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- Herausgeber: Old Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
An ordinary day. An ordinary-looking parcel. But inside is Charlie's nightmare. Cutting Edge, third in the highly acclaimed DCI Charlie Anderson series, sees the veteran Glasgow copper face his most gruelling case yet. A serial killer seems to be roving the city, targeting a range of victims from an elderly traveller to a young female accountant and a heroin-addicted mercenary. In each case the left hand is hacked off and sent to Charlie, along with a playing card. It's a high-profile case, made tougher by media involvement, pressure from the top brass, tensions on the team. But when Charlie's own family is targeted by the killer, career concerns go out of the window. Now it's life and death…
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Praise for BILL DALY
‘Daly evokes Glasgow with a masterly touch’ ALEX GRAY
‘Impressive … a vivid new voice in Tartan noir’ MAGGIE CRAIG
‘A stylish police thriller … includes a beautifully formulated “locked room” mystery … a cracking read’ DAILY MAIL on Double Mortice
‘Brilliantly gripping and fast-moving … and the characters all have a rich credibility’ EUROCRIME on Black Mail
‘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
CUTTING EDGE
Bill Daly
For Anne and Malcolm
Contents
CHAPTER 1
Sunday 19 June, 2011
Waiting in a queue of traffic at a red light, he saw the car in front of him start to roll back down the incline. He gave a sharp blast on his horn. The Volvo was less than a yard away now, its engine revving fiercely. He glanced in his rear view mirror. There was a van right on his bumper – no room to back up. He slammed his hand down on the horn and kept it there as he braced himself for the inevitable crunch of metal as the two vehicles came together.
He saw the driver’s head swivel round.
‘You stupid idiot!’ he screamed, releasing the horn and thumping the steering column with his closed fist.
She looked at him, aghast, through her rear window.
‘Sorry!’ he saw her mouth.
‘Sorry?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know how to do a bloody hill start?’
As she was scrambling out of the driver’s seat, he took a deep breath to try to calm down. This was not the time to draw attention to himself. As he got out of his car his nostrils were filled with the acrid stench of her burnt-out clutch. He waved to the queue of traffic behind to overtake them.
‘Oh, my God!’ She slammed her hands to her mouth as she bent down to inspect the damage. ‘I’ve dented your wing. I’m really, really sorry,’ she said, dragging her fingers through her shoulder-length black hair as she straightened up. ‘I only passed my test last week,’ she explained. ‘I’ve never done a hill start on a slope as steep as this before. I don’t know what happened. It just started slipping back and I couldn’t hold it. It’s my father’s car,’ she added. ‘The insurance will cover your damage, of course, though he’ll kill me for losing his no-claims bonus. I’d better give you my address,’ she said, fumbling in her jacket pocket for a business card and handing it over. ‘We’ll need to fill out an accident report form, won’t we? I’ve got one in the glove compartment. I’ll get it.’
As she hurried to fetch the form, he studied her card, an idea forming in his mind.
‘I’ll admit full liability, of course,’ she said, unfolding the document as she came back. ‘Do you have a pen?’
‘It’s not worth the hassle,’ he said examining the dent. Exchanging insurance details was no longer on his agenda. ‘It isn’t worth losing your Dad’s no-claims bonus over this. I know a guy who’ll repair it for me. It won’t cost much.’
‘Really? Oh, thank you! But you must let me pay for it. I insist. Get in touch with me when you know how much it’s going to cost.’
‘Okay,’ he said, pocketing her card. He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll do that.’
Monday 20 June
‘Irene! Goany stop your fuckin’ dog barking!’ Archie Carter stood in the doorway of his caravan and shouted at the top of his voice. ‘It’s doin’ ma fuckin’ heid in!’ The barking persisted. ‘Irene!’ he yelled again. ‘What the hell’s going on over there?’
Cursing under his breath, Archie trudged down the five iron steps and made his way across the field towards Irene’s caravan, his bare feet squelching in the soggy turf. Stella stopped barking and hunkered down when she saw Archie approaching.
‘Easy, old girl,’ Archie said, holding out his hand in a reassuring gesture. ‘It’s only me.’
A deep-throated growl started building at the back of Stella’s throat and Archie saw the bared teeth just in time to whip his hand away as Stella’s attempt to launch herself at him was thwarted by the length of rope that tied her collar to one of the caravan wheels.
Archie hastily backed off. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you, you daft bitch?’
