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- Herausgeber: Old Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Murder and drug-dealing are all in a day's work for DCI Charlie Anderson, but everything's on a different scale now that psychopath Billy McAteer is back on the streets of Glasgow. Simon Ramsay, a successful and seemingly respectable businessman, receives an email with a photograph attached. If he doesn't come up with ?50k, the sender will release it to the press, and Ramsay's career will be over. In a state of panic he contacts his mistress, Laura. He tells her a blackmailer has managed to get his hands on a compromising photo of them in bed together. Terrified of what her violent husband will do if he finds out about her affair, Laura enlists the services of McAteer to deal with the blackmailer. It is a moment of madness, with disastrous consequences. And it falls to DCI Anderson and his sidekick to unravel the trail of death and destruction. 'Daly effortlessly incorporates the seedy underbelly of the city… Black Mail can proudly sit alongside books by far more established writers in the Glasgow noir field… A highly enjoyable debut' - crimefictionlover.co.uk (*****FIVE-STAR REVIEW*****) 'Impressive ... a vivid new voice in Tartan noir' - MAGGIE CRAIG 'Everything you would want in a crime novel -- a gritty gutsy Glasgow as the setting, realistic coppers, dodgy businessmen, out and out villains and enough twists and turns to tie you up and hang you over a precipice of suspense. Bring on the next in the series!' - lovereading.co.uk
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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PRAISE FOR BLACK MAIL
‘Terrific pace, with new revelations and twists at every juncture… The staple crime diet of drugs, deceit, sex, blackmail, violence and murder is handled with panache and a humour typical of the Glasgow he evokes with total authenticity.’
BILL KIRTON
‘Daly does a terrific job of evoking Glasgow in all its many layers. The villain of the piece is truly chilling and the policemen who pursue him hugely likeable. An impressive debut and a vivid new voice in tartan noir.’
MAGGIE CRAIG
BLACK MAIL
BILL DALY
For Jane
Contents
PROLOGUE
September 1980
Billy McAteer, a private in the British army, was on his first tour of active duty in Northern Ireland when the bomb exploded in the crowded pub. Off-duty, perched on a high stool and chatting to his mates when the blast erupted from behind the bar’s floor-to-ceiling plate glass mirror, his sixteen stones plucked from the stool and flung like a rag doll across the room, pursued by a million shards of mirror.
His body slammed into the far wall, the fragments of lancing glass ripping away his ear, exploding his left eyeball, slicing the flesh from his cheekbone and ripping his nostrils to shreds.
It took several hours on the operating table to rebuild his features, followed by months of plastic surgery to graft skin from his buttocks to his face.
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday 15 December
A stiff northerly, whipping off the Clyde, was swirling the sleet past the shimmering floodlights and driving it down on Ibrox stadium. A mid-week, early evening kick-off to suit the television schedules, but still the ground was heaving.
The biting wind all but drowned out the lone drunken voice emanating from the back of the North Stand, but Billy McAteer mouthed the words along with him, a wry smile on his lips as he recalled the old days when the Copland Road end would lift the roof off the stadium throughout every match as they went through their anti-Papist repertoire.
Pausing for breath, the singer launched himself into:
It’s old but it is beautiful.
And its colours they are fine
McAteer grinned. ‘The Sash’ was his favourite. When he heard reproachful muttering breaking out behind him he scrambled to his feet and spun round. ‘Gaun yersel, pal,’ he shouted in the general direction of the unknown singer. ‘Gie it fuckin’ laldy!’ He glared along the row of disapproving faces, all of them avoiding eye contact. ‘Anybody got a problem wi’ the man singin’?’ he demanded. The muttering quickly died away.
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim,
Eniskillen and the Boyne.
McAteer joined in, shouting out the words, the left side of his face glowing pink with the blood pulsing through his veins, just beneath the surface of the blotched tissue.
My father wore it as a youth,
In bygone days of yore.
Turning back to the game McAteer raised his face to the black heavens, allowing the stinging sleet whipping under the overhang of the stand roof to pour down his scarred forehead and seep into his vacant eye socket.
And on the Twelfth I love to wear
The sash my father wore.
McAteer stamped his feet in time as a long, shrill blast on the referee’s whistle signalled the end of the match, the cue for all the Rangers supporters in the packed stadium to rise to their feet, red white and blue scarves stretched taut above their heads, bodies swaying. McAteer mimed playing the flute as he sneered in the general direction of the despondent Celtic fans trudging towards the exits.
Draping his scarf around his shoulders McAteer stiffened his spine and stood tall, his right arm aloft, the Red Hand of Ulster tattoo on the back of his clenched fist proclaiming its challenge to the world.
‘Ten days to go – and would you look at them?’ Charlie Anderson rubbed at the grubby storeroom window with the back of his glove, serving only to smear grime around the cracked pane.
