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- Herausgeber: Old Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
'Daly evokes Glasgow with a masterly touch' ALEX GRAYIT consultant John Preston is found murdered on the streets of Glasgow, mobile missing, a hefty cash sum in his jacket. To DCI Charlie Anderson, it smells like a trap -- a victim lured to his death by someone he knew. On the same night, two local villains enact a grisly crucifixion scene in the toilets of a run-down pub.In Anderson's fourth assignment, his toughest yet, coppers' instincts count for nothing. Nor, it seems, does the truth. As the cases keep intertwining, a trail of false confessions and shocking revelations keeps the answers just beyond reach.Never Proven sees DCI Anderson confronting the failings of a system he's put his faith in -- and his own limits as a detective.Guilt is everywhere. But can he prove it?
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PRAISE FOR THE DCI ANDERSON SERIES
‘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
NEVER PROVEN
Bill Daly
For Lesley, Dan & Stevie
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
Saturday 3 September
Jack Mulgrew was whistling tunelessly as he came out of the toilet cubicle, his eyes cast down as his gnarled fingers fumbled with the buckle on his belt. He smiled to himself when he heard the opening bars of I Will Survive pulsing down from the karaoke session in the lounge upstairs. Gloria Gaynor was one of his favourites. He stopped whistling and started to sing along. As he glanced up, the words of the song died on his lips when he saw the two men leaning against the far wall. He recognised Jim Colvin straight away; improbably-black, slicked-back hair, trademark sharp suit, blue silk shirt and matching tie. He didn’t know the squat figure by Colvin’s side; unkempt hair, short-sleeved T-shirt, muscular, tattooed arms, flabby stomach bulging over the waistband of his jeans.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight, Jim,’ Mulgrew stammered.
‘I’m like the Spanish Inquisition, Mulgrew.’ Colvin gave a mirthless smile. ‘I turn up when I’m least expected.’
‘I’ll get it sorted, Jim.’
‘I seem to remember that’s what you told me last week,’ Colvin said, his words echoing from the tiled walls.
‘I did, Jim. I know I did.’ Beads of sweat started to form on Mulgrew’s wrinkled forehead. ‘Just give me a break!’‘
You had your chance – and you blew it,’ Colvin interjected as he started walking slowly towards Mulgrew. ‘I told you last week that you were on a final warning. You know what’s coming now. Sit down on the floor.’
‘No, Jim, not that.’
Colvin hooked his foot around Mulgrew’s ankles and swept his legs from under him, causing him to crash to the ground. ‘I don’t like having to repeat myself, Mulgrew. Now sit up straight with your back against the door.’
As Mulgrew was scrambling into a sitting position, Colvin nodded to his companion. ‘Okay, let’s do this.’
The steel-tipped heels of the enforcer’s boots clattered on the floor as he strode across.
Colvin bent down and grabbed Mulgrew’s right arm.
‘No!’ Mulgrew pleaded. ‘Not that, Jim! Don’t do it!’
Stretching Mulgrew’s arm out straight, Colvin held his wrist against the wooden door of the toilet cubicle while the enforcer produced a six-inch nail from the hip pocket of his jeans. Unhooking the claw hammer hanging from his belt, he placed the point of the nail against Mulgrew’s closed fist.
‘Open your hand,’ Colvin demanded.
‘For God’s sake! No!’ Mulgrew yelped.
‘I told you to open your fucking hand,’ Colvin repeated forcibly.
‘I’ll have it sorted by Tuesday, Jim. Honest – I will!’
‘It’s your call,’ Colvin said with a dismissive shrug. ‘But it’ll be a hell of a lot worse for you if the nail has to go through your fingers first.’
His whole body shaking, Mulgrew slowly unclenched his fist and spread his trembling fingers.
Holding the hammer poised, the enforcer made eye contact with Colvin, then, on Colvin’s nod, he drove the point of the nail into the palm of Mulgrew’s splayed hand.