As Archie plodded up the caravan steps, Stella’s barking resumed, louder now, more insistent. He knocked tentatively on the door. ‘Irene?’ No response. He tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. He eased it open. ‘Irene?’ He raised his voice to try to make himself heard above the racket Stella was making.
He saw the figure lying face down on the single bed. ‘Irene? Are you okay?’ He blinked several times as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light.
Archie’s jaw sagged as his gaze was drawn to the arm dangling down the side of the bed. The caravan started rocking from side to side as Stella went berserk, leaping forward again and again, straining at her leash. Archie spun on his heel to get out, but threw up before he got as far as the door.
Superintendent Nigel Hamilton surveyed the assembled journalists as he walked into the room and took his customary seat behind the long table for his weekly press conference. Pulling a manila folder from his briefcase, he straightened his tie before spreading his notes out on the table in front of him. He switched on the microphone.
‘We’re ready to begin,’ he announced tapping the mike with his fingertips to check it was live. The buzz of conversation died away. ‘At this week’s meeting,’ Hamilton’s high-pitched voice intoned, ‘I will provide you with a summary of the crime statistics for the first half of this year in my division and I will then brief you on the new reporting procedures I intend to implement over the coming months, which will significantly improve the accuracy of crime reporting for the city.’ Hamilton was oblivious to the collective low groan that ran round the room.
Having summarised the stats, Hamilton launched himself into a twenty minute Power Point presentation on his new reporting methodology. When he’d concluded, he invited questions.
The first one came from a reporter on the Record, who wanted to know what progress had been made on the Keppochill rape investigation.
‘We are following up several lines of enquiry,’ Hamilton stated.
‘Is an arrest imminent?’
‘Not at this point,’ Hamilton said, acknowledging the raised hand in the front row.
‘Fran Gibbons, BBC Scotland. You’ve told us what you intend to do with regard to changing the way crimes are reported, Superintendent Hamilton,’ the lilting voice said. ‘However, while you might consider this to be an improvement, it appears to me that all you’re doing is manipulating the statistics, which will contribute nothing towards solving or preventing crime in the city.’
The room waited in anticipation as Fran continued. ‘Do you think the fifteen year-old girl who was gang-raped in Keppochhill last weekend will appreciate the fact that, statistically, there’s been a three point seven percent reduction in violent crime in Glasgow during the past six months?’
Sitting at the back of the room, DCI Charlie Anderson was struggling to keep his face straight as he nudged DI Barry Crawford in the ribs.
Hamilton’s face was flushed as he responded. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he blustered, waving in the direction of a reporter from the Herald who had raised his hand. ‘What is your question, Tom?’
‘I don’t think I am missing the point,’ Fran persisted. ‘You appear to be a great believer in statistics, Superintendent. My point is this. If the officers who spent their time compiling those stats had been out on the beat, how many more man hours could have been allocated to patrolling the streets in Keppochhill – and what effect might that have had on reducing the incidence of violent crime?’
‘We have time for only a few questions today,’ Hamilton snapped, fixing Fran with a glare. ‘Everyone must get their turn,’ he said, breaking eye contact. ‘What was your question, Tom?’
Tuesday 21 June
Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Anderson was one of the longest serving officers in the Glasgow Division of the CID. Over six feet tall, he had broad, hunched shoulders and a permanent stoop, the legacy of acute arthritis, exacerbated by too many years huddled over an office desk. Puffy eyelids hooded his rheumy eyes and the greyness of the pouches beneath bore witness to several weeks of inadequate sleep.
As he stripped off his jacket and hung it over the back of his swivel chair, Charlie noticed that there was a brown-paper parcel on top on the habitual pile of mail in his inbox. Picking it up, he weighed it in his hand. The size of a shoe box, but too light to be a pair of shoes. He studied the address label. In bold typeface: C.I.D. Headquarters, Pitt Street, Glasgow. Beneath the address, in smaller, italic characters: For the personal attention of Detective Chief Inspector Charles Anderson, the franking on the package indicating it had been handed in to the main Glasgow post office in St Vincent Street at half past nine the previous morning.
Charlie puzzled as to what it could be. He hadn’t ordered anything. Perhaps Kay had ordered something – maybe a present for Sue or Jamie? But why would she have had it delivered here?
