One Last Dram Before Midnight

by Denzil Meyrick

  Donald broke wind loudly then looked at his watch. ‘Right, bugger all else I can do here. CID’ll be with you shortly. Try not to fuck it up, son, and don’t be interfering with that poor lassie,’ he said, making an obscene gesture.

  Daley was relieved to watch him go, but he felt uneasy being left in the company of the corpse. He stared down at the girl’s ravaged body. She probably wasn’t much older than him, and already her life had reached its end. Daley thought about this predisposition towards melancholy he seemed to have. In the months since he’d joined up, he’d experienced things most other young men of his age would never witness. All of the vices he confronted on the street seemed to be underpinned by two things: money and death. In an attempt to make sense of this, he’d started reading books by the great philosophers, but he’d soon given up when Nietzsche’s theories left him profoundly depressed.

  As he stared across the city from the bedroom window, he wondered how many more people’s lives were on the brink. All seemed quiet, almost serene, but in the many streets below him, under the many roofs of the many buildings he could see, who really knew what was going on?

  As he gazed down at the city, it was almost as though it was staring back into his soul. He was roused from his contemplation by a disturbance in the hall.

  The bedroom door opened to reveal a tall, painfully thin man in a crumpled suit and light grey raincoat, accompanied by a young, harassed-looking colleague.

  ‘Right, what have we got here, son?’ asked Detective Chief Inspector Ian Burns.

  III

  Daley watched as the DCI took in the scene. The young DC took notes as his boss walked around the room, making comment only when he felt it necessary.

  Burns knelt on the floor and pulled something from under the bed. He held up a plastic bag filled with condoms. ‘Well, I think we can safely say that this poor lassie has been on the game to support her habit – heroin, no doubt. Possibly this new crack.’

  ‘Do you think she’s been murdered by dealers?’ asked Daley, anxious to contribute something.

  ‘No. Well, not the traditional way, anyhow. No knife to the heart or baseball bat over the head here, son. I take it you never looked too closely up her skirt?’

  ‘Eh, no,’ said Daley, hoping he wasn’t about to be the victim of yet another crude joke.

  ‘Well, take a look and tell me what you see.’

  Daley bent down, and forced himself to look between the victim’s thighs. There was something sticking out from her groin, in the fold between her leg and her genitals. ‘Is that a syringe, sir?’

  ‘Yup. The usable veins collapse in the arm, and then the addict’s forced to inject the drug anywhere else serviceable. Nice, eh? The question is: has her body just given up, or do we have another?’ Burns gave his DC a knowing look.

  ‘Another, sir?’ queried Daley.

  ‘In the last two weeks, two prostitutes have died from massive doses of heroin. The question till now has been why.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Aye, possible. We do see that from time to time, but three so close together – well, that’s unusual. Also, these poor kids usually live from hit to hit. Why would they save up such a store of the drug just to end it all? The usual pattern would be of an addict doing away with themselves when they couldn’t lay their hands on a fix. Paracetamol’s a lot cheaper than H,’ said Burns. ‘And look at her lips – blue. Sure sign of poisoning.’

  ‘What about the blood?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Massive haemorrhage caused by the overdose. Scenes of Crime should be here soon. But I think we have number three.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said the DC.

  ‘Oh shit, indeed, DC Scott. Bloody nasty.’

  ‘Oh aye, well, I wisnae meaning that, exactly, sir,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘What then?’ asked Burns with a frown.

  ‘I’ve just broken the end off my bloody pencil, sir,’ said DC Brian Scott. ‘If you pardon my French,’ he added with a wink at Daley.

  IV

  When the Scenes of Crime Officers arrived, Daley and the detectives decamped to the landing. Burns lit a cigarette, but frowned at DC Scott when he went to do the same. ‘You nearly choked me on the way here in that car of yours, Brian,’ said Burns. ‘Time you cut down a bit.’

  ‘Aye, right, sir,’ replied Scott, reluctantly placing the packet of cigarettes back in his pocket.

  ‘How long have you been on this beat, constable?’ Burns asked Daley.

  ‘Just over a year, sir. I did my first few months with Constable Fraser in Two Section.’