‘Sir?’ Detective Sergeant Tony O’Sullivan glanced up from rummaging in his sports bag.
‘I said, would you look at them, Tony? There’s nothing in this world worse than frozen toes squelching inside soggy socks.’ Twisting his back, Charlie massaged the base of his spine with both hands as he peered down from the fourth-floor window, through a carpet of multi-coloured fairy lights, on the sea of heads bobbing along Argyle Street’s pedestrian precinct. ‘And these are the lucky ones. I’ve still got it all to face.’
O’Sullivan stared down on the sodden, weary procession trudging through the early evening gloom; countless numb fingers welded to the stretched handles of over-laden carrier bags. ‘It’s late-night opening tomorrow,’ he offered as he tugged a pair of powerful binoculars from their carrying case and untangled the leather strap.
‘You have got to be joking!’ Charlie pursed his lips and blew hard into his gloved fists. ‘I’m leaving it all till Rainday.’ O’Sullivan’s pale blue eyes squinted enquiringly in Charlie’s direction. ‘Family joke, Tony. Last week my grandson’s teacher asked his class to come up with words that were more descriptive than those in current use. Jamie suggested changing “Sunday” to “Rainday”.’
O’Sullivan’s freckled features creased in a smile. ‘I like it. Sunday – Rainday! Monday – Sleetday! Tuesday – Snowday! There’s a ring to it. It could well catch on.’
Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Anderson pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and used it to wipe the melting sleet from his head. Completely bald, apart from a few white wisps of hair at his temples and some desultory tufts clinging to the nape of his thick neck, he was well over six feet tall, heavily built and round faced – ‘ba’-faced’ in Glasgow parlance. As he pushed his handkerchief back into his pocket, his prominent stomach strained against his buttoned-up overcoat. ‘Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?’ Charlie asked.
‘No one to buy for, sir.’
Charlie winced. ‘Sorry! I forgot that you and Anne had –’
‘No problem,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘I do need to stock up on the booze, though. I was hoping I might get off in time to get to Oddbins tonight,’ he added, his raised eyebrows indicating a distinct lack of optimism on that score.
Draping the binoculars around his neck O’Sullivan gripped both handles of the sash window and tugged hard, but it refused to budge. He examined the painted-in frame, then took a long-handled screwdriver from his sports bag and used it to prise the window open, sending a cloud of faded-green paint flakes and splintered wood fluttering down towards the floor. A blast of freezing air invaded the cramped storeroom, along with Noddy Holder’s strident voice proclaiming:
So here it is
Merry Christmas
Everybody’s having fun
Charlie looked across at the two Salvation Army guitarists on the opposite pavement. A few minutes earlier they had been attempting to tune up but had given up the unequal struggle and they now stood shivering, flexing their fingers and stamping their feet, waiting impatiently for Slade to run their course. As soon as the closing bars started to fade away they strummed a quick intro and launched themselves into a dirge-like rendition of ‘Silent Night’.
O’Sullivan dropped down on one knee and balanced the binoculars on the window ledge to trawl the far pavement. Beyond the musicians, a drenched, kilted piper had given up all hope of keeping his instrument dry and was squatting on the kerb, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette and swigging from a can of lager. A Big Issue seller with a weary, fixed smile was trying to drum up business in the middle of the precinct and, behind him, several small children had their noses pressed hard against Marks & Spencer’s brightly lit windows. O’Sullivan continued panning left, stopping abruptly when a familiar profile, huddled in Marks & Spencer’s doorway, came into view. ‘Looks like the tip-off was kosher, sir,’ he said, recognising Gerry Fraser’s unshaven features. ‘Our ageing hippie is propping up the wall.’
Fraser’s blue trench coat was belted tightly round his waist, his long, grey hair pulled back into a ponytail and held in position by an elastic band. Through the powerful lenses O’Sullivan could see the folds of flesh hanging loose from Fraser’s scrawny neck and he sharpened his focus on the spiky hairs protruding from the mole at the base of his nostrils.
Charlie stepped back from the window and whacked both arms around his shoulders in an attempt to get his circulation moving. ‘What’s he up to?’ he demanded, his breath puffing out in a series of frosty clouds.
O’Sullivan tinkered constantly with the focus ring as he ran the binoculars up and down Fraser’s body. ‘He has a collection box of some kind.’ He zoomed in close. ‘Looks like Save the Children.’ Easing down the sash window he took the binoculars from around his neck and wedged them between the window frame and the sill. Having checked the binoculars were still trained on Fraser he rammed his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket while continuing to stare through the sleet-splattered lenses.
‘You wouldn’t think it beyond their capabilities to come up with a heated stakeout,’ Charlie grumbled.