Sitting down behind his desk, he used his paper knife to slice through the sellotape that was looped several times around the package. Stripping the paper away, he saw that it was indeed a shoe box. A playing card, the nine of diamonds, was stapled to the side of the box and a bright-yellow emoticon of a smiling face had been stuck to the centre of the card. Intrigued, Charlie removed the lid and saw the dark-stained cotton wool. When he lifted the cotton wool away, the bile rose in his stomach. His eyes narrowed as he focussed on the contents: a grey, amputated human hand, palm down, fingers slightly curled, perched on another wad of blood-saturated cotton wool. Fighting back the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Charlie forced himself to examine every detail of the hand; the ingrained dirt embedded beneath the badly-bitten fingernails, the two buckled pewter rings on the scrawny middle finger, the mass of brown liver spots speckling the weather-beaten skin, the gristle and jagged bone protruding from the severed wrist.
Replacing the lid, he depressed his intercom.
‘Pauline, I want a copy of the forensic report on yesterday’s murder in Port Glasgow.’
Ryan Ferrie was roused from his sleep by the ring of his door bell. When he peered, bleary-eyed, at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he saw it was ten past eight. ‘Who the fuck?’ he muttered under his breath. The ringing became insistent, the caller holding his finger on the bell push. Ferrie clambered out of bed and shrugged on his dressing gown, yawning and running his fingers through his spiky, gelled hair as he made his way along the hall.
‘Who is it?’ he called out as he was unlocking the apartment door. ‘What do you want at this time –?’ He broke off when he saw the tall figure standing in the doorway, a black balaclava covering his head completely, apart from narrow slits for his eyes and his mouth. Ferrie’s jaw fell slack. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ the man snapped. Stepping across the threshold, he bundled Ferrie down the hall and pulled the front door closed behind him.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ The words died on Ferrie’s lips as a vicious rabbit punch crunched into the side of his neck
*
Charlie Anderson rocked back in his chair and swung his feet up onto his desk, his stubby fingers fumbling under his shirt collar to loosen his tie knot. As he stretched across his desk for the forensic report he felt a sharp, stabbing pain shoot up from the base of his spine. Wincing, he remained frozen in the outstretched position until the spasm had subsided before picking up the document between thumb and forefinger and easing himself back into his seat.
Charlie scanned the report, then his gaze flicked back to the shoe box. It was amazing, Charlie thought, how much could be deduced from just a hand. He reckoned he could have made a reasonably accurate guess as to the sex, age and lifestyle of the appendage’s erstwhile owner. However, he had no need to surmise. The report in his hand said it all. He referred to the document.
‘Irene McGowan,’ he read. ‘Age seventy-eight. Resided in a travellers’ encampment on the outskirts of Port Glasgow. Body discovered by Archie Carter, who lives in the adjacent caravan. Time of death was between eight and nine o’clock on the morning of Monday the twentieth of June. The cause of death was strangulation. The left hand of the victim had been severed at the wrist. The amputated limb was not found in the caravan or in the immediate vicinity.’
Charlie dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and picked up the brown wrapping paper in which the parcel had arrived. The address label left no doubt as to the intended recipient, but there was no note of any kind enclosed, only the incongruous playing card with the smiley face attached, stapled to the side of the box.
Charlie pulled off his half-moon reading glasses and folded them carefully before slipping them into the case in the breast pocket of his shirt. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes with the heels of both his hands, his gaze inexorably drawn back to the shoe box. ‘Why you, Irene McGowan?’ he mused. ‘And why the hell me?’
Charlie’s train of thought was interrupted by a sharp rap on his office door.
‘Come in!’
‘I heard what happened this morning, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Tony O’Sullivan caught sight of the shoe box lying on the desk. ‘Is that it?’ he asked, pointing.
‘Unless there’s been a spate of them delivered today,’ Charlie grunted.
O’Sullivan’s freckles flared up. Screwing up his eyes, he lifted the lid from the box and squinted at the amputated hand. ‘What do we know about her?’
‘Only what’s in the forensic report,’ Charlie said sliding the document across the desk.
Tony flicked through the report. ‘Did you have any connection with her, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’d never heard of her before this morning.’
‘Why would the killer chop off her hand and send it to you?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
‘And why the nine of diamonds?’ O’Sullivan queried as he studied the playing card. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘It’s known as “The Curse of Scotland”,’ Charlie said.
‘Why?’
‘Did they not teach you any history at school?’
‘My history teacher was rubbish. And the only history that ever got talked about at home,’ he added, ‘was Irish.’
