the attraction of working with Jimmy Proud and Bob Skinner that had lured him across the country. No, it was the fact that service at command rank in another force would make it easier for him to achieve his dream, his ultimate ambition, to command the Strathclyde Police Force, Britain's second largest after the Met. It was still a long shot, he knew, but the Dumfries and Galloway post, if it came off, would take him one step closer. Service at chief constable rank was a prerequisite for the top job, and with a couple of years under his belt…

  Haggerty thought through his rivals and came up with only two names, both of whom he knew well: Skinner himself, and Andy Martin. Yet he had heard Bob mutter often enough that he had no ambition to be sidelined, as he put it, into a chief's office. As for Andy, if he was ever to land the Strathclyde job, given his age it would almost certainly be after his own turn had come and gone.

  There was something else. He had been sanguine about his chances of landing the post… two of them, slim and none, as Muhammad Ali had said famously… but the events of the current week had made him think again. At first he had been as outraged as Skinner and the chief when he had been told, in confidence, of Tommy Murtagh's plan to take effective control of the police, until another thought had come to him.

  Was the First Minister a politician? Yes. Did politicians, by the very nature of the word, love populist gestures? Yes. So how much more populist could you get than by appointing a boy who had escaped from the war-torn Glasgow housing schemes as head of the city's police force?

  It was a thought that he had kept to himself, yet it was preying on his mind.

  He pushed it away as he swung into Kelvinhaugh Street, then took another turn to his left a little further along. It was still there, and as he had suspected it had not seen a lick of paint in the three years since his last visit. The Argyle Kebab Parlour stuck out on the corner of its neglected street like the last tooth in a derelict's mouth. Haggerty wondered if the doners were still as good as he remembered.

  He parked his car directly outside the scruffy shop… so that it would always be in his sight… and walked inside. He smiled as he looked at the posters on the wall; they were a mix of Galatasaray and the Turkish national squad, revered in some parts of Scotland since their baiting of the English side in a European qualifier. It was well before noon and so there were no customers, just a young man behind the counter firing up the gas jets below the great roll of meat, on its vertical spit, the trademark of Turkish takeaways. The boy, who was no more than seventeen, turned and stared at Haggerty, as if he resented his intrusion. 'Can ye no' read?' he asked. 'It says on the door we're no' open till twelve.'

  'I can read, Bulent,' the police officer replied. 'That's why I'm here now. Is your father in?'

  The question was barely finished before a bead curtain at the end of the counter was roughly parted; an older man appeared, shaking off its fronds as he stepped into the front shop. 'I thought it was you,' he said. He was built like a beer barrel with short limbs and a round head. In contrast to his son, who spoke pure Glaswegian, his accent was still heavy and redolent of his native land.

  'How goes it, Rusty?' Haggerty greeted him, as the two shook hands.

  'Same as ever, as you can see,' replied Rustu Kerimoglu. 'How goes it with you? I thought we'd seen the last of you, since you became a great man in Edinburgh.'

  'You thought wrong, then. You know what they say: they can take the man out of Glasgow. .'

  The Turk finished the hom
ily for him. '… but they can't take Glasgow out of the man. No, they can't, can they? Someone should develop a vaccine, maybe.'

  'None of us would take it.' He glanced at the younger Kerimoglu. isn't that right, Bulent? Once a Weegie, always a Weegie.'

  The boy gave him a small grin. 'Maybe,' he murmured.

  'So what brings you back?' asked Rusty. 'Don't tell me you missed our kebabs: they're not so good that a man would drive fifty miles for one.'

  'They're not bad, though. You get that spit fired up, son; I'll maybe have one before I leave.'

  'Come on through the back,' said the older Kerimoglu, turning and parting the curtain. 'Bulent,' he called back over his shoulder, 'you keep an eye on Mr Haggerty's car, now.'

  The two men stepped into a back room that was part store, part kitchen, part sitting room. Rusty had been preparing salads on a big well-scrubbed table. This struck Haggerty as odd. 'Where's Esra?' he asked. For as long as he had known the Turk, in all the twenty-five years and more since he had opened his shop, his wife had done that job.

