Made A Killing E-Book

Abrams Zach

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Nobody sheds a tear when local troublemaker Scott Stevenson is found with an ivory tusk driven through his torso.

D.C.I. Alex Warren is tasked with bringing the killer to justice. The case turns out to be more complicated than expected, as they begin to investigate the numerous people Stevenson has harmed.

When they stumble upon a web of crimes motivated by sex and greed, it becomes clear that there's much more to the case than they anticipated.

With the body count rising and clues few and far between, can Alex Warren and his team close the case before more lives are lost?

Made A Killing is a gripping tartan noir mystery set in the tough, crime-ridden streets of Glasgow.

Leseprobe

Made A Killing

Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book I

Zach Abrams

Copyright (C) 2016 Zach Abrams

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To my wife and children who have provided assistance and moral support

Chapter 1

Following a fairly ordinary morning, Alex Warren's day had taken a distinct turn for the worse. He was not a happy man.

The sickening sight of the corpse lay in front of him. It was a mess of blood and guts. A bright red pool surrounded the wound which was edged by ravaged flesh and dotted with black congealing clots. The horrified, wide-eyed stare of the victim exacerbated the profound ugliness of the scene. Overwhelmed by the smell of blood, Warren felt nauseous imagining he could taste metal in his mouth, and with great reluctance he took another look at the body before exhaling loudly. Even when he looked away, everything seemed bathed in a red haze. He was confused. There could be no doubt about how Stevenson was killed and Warren had strong suspicions about the murderer's motives. He wasn't surprised that someone murdered him but, rather, that it hadn't happened sooner. What perplexed Warren most was thinking about all the possible candidates for the crime.

The normally towering, muscular frame of DCI Alex Warren was weary and his shoulders drooped. His black hair seemed lank and the clean-shaven skin of his normally tight, angular face sagged. Instead of his usually healthy colouring, his skin came closer to matching the white protective one-piece coverall he was wearing. He normally carried his age well and most people, on first impressions, imagined he was in his early-thirties, but today he looked all of his forty-one years. Only his bright green eyes showed their usual sharpness. He was unhappy to be the poor sod assigned as senior investigating officer on this case and given the task of finding Stevenson's murderer. It was most unusual for him not to be keen to solve a crime. His fundamental problem was that he was happy to see Scott Stevenson dead. He couldn't consider the person who terminated his life to be a criminal, a hero more like. Yet he was the one given the task of finding the murderer so that justice could be served. What kind of justice was this?

Alex Warren was all too familiar with Scott Stevenson. He'd investigated countless complaints of how he'd robbed and cheated people and, in particular, claims that he'd targeted the elderly, conning them out of their life savings, their valuables, or the inheritances they'd planned for their offspring. At least three of the poor buggers who Warren was aware of had taken seriously ill and died as a direct consequence of the anguish Stevenson had caused.

Although he couldn't ever utter his opinion, Warren was of the view that Stevenson deserved to die. He believed the ancient, eighteen inch, ivory carving impaled below his chest to be a fitting end. The carving was crescent in shape, presumably pointed, and appeared to have been ornately carved from a slice of elephant tusk. Warren smiled at what he saw as an ironical statement. Reputedly, an elephant never forgets and clearly, someone else wasn't prepared to forget or overlook Stevenson's heinous deeds. Added to this, Stevenson had a reputation for dodgy deals involving antiques. Yes, using an antique, carved elephant tusk to end Stevenson's life was most appropriate.

Scott Stevenson had had no redeeming features. He was five foot four tall and his circumference wasn't too much less. His obese frame was topped by a spherical, bald head, thick-framed black spectacles which only served to emphasise his little piggy eyes, and was accompanied by an equally piggy nose and large pointed ears that a Vulcan would have been proud of. Despite all of this, he'd been vain and was once flattered when a paid for, nocturnal partner claimed he had the body of a God, little understanding her sense of humour and that she'd been thinking of Buddha. His looks were only the start, as it was his character which was most obnoxious. Over the years, he'd developed his despicable strategy; he'd endear himself to elderly householders, particularly little old ladies. He would target poor souls who were desperate for company and conversation and this gave him the opportunity to gain access to their homes. Even when they weren't forthcoming with information, once entrusted into their houses, he was quickly able to identify anything of value. In his earlier years he mostly targeted their cash, abusing his position of trust and convincing them to purchase unsecured investments. He persuaded them by explaining how easy it would be for them to enrich their own lives or that of their offspring. In his time he had sold life assurance policies before they were regulated, then went on to an assortment of strange and allegedly lucrative plans from foreign property to ostriches. In recent years he'd concentrated more on depriving them of the value of their antiques and collectibles. He'd convince them he was being generous and doing them a favour by taking their heirlooms off their hands, but he did so at a fraction of their true value. Then he'd make a killing selling them on at their full worth. Unfortunately, it was hard, nay impossible, to prove a crime had taken place as Stevenson was fastidious and ensured he had all the paperwork he required to justify and support his transactions.