‘One!’ Colvin chimed, to the crescendo of: I’ve got all my life to live. ‘Two!’ The head of the nail was thumped again: And all my love to give. ‘Three!’ Another solid blow from the hammer: And I’ll survive. I will survive!
To the accompaniment of raucous applause and shouts of approval from the lounge bar upstairs, Mulgrew’s eyes glazed over as he passed out in a dead faint, his head falling onto his chest, his bleeding hand pinned to the cubicle door.
CHAPTER 2
That looks like him now – coming out of the gate. I’m watching the entrance to Cottiers’ pub garden from behind the large tree on the corner of Partickhill Road. I light a cigarette, then I start to walk slowly up the hill. I stop and bend down to re-tie the laces on my trainers, all the while watching him out of the corner of my eye. He hesitates and looks anxiously up and down the street before heading off down Hyndland Road. When he gets to the nearest street lamp, he takes out his mobile phone and starts tapping at the keypad.
I resume walking. I’ve only gone a few paces when I hear a gentle ping from the phone in my pocket as his text arrives. When I glance back over my shoulder I see him hurrying away. I wait until he’s turned the corner into Lawrence Street before pulling out my phone and clicking onto his message.
“Where are you, Ronnie? This is the third time I’ve texted you in the past hour. We arranged to meet in Cottiers at eight o’clock. It’s after half-past ten now. Do you want it or don’t you? What the hell’s going on?”
I grin as I read his message. He doesn’t even know how to text. He writes in proper sentences, with punctuation, just like a teacher. Hardly surprising, when you come to think of it, considering he used to be one. I delete his message, just as I’d deleted the previous ones, before slipping my phone back into my pocket.
Being dressed in dark clothes is useful, now that darkness has fallen. I’m kitted out in black trainers, grey jeans and a loose-fitting black jacket. I turn on my heel and yank the brim of my navy-bluebaseball cap down tight over my eyes as I make my way quickly down the hill. When I get to the corner of Lawrence Street, I see him up ahead, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. I flick my half-smoked cigarette into the middle of the road before tugging my leather gloves from the hip pocket of my jeans and pulling them on. I pick up the pace. He’s only a few yards in front of me now. He’s swaying from side to side. It looks as if he might be a bit drunk. When I hear a vehicle approaching from behind I slow down, turning my face away from the road. I wait until the car has driven past and turned into Dowanhill Street before checking all around. There’s no one in sight. This is looking good. I’ll wait till he’s half-way between the next two street lamps, level with the parked van. That’s where the shadows are deepest.
I move quickly now, the footfall of my trainers making little sound on the damp pavement. He doesn’t look round as I close in on him. I unhook the length of rope I have fastened around my waist. It’s three feet long and knotted twice in the middle. I’m right behind him and he doesn’t even know of my existence. I can hear him whistling a soft, off-key rendition of Flower of Scotland. I mouth the words under my breath. I wait till he gets to the line: “and sent him homeward – to think again”.
It’s you who should have thought again, pal!
I fling the rope over his head and yank the ends closed behind his neck, twisting them into a tight tourniquet. His legs go from under him. I go down with him, my knee jammed into the small of his back. The side of his face smashes into the rear wheel of the van, dislodging the hub cap, which clatters noisily in the gutter. He pulls his hands from his trouser pockets and desperately tries to prise his fingers between the rope and his neck. No way! I’m too strong for you. The knots in the rope are crushing into his Adam’s apple, choking off his air supply and causing his cheeks to swell. His face has turned bright red, his eyes are bulging – they’re almost out of their sockets. He’s coughing and spluttering – globs of spittle are drooling from the corners of his mouth. His bloated tongue is sticking out of his mouth at a grotesque angle.
I bend down low to make eye contact with him.
‘Do you know why this is happening to you?’ I mouth in front of his face. He tries to respond, but he’s incapable of uttering a single word. ‘And do you know why it’s happening tonight?’ His eyes are pleading with me to stop. I move my lips close to his ear. ‘I’m doing this for Tommy,’ I say in a hoarse whisper. ‘You do remember Tommy, don’t you? Today is his anniversary. By the way,’ I add, ‘I like the beard – it suits you.’