‘The nine of diamonds is associated with the Glencoe Massacre in the seventeenth century,’ Charlie explained, ‘when the McDonalds murdered the Campbells in their beds. There are several theories about the role the nine of diamonds played, the popular one being that the order to carry out the massacre was written on a nine of diamonds playing card.’
‘What about the smiley?’ Tony asked.
‘As far as I’m aware,’ Charlie said, ‘emoticons weren’t around in the seventeenth century.’
‘This is weird,’ Tony said, replacing the lid on the box.
Charlie eased himself to his feet.
‘Arrange for the hand to be packed in ice, Tony, then have it sent across to the mortuary so it can be matched up with the corpse.’
When Ryan Ferrie came round he found himself bound hand and foot to a wooden chair. He opened his eyes slowly and saw his assailant sitting on the opposite side of the kitchen table, flicking through the Sunday Times sports section. The intruder folded the newspaper and put it down when he saw Ferrie stir.
‘Who are you?’ Ferrie grunted. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Are you Zoe Taylor’s boyfriend?’
‘That’s none of your fucking business.’
‘I’m making it my business. Answer the question.’
Ferrie licked hard at his lips. ‘What if I am?’ he mumbled. ‘What is it to you?’
‘Where is Zoe?’ Ferrie didn’t reply. ‘I asked you a question,’ he snarled, springing to his feet. ‘Where the hell is Zoe?’
Ferrie hesitated. ‘At her work.’
‘This early?’
‘She leaves here at eight o’clock.’
‘You’re going to make a phone call.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re going to phone Zoe.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to call her and arrange to meet her at half-past twelve.’
Ferrie shrivelled his brow. ‘The fuck I am!’
The intruder walked slowly round the kitchen table and stopped directly in front of Ferrie. Producing a set of knuckle-dusters from his jacket pocket, he slipped them over the fingers of his right hand, then he drew back his fist and smashed it into the side of Ferrie’s face. ‘There’s an easy way to do this,’ he said, holding his fist poised for a moment before hammering it into the bridge of Ferrie’s nose, the crack of breaking bone resounding around the kitchen. ‘And there’s a hard way.’
‘Stop it! For fuck’s sake!’ Ferrie screamed, blood spurting from his burst nose and splattering down the front of his dressing gown.
‘Like I said, you’re going to call Zoe and arrange to meet her at half-past twelve. You’ll tell her to come to a remote spot – think of somewhere she’ll know well. When you phone her, you’re going to say you’re in big trouble and that she has to come to see you – it’s a matter of life and death. Which, in your case,’ he added, flexing his fingers, ‘isn’t all that far from the truth. Where’s your phone?’ he demanded.
‘In the bedroom,’ Ferrie gulped, swallowing a mouthful of blood. ‘On the bedside table.’
The intruder went to the bedroom and returned with Ferrie’s mobile. ‘Have you thought of a remote place to meet her?’ Ferrie stared at him wide-eyed. ‘I asked you if you’ve thought of a good place to meet her?’ He raised the knuckle-dusters and held them poised, inches from Ferrie’s eyes. Ferrie nodded slowly. Flicking open the phone, he paged through the contacts’ list until he came to ‘Zoe.’
When he clicked onto the number, the phone switched directly to the messaging service. ‘Why is her phone switched off?’
‘She always turns it off while she’s at her work.’
Checking the phone, he saw the next entry on the list was ‘Zoe – Work.’
Having clicked onto that number, he held the phone close to Ferrie’s right ear as it rang out, the knuckle-dusters pressed hard against his left temple.
‘Is that you, Emma?’ Ferrie asked when he heard the familiar voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Ryan. Can I speak to Zoe?’
‘Not right now, Ryan. She’s in a meeting with Mr Tracy.’
‘When will she be out?’
‘She’s just gone in, so probably in about half an hour.’
‘She’s in a meeting,’ Ferrie mouthed to the intruder.
‘Leave a message for her to meet you,’ he whispered, grinding the knuckle-dusters into the side of Ferrie’s head.
‘Could you do me a favour, Emma,’ Ferrie said, swallowing blood.
‘Is there something wrong, Ryan? You sound funny.’
‘I’m fine. As soon as Zoe comes out of her meeting, tell her she has to come to the boathouse in Glasgow Green at half past twelve. She knows where it is. Tell her I’ll meet here there.’
‘Can I tell her why?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Emma! Would you just give her the bloody message!’
‘Okay, okay! No need to bite my head off!’