Over the last few years there had been countless complainants and every one of them, together with each member of their family, was a potential suspect for the murder, not to mention what must be a multitude of other unknown victims who'd been too embarrassed to levy an official complaint.

Warren was sick at the thought of what lay ahead. To properly investigate the death, he'd have to interrogate the victims of Stevenson's cons and, worse still, force them to relive the trauma they'd been put through. Hadn't they suffered enough already?

When first assigned the case, Warren had considered his options. He wanted to refuse, but without a legitimate reason it would most likely have damaged his promotion prospects. His most compelling reason was because of his previous encounters on a personal level. Eighteen months ago, not long before the final breakdown of his marriage and not totally unrelated to it, his wife Helen's elderly aunt had fallen prey to Stevenson's charms. Spurred on by the insistence of his wife, it had taken all of Warren's persuasive powers, using some not so metaphorical arm twisting and tactics not considered acceptable to today's constabulary, before he regained her valuables. No reports were ever filed, nor could there be, and Alex could hardly give his prior dealings with the victim as a reason for not becoming involved now. He could have faked an illness and taken time off sick, just long enough for someone else to take over the job. That would have been cheating the system and, although not in the same league as Stevenson's transgressions, in his mind it would have put him into the same category. The potential hypocrisy was not lost on him. No, it just wasn't an acceptable option. He decided he'd just have to grin and bear it and hope his team's skills would be sufficient to solve the crime and do it quickly before too much damage was done.

Walking around Stevenson's shop, Warren took in the scene. The emporia was of modest size, about fifteen hundred square feet. There were small partitioned areas for office, kitchen and toilet but most of the expanse was open space artistically laid out with furniture, porcelain and an eclectic mix of collectibles. Behind the stench of death, the air was rich with the aroma of teak oil and polish which had been used to embellish the appearance of the brown furniture. Against a far wall was a line of locked, glass-fronted cabinets containing expensive, second-hand jewellery and an array of gold and silver artefacts. Nothing had been disturbed and, as the office safe and cash box also seemed to be intact, it appeared clear that a botched robbery was unlikely to be the motive for the death.

Warren looked again at the corpse. Stevenson's body was positioned half-sitting and half-lying across a chaise longue. One leg was stretched along its length while the other was bent at the knee with its foot on the floor. His mouth was agape and his eyes were wide open, but what drew the most attention was the ivory slice protruding from Stevenson's abdomen and the large red patch spread across his previously white shirt and blue blazer. Looking closer, Warren could see the blood had spread down and across the brocade fabric covering the antique seat. Judging from the aroma emanating from this part of the room, Stevenson had evacuated his bowels at time of death and Warren considered it highly unlikely that the chaise longue would attract any buyers willing to pay anything approaching its three thousand pound price tag.

“Better give us some space, Sir,” Connor called. “Not much of a challenge to determine cause of death,” he added with a chuckle. “But you never know what we might come up with.”

Warren quickly stepped aside. He had a lot of time for his scene of crime team and, in particular, he respected Connor immensely. Connor had been the catalyst to solving many a case, and in numerous others he'd provided evidence which proved crucial in securing a prosecution. Stepping back and from the vantage point of his six foot four height, Warren gazed down on the diminutive technicians scurrying about in front of him. There was a flurry of activity as they quickly but carefully identified, photographed, tagged and bagged anything that looked suspicious or seemed out of place. Not one of them was over five foot six and clad, as they were, in their protective white tunics and foot covers, he couldn't tell one from another unless they spoke. He was reminded of the 'umpa lumpas' from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

“Okay, fine, this is your territory. I'll leave this all to you and your techies for now.”

“That's a really nice piece of carving. Look how neatly it's been done.”

“You mean the tusk or his torso?”

“I was thinking about the ivory. But now that you mention it, the other's been quite neatly done too. I'm rather interested in antiques and old, ivory carvings can be very valuable. There's a lot of newer stuff about where the animal's been illegally poached, but this looks like an old piece and, if it is and has some provenance, then it will be highly sought after. It could be worth checking if there's any significance in the choice of weapon.”