Small, squeaking sounds of protest emanate from his puffed-up lips. His arms and legs are twitching involuntarily. I twist his body round and grind his face into the pavement as I give the tourniquet another sharp tweak. His body goes into spasm. I hang onto the rope tightly.
After a couple of minutes his limbs stop trembling and his body goes limp. I check to make sure there’s no one in sight, then I give the rope another couple of twists, just to make sure. I pull off one of my gloves and feel for any sign of a pulse in the side of his neck. There’s nothing.
Breathing heavily, I scramble to my feet. I put my glove back on quickly before searching through his pockets. When I find his mobile phone I switch it off and slip it into my jacket pocket. I take the thick envelope from his inside pocket and weigh it in my fist. It’s tempting. It would be nice – but it’s too much of a risk. The notes might be traceable. Some people, you just can’t trust. I stuff the envelope back into his pocket before unhooking the rope from his neck and looping it back around my waist.
Without a backward glance, I hurry to the corner and stride out down Dowanhill Street, whistling an up-tempo version of Flower of Scotland as I go. Crossing Dumbarton Road, I make my way down Benalder Street towards the River Kelvin, stopping in the middle of the bridge. Because of the amount of rain we’ve had recently, the river is in spate. Having checked to make sure I’m not being observed, I take his phone from my pocket and remove the battery and the SIM card before flinging the phone as far as I can into the fast-flowing water. I do the same with my own phone. Snapping both the SIM cards in two, I drop them into the river, then I drop the batteries in after them.
‘Best of luck with finding that lot, officer!’ I whisper to the night sky as I hear a faint splash when the batteries hit the water. The way mobile phones can be traced these days, I didn’t want to have those ones in my possession for a minute longer than necessary. Unhooking the length of rope from around my waist, I drop it into the river.
Everything’s gone exactly to plan. I’ve earned a drink, but not around here. Before long this place will be crawling with cops, stopping all the passers-by to ask them questions and noting down a load of useless information. That’s the police for you. That’s what they do. They waste their time on pointless activities. Headless chickens spring to mind. They interview people who know bugger all about what happened and write down every meaningless word they say. Just going through the motions – while bastards like that one are allowed to walk the streets.
Where were the police when Tommy needed them? Sat on their collective, useless arses, probably – typing up their irrelevant notes. It took a long time, but Tommy has got his justice at last, only thanks to me.
I tug off my baseball cap and stuff it into my jacket pocket as I head back towards Byres Road. Light rain starts falling as I’m walking up the hill towards the university, so I pick up the pace and hurry down the other side. Half-way along Gibson Street, I go into Stravaigin. It had to be Stravaigin tonight; the pub where I bumped into Murdoch will be the place where I celebrate bumping him off.
The downstairs bar is heaving.
‘What can I get you?’ the over-worked barman calls out when I eventually manage to catch his eye.
‘Captain Morgan’s rum, please. Make it a large one. Splash of water – no ice,’ I add, placing a twenty pound note on the bar.
The barman slides my drink across the counter and picks up the money. I feel my hand trembling as I raise the glass to my lips – probably some kind of delayed reaction kicking in. I pause to offer a silent toast. ‘Justice for you at last, Tommy,’ I mouth.
I mime chinking my glass against his before taking a slow, satisfying sip.
CHAPTER 3
Charlie Anderson grunted in annoyance when he heard the shrill ring of his phone. Hitting the mute button on the TV remote control, he stretched stiffly across the settee to the coffee table and picked up the handset.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at home, sir.’
Charlie recognised PC McArthur’s voice. ‘I’m hoping you’re calling to give me good news, Lillian,’ he said, ‘such as our office syndicate has won the rollover jackpot – but I don’t think I’ll be holding my breath.’
‘Good decision, sir.’
‘What’s the panic?’ Charlie asked.
‘Looks like we’ve got a murder on our hands. A body was found this evening in Lawrence Street and –’
‘Remind me?’ Charlie interjected. ‘Where’s Lawrence Street?’
