X
‘You’re no’ bad at this CID stuff, Jim,’ said Scott as the pair headed out of the CID office. ‘That was impressive, man. We’ll get the motor and get up tae Possil and see what’s what at Murchieston Transport.’
‘Hang on a second, Brian,’ replied Daley. ‘I just want to have a word with the collater.’
Daley walked through to the uniformed section of the office and knocked on the door that read ‘Constable C. Reid. Divisional Intelligence Officer’. Despite the official title, the man who kept the records of suspects, convicted criminals and those known to the police, was known as the Collater. It was his job to keep tabs on the criminals who inhabited the division’s area. And Charlie Reid was good at his job.
‘Yes, son, what can I do you for?’ asked Reid with a welcoming smile. A thick-set man in his early fifties, he’d been injured on duty in the late 1970s, and since then had occupied the role of collater with some aplomb.
‘What do you know about Dandy, Charlie?’ asked Daley.
‘You mean the jakey?’ Reid replied.
‘The very man.’
‘Been on the streets since I was on the beat here, so that must be eighteen years ago. I’m buggered if I know how he’s survived this long.’
‘You know the stories about him – the gossip. Any truth in it?’
‘Oh, you mean that he was once a professor, or something? Aye, I’ve heard that. I don’t think that’s right, but there’s something in the back of my mind about him.’ He passed his hand over his bald head. ‘I tell you what, I’m in the middle of something right now. Give me half an hour or so, and I’ll dig out what I have on him and give you a shout.’
‘Cheers, Charlie. I’m off out, but you can get me on the radio.’
Murchieston Transport was based on a ragged industrial estate in Possil that had seen better days. Behind a barbed-wire fence sat a row of low office buildings, which abutted a busy garage. A small team of mechanics were busy working to keep Murchieston’s large fleet of lorries on the road. A grizzled Alsatian dog on a thick length of chain barked furiously as Scott and Daley got out of the unmarked police car and knocked on the door marked ‘Reception’.
After a buzz, locks on the door clicked and Scott pushed the door open. A young blonde woman with heavy make-up sat at a desk staring at a typewriter, a scowl on her face.
‘Can I help yous?’ she asked, without lifting her gaze from what she was doing.
‘It’s lovely tae see you too,’ said Scott sarcastically, brandishing his warrant card. ‘Stewart Street CID. We’re enquiring about one of your company cars.’
‘Another yin?’ she replied exasperatedly. ‘There was a guy in just a wee while ago, asked the same thing. Is it A571 WHT, by any chance?’
Daley and Scott exchanged a glance. ‘Aye, that’s the number,’ said Scott. ‘Who was the other bloke?’
‘Said he saw the driver drop money oot o’ his wallet when he saw him gettin’ oot the car yesterday. Twenty quid. I said he could leave it here, but the guy wanted tae hand it over in person. Likely lookin’ for a reward.’
‘And who drives the car?’ asked Daley.
‘The boss, Allan Murchieston.’
‘Did you give this man Murchieston’s address?’
‘Aye, I did. I know he’s worth a few bob, but naebody can go aboot the place chuckin’ away twenty notes, can they? Trust me, considering the wages he pays in here, every penny’s a prisoner.’
‘What was this man like?’ asked Daley.
‘I dunno, just a guy. Older man, maybe in his fifties or that. Maybe aulder. Who knows when they get tae that bloody age. Here, if you hang on, I can get yous a look at him,’ she said, gesturing to the small camera on the wall behind her.
She got up, revealing a tight black skirt, sheer black tights and white shoes with impossibly high heels.
‘The view’s improving a’ the time,’ observed Scott quietly as she bent over a video player, which sat under a small television. After rewinding the tape she stopped and turned to the policemen.
‘There he’s there. No’ a very bonny sight – no’ a patch on you, big yin,’ she said, winking at Daley.
They squinted at the picture, which was nothing like the quality of the CCTV footage from the oil company.
‘Mind if I move it on a bit?’ asked Scott.
‘Dae what you want, darlin’’ she replied, edging towards Daley, who could feel his face going red.