“That's a fair point. I'll look into it. How long do you think you'll need? 'Cause I want back in to check the security system and go through his records to see if they tell us who he might've upset.”

“Give us a couple of hours, three tops. Then it's all yours. Mind you, we'll still have to wait for the Medical Examiner to arrive before we can get the body off to the mortuary. Don't know what's happened as old Duffie's normally out a lot sharper than this. All being well, I should have my preliminary report for you by the morning.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Warren replied, striding towards the front door. He started to strip off his protective gear as he stepped through the doorway and was relieved to gasp in some icy-cold, fresh air, freeing his lungs from the cloying smells of death and furniture polish.

The shop was positioned on a narrow side street just a few yards off Great Western Road in the Kelvinbridge area of Glasgow's fashionable West End. Typical for a November afternoon, the sky was grey with a watery sun occasionally sneaking through a preponderance of heavy clouds. The broad pavement was still damp and slippery, carrying the residue from a sleety shower earlier in the day, and Alex staggered as he fought to keep his footing while removing his shoe covers.

“Easy there, Boss,” Sergeant Sandra McKinnon said. She'd been following him and automatically reached out a steadying hand. Struggling not to fall, Warren precariously towered over her slight frame. Although proficient in martial arts and able to keep her footing on a tightrope, there was no way Sandra's pretty, petite form could support Warren's fourteen stone bulk. Incorporating a couple of dance steps which had never been attempted on 'Strictly,' he was able to regain his footing without bringing them both tumbling to the ground. Grinning with embarrassment, he guided them towards her Mondeo to use it as a makeshift command centre, leaving behind two uniformed constables who were chuckling at his balancing act.

Trying to regain the high ground by criticising someone else, Warren turned on her.

“What a bloody state this car's in. When's the last time you cleaned it out?” he exclaimed, picking his way through sweet papers and cola cans to find a clear space to sit.

“Sorry, Boss, it's since I quit smoking, I've been eating to compensate. I'm planning to clear all the rubbish at the weekend.”

“I'll believe that when I see it. Anyway, down to business. You arrived first. Fill me in on everything you've found out.”

“Okay, as you know, the call came in as a '999' from Stuart Findlay, a young lad who works in the shop. He'd been out for his lunch, left at one-fifteen and returned just after two to find the door locked. He had a key and let himself in, then found Stevenson dead on the couch. He says he never touched anything. He just made straight for the office, phoned it in, then waited outside the door. A squad car was first to arrive. Jarvis and Campbell met him. They said he was standing shivering in the street. They didn't know for sure if it was nerves or the cold. They checked out the place. Nothing seemed untoward, other than the body of course. They took a brief statement and called in the cavalry. They waited there with him until I arrived with McAvoy and then they took him down to Dumbarton Road. He'll still be there if you want to interview him while everything is still fresh in his mind.”

“Fine, I'd like to do that. In the meantime, let's take stock. If Findlay's telling the truth, we have a fairly small window of opportunity, smaller than forensics are likely to give us. Judging from the body and the weapon, it wasn't anything premeditated. It looks more of an impulse or striking out in anger. That makes it a lot more difficult for us. There's loads of blood about so whoever did this has probably been covered in their fair share. We want to start asking questions as quickly as possible. Can you arrange for copies of close circuit tapes from all the security cameras in the area? It'll take a hell of a time to check, particularly when we don't know yet what we're looking for, but it lets us start somewhere. If we're lucky, the shop security tape will give us the answer or, failing that, forensics will give us a break. If not, we're going to be clutching at straws. We'll also need to get moving on a door-to-door. See if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious, anyone covered in blood for instance. I don't hold out much hope, this area's mainly populated by students and there's not too many about in the middle of the afternoon, but let's hope. An incident caravan's on its way and we can use it as a base. Release to the press that there's been a serious incident but there'll be no further information until next of kin have been informed. I'm leaving you here in charge. You get it all set up and I'll head down to the station and see if I can get any more out of Findlay.”

Alex reached across and gave Sandra's arm an affectionate squeeze before exiting the car. There was still chemistry between them although neither of them had let it develop. Since Sandra had joined Alex's unit two years earlier, they'd shared a friendly and often risqué banter. Last year, just about the time of Alex's split from Helen, when he was moving out of the family home, there'd almost been a time. They'd been on a night out with others from their unit and both had a glass or three too many. They had shared a passionate kiss and a grope outside the back door of the pub before Alex had pulled away, realising his life was confused enough without having to worry about the complexities of a workplace relationship.