The assailant moved the knuckle-dusters down under Ferrie’s chin and used them to prise up his jaw. ‘Make sure she knows how important it is,’ he mouthed.
‘This is really important, Emma. I’m in a lot of trouble. Make sure Zoe gets this message as soon as she comes out of her meeting. Tell her she has to come to the boathouse.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell her, Ryan.’ Emma hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
The assailant terminated the call.
The office wall-clock flicked across to twelve o’clock. Zoe Taylor exchanged an anxious glance with Emma as she gazed in the direction of Keith Tracy’s open office door. Her lunch hour was from twelve-thirty to one-thirty and she knew Tracy would be furious if he caught her trying to slip out early.
Zoe was totally bemused by the cryptic message Ryan had left with Emma. It was completely out of character. She’d tried phoning the flat half a dozen times, but there was no reply, and he wasn’t answering his mobile. She’d agonised all morning about his call, unable to make any sense of it, unable to concentrate on her work. What sort of mess was he in this time?
Zoe had prepared her escape, sneaking her coat and umbrella into the toilets during the morning coffee break. Using both hands to drag her shoulder-length, black hair behind her ears, she winked at Emma as she stood up. Smoothing down her tight miniskirt, she picked up her handbag and strode confidently past Tracy’s office door, making no attempt to disguise the rat-a-tat of her steel-tipped stiletto heels as they clicked loudly on the tiled surface.
Hurrying into the toilets, she snatched up her coat and umbrella before sidling out the door and trotting down the wide, marble staircase. When she stepped outside the building she saw her bus trundling along West Regent Street. Although it was raining steadily, she didn’t stop to unfurl her umbrella as she ran towards the bus stop in short, titupping steps, moving as fast as her constricting skirt would allow, dodging around the puddles and pulling on her coat as she went.
As the bus drew up at the stop ahead she put on a final spurt and jumped on board, her lank hair plastered against her flushed cheeks. She was gasping for breath. ‘The bottom of Stockwell Street,’ she panted, scrabbling in her purse for change.
Dropping the correct money into the slot, she took her ticket and flopped down on the seat nearest to the door as the bus pulled away from the stop.
Charlie Anderson checked his watch as he climbed the flight of stairs at the far end of the corridor and on the stroke of twelve thirty he rapped on Superintendent Nigel Hamilton’s half-open door and walked in. Hamilton had his back to him, working at his terminal. Charlie sat down on the leather chair facing the desk while Hamilton continued typing without acknowledging Charlie’s presence. When he’d finished what he was doing, Hamilton transmitted his email and spun round in his swivel chair.
Charlie was only half listening as Hamilton droned on in his habitual, irritatingly slow manner about the importance of getting this murder solved as quickly as possible for the credibility of the Glasgow Division. Charlie knew only too well that Hamilton’s primary concern was for his own reputation, the statistics of murder convictions in the division having deteriorated significantly since he’d been at the helm. Charlie thoroughly disliked his boss’ humourless smile, his round, blotchy face, his thin, permanently-pursed lips and his sing-song delivery. Whenever Hamilton discussed a subject he seemed to be detached from the conversation, leaving Charlie with the impression that there was always a hidden agenda.
Charlie was gazing out of the window, intrigued by the intricate pattern the drizzle was making on the outside of the pane, when he was alerted by the sudden change in Hamilton’s tone.
‘Well, Anderson?’ the squeaky voice piped up. ‘Do you or don’t you?’
Charlie had no idea what he was referring to. Pulling himself up straight in his chair, he tugged his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew into it noisily. ‘I’m not sure,’ he mumbled, wiping his nose.
‘What kind of an answer is that, man? Do you, or do you not, have any idea who could have sent you that sick package? Who could be bearing a grudge against you?’
‘I think, “Who could be bearing a grudge against Irene McGowan?” would be a more relevant question,’ Charlie suggested, refolding his handkerchief neatly and slipping it back into his pocket. ‘By my way of thinking, being strangled and having your hand chopped off rates higher up the scale of grudges than being on the receiving end of an amputated limb.’
‘I can do without the homespun philosophy,’ Hamilton snapped. ‘Start compiling a dossier straight away. Everyone who might have a score to settle with you. Anyone who’s sadistic and warped enough to commit this type of crime. We’re dealing with a right weirdo here and once sick bastards like him start killing, they’ve got an annoying habit of doing it again. I want this chancer nailed before he gets into his stride.’