  ‘Who, Davy Fraser?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Why on earth would they send impressionable young cops out with that booze bag? Must have been a bit of a culture shock after Tulliallan.’

  ‘Oh, he was OK,’ lied Daley.

  ‘Aye, OK when he’s sleeping,’ remarked DC Scott, attacking the tip of his pencil with a blunt penknife.

  ‘Right, fancy a bit of overtime?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Daley, keen to get as many extra hours in as the next man.

  ‘I want you to stay on until about eleven. Get yourself round the neighbourhood, see what you can find out about our tragic Miss Greene. You know the score: her habits, folk she hangs about with, anything. Start here in the flats, then hit the shops in the wee precinct. I’ll clear it with your gaffer. Who is your gaffer, by the way?’

  ‘Sergeant Donald, sir.’

  ‘You’ve fairly lucked out there, my man,’ commented Scott, admiring the sharp point of his pencil. ‘Davy the booze hound and Donald the–’

  ‘That’s quite enough, DC Scott. You need to head back to the office and get the paperwork kicked off,’ said Burns with a raised eyebrow. ‘Right, we all know what we’re doing so let’s get on with it. I’m going up to Baird Street. The North dealt with the last victim. You and Daley can go back, have a break, and then get right into it.’

  ‘No bother, sir. I’ve got it taped,’ replied Scott. ‘Eh, how are we to get back tae Stewart Street?’

  ‘One foot in front of the other, Brian, one foot in front of the other,’ said Burns, already walking towards the lift.

  Daley couldn’t help but smile at the young detective who was swearing under his breath.

  As the two men walked back to the office, DC Scott regaled Daley with tales of life in the CID. ‘Nane o’ this standin’ at windy street corners pish. I love it,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘It’s a job, anyhow.’

  ‘How long have you been in the CID?’

  ‘Eight months. I’m fair enjoying it, though I can’t see me reaching the dizzy heights o’ old Burns, there.’

  ‘What, DCI?’

  ‘Aye, I don’t think that’s for the likes o’ me. I just want a quiet time, dae my job, keep my heid doon, and stay out the rain.’

  Daley smiled at Scott’s vaulting ambition as the subject changed to that of football – the constant obsession of the Scottish male.

  As they neared the office Scott stopped. ‘Oh, here, we’re having a night oot next week for auld Willie Finn. Since you’ve been seconded to the CID by the gaffer, why don’t you come along?’

  ‘OK, I will,’ said Daley, suddenly wondering what Sergeant Donald would think of him being ‘seconded’ to the CID. He quite looked forward to his reaction.

  Daley returned to the Townhead later and began asking people about Tracey Greene. His first port of call was the high flats in Kennedy Path where she’d lived and died. When he presented them with her photograph, taken from the flat, most people recognised her but that was about it. Yes, they thought she was a drug user; no, they didn’t know if she worked, or how she spent her time; no, it wasn’t a great surprise that she had met with a tragic end.

  In Glasgow, addicts were all too often victims of violence. Theirs were lives lived on the edge, the yawning chasm of oblivion never far away. HIV was tearing through this community, and was now as feared as the many vicious gangsters and dealers who
controlled the city’s drug trade.

  As Daley walked up to the next landing, he could see the police incident van drawing up in the car park below. He had made frustratingly little progress, but soon the regular CID would take over the door-to-door inquiries and no doubt Daley would be left to his normal beat duties.

  He knocked on a door that bore the name ‘G Hunter’. A middle-aged woman in a towelling dressing gown answered. ‘Aye, what is it, son? I’m just off for a bath. I’m at work in less than an hour, so you better make it snappy.’

  ‘I just wondered if you knew this woman? She lived on the eighteenth floor of this building,’ asked Daley, showing her the picture of Tracey Greene.

  ‘Aye, seen her aboot. Wee junkie, is she no’?’

  Daley was about to ask her if she’d seen Greene with anyone else she could describe, when the woman turned in the doorway. ‘Peter, get your arse oot here and talk tae the polis. My bath’s getting cauld.’ At this, a stout man with thinning hair and a potbelly appeared in the hall. His wife disappeared into the bathroom in a cloud of steam. Daley showed Mr Hunter the photograph.