Sandra was still attracted to Alex but wasn't too upset by the rebuff. She was an intelligent girl and entered the police force on a graduate recruitment programme. Although slight in stature, she was strong and athletic with an attractive figure. She had jaw-length, pageboy-style, jet-black hair framing a pretty face of unblemished, lightly tanned skin with small cute features. Although now twenty-nine and with good steady earnings, she lived in her parent's home in Bishopbriggs. Being clever, attractive and modestly wealthy, she was not short of admirers.

Alex considered the team he had to start the investigation. Sandra was one of the two sergeants available and she was his natural deputy. She was smart and ambitious and Alex felt confident letting her handle anything, as she would apply the same intelligence and rigour he would himself. His other sergeant was Sanjay Guptar and, whilst Alex had equal confidence in his commitment, he felt Sanjay lacked the same intuitive streak and had less experience as a detective. Nevertheless, he was confident that Sanjay would apply solid support. To supplement, his first choice would have been Detective Constable Philip Morrison but as Phil was still on his annual vacation, he couldn't bring him on stream until the following Monday. In the meantime, he had Constable Donald McAvoy. McAvoy had accumulated twenty-five years service, mostly in CID. He was in the twilight of his career, marking time as he moved towards his retirement. He signified all that was best and worst in the police force of old. He was brave, honest and determined but his aptitudes favoured brawn over brain. He had never fully come to terms with political correctness and, although not overtly a racist or a misogynist, he struggled to cope with the idea of having an Asian and a female supervising his work. Although wary of Donny's values, Alex rated him as a reliable foot soldier, provided he was effectively supervised. Alex knew that, whenever required, he also had access to a number of other less experienced officers both from CID and uniformed divisions.

Chapter 2

Alex made for his own car, a four-year-old Hyundai Santa Fe which he obsessively maintained in excellent condition and polished until he risked lifting the paint. He called Detective Constable Donald McAvoy to join him. McAvoy shuffled along to the car and, not wishing to incite his Boss's wrath, carefully stamped any sleet or mud from his footwear before climbing up and into the SUV.

The journey was only a short distance but the traffic was heavy on Byres Road. The road was broad and lined with shops, cafés and bars, most with tenement flats above. The whole area had a cosmopolitan flavour with restaurants offering the fares from a multitude of European and Asian countries and this was more than matched by a varied mix of patrons. Most of the properties they passed on the Byres Road and on the adjacent thoroughfares were brightly lit and well maintained. Some were recently built while others looked centuries old, interspersed were a few dilapidated buildings, some on the verge of collapse. The overall effect was most strange. The pavements were crowded with shoppers and students milling around and wandering in and out of the retail premises. They had to crawl along at a snail's pace. Frequently, jaywalkers squeezed between the stopped or slow-moving vehicles and the trip seemed to take them forever. The tailback from the lights at University Avenue alone held them back for the best part of half an hour. They travelled mainly in silence before pulling into the station's car park. Once there they arranged to see Findlay straight away.

Alex walked into the interview room and McAvoy followed him in while he started the recording equipment, noting the time and those present.

The room was small, about eight feet square in size. It was stark and contrasted sharply with the opulence of the antique shop they had recently left. The ceiling was covered in speckled, polystyrene, acoustic tiles. Other than grease and coffee marks, the walls were plain, painted green and reminiscent of the décor traditionally used for public lavatories in Glasgow. The floor was covered in grey linoleum giving a tiled effect. It was of an age and style that no matter how well it was scrubbed it never looked clean. The only furniture was a melamine-covered, rectangular table positioned against the wall and bolted to the floor. On each side were two stacking-style, metal-framed plastic chairs. The recording equipment was mounted on the wall above the table. There was a mild aroma of watered down disinfectant lingering from the last time the room had been cleaned but it barely disguised the resident smell of cigarettes and stale BO. Although smoking was no longer permitted, the pungency lingered from the years before the ban was introduced and this was topped up by the occasional breaches of regulations together with the carryings off the clothes and skins of its many guests.

One of the chairs was occupied by a young man who had the archetypal look of a student. He was tall and scrawny with shoulder-length, ginger hair and an incongruously short, well-manicured beard. His face was acne scarred and gold-coloured, wire-framed spectacles covered his watery grey eyes which perfectly matched the floor covering. He was wearing blue corduroy trousers, an open-necked, denim shirt and a loose-fitting jacket which had overstretched pockets from being stuffed with Coke cans and bottles.