‘It could’ve been worse. Renton drew the short straw. He’s out on the roof of W.H. Smith’s.’
Charlie craned his neck to squint in the direction of the figure huddled behind the low parapet on the flat rooftop, two floors lower down and thirty yards further along the precinct. DC Colin Renton was easy to make out; his tartan flat cap never left his bald head in winter. He was crouched on one knee, scanning Argyle Street with his binoculars, but Charlie could see that the angle of Marks & Spencer’s doorway was wrong for him. He wouldn’t be able to see Fraser from where he was.
‘The joys of a Glasgow winter!’ Charlie sighed. ‘Have you ever noticed how Glaswegians behave in this kind of weather?’
‘I believe you might have mentioned it, sir.’ O’Sullivan hid his grin behind the binoculars.
‘You’d think umbrellas had never been invented.’
‘Perhaps the Sally Bash have cornered the market?’ O’Sullivan suggested.
‘Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Charlie looked in the direction of the music. There were six uniformed figures on the far side of the precinct, the two guitarists having been joined by a trumpet player and three tambourine-waving vocalists, one male, two female, each with a hand-held microphone – their voices trilling from beneath a Heath Robinson structure of interlocked golf umbrellas. Charlie turned and stared in the direction of the Trongate. He shook his head; no one hurrying, no one even trying to huddle close to the buildings for shelter. Confirmation of the resignation bred into the Glaswegian psyche. The Almighty has ordained that they’re on this earth to be pissed on, so that’s how it has to be, even tilting their heads forward as if offering up their necks to some unseen celestial guillotine.
Sleep in heav–enly pe–ace,
Sle–ep in heavenly peace.
Charlie turned away from the window and strode up and down the cramped storeroom, his black brogues stomping on the cracked linoleum, his arms flailing like a beached walrus in distress. ‘What’s happening?’ he demanded, stopping in his tracks and staring at the back of O’Sullivan’s head.
‘Not a lot. I’ve never seen a less enthusiastic flag seller in all my puff. Several people have gone up to him and they’ve virtually had to force their money into his can. The stingy wee bugger isn’t even handing out stickers.’
Charlie took the walkie-talkie from O’Sullivan’s sports bag and switched it on. ‘Anderson to all units,’ he barked. ‘Gerry Fraser’s been sighted in Marks & Spencer’s doorway. Hold position and await further instructions.’ Dropping the walkie‑talkie back into the bag, Charlie resumed his pacing to the opening bars of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. ‘Still nothing?’
‘No, sir.’ Charlie repeated the question every couple of minutes, getting the same answer each time. After the third time of asking O’Sullivan gave up responding.
‘Still noth –’
‘Hold on a minute!’
‘What is it?’ Charlie froze in mid-flap, arms fully extended.
‘I think it’s … Yes! It’s Tosh McCulloch.’
‘Bingo!’ Charlie slapped his back hard, flinching as an arthritic spasm shot the length of his spine.
O’Sullivan pulled his hands from his pockets and his frozen fingers gripped the binoculars. As McCulloch approached the flag seller O’Sullivan zoomed in hard on Fraser’s face and saw his cracked lips move. He panned out to a full body shot as the two men came together and he watched as McCulloch reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a wad of banknotes which he started to thumb through under Fraser’s nose. Counting off several notes, McCulloch’s fist hovered over the extended collection box and then words were exchanged as he stuffed the money into the slot. Fraser peeled several Save the Children stickers from his pad and stuck them onto the collar of McCulloch’s faded blue anorak before McCulloch scuttled off.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Charlie demanded.
O’Sullivan wrenched up the window frame to release the binoculars and scrambled to his feet.
‘McCulloch stuffed a wad of notes into the collection box, but there was no handover.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit!’ Charlie slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘What happened then?’
‘McCulloch buggered off.’
‘In what direction?’
‘Towards St Enoch’s.’
‘Give me those,’ Charlie said, snatching the binoculars from O’Sullivan’s grasp and lowering himself stiffly into position to train the glasses on Fraser.
‘Should we nick them, sir?’ O’Sullivan asked.
‘On what charge?’ Charlie growled. ‘Excessive generosity to Save the Children? I doubt if that stingy wee bastard McCulloch has ever donated a penny to a charitable cause in his life. Now, all of a sudden, he’s Santa fucking Claus!’
When Charlie stared through the binoculars he saw Fraser raise both arms high above his head. Swivelling the glasses in the direction Fraser was facing he came to a juddering halt when the familiar, liver-spotted features of Johnny Devlin filled the lenses. ‘Well, what do you know? If it isn’t his drinking pal.’ Charlie switched quickly back to Fraser. ‘They’re using the old tick-tack. Who said spending my youth at Ayr races was a waste of time?’ Charlie studied Fraser’s flailing arms. ‘Four hundred quid on number two, whatever the hell that might mean. He’s repeating the same message.’ Charlie swung the binoculars back to Devlin who was now tapping on the keypad of his mobile phone.