‘Do I gather you want me to take charge of the murder investigation?’ There was resignation in Charlie’s voice.
‘I most certainly do! There has to be some connection between you and this gypsy woman. You need to find out what that is.’
‘I’ll have to pull a team together.’ Charlie stopped to consider. ‘O’Sullivan can be made available, but apart from that we’re really stretched.’
‘Use Stuart.’
Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Who’s Stuart?’
‘Malcolm Stuart. He’s a graduate high-flier who’s been seconded to us from the Met for six months to get hands-on experience. He arrived this morning. He’s been with the Merseyside Division for the past six months. He told me he’d spent most of his time in Liverpool pushing paper and he’s hoping for front line activity during his time with us. This is an ideal opportunity to see what he’s made of. Get him involved.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Charlie protested. ‘It would be better if I work with guys who know the territory. This is going to be a difficult enough nut to crack without having to wet-nurse a trainee.’
‘I don’t like having to repeat myself, Anderson,’ Hamilton snapped. ‘I told you to use Stuart,’ he said, waving his hand in front of his face as if dismissing an irritating child. ‘The press are going to have a field day with this when they find out the victim’s severed hand was sent to CID headquarters. I’m going to have to deal with their questions, so I need to be kept up to speed with all developments.’
The rain had turned into a soaking mizzle by the time Zoe Taylor alighted from the bus and hurried along Clyde Street towards Glasgow Green. She knew the boathouse well, she and Ryan having often sneaked in there after an evening in the pub during the early days of their relationship. She glanced at her watch as she hurried into the park and saw she was already ten minutes late. Putting up her umbrella, she gathered up her coat and started to trot across the wet grass towards the isolated building on the north bank of the river. Suddenly, one of her stiletto heels skidded on a concealed stone and her legs went from under her, sending her crashing full-length on her back. She pulled herself up into a sitting position on the sodden turf and slipped off her shoe to massage her throbbing ankle, trying to feel if anything was broken. Struggling to her feet, she hobbled the last twenty yards to the boathouse with her shoe in her hand.
A typed notice, pinned to the door, announced that clubhouse would be closed on Tuesday 21st June for essential repairs. Zoe saw that the door was ajar. Puzzled, she pushed it open and limped inside.
‘Ryan? Are you there?’ Her hoarse whisper came echoing back from the low ceiling of the windowless room. She blinked several times to try to adjust her eyes to the gloom, the murky light coming in over her shoulder throwing elongated shadows of the fibre glass boats and the stacked oars onto the far wall. ‘Ryan?’ she repeated anxiously. ‘Where the hell are you?’
There was a grating squeal behind her, the door screeching on its hinges as it was slammed shut. Zoe spun round, momentarily dazzled as the neon lights exploded into life. A pair of gloved hands shot forward and locked themselves in a vice-like grip around her throat, the strong thumbs driving into her windpipe and throttling the breath from her body.
Zoe’s shoe fell from her grasp. She dropped her umbrella and handbag and clawed at the hands, trying desperately to prise away the choking fingers, but she was powerless to stop the muscular arms lifting her clean off her feet. Her cheeks turned scarlet and her bulging eyes stared helplessly at the wrap-round, mirrored sunglasses of her attacker. She could see the reflection of her face in the impenetrable, steel-blue, plastic strip, her tongue jutting grotesquely from the corner of her gaping mouth. She could make out that he was wearing a baseball cap, on backwards, but her blurred vision couldn’t focus on his features.
Zoe dangled like a rag doll at the end of his fully extended arms, her legs flailing, her painted fingernails splintering as she clawed frantically at the unyielding leather gloves encircling her throat. The remorseless pressure from his thumbs was increasing all the time. Her eyes stood out on stalks and her swollen tongue filled her mouth. In less than a minute she had blacked out.
The assailant lowered Zoe’s body to the ground. He dropped down onto his knees and slipped off a glove to check the pulse on the side of her neck, confirming she was still alive. Tugging his glove back on, he pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head.
After a few moments, he saw Zoe’s long, false eyelashes start to flutter erratically, like the wings of a startled butterfly. Small, gurgling noises emanated from the back of her throat as her lungs struggled for oxygen. He watched her eyelids jerk open.
‘Hello, Zoe,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘The repair cost fifty quid.’
He leered down at her panic, as a wave of recognition pulsed through her brain.
He blew her an exaggerated air kiss and their eyes were locked together when, with one sharp twist, he snapped her spinal cord. Zoe’s eyes remained wide and staring and her throat issued a single low gurgle as the air whooshed down her nostrils from her collapsing lungs.