He jumped to his feet when Alex entered the room, “Can I go home now?” he enquired.

“Not quite yet, I'm afraid,” Alex replied. “Please sit down. We just need to hear what you have to tell us and get you to sign a formal statement.”

“Not again,” came the reply. “I've been through it twice already and I just want to go home.”

“You must realise this is a very serious matter. It doesn't get more serious than murder. You found the body and we need to find out exactly what you know before you leave.”

Findlay resignedly collapsed back into the chair. “But I don't know a thing. I just came back and found Mr Stevenson lying there, dead. I've already said.”

“We need to take this one stage at a time. Please speak clearly into the microphone and we'll get this out of the way as quickly as we can. First of all, for the record, please state your full name and address.”

In a tired voice Findlay replied, “My name's Stuart Findlay and I stay at flat 2/2, 42 Oakfield Avenue. I've got a share of a student flat. Out of term time I still live with my parents. That's at number fourteen Skean Crescent, Galashields.”

“I believe you worked for Scott Stevenson in his shop, 'Odds and Ends.' How long have you worked there and what do you do?”

“It's only part-time. I'm a student at Glasgow Uni. I'm studying 'History of Art.' I thought it would complement my studies to work in an antique shop. Mr Stevenson thought so too. That's why he gave me the job. That and 'cause he gets away with paying me next to nothing.”

“So he didn't treat you well?”

Findlay became a little bit more animated. “Christ no! He treated me like shit. He took me on to sell in the shop because I knew a bit about antiques and about history. But once I'd started, he wanted me to be a general skivvy. He had me cleaning the toilets and everything. He paid me minimum wage, not even that as he had me working extra hours and wouldn't pay for it. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but the guy was a real bastard.”

“So you didn't really get on. How seriously did you fight?”

Findlay chewed his lip for a second before answering, “We didn't fight at all. He was a bully and I accepted it.”

“Did you have any arguments with him?”

“No, not really. I once tried answering back and claiming my rights but he just told me that if I didn't like it, I could fuck off. He wasn't really into Human Relations Management in any way. I'd have gone too, but I didn't see too much chance of another job, not with my hand,” he said, holding up his left hand and showing it was weak and wasted. “My arm was scalded when I was a toddler and it never grew properly. There's no chance I could get a job in a bar or a restaurant the way it is. That's why I was happy to take the job with Stevenson even with the little he paid me. He knew I didn't have any options and he took advantage.”

“Have you been doing it for long?”

“It must be about eight months ago I started. It was in the spring. At first it was just a Saturday job but during the summer, when I wasn't away, I got extra hours and it became more like full-time. When Uni restarted, he wanted me to keep working extra days, but I had to fit it around my lectures, or occasionally have to miss them. He even asked me to miss my exams on one occasion. On Thursdays, there aren't any lectures but sometimes I have a tutorial. I should have had one today at twelve o'clock and that's when I planned to take my lunch break, but Stevenson said he needed me to stay until after one. He said he had someone coming to see him about one and he'd let me go then as he'd be there to look after things.”

“So what time did you actually leave?”

“It must have been about ten past one.

“Had his guest arrived by then?”

“No, he chased me out before he arrived. There was no one else in the shop.”

“You said 'He'?”

“I don't know for sure. I was just guessing it'd be a man.”

“Did anything unusual take place in the morning?”

“No, there'd been hardly a soul in and the phone had been quiet too?”

“Were you aware of Mr Stevenson having any fights or making any enemies in the recent past”

“Mr Stevenson seemed to upset a lot of people. He was always having arguments and there was often shouting. But there was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Where did you go when you went out for lunch?”

“I went up to the Uni. I wanted to see Dr Wilson, my tutor. I wanted to explain why I'd missed the tutorial and pick up any papers or guidance that I'd missed.”

“So will he be able to confirm that?”

“I'm afraid not. He wasn't there. He'd gone to lunch. But I saw his secretary, Mrs Burns. She can tell you I was there.”

“Where is his office?

“It's in University Gardens, just along from the QM, sorry, the Queen Margaret Union.”

“How long did it take you to walk?

“It's about ten to fifteen minutes each way. I had packed some sandwiches this morning and I took them with me. When I didn't get to see Dr Wilson, I detoured to Kelvingrove Park and sat on a bench to eat them.”

“Was it not a bit cold for that?”

“Yeh, I suppose so, but I needed some fresh air.”

“And you came back at two o'clock?”