  ‘Aye, aye, I think I’ve seen her aboot, right enough,’ said Hunter, barely looking at the picture. Daley noted that he seemed uneasy. ‘What’s she been up tae – drugs, no doubt?’

  ‘Are you aware that she was a drug user?’ asked Daley.

  ‘No . . . I mean . . . you know . . . she looks, eh, the type. I’ve spied her a few times aboot the flats an’ that, know what I mean? She seems like too nice a lassie to be intae that shit. But looking at her . . . well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘So you’ve spoken to her, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Och, aye. You know, in the lift an’ that. In the wee dairy doonstairs when I’m buying ma milk and the paper. Anyway, I take it she’s in trouble if you are asking questions.’

  ‘She was found dead in her flat last night. We have reason to believe she was murdered,’ said Daley, waiting for a response from Hunter.

  He got it. The man’s face went white, then grey, and Daley was convinced that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry tae hear that,’ he said hesitantly. ‘This bloody place, eh? I mean what chance have these kids got?’

  ‘Have you ever seen her with anyone? Boyfriend, family, anybody at all?’

  Hunter shook his head and was about to reply when his wife’s voice sounded from the bathroom. ‘Peter, get me that wee wireless fae the kitchen, will you? I forgot tae bring it in wae me. And shut that bloody front door, I can feel the draught fae in here.’

  ‘No, I’ve no’ seen her wae anybody. Listen,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ll need tae go an’ get my missus that radio. She who must be obeyed, eh.’ He smiled weakly.

  After Hunter had closed the door, Daley stood and noted their brief conversation in his notebook. There was something about the man’s manner that convinced the young police officer he knew more than he was letting on. Daley scribbled ‘Refer to DCI Burns’ in his notebook, then carried on to the next flat.

  It was almost half past ten when he knocked on the last door on the very top floor of the building. There was no response, so he jotted the flat’s number in the No Reply column of his notebook. These addresses would have to be tried again.

  He was frustrated, but not surprised by the poor response. This was a close community, where mistrust of the police was instilled at birth. The only real lead he’d had was from a young single mother who thought she’d seen Greene talking to a grey-haired middle-aged man in an overcoat, who she hadn’t seen in the area before. Not much to go on.

  It was time for him to finish his shift. He’d been on duty for twelve eventful hours and just wanted to get home to bed. He was walking past the row of shops in the small precinct across from Kennedy Path, when he saw two detectives interviewing a shopkeeper. He left them to it and went into the shop next door to buy a paper and a jar of coffee.

  He was reading about Kenny Dalglish in the sports pages when he heard a voice. ‘Excuse me, could I have a wee word?’ Mr Hunter was hurrying towards him, his large belly wobbling over the waistband of his trousers.

  ‘I’m sorry, I couldnae say much when you came to the door. The wife . . . you know how it is, son.’ He shrugged his shoulders, looking embarrassed.

  After paying for the coffee and the paper, Daley turned to Mr Hunter and, fishing for his notebook in the pocket of his tunic, asked him what he knew.

  ‘The lassie Tracey . . . I . . . I used tae see her, like,’ said Hunter, shuffling from foot to foot. ‘Eh, can we go outside a minute?’

  ‘Do you mean you paid her for sex?’ said Daley quietly, aware of Hunter’s discomfort, as they stood outside the shop.

  ‘Aye, aye, I suppose if you put it like that, that’s just what I did,’ he sighed. ‘I liked her, though, you know. She was nice – kind, if you know what I mean. It couldn’t have been very nice for a young lassie like that tae . . . well, tae dae what she did with me. She never made me feel awkward aboot it, mind.’

  ‘Did you visit her flat?’

  ‘At the end, aye, I did.’

  ‘What do you mean, “at the end”?’

  ‘Well, I first met her somewhere else. I didn’t know her fae Adam, then.’

  ‘What, a brothel?’

  ‘A sauna, son. Here, take this,’ he said, pulling a business card from his pocket.