Scott played the image backwards and forwards until the man’s features were visible. Daley remembered Davy Fraser’s description of the old-fashioned suit, the short hair going grey, and the craggy face.
‘It’s the same guy who got Davy to check the registration number last night, Brian. Definitely,’ said Daley. He was about to say more when he heard his name on the radio.
‘A-Alpha calls ADC Daley, come in ADC Daley, over.’ He acknowledged the call. ‘Jim, could you give the collater a call as soon as possible, over?’
Daley asked the receptionist if he could use the office phone, and dialled Charlie Reid’s internal number.
‘Right, son, Dandy. Real name Kenneth Lister. Ex-marine. There was some truth in the stories, right enough. He was on duty on some naval destroyer, when he was told that his wife had been killed in a car accident. Had a wee lassie, too. She was in the car, but she escaped with minor injuries. Looks as though he just lost it afterwards. Within a year he’d been discharged, and the wee girl was staying with her mother’s sister.’
‘What was the girl’s name?’ asked Daley.
‘Rebecca Lister,’ replied Reid. He paused. ‘But she changed her name. She was in all sorts of bother when she was a teenager, but I managed to pick her up. Used her middle name and her aunt’s married name: Tracey Greene.’
Daley stared at the frozen image on the tiny screen. Every picture told a story, but the one from the CCTV in Sauchiehall Street had lied. The prostitute wasn’t handing money to an old tramp; she was handing her father the identity of the man who was persecuting her – just in case.
‘Brian, we need to get to Murchieston’s house. Where does he live?’ he shouted to the receptionist.
‘Hold your horses, big boy. He stays in the wilds, up near Mugdock Park. Here,’ she said, as she scribbled down the address and handed it to Daley.
He took one last look at the image on the screen. The man’s hair was cut short, he was clean-shaven, wearing an old suit, and he looked sober. There was no doubt. Daley was looking at Dandy, Tracey Greene’s father.
Allan Murchieston took the stairs from his basement gym two at a time. He’d finished his daily workout and was ready for a shower and a coffee.
He was lucky that he didn’t have to spend a lot of time involved in the day-to-day running of his business interests. He had a handful of trusted managers who coped so much better than he would have with the boring grind of piloting his companies. He was free to take an overview, to spot moneymaking opportunities and to indulge his private passions.
He unzipped his blue tracksuit top, went to his front door, and scooped up the small pile of mail on the mat. He flicked through various bills, a letter from an old aunt, and an invitation to a business initiative run by the local council. Nothing of any interest.
He walked into the lounge and took in the view from the large bay window. Early spring sunshine dappled the leafy garden. In the distance, the hills were beginning to take on a healthy hue after the cold snowy winter as they glowered down at the few expensive homes that dotted the valley.
Lost in thought, his eye caught movement on the drive. Sure enough, a miserable-looking man in an ill-cut suit was plodding towards the house. Being rather out of the way, Murchieston was lucky not to receive many cold calls from sales people. However, this individual bore all the hallmarks of the type who would try to sell him double glazing, garden fencing or driveway paving. It was the weary but determined trudge, he supposed.
He was in no mood to converse with the path
etic man, so he made his way back to the front door, opened it, and stared down the long driveway. The man in the suit was nowhere to be seen.
He took a few steps down towards the garden, but still could see no one.
He was about to turn on his heel and go back into the house, when something hard hit him from behind. He bent double, pain shooting through his kidneys. As he was trying his best to regain his breath, another blow, this time to the head, sent him spiralling agonisingly into darkness.
‘Hang on, Jimmy,’ said Scott, as they left the broad streets of the city behind and drove along the winding country roads to the north of Glasgow. The Cavalier’s engine whined in protest as Scott put his foot down to overtake a lumbering van, far too near a corner for Daley’s comfort.
‘Who taught you to drive, Brian? Evel Knievel?’
‘Och, we used tae mess aboot in cars when we were kids, Jimmy,’ he replied, skidding around a corner. ‘This baby’s got nearly eighty-brake horsepower, so we’ll be there in no time.’