  The man smiled. 'She's retired, Willie,' he replied. 'When the boy left school a year ago, I decided that she'd spent long enough cooped up in here. It only takes the two of us to run this place, so now, with our Mata coming in to help out when I want a break, she's completely a lady of leisure. It's great, I tell you; for the first time in our married life I get something other than kebab or pizza for my dinner. She's been going to cookery classes. And,' he added with pride, 'she's learned to drive. We even went up to Oban last weekend.'

  'Was there anything to do there?'

  Kerimoglu's face split into a broad smile. 'As it happens, no, but it was a nice drive.'

  Haggerty gave a small shudder. 'You'll not be doing that this weekend,' he muttered. 'From the look of the weather we're in for snow.'

  'Good. It'll keep our customers here.' The Turk paused. 'So, my old friend, what can I do for you?'

  Haggerty grinned. 'Probably nothing, Rusty,' he said. 'Remember a few years back, when I was in Special Branch, and I used to pick your brains about things that were happening in the Muslim community? Well, it's a bit like that again.'

  A look of alarm crossed Rusty's face. 'Al Qaeda? You don't suspect that those guys are still active here, do you?'

  'No, we're pretty confident that we've seen them off. But there's more than them in the field. For example, there are Albanians.'

  'More's the pity.'

  'You don't like Albanians?'

  'I don't like any I've ever met. Why? Are you looking for some?'

  Haggerty nodded. 'As it happens I am. A guy in Edinburgh said I should look among the Turkish community: you know more about that than anyone else, hence this visit.'

  'Any names?'

  'None they'll be using. Are there any around in Glasgow that you know of?'

  'There are some who made their way over among the Kosovar refugees, but very few. Most of them are old, or they're professional people looking to retrain over here. But you're an Edinburgh policeman now. Why do you come looking in Glasgow?'

  'We're looking for these people everywhere.'

  'Are they very bad?'

  Haggerty took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Kerimoglu; he watched as he slid it open and looked at each of the four photographs inside. The Turk winced as he finished. 'They look bad, that's for sure. Can I keep these?'

  'No, I can't let you. It wouldn't be wise, or safe.'

  Rusty held out a hand. 'Let's have another look, then.' He took the envelope as it was handed back and spread the images on his table. He was standing over them, peering intently, when Bulent pushed his way through the curtain.

  'Who are those guys?' he asked. Instinctively, his father tried to put his body between him and the table, but the young man shouldered past him.

  'You don't need to know,' said Haggerty. 'Just…'

  'Aye, but I do know him,' Bulent exclaimed, pointing eagerly at one of the photographs.

  The stocky policeman's eyes narrowed. 'Are you serious?' he snapped.

  'Sure, Ah'm serious.' The boy picked up the print and held it up: it showed the smiling face of Samir Bajram. 'He was in here the other day with two other guys; they bought four doners and a pizza.'

  'You're certain it was him.'

  'Dead certain. He was wearing an Ajax baseball cap… you know, the Dutch fitba' team… and he still had thon earring in. He's got a fair, fuzzy beard now, like bum fluff, but it was him, Ah'm telling ye.'

  'Okay, I believe you, son,' said Haggerty. 'Now, what about the people he was with? Do you recognise any of them there?'

  Bulent leaned over the table, and looked at the three remaining photographs for around half a minute, before glancing up at Haggerty and shaking his head. 'Naw,' he announced, 'they're no' there. But I knew one of them, mind. We call him Frankie Jakes, but he's a Macedonian. He's a hood; he deals smack and tabs in Partick; drinks in a pub called the Johnny Groat.'

  His father stared at him, appalled. 'How do you know these things?'

  The boy smiled indulgently. 'Ah went tae school in Partick, Dad, remember? Plus Frankie's brother, wee Bobby, plays fitba' wi' us in the Tuesday half-day league.'

  Rusty turned to Haggerty; the policeman could see the concern on his face, and knew why it was there. 'Okay, Bulent,' he said. 'Now listen to me. You've never seen that man before in your life. You've never heard of him, you've never heard of me, and I was never here. Understood?'