“It must have been just after that. When I got back, the door was locked and I'd to use my key to let myself in. I thought that was strange 'cause the shop was meant to be open. Then I found Mr Stevenson. I could tell right away that he was dead. I came straight out of the door and used my mobile to call 999.”

“You didn't touch anything?”

“No, I don't think so. I just came straight out.”

“Okay, that will be all for now. Sit out in the waiting area and we'll get your statement written up for you to sign, then you can get off home. It's very important that you tell no one about the details of the murder and you can't speak to the press for now. I want no leaks or I'll know where to look,” Alex added menacingly. “Leave your shop keys with us and we'll be back in touch. If you think of anything else, let us know. Here's my card”

Once Findlay had left, Alex asked McAvoy for his opinion.

“He seemed pretty genuine, I guess. If he did go to the Uni during his lunch break, I don't see he'd of had much time for any mischief. That said, I don't buy the story about eating his lunch in the park. He clearly didn't like Stevenson, but I doubt he had the guts to do anything about it and judging from the body, it would have taken both hands or else someone a hell of a lot stronger to stab him the way it was done. As Findlay's not able to use one of his hands, I can't see it being him. I think he may have some more information that he's not telling us though.”

“Pretty much my thinking,” Alex replied. “Also he said he called 999 from his mobile, but earlier Sandra told me he'd said he phoned from the office. I didn't pick him up on that just now. I wanted to first check out what actually happened.”

“Okay, next stage is to check Stevenson's car and his house. See if that gives us any clues. Did he have the keys on him?”

“Dunno, Boss. I didn't check. Maybe Sandra did. I'll give her a bell.” McAvoy pressed the fast dial and was connected in seconds.

Although only hearing one side of the conversation, Alex didn't need to use his detective skills to follow the thread.

“Hi, Sandra, did you pick up Stevenson's keys? … Nope, were they in the office or on the stiff? …… Not in the office. You didn't want to touch the body until Connor had finished. Gonna ask him to check his pockets? … Aye, I'll hang on …………… You've got his car keys and shop keys and they've already dusted them so we can have them, but there aren't any house keys. That's strange. Right oh. You'll check out the car. It's a Beamer five series if I remember right. We'll head over to the house. No, wait, the Boss is saying we'll check the car and maybe see if the house keys are there. We'll be up there in a few minutes, maybe less the way he drives.”

If McAvoy had made a career out of fortune telling instead of the police then his family would never have had bread on their table. The journey back to Great Western Road was even more tortuous than the one coming down. Sandra was waiting with the car keys and the three of them quickly found the BMW parked a couple of hundred yards from the shop, not too surprisingly illegally sitting in a 'disabled only' bay.

Being a grey, damp, November afternoon, daylight had already faded and they used powerful hand-held torches for their search. They all put on gloves and Alex clicked the remote. Within minutes, they had thoroughly checked the interior of the car and found nothing suspicious and nothing of interest. The car was only a few months old and seemed to have been freshly valeted. They could still smell the detergent coming from the seats. They opened the engine compartment and the eight-cylinder, V8, twin turbo looked polished and clean enough to eat your dinner off. They had no better luck in the boot; inside was a complete Callaway set of golf clubs and equipment, appearing never to have been used, but there was nothing else there and only golfing paraphernalia in the pockets of the bag. Either Stevenson didn't carry his own house keys or someone had taken them.

Chapter 3

Alex knew where Stevenson lived as his personal confrontation with him had taken place at his home, but as no one else knew of this he had to go through the process of having his address confirmed before setting out. Stevenson's house was located in Whitecraigs, one of the most affluent suburbs of Glasgow.

Most of the rush hour biz had dissipated and the traffic was comparatively light. However, masses of pedestrians were still around on Great Western Road enjoying the novelty of the first evening for a month where it wasn't pissing down with rain. The Bohemian-style of Glasgow's West End meant many shops remained open late and this was complemented by the abundance of restaurants, cafés and bars seeking to lure in early evening trade.

Alex turned right towards Charing Cross and was lucky not to be held back by its profusion of traffic lights before dropping onto the slip road to the M8 motorway, rising onto the Kingston Bridge to cross the River Clyde. After passing the first turn off, he pulled across to the inside lane and opted for the M77 when the motorways split. Even though it had been open for several years now, Alex marvelled at how much time this new road saved him when he was travelling out of the city towards the South Side or Ayrshire. Although knowing the road well, he allowed himself to be guided by the satnav as he negotiated his way to Stevenson's residence.