‘We’re looking for a sign for Red Knowe. The house is set off the road according to the girl in the office.’
‘Don’t you worry, got a couple of miles to go before we get near,’ said Scott, sounding the horn and swearing volubly at a man driving a tractor and trailer that had brought them almost to a standstill. ‘Take that bastard’s number, Jim. I’ll give him a tug on the way back. These buggers think they own the place!’
After a few more miles of driving on the edge, frequent cursing from Scott, and even more frequent prayers from Daley, they saw a large red-brick house at the end of a long driveway, through the trees.
‘Any money that’s Red Knowe,’ said Daley, relieved to have reached their destination without dying in a mangled car wreck.
‘Probably right, Jim. We’ll see if there’s any signpost,’ replied Scott, appearing almost deflated that the breakneck ride to get to Murchieston’s house was over.
Sure enough, a wooden sign at the end of the drive bore the name of the house. In a last automotive flourish, Scott propelled the car towards the house, scattering stone chips as the wheels sloughed to gain purchase. They skidded to a halt behind a red XJS bearing the registration A571 WHT.
Daley was first out of the car –relieved to be getting out at all – and loped up the front steps towards a large oak door, which was ajar.
‘Any bets your man Dandy’s here already,’ said Scott under his breath.
They entered the house. To their right was a spacious lounge with bay windows. To their left, a dining room with adjacent kitchen, replete with granite counters and expensive appliances. A curving staircase swept up to the top two floors of the house, while beneath it a smaller spiral staircase led to what Daley assumed was a basement.
The police officers stood for a few seconds, but could hear nothing.
‘You take a look at the cellar, big man,’ said Scott. ‘I’ll get upstairs. All seems pretty quiet. If you find anything just gie me a shout.’
Daley made his way as quietly as possible down to the basement. Finding himself in a dimly lit corridor, he was faced by two wood-panelled doors. Cautiously, he opened the first, to reveal a large bathroom with a capacious shower, WC and wooden compartment marked with a brass plaque as the ‘Steam Room’.
Silently, he closed it, and paused. Just before crossing the corridor, he heard thuds – quiet, repetitive – coming from behind the door opposite. He grasped the brass handle and eased it open.
He found himself in a fully equipped gymnasium, where, at the end of the room, a middle-aged man was struggling silently, at the end of a rope, tied to the top of a weights bench. His face was a livid purple, the only sound coming from his feet as they flailed against the apparatus.
‘Brian, quick! He’s in here!’ shouted Daley at the top of his voice, hoping his colleague would hear him through the open door. He rushed over to the man he guessed was Murchieston, grabbed him by the legs and took the weight of the rope. Now that Daley had taken the strain, Murchieston began to wheeze, a wailing noise that came from his throat, as he desperately tried to force breath into his lungs, the noose still tight around his neck. He pulled desperately with both hands, but couldn’t loosen it. His wheeze grew deeper and less frequent, as though his life was draining away.
Still holding Murchieston up with one arm, Daley tried to reach up with his free hand to release the noose, but he couldn’t get purchase on the rope.
‘Brian, for fuck’s sake, get down here!’ he shouted again.
At first, he was relieved when he heard footsteps behind him. Then, as a figure moved into his line of sight, he realised that it wasn’t his fellow officer.
The man was dressed in a double-breasted pin-stripe suit with huge lapels. His hair was cut short, and he was clean-shaven. The only thing that marked him out as the man Daley had removed from the skip a few days before was his grimace: the teeth black, yellow and rotten.
‘Let him go,’ the intruder shouted, in a deep husky voice. He was holding a ball-pen hammer in his left hand. ‘Let him go, young fella,’ he said again, brandishing the implement.
‘Brian!’ Daley called desperately, just as Dandy brought down the hammer with excruciating force against his left shoulder. Howling in pain, he tried to keep a hold of Murchieston, but felt his grip weaken. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Kenneth,’ he gasped, miraculously remembering Dandy’s real name and hoping it would somehow rouse him from this murderous rage. ‘This man needs to face justice, not just for your daughter, but for the others he’s killed and abused.’