When a poor man came in sight,
Gathering winter fu–el
‘It’s a three-way routine.’ Charlie had to shout to make himself heard above the screech of the tenor who was attempting the descant to the detriment of the sopranos who could no longer hold the tune. ‘A pound to a pinch of shit a handover’s being authorised,’ Charlie roared as he watched Devlin gabble into the mouthpiece. ‘Tell the team to move in now, Tony! I want all three of them – as well as whoever’s on the other end of that phone call.’
O’Sullivan grabbed the walkie-talkie from his sports bag and flicked it on as he raced towards the store room door. Taking the steep stairs two at a time, he barked out instructions.
‘It’s after half-past!’ Jude Ramsay stood on the bottom step and shouted up the stairs to the study where her husband was gazing out of the bay window. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ she yelled in an attempt to make herself heard above the driving beat of the music.
‘I heard you!’ Simon continued staring out of the window, intrigued by the sight of a large black crow with its beak buried deep in the snow, tugging hard at some unseen morsel. ‘More’s the fucking pity,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘It’s time you were getting ready.’ Jude peered short-sightedly into the hall mirror to massage the excess blusher into her cheeks. Checking her hair, she fussily twisted a sculpted blonde strand into position against her high cheekbone. ‘You know what Helen and Bjorn are like. They’ll be here on the dot.’
Simon crossed to the desk to tweak down the volume of the CD player in his computer. ‘I’m almost through. I just need to check my email.’ He coughed harshly – a hacking smoker’s cough that brought up a mouthful of phlegm. Fishing in his trouser pocket for a tissue he wiped it across his mouth as he slumped down on the swivel chair and swung round to face the screen. ‘As soon as I’ve done that I’ll get changed.’
‘Don’t take all day about it. And don’t forget – it’s DJs.’
‘What!’
‘Bjorn’s hired one specially and Mike’s coming in his dress kilt.’
‘You can’t be serious! There’s no way Alison will ever get Norman into a monkey suit.’
‘They won’t be able to make it. Alison’s just phoned. They’re snowed in.’
‘Why the hell do I have to dress up like a bloody penguin?’ His words came wheezing out from between clenched teeth.
‘Bjorn and Mike are making the effort for your birthday, for God’s sake!’ Jude shouted, peering into the mirror again and licking her fingertips to smooth down her plucked eyebrows. ‘The least you can do is show willing.’
Simon cursed under his breath as he took an envelope from the top drawer of his desk and spilled the white powder onto a CD case. Using a credit card to divide the cocaine into two parallel lines, he took a ten-pound note from his wallet and rolled it into a tooter which he used to snort a line up each nostril. Inhaling deeply, he wiped the back of his hand back and forth across his nose. He licked his index finger and rolled it in the remaining powder dust to rub it hard into his gums. Reaching for the mouse, he clicked on the ‘send and receive’ icon. ‘I don’t see why I should have to spend my fortieth with your bloody sisters,’ he muttered to himself, ‘to say nothing of their mind-bendingly boring appendages. Can’t decide what I’m looking forward to more – Bjorn’s incomprehensible ramblings or Mike’s hoary jokes. And who ever heard of dressing up in dinner suits for eating at home? Load of fucking nonsense!’
When the words ‘Receiving message 1 of 6’ appeared on the screen he reached down to the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a fresh carton of Marlboro. Bursting open the cellophane wrapping he removed a packet and tapped out a cigarette as he prised his cigarette lighter from his jeans’ pocket. The first five items of mail arrived quickly but the progress bar showed that the sixth message was downloading slowly. ‘What pillock’s spamming me now?’ he muttered, drumming his nicotine-stained fingers on the mouse pad as he stared impatiently at the flickering screen. Getting to his feet he crossed to the window, but the crow had gone.
The snow, which had started falling before lunchtime in flakes the size of golf balls, had now turned to sleet. From the vantage point of Park Terrace he could see through the leafless branches of the trees on the opposite side of the road and across the deserted, white wasteland of Kelvingrove Park as far as the Glasgow Art Galleries where batteries of concealed floodlights had transformed the Victorian building into an enchanted castle with its phalanx of white turrets stretching up towards the lowering skies. His gaze swung left towards the Scottish Exhibition Centre on the north bank of the river, its striking armadillo profile smoothed away by the drifting snow that had almost filled in its ridges.