  The smile was gone. 'Clear as day.'

  'Next time you see wee Bobby, you do not go and ask him about his brother or his mates. Understood?'

  'I get the picture.'

  'No, you don't, and you don't want to know what's in it.' Haggerty turned to his friend. 'Rusty, I'm out of here. I'm sorry I parked my car outside. What I just said to Bulent… it goes for you too.'

  The Turk nodded. 'Sure, Willie. And not for the first time either: it's been a long twenty-five years. Next time, just come for a take-away.'

  Thirty-eight

  Neil McIlhenney smiled as he stepped into All Bar One; for the first time in days he felt refreshed. The dream had not returned the night before, and he put it down to Lou's excellent consultation with her obstetrician, the Amanda Dennis lookalike, who had told her that all was well with her pregnancy and that she could look forward to delivering a healthy child in a few months' time, wiping away her last concerns about becoming a first-time mother at forty plus.

  But there was more than that behind his grin. His lunch date had made him think about where he stood in his career, and he felt good about that too. In his early years as a policeman, his service had been solid but not spectacular. He had been like a stereotypical cop, overweight, a shade heavy-handed and more than a little cynical about the character of his fellow man.

  It had taken Bob Skinner to look into him and see what else was there. Under his tutelage he had developed both as an officer and a man. At first he had wondered why he was being favoured, but as he had come to know the Big Man, he had come to realise also that he surrounded himself with people whose values reflected his own.

  Now he was prepared to admit to himself, and to anyone else who asked, that in his early years he had been freewheeling, holding down a nice cushy job which, with his late wife Olive's teaching salary, had given them a comfortable if not opulent standard of living. It had taken Skinner, then head of CID, before his move to the Command Corridor, to draw out his best and largely untapped qualities, identifying him and his mate McGuire… known to most of their colleagues in those days as the Glimmer Twins, for their joint love of a bevvy and of the Rolling Stones… as two-under-performers with much more to offer the force.

  Mario's special gift, apart from sheer innate ferocity when in a threatening situation, was a cool analytical brain, inherited from his mother and his grandfather, Papa Viareggio, who had founded the family's small business empire. His had been the ability to size people up and to know instinctively who was a straight-shooting
, valued contact, and who was simply shooting the breeze.

  His lunch companion had arrived before him. She was sitting at a table, away from the other diners, in the furthest corner of the restaurant; it was a converted banking hall, as were half of the other eating places in George Street. She was in her forties, plump, with shiny black hair that was swept back and held in a short pony-tail, and she wore a dark, heavy sweater and a long grey skirt. She glanced up as he approached. 'What happened?' she asked. 'You're ten minutes late. Couldn't you find a parking place?'

  'As it happens you're right,' he told her. 'It's a real bugger in the Christmas period, even at lunchtime.'

  'I thought you guys didn't have to worry about yellow lines.'

  'Tell that to the Blue Meanies,' he retorted. 'We hate them just as much as you civvies do. One of them put a ticket on the chief constable's car a few weeks ago, even though he had left his uniform cap on the steering-wheel.'

  'Did he pay it?'

  McIlhenney nodded. 'The chief is like that.'

  'Is the guy still in a job?'

  'That I do not know, and I don't want to.' He settled into the seat facing her.

  'I've ordered lunch like you asked,' she said. 'Soup of the day… it's minestrone… and a chicken salad. Are you sure you want salad? It's December, Neil.'

  He patted his stomach. 'Why get fat just because it's winter?'

  She shuddered. 'God, you self-control freaks! I remember you when you were a porker. You weren't sanctimonious then.'

  It was true, he conceded to himself. He and Debbie Wrigley did go that far back, to the days when he had been a beat cop and she had been an assistant manager in the Clydesdale Bank. He had taken a statement from her after a bungled robbery… as most of them were… and they had struck up an instant friendship.

  They had both moved on since then, he through the ranks and into the Special Branch office, she to the National Mutual, where she was a general manager with responsibility for the private-client division.

  'Did you order us drinks?' he asked her.