For a second, Dandy stared at him open-mouthed.
‘I know Tracey Greene was your daughter. I’m so sorry this has happened,’ rasped Daley, as the deep whine of Murchieston’s laboured breath became weaker and weaker. ‘Let this man do the time in jail, not you. You’re helping him to get away with this.’
For a moment, Daley thought he’d got through to him, as Dandy dropped the hammer and paused for a second.
He was wrong.
The man leapt towards him, caught the young policeman by the neck with a vice-like grip, and started to choke him.
Daley lost his purchase on Murchieston’s legs as he felt himself lose consciousness. The room began to spin, and he saw sparks and flashes of light. It was his turn to struggle for breath.
Just as he was about to pass out, he felt Dandy’s body jerk, and his grip around Daley’s throat slackened. Almost automatically, still struggling to remain conscious, he forced Murchieston back up to take the strain from the rope that was suffocating him.
‘Aye, and goodnight to you,’ said Brian Scott as he subdued Dandy with an arm lock, rolling him over, face down against the carpet, and handcuffing him. ‘Hang on, Jimmy,’ he said, producing something from his pocket and scaling the weightlifting apparatus.
A few seconds later, Murchieston fell heavily onto Daley. As he struggled with Murchieston’s weight on top of him, Daley saw Scott working at the rope with a long-bladed knife. Finally, Scott pulled the rope from the victim’s neck, and with the obstruction removed, the man began to draw deep howling breaths.
Daley got up, leaving Murchieston on the floor on his hands and knees, and immediately yelled in pain as he twisted his injured shoulder.
‘No’ a bad wee result,’ said Scott, above the rasp of Murchieston’s breathing and the curses from Dandy. ‘You look like you took a dull yin, right enough. Och, but you’ll be fine. A nice wee feather in your cap, Jimmy boy.’
‘Where did you get the knife?’ asked Daley, still grimacing in pain.
‘Och, I’m forever forgetting that baton o’ mine. I’m fae the East End, Jimmy – grabbed this fae the kitchen when I heard you shoutin’. The gaffer would call it reverting to type.’
In the distance, Daley could hear police sirens. The cavalry were on their way.
XI
‘So you hurt your shoulder falling down stairs in your office?’ asked Liz, staring at the man with his arm in a sling, s
itting in the trendy wine bar in Paisley’s New Street.
‘Yeah, basically . . . yeah,’ mumbled Daley.
‘Oh, I’m sure that happens to civil servants all the time. Hazard of the job, no doubt.’
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Daley knew she didn’t believe him. He was frantically trying to think up the best – the easiest way – to tell her what his real job was.
‘I’m really glad about one thing, though,’ she said with a bright smile.
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘That you’re not a policeman. My father hates the police. He’d disown me if I had any truck with an officer of the law. Taboo, big boy.’
‘Right,’ said Daley, now in a quandary, looking around the room for inspiration.
‘You’re funny, Jim Daley. You’re funny and gorgeous, and I think I like you a lot.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Daley, brightening up considerably.
‘Anyway, when do you get that sling off and get yourself back on the beat?’
‘Oh, should be fine in a couple of weeks, the Force doctor says I . . .’ He stopped, realising what he’d said.
‘Spoofer!’ she exclaimed with a smile. ‘Be sure your sins will find you out, my mother always says.’
‘Mine too,’ replied Daley sheepishly. ‘If you want to go back home, I’ll understand. I didn’t want to lie to you. Brian said girls like you hate the police.’
‘Girls like me?’ she asked in mock surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Well, you know . . . well brought-up girls.’
‘You mean posh bints, don’t you, Jim?’
‘Well, you know . . .’
She leant forward and held his hand. ‘Do yourself a favour and stop listening to Brian Scott. He’s a lovely guy, but I don’t think you want to follow his example.’
‘How did you find out I was a policeman?’
‘You mean, apart from the short hair and the military bearing?’
One Last Dram Before Midnight Page 17