Glancing at his watch he strode along the corridor towards the master bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt as he went. He flicked on the top light and stripped to his underwear, discarding his clothes in an untidy heap on the bed. His electric razor was lying on the bedside table, already plugged in. Picking it up he flicked it on and made a token gesture of skimming it over his cheeks and his stubbly chin. He ran his fingers along the row of hangers in the wardrobe until he came to his dinner suit and his dress shirt, still wrapped in the dry-cleaner’s polythene bag. He took a long lingering drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply, before folding the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray on top of the chest of drawers. Ripping the polythene cover from the hanger he slipped his arms through the shirt sleeves and buttoned the shirt one-handed while rummaging in the dressing table drawer for his clip-on bow tie. When he stepped into his dinner suit trousers he had to suck in his stomach in order to fasten the top button, the cheval mirror at the foot of the bed reflecting the folds of flesh bulging over the taut waistband. ‘Flabby before you’re even forty!’ He sighed and slapped his stomach, then breathed in hard as he yanked up the zip. Selecting a pair of cufflinks from the jewellery tray on the dressing table he fumbled to thread the cufflinks through the awkward double cuffs. He pulled on his dinner jacket and shot the shirt cuffs through the sleeves. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he ran his tongue across his tobacco-stained teeth, then picked up a comb to smooth his thinning hair across the bald patch on the crown. Squinting again in the mirror, he flicked away the spots of dandruff from his shoulders.
‘Get a move on, Simon!’ Jude’s anxious voice came echoing up the staircase. ‘Helen and Bjorn will be here any minute.’
‘Relax, for God’s sake! I’m ready.’
When he returned to his study he saw that all six messages had now been received. He flopped down in front of the screen and scanned them: two copies of the same spam email offering the possibility of a penis enlargement that would change his life for ever; another peddling cut-price Rolex watches; a cancellation of a rendezvous next week from one of his bridge partners; a confirmation from his bank concerning the price of the shares he’d sold that afternoon and a message from someone he didn’t recognise – ‘[email protected]’.
His brow creased as he read the text:
I thought you might appreciate a wee preview, Simon. If you’d like to see the whole video I’ve got the full, two-hour, unexpurgated version. I’ll call you on your mobile at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m sure we’ll be able to come to an amicable arrangement.
Narrowing his eyes he slid the mouse across to click on the attachment, then his jaw went slack as a photograph gradually filled the screen. He felt his legs go weak and he grabbed hold of the arms of the chair for support. Globules of sweat broke out on his forehead. Spluttering, he reached for the packet of cigarettes on his desk and, as he fumbled to light up, the Westminster chimes rang out downstairs.
CHAPTER 2
Charlie Anderson gave a sharp toot on his horn as he pulled up at the entrance to the underground car park of CID headquarters in Pitt Street. With an acknowledging wave the security guard in the adjacent booth put down his newspaper and raised the barrier, Charlie winding down his window and shouting his thanks as he drove slowly down the steep slope. Twisting round in his seat he reversed carefully into a tight parking space between two wide concrete pillars before levering himself out of the car and hurrying across the courtyard, turning up his coat collar as he went to protect his neck from the biting wind funnelling down the slope.
Charlie plodded up the flight of steps to the main building and kept climbing until he reached the second floor. When he came to the vending machines he rummaged in his pocket for change and dropped the coins into the slot, punching in the code for black coffee with extra sugar. He waited until the last drops of liquid had dribbled out before picking up the plastic cup between thumb and forefinger and heading along the corridor. After a few paces he stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel. ‘Second time this month,’ he muttered as he made his way back along the corridor. Nudging open the fire door with his knee, he trudged up another flight of steps.
What was it Niggle had said when they’d bumped into each other on the second floor last week? ‘Old habits die hard’, probably, though to Charlie’s ears it had sounded more like: ‘Old habits, die-hard!’
Charlie paused in front of his office door to admire the gleaming brass name plate with ‘DCI Charles Anderson’ etched in black letters. Glancing up and down the corridor he transferred the coffee cup to his left hand and burnished the plate with his coat sleeve. Six months now.
Earlier in the year Charlie had been on the verge of packing in the force due to the cumulative effects of twenty years in the same job, Kay nagging at him to quit, his arthritis giving him gyp, modern technology he didn’t understand and a new Welsh boss he didn’t get on with. The paperwork for his early retirement had been signed off and a date had been set – the nineteenth of June.
In the last week of May a drunk driver had hit DCI Williams’ car head-on in Rutherglen and Williams had lain in a coma for a fortnight before, at his family’s request, the life support system had been turned off.
The Assistant Chief Constable had waited until the funeral breakfast in the Marriott was breaking up before taking Charlie to one side for a quiet tête-à-tête. ‘Have a think about it,’ he’d said, wrapping an avuncular arm around Charlie’s shoulders and guiding him towards the bar. ‘It would only be for a couple of years,’ he’d added, signalling to the barman for two more large Ballantines. ‘You’d be doing us all a favour. No one else is ready to step into the breach right now and two years would give me time to groom an internal candidate – a much better arrangement than having to draft in another outsider.’ Charlie had agreed wholeheartedly with the latter statement. ‘And two years as a DCI would give a nice wee boost to your pension. Like I said, have a think about it over the weekend. Talk it over with Kay and let me know on Monday what you decide.’