‘It runs from Hyndland Street to Byres Road.’
‘Got it! Was the victim male or female?’
‘Male. He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but he’s not been ID’d yet. A young couple came across the body lying in the street and they phoned for an ambulance. They told the paramedics they’d been for a drink in Cottiers and they were on their way home when they saw someone lying in the gutter on the other side of the road. They thought the guy might have hurt himself, or maybe he’d fallen down drunk, so they went across to see if he needed any help. As soon as they saw the state he was in they called 999. When the ambulance crew got there, it was a case of DOA. The paramedics sized up the situation and called us out before making any attempt to move the body.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘The ambulance was called out at ten forty-five. We don’t know how long he’d been lying in the gutter.’
‘And we’re sure it was murder?’
‘The way one of the paramedics put it to me, sir, was: “Cases of self-strangulation in the middle of the road are comparatively rare”.’
‘Too much to hope that there were any witnesses, I suppose?’
‘Not as far as I know, sir.’
‘Who’s handling things?’
‘DC Renton’s on his way across there right now with a SOC team. The paramedics told the kids who found the body to wait with them until the police arrived. Renton said he’d be bringing them back to Pitt Street to take their statements and he asked me to get in touch with either you, or DI Munro, to let you know what was going on.’
‘Who else is around tonight?’
‘DS O’Sullivan and DC Freer were in the office earlier on, but they were called out about an hour ago – something to do with an assault in a pub in the Calton.’
‘Have you tried to get in touch with Munro?’
‘I thought I’d call you first, sir.’
‘You’re too good to me, Lillian.’
‘I was about to call DI Munro, sir, then I remembered he mentioned yesterday that he was taking his wife out to dinner tonight. I think he said something about it being their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’ Lillian hesitated. ‘If you want, I could try calling him on his mobile? I could tell him that I couldn’t manage to get hold of you.’
Charlie heaved himself stiffly to his feet. ‘Thanks for the offer, Lillian, but it’s not worth the hassle. If Hugh’s missus ever found out that I’d dumped this on him on their wedding anniversary, she’d have my guts for garters. Give Renton a call and tell him I’ll meet him in Pitt Street in half an hour.’
Replacing the handset, Charlie picked up the remote control and switched off the television. ‘It was a crappy film anyway,’ he muttered to himself as he trudged up the narrow flight of stairs to his bedroom.
‘That was Lillian McArthur on the blower, love. I’m afraid I’m needed in the office.’
Kay Anderson closed the paperback she was reading and sat up straight in bed.
‘What’s the panic?’
‘It looks like there’s been a murder in the West End.’
‘And it has to be you?’ Kay said, peering at Charlie over the top of her reading glasses. ‘There’s no one else who could possibly handle it?’
‘O’Sullivan and Freer have been called out to deal with an assault in the Calton, so Renton’s more or less holding the fort on his own tonight. Besides, we’ll need to get statements from the people who found the body while everything’s still fresh in their minds.’
‘And Renton couldn’t manage to take their statements on his own? Or, if he needed assistance, he couldn’t call out somebody else?’
‘He suggested to Lillian that she give Hugh Munro a call, but I told her not to bother. It’s Hugh’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary today and he’s taking his wife out for dinner.’
‘If I remember correctly, you ended up working half the night on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’
‘Did I?’
‘I thought you said that was it, Charlie?’ Kay said with an exasperated shake of the head. ‘You’ve only got a few months to go till you retire. I thought you said you’d steer clear of any more murder investigations?’
Charlie’s fingers travelled over his bald skull. ‘I said I’d try to steer clear of any more. And I will. This isn’t necessarily going to be my case, just because I’m helping out tonight.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’
Charlie plucked his jacket from the chair at the end of the bed. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Sue and Jamie are coming across to us for lunch tomorrow. Any chance you might make it back by then?’
Charlie managed a weak smile as he shrugged on his jacket. ‘Touché!’