Getting to his feet, he produced a slim hacksaw blade from his jacket pocket.
CHAPTER 2
A watery sunshine was filtering through the clouds when Terry McKay and Alec Hunter came out of the fish and chip shop in Woodlands Road just before one o’clock. Both men were over six feet tall, but the similarity ended there. McKay was wearing a dark suit, a cream shirt and a silk tie. His cancer was in remission, but the chemotherapy had taken its toll. His skin was sallow and drawn, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed, his hair thin and grey. His jacket, which had been made to measure less than a year ago, hung loosely from his shrunken shoulders.
Alec Hunter ate his fish supper with his fingers as he walked alongside McKay. Less than half McKay’s age, he was thick-set, with spiky, black stubble covering his head. He was wearing faded blue jeans and his tight-fitting, black T-shirt was stretched taut by his muscular upper body.
Harry Brady was opening up for business after lunch when McKay and Hunter arrived outside his hardware store. Hunter followed McKay into the shop and closed the door behind him.
When he saw who it was, Brady backed away towards the counter. ‘I haven’t got it…’ he stammered.
McKay shook his head. ‘You know I don’t like excuses, Brady.’
‘I didn’t take two hundred and fifty quid all last week.’ Brady’s anxious gaze flicked from McKay to Hunter, then back again. ‘I can’t pay you.’
Hunter scrunched his fish supper paper into a ball and drop-kicked it across the floor. Licking the vinegar from his fingertips, he produced a cosh from his hip pocket and fondled it lovingly. Fixing his stare on Brady, he started slapping the cosh rhythmically against the open palm of his left hand.
‘You’re not thinking straight,’ McKay said, tugging his asthma inhaler from the inside pocket of his jacket and putting it to his mouth. Depressing the plunger, he breathed in deeply. ‘You know you can’t afford not to have insurance,’ he wheezed. ‘Jim McHugh thought he could do without insurance – and look what happened.’
‘For Christ’s sake, McKay! I’m telling you. I don’t have the money.’
‘This is false economy, Brady. Without insurance, you can lose two hundred and fifty quid’s worth of stock,’ McKay said, grabbing at the top of a glass-fronted display cabinet on the counter and sending it crashing to the ground. ‘Just like that!’ The cabinet splintered on impact, shards of broken glass skittering across the tiled floor.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? I can’t fucking-well pay!’
‘You’re beginning to sound boringly like McHugh.’ On McKay’s nod, Hunter took a step forward and jerked his cosh up violently between Brady’s legs, causing him to crumple to the floor, whimpering with pain. ‘Don’t ever use the word ‘can’t’ in my presence,’ McKay said. ‘You know how much it upsets me.’
Brady let out a low moan as he rolled around the floor, clutching at his groin with both hands.
Picking up the Stanley knife that was lying at his feet, McKay gripped it between thumb and forefinger and held it dangling over the writhing figure. ‘But because I happen to be in a good mood, and because you’ve been a regular payer over the years, I’m going to give you one more chance. We’ll be back on Saturday – and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll have the two hundred and fifty quid you owe me for last week – and the same for this week.’
Releasing the knife, McKay burst out laughing as the tip of blade sliced into the top of Brady’s right leg, the knife quivering in his thigh. Dust particles were dancing in the shaft of afternoon sunlight angling through the half-open window and reflecting rainbow patterns onto the far wall from the pile of grease-stained plates stacked high in the sink. Pete Johnston trudged across the room to close the ill-fitting sash window, this doing little to muffle the incessant drone of traffic filtering up from Kilburn High Road. He rummaged through the unwashed dishes in the sink until he came across a tumbler. Giving it a cursory wipe on his shirt sleeve, he reached for the whisky bottle on the draining board and poured himself a generous measure.
Stockily built, Johnston’s erstwhile taut stomach muscles had prematurely turned to fat. His complexion was grey and his cheeks were sunken. Broken, purple veins lined his bulbous nose and his chin carried several days’ stubble.
As he turned on the cold tap to add a splash of water to his drink, he heard a loud knock on his apartment door. Checking his watch, he padded over in his stocking soles to answer it.