  Daley took it from him and looked at it: Cool Winds Sauna, Clyde Street. You’ll be glad you came. The card was luminous pink in colour and showed a silhouette of a naked woman under a palm tree.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, son. I’m no pervert, mind. I’ve been married for near thirty years. The magic’s well and truly gone, if you know what I mean. She’d rather watch Coronation Street and go tae the bingo wae her mates than . . . well, you know.’ Hunter’s face went bright red.

  ‘So this is where you first met Tracey Greene, at this sauna in Clyde Street?’

  ‘Aye. We got talking, and she was nice. Maist o’ the lassies just want tae get it over wae and don’t say anything, but she was different. Made you feel as though you weren’t just a dirty auld man. I couldn’t believe it when I found oot she lived up the stairs in my ain block o’ flats.’

  ‘So that’s when you started visiting her at home?’

  ‘Naw, that’s no’ how it happened. She left the sauna. Some guy was givin’ her hassle.’

  ‘One of her bosses?’

  ‘I’m not too sure. A punter, I think. Big payer, tae. He used tae knock her aboot a bit. Sometimes I’d go an’ see her and she’d have a black eye, or bruises on her back. Made me feel sick.’

  ‘Didn’t the folk in the sauna look after her?’

  ‘Och, they were mair bothered aboot the money than aboot how she was being treated. The guy paid mair for it – tae knock her aboot a bit. That’s how she quit, so she said.’

  Daley looked at the business card. ‘You’ll have to talk to the CID, Mr Hunter. This could be really important.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say that,’ he replied, head down, looking at the pavement. ‘I suppose the wife was always going tae find oot somehow. I cannae just let the lassie doon, though. I want them tae catch whoever, well, whoever killed her.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll tell the chief inspector about you, and your circumstances. I’m sure something can be arranged for you to speak to him privately.’

  ‘You mean go behind the wife’s back?’

  ‘I think you’ve been doing that already,’ said Daley. ‘In any case, what happens in your marriage is none of our business. I’m just glad you’ve come forward, Mr Hunter. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.’

  As Daley walked back to Stewart Street he reflected on what he’d just said to the man. He wasn’t in a position to judge the morality of the situation. Was Hunter, a fat middle-aged man stuck in a loveless marriage, wrong to seek out the company of prostitutes? Certainly, it would have been much easier for him to keep quiet on the subject of Tracey G
reene, but he’d chosen to seek out Daley to tell him what he knew.

  Daley realised more each day that life was rarely black and white. As a police officer, he dealt with all its many shades. It was, he surmised, just the way things were.

  V

  As Daley made his way into the CID Suite at Stewart Street Police Office he could hear the intermittent percussion of typewriter keys, punctuated by swearing. DC Brian Scott was sitting behind a desk, his tongue sticking out. Beside him on the table was a bottle of Tipp-Ex. On the floor lay several balls of crumpled foolscap.

  ‘Hi, Brian,’ said Daley. ‘Just finishing up. I’ve got something that DCI Burns might be interested in.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ replied Scott absently. ‘I don’t suppose you know too much aboot these bloody things,’ he continued, making a derisive gesture towards the typewriter.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘These tabs, or whatever they’re called. I cannae get my heid round them at all. One minute the writing starts here, the next o’er here. Burns wants me tae have these notes typed up for the nightshift. Says the typing pool upstairs are too busy . . . aye, too busy gossiping and reading magazines, if you ask me.’

  ‘Here, give me a shot,’ said Daley. Scott happily vacated his chair, and Daley began repositioning the paper and fiddling with parts of the typewriter Scott hadn’t realised existed. ‘There,’ said Daley, after a few moments. ‘You should be able to type it up now with these tabs.’

  ‘Impressive,’ observed Scott. ‘Where the hell did you learn that? We never got typing at the school I went tae . . . occasionally.’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ replied Daley. ‘My old dear used to take in typing to make a bit of extra cash. She was a secretary before she married the old man. Smart, too. Of course, he thinks the woman’s place is in the home.’

  ‘Och, my faither’s the same. Mind you, my mother could’ve had three jobs and he wouldn’t have had a clue. He spends mair time in the pub than I dae working in here.’

  The office door opened, and DCI Burns flung his raincoat onto a hook, then lit a cigarette. ‘Right, Daley, what did you get for me?’