When Charlie had got home the discussion had lasted late into the night, Kay doing her best to persuade him to stick to his plans, primarily for the sake of his health. Charlie had realised the arguments weighed heavily in favour of him leaving; after all, hadn’t he introduced most of them himself to justify his early retirement? And to complicate matters, if he were to accept the promotion it would mean he would be reporting to Detective Superintendent Nigel Hamilton, someone he disliked even more than Williams. Despite all that, the carrot of attaining the rank of Detective Chief Inspector was dangling before his eyes; his aspiration, his dream these past ten years, his chance to prove to them all that he should have been promoted years ago. How could he adjust to a life of pottering around in his allotment knowing he’d turned the opportunity down?Realising how much the promotion meant to him, Kay had finally opted for the pragmatic approach. She’d go along with his decision as long as he promised to delegate a lot more and cut down on the ridiculous amount of time he spent in the office. Charlie had agreed. His resolution had lasted for the best part of a fortnight before he was sucked back into the quagmire.
Charlie was crumpling the plastic coffee cup in his fist when Tony O’Sullivan appeared in the office doorway. ‘Did we manage to nail them?’ he demanded.
‘We got Fraser and Devlin, sir, but McCulloch did a runner into St Enoch’s Centre and we lost him in the crowd.’
‘Forget about McCulloch.’ Charlie waved his hand dismissively. ‘We can pick him up any time. Where are we holding Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’
‘Downstairs, in the interview rooms.’
Charlie heaved himself to his feet and dropped his coffee cup into the waste paper basket. ‘You take Devlin. I want a go at Fraser. Especially now I know for sure he’s supplying McCulloch,’ he added with feeling. ‘My daughter saw McCulloch mooching around outside her school again last week – and she didn’t get the impression he was trying to sell the kids sweeties.’
Jude Ramsay passed round a silver platter containing blinis smothered in caviar, black olives, cheese fingers and pistachio nuts. ‘Simon,’ she hissed out of the side of her mouth. ‘Would you please pay more attention to our guests!’
‘What?’
Jude pointed towards the empty champagne flute standing on the coffee table. ‘Helen needs a refill.’
‘Oh! Right. Sorry.’ Struggling from his armchair he hurried to the kitchen and returned with a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot which he uncorked expertly, tilting the bottle at an angle to prevent any spillage. Flicking her long blonde hair away from her eyes, Helen Cuthbertson picked up her glass and stretched out a slim arm. As Simon poured, his eyes were drawn to her shapely legs, displayed to full advantage by a minuscule black dress. She held her champagne flute at an angle until the bubbles died down, then straightened her glass. When Simon topped it up to the brim she fluttered her long eyelashes in appreciation.
‘Put on a few pounds since the last time I saw you, little sister?’ Jude said, popping an olive into her mouth.
‘Miaow!’ Helen jabbed out her tongue.
‘No!’ Jude laughed. ‘It was meant as a compliment. You were far too thin. It wasn’t healthy.’
‘Not a lot I could do about it,’ Helen shrugged. ‘I had to waste away to almost nothing for a swimsuit catalogue during the summer, but the shoot in Rio last week was more interested in the handbags and the shoes than the models so I could afford to let myself go a bit.’
‘And you’ve definitely decided to pack it in?’
‘You’d better believe it! Ten years of that lifestyle is enough for anyone. Besides, Bjorn wants to see me for more than a couple of days a month, which suits me down to the ground. The days of starving myself so I could flounce down a catwalk are behind me for ever.’
‘Welcome to the civilised world,’ Jude said, offering the platter.
Helen took a cheese finger and raised her glass in front of her eyes. ‘Cheers!’ She toasted the room. ‘Another thing I won’t miss about the fashion circuit is being ogled by dirty old men,’ she added disdainfully. ‘There was one particular pervert who seemed to get a press pass for all the London shows. I never did find out his name. I’m not even sure he was attached to a magazine. He would always turn up early, grab a seat in the front row and sit with his nose stuck in a newspaper until a model appeared in something skimpy, then he’d leer at her through his piggy little eyes. I’m sure that all he lived for was a flash of nipple.’
‘There’s plenty more where he came from.’ Jude curled her lip.
Helen popped the cheese finger into her mouth and washed it down with a long sip of champagne. ‘It’s a shame Alison and Norman weren’t able to make it tonight. It’s ages since I’ve seen either of them.’
‘Anyone mad enough to buy a farmhouse in Ballinluig has to live with the consequences.’ Jude smoothed down her silk dress. ‘Getting snowed in comes with the territory. When I spoke to Alison on the phone she told me they haven’t been able to put a foot across the threshold since last Saturday.’
‘There’s something comforting about that,’ Bjorn said. ‘Don’t you think so, Simon?’ Bjorn Svensson’s English was fluent, albeit with typically Nordic, stretched-out vowels.
‘Comforting about what?’.
‘Don’t you think there must be something very satisfying about being completely cut off from the rat race?’ Bjorn was perched on the edge of a high-backed chair in front of the smokeless fuel fire. His hair was spiked with gel and his long fingers fiddled constantly with his deeply dimpled chin. A hired dinner jacket sat awkwardly on his narrow, sloping shoulders.
‘I can see the pros and cons,’ Simon said, balancing his buttocks against the arm of the settee while adding a splash of champagne to his already half-full glass. ‘However, if I had the choice, I’d rather live within range of civilisation during the week – by which I mean decent pubs and restaurants – as long as I had the option of heading off to the wide open spaces at the weekends when –’ His comment was interrupted by the jangle of the Westminster chimes. ‘That’ll be Laura and Mike – late as always,’ he said, placing his glass and the champagne bottle down on the coffee table.
Mike Harrison stomped the snow from his shoes on the doormat as he ushered his wife in ahead of him. ‘It’d freeze the goolies off a brass one out there,’ he complained, tugging off his scarf and overcoat and shaking out the sleet. ‘My knees are red raw. If I’d known it was going to be chucking it down like this I’d have come in salopettes instead of a bloody kilt.’
‘Laura! What on earth happened?’ Simon stared at her face in astonishment.
Despite her best efforts, Laura Harrison’s make-up couldn’t disguise her swollen jaw and blackened left eye. ‘It looks a lot worse than it is,’ she said, slipping her ocelot coat from her shoulders and handing it across.
‘Mugged, she was,’ Mike said, draping his coat over the hallstand.
‘What!’ Simon said incredulously. ‘When? Where?’
‘Monday night,’ said Mike. ‘The back of eleven, in Renfrew Street, right outside the cinema. I was trying to flag down a cab when two morons on a motorbike mounted the pavement and tried to snatch Laura’s handbag.’
‘Good God!’
‘I managed to hang on to my bag,’ Laura said, delicately fingering her bruised cheek. ‘But I got a punch in the face for my trouble.’
‘Did you get a good look at them?’
‘Sure!’ Mike snorted. ‘Two thugs, dressed in black leather gear, wearing crash helmets, on a bike with no licence plates. As much chance of identifying them as flying to the fucking moon.’
‘Come on in here, you lot!’ Jude’s voice came echoing out from the lounge. ‘I don’t want to miss anything!’
Tracey Reid came to a tittupping halt outside the cashpoint booth and stared through the slush-splattered glass door. Relieved to see there was only one person inside she swiped her cashpoint card through the reader and pushed open the door.
The elderly woman, huddled over the screen, snatched an anxious glance over her shoulder when the blast of cold air hit her in the small of the back. She eyed the shivering young girl up and down, frowning disapprovingly at the diamond stud piercing Tracey’s shiny nose and the rows of pewter rings lining both her ears. Hunching her shoulders she turned her attention back to the screen, peering myopically over the top of her spectacles at the faint instructions. The cubicle door swung closed and the traffic noise was once again muted.
‘It’s, like, starting to freeze out there,’ Tracey said, forcing a cheerfulness she didn’t feel, not quite sure whether she was trying to reassure the woman or herself. There was a grunt of a response, more in annoyance that her concentration had been broken than in acknowledgment of the comment. Tracey stood near the door, twiddling her cashpoint card in one hand while flicking at her braided hair with the other, trying to dislodge the melting sleet. The woman pulled her headscarf tightly underneath her chin and moved her face as close to the screen as possible to block it from prying eyes. Tracey idly wondered why she needed to withdraw cash so late at night, but to ask would have been an invasion of privacy too far.
Tracey was annoyed with herself. She’d meant to come to the cashpoint earlier in the day but it had slipped her mind. She hated the silence and claustrophobia of this place. She wouldn’t normally come here this late at night but she couldn’t go clubbing with the two pounds fifty she had in her handbag and she wasn’t prepared to tramp through the snow in her high heels to a busier cashpoint. She’d thought about giving the Arches a miss – she was shattered – but it was the last chance she’d get to see Linda before Christmas and exchange presents.
It seemed to take an age before the woman finally withdrew her card and tucked the single banknote that emerged inside her woollen glove. Avoiding eye contact with Tracey she depressed the button to open the cubicle door.