‘You were expecting me?’ Hassan Salman asked as he stepped across the threshold. Johnston nodded. Tall and slim-faced, Salman was wearing a white, linen suit and a blue, open-necked shirt. His flared nostrils twitched when they were assailed by the dank smell of the apartment. He crossed to the settee and flicked at the cushion with his fingertips before propping himself on the edge of the seat.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Johnston asked, holding up his glass.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Johnston shrugged.
Salman placed the bulky brown-paper parcel he was carrying on the coffee table, then produced a sealed envelope from his inside jacket pocket. ‘There is an anorak and a torch in the parcel – your instructions and tickets are in this envelope.’
‘What about my money?’
‘You’ll get paid on delivery.’
‘I usually get half up front,’ Johnston complained, gulping down a slug of whisky.
‘Do you want this job or don’t you?’
‘I was just saying. I usually get half up front.’
‘Don’t quibble,’ Salman snapped. ‘You’re getting paid more for this assignment than you could earn in a year as a mercenary – even working for the Israelis.’
‘Don’t talk to me about the Jew boys,’ Johnston grunted. ‘Burma and Sierra Leone pay better than that lot. I’m telling you, I made more as a squaddie during the Gulf War than in two years slogging my guts out defending their Golan Heights.’
Salman picked at his front teeth with a manicured fingernail. ‘You fought in the Gulf?’
‘I’ve got the syndrome to prove it.’ There was a glint in Johnston’s eye. ‘I might even have run into some of your pals along the way.’
Salman raised his eyebrows. ‘Do not deviate from your instructions, or the schedule, for any reason whatsoever,’ he stated, getting to his feet. ‘We will have no further contact until you have completed your assignment.’ Striding from the apartment, he pulled the door closed behind him.
Salman’s footsteps were still ringing out on the stone staircase as Johnston slumped down on the settee to rip open the envelope. He tipped the contents out onto the cushion beside him. Rail tickets, ferry tickets and a single sheet of paper. His shaky fingers unfolded the note and his eye caught the heading at the top of the page: Consignment To Be Collected In Mull, printed in bold type.
‘Where the fuck’s Mull?’ he muttered.
He read the instructions.
Take the 11h30 train tomorrow morning from Euston to Glasgow Central. From there, go to Queen Street Station and catch the 18h21 train to Oban. Take the 22h30 ferry from Oban to Craignure on the island of Mull and from there walk north on the coast road in the direction of Salen. After two miles you will come across a dirt track heading inland,signposted for Drumairgh Cottage. Follow this track for half a mile until you come to an isolated barn. Wait inside the barn until someone comes to give you a package, which you will then bring back to London, retracing the same route. When you get back, remain in your apartment until we make contact. For the journey, wear the anorak you’ll find in the parcel. When you have memorised these instructions, destroy this note.
Johnston picked up the syringe lying on his coffee table and primed the plunger. Holding his breath, he clenched his left fist and selected a vein in his forearm. Having injected a fix, he stretched out on the settee and breathed in and out deeply, wallowing in the comforting sensation of the heroin being absorbed into his bloodstream. When he closed his eyes, his mind filled with confused, kaleidoscopic images.
Charlie Anderson was sitting in his office, in conversation with Tony O’Sullivan, when his intercom buzzed. He flicked across the switch.
‘Renton here, sir. There’s a guy called Harry Brady at reception. He insists that he has to speak to you. He says it’s urgent, but he won’t tell me what it’s about – and he won’t talk to anyone else.’
‘Okay, Colin, I know him. Wheel him along to an interview room. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
‘Who’s Brady?’ O’Sullivan asked as Charlie disconnected.
‘He has a hardware shop in Woodlands Road. I used to play golf with his father – in the good old days, when I could still manage to grip a club,’ Charlie said, pulling himself stiffly to his feet and flexing his arthritic fingers.
‘Do you need me for anything else today, sir?’
Charlie raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A hot date, is it?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing! I was thinking of going down to Saltcoats to see my folks.’
‘On you go. There’s nothing more we can do here tonight.’
When Charlie walked down the stairs and into the interview room, he saw DC Colin Renton sitting beside the door. Renton was in his late fifties, a colleague of Charlie’s since their time together in the uniformed division in Paisley. On Charlie’s instigation, he had transferred to the CID late in his career. Acknowledging Renton’s presence with a wave, Charlie went across to the desk in the middle of the room where Harry Brady, a slight man in his forties, was sitting on an upright chair. Charlie took the seat on the opposite side of the desk.
‘What can I do for you, Harry?’
‘I need to talk to you, Charlie.’
‘Fire away.’