*
DS Tony O’Sullivan could feel his car being buffeted by the strong wind blowing off the Clyde as he drove along the Broomielaw. Light rain started falling as he was passing the King George V bridge. He flicked the windscreen wipers on to a slow wipe.
‘Have you been to the Calton before, Tom?’ he asked his passenger.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘You won’t find it among the top ten places to visit on the Glasgow tourist trail, but you would remember it all right if you’d been there.’
‘What’s so special about it?’
‘Things have improved a lot recently, but for a long time it was the district with the lowest life expectancy – and one of the highest crime rates – of anywhere in Europe.’
‘You mean even worse than the Farm?’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Broadwater Farm - in Tottenham. That’s where I was brought up. It’s hard to imagine anywhere worse than that.’
‘If I remember the figures right,’ Tony said, ‘male life expectancy in the Calton used to be about fifty-four – which was on a par with Kabul when it was in the middle of a war zone.’
‘Why were things so bad?’
‘Years of poor housing and social deprivation, combined with a high dependency on drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. The life expectancy rate wasn’t helped by the fact that the city fathers had decided to move a lot of the sheltered accommodation for the homeless – and most of the rehab clinics for drug addicts – to the Calton.’
‘I thought the district was called ‘Calton’?’ Tom said. ‘Why does everyone refer to it as the Calton? You don’t talk about the Govan – or the Maryhill?’
‘That’s a good question, Tom. I’ve no idea why. It’s just one of those things. Glaswegians always call it the Calton,’ Tony said as he pulled up on the double yellow lines outside The Jacobite Arms. The rain was heavier now and the street was deserted. Switching off the ignition, Tony twisted round in his seat.
‘What does this place remind you of?’ he asked.
DC Tom Freer studied the grey masonry and the small, barred windows set high up in the wall. ‘My first impression is that it looks a bit like Barlinnie, sir, but not as welcoming.’
‘Fair comment,’ O’Sullivan said, gripping the door handle ‘You stay here while I go into the bear pit and find out what’s going on. Your job is to make sure the car still has four wheels by the time I come out.’
‘Why do I always get the tricky assignments?’
‘Because I’m pulling rank. Besides, you’re English. You wouldn’t understand a word that was said in there.’
‘I know that one grunt means you’re in trouble – and two grunts mean you’re in deep shit,’ Freer said.
‘You’re starting to get the hang of it, Tom,’ O’Sullivan said, turning up his jacket collar as he eased open the car door. ‘But this is three-grunt territory.’
CHAPTER 4
As he hurried towards the pub entrance, O’Sullivan glanced up at the faded graffiti sprayed on the wall above the door – a proclamation to the world that the premises he was about to enter were ruled by the Calton Tongs.
As soon as he stepped inside, the buzz of conversation died away and a dozen pairs of curious eyes followed his progress as he made his way up to the bar. The shaven-headed, heavily-tattooed barman glanced up at the wall clock, which showed two minutes to eleven.
‘You’re pushing your luck, Jimmy. I hope you’re a quick drinker.’ The barman picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray on the counter and took a long, slow drag. ‘What are you for?’
‘Has the law banning smoking in pubs not filtered through to the Calton?’ O’Sullivan asked.
The barman narrowed his eyes as he looked O’Sullivan up and down. His gaze switched to the hand-rolled cigarette in his fist. ‘There’s nae filters around here, pal,’ he said,’ tapping the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Filters are for poofters.’
‘Are you the landlord?’
‘I might be,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘It depends who’s asking.’
O’Sullivan cupped his warrant card in the palm of his hand and showed it to him.
‘Are you here on your own?’ The barman feigned incredulity as he made a production of staring over each of O’Sullivan’s shoulders in turn. ‘Are you up for some kind of bravery award?’
‘It’s been a long day,’ O’Sullivan said as he pocketed his ID. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘What problem?’
‘We got a call from here half an hour ago, to let us know someone had been stabbed in the toilets.’
‘It must be a mistake.’ The barman shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Nothing like that happened in here tonight. Hey, guys,’ he called out, addressing the customers. ‘This is the polis.’ Muffled groans