Tracey slid her card into the slot and was entering her PIN when she saw his reflection in the screen. He’d caught the door with his foot before it could close. She felt her heartbeat quicken as he shuffled to a halt behind her. No reason to panic, she told herself. She’d intended to withdraw a hundred so she could give Stevie the money she owed him but she decided to ask for twenty instead – just in case. Stevie had already waited a month for his money – another couple of days wouldn’t be a problem. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, not wanting to give this guy any pretext to start up a conversation. Snatching out her card as soon as it reappeared she shoved it into her coat pocket, the pounding of her heart against her ribcage seeming louder than the mechanical shuffling of the notes about to be disgorged. She could hear his quick, shallow breathing and she sensed he was standing very close to her. His cold breath came wafting over her shoulder and she felt something brush against her earlobe. Instinctively she lifted her hand to flick it away, then there was a sudden, violent, searing pain in her left ear as she was yanked across the confined space, her ankle twisting beneath her as she toppled over on her high heels and thumped down painfully on the tiled floor, skinning both knees. Her handbag fell from her grasp.
He was standing with his back against the cubicle door, staring at her through pinpricks of dark eyes sunk into deep red sockets. In his late teens, thin as a rake, his hair was close shaved, almost skinhead, his forehead acne-pitted. He was wearing white tracksuit trousers, pinched at the ankles, above a pair of white trainers. His light blue jacket was unzipped, the sleeves rammed above his elbows exposing his skinny forearms, blotch-marked from the cold.
Tracey saw him move his hands slowly back and forward in front of his face and she realised he was holding something. When she tried to scramble to her feet he yanked his hands backwards, sending her pitching forward onto the floor. She screamed in agony as the pain shot from her ear to her brain and when she jerked her hand to the side of her head she felt the piece of string he’d looped through the pewter rings in her left ear.
‘On your feet,’ he panted, tugging on both ends of the string and forcing her to her knees. When she grabbed at the string again he pulled on it hard, bringing her crashing down. ‘Try that again,’ he snarled, ‘an’ your fuckin’ ear’s comin’ aff.’
Tears of pain and terror were bubbling from Tracey’s eyes, rivulets of mascara oozing down both cheeks. ‘What do you want with me?’ she whimpered. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Gripping her by her braided hair he dragged her to her feet. He snatched the money from the cashpoint machine, glaring at her when he saw the two ten-pound notes. ‘Twenty measly fuckin’ quid!’ He stuffed the money into his hip pocket. ‘That’s sod all use! I need more than that.’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
‘I’m warnin’ you.’ He gripped her arm painfully. ‘Don’t mess me about.’
Tracey looked in desperation over his shoulder at the cars queuing up at the traffic lights; a line of bored drivers, staring straight ahead. When she saw two youths hurrying past on foot she let out a scream, but neither head turned, then she screamed even louder when he yanked her across the booth by the string in her earrings and slammed her face into the cashpoint machine, splitting open her bottom lip. Spinning her round he pressed his body hard against hers, pinning her to the wall, their faces inches apart.
Tracey screwed her eyes shut. ‘That wisny very clever,’ he panted. His breathing was coming in short gasps. She could feel his spittle in her face. Her whole body went rigid.
‘Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you,’ he commanded. Tracey sank her teeth into her bottom lip, tasting her own blood, but kept her eyes squeezed shut. Taking a step back he launched a sickening punch at the pit of her stomach. ‘I telt you to fuckin’-well look at me, you stupid wee bitch!’
Tracey folded at the waist, clutching at her stomach. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to straighten up. ‘Did you hear what I fuckin’-well said?’ he screamed in her face. Wheezing for breath, she slowly opened her eyes. Tears were coursing down her swollen cheeks.
‘I need more money,’ he panted. ‘My dealer won’t give me anythin’ until I settle up.’
‘I’ve only got a couple of quid. Look for yourself,’ she whimpered, pointing at her handbag lying on the ground.
‘You can get more out the machine.’
‘Twenty’s all it would give me – and you’ve got that,’ she sobbed, raising both arms above her head and flailing at his chest. ‘So take it and leave me alone!’
Her assailant grabbed Tracey by the wrists and pinned her against the cubicle wall, holding her in that position until all the energy had seeped from her body. ‘Show me,’ he said, releasing her wrists.
‘Show you what?’ she sobbed.
‘Put your card back in the machine an’ try again.’
‘I’ve already told you! It won’t give me any more!’
‘I’d try awfy hard if I was you, because if you don’t give me two hundred quid, I’ve got somethin’ I’m goany give you.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and producing a syringe. ‘Two hundred quid or AIDS.’ He held the point of the needle against her throat. ‘Your call.’
‘Oh, no! Not that! Jesus Christ!’ Tracey flattened her back against the wall and screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Take that fucking thing away from me! For God’s sake! I’ll get you the fucking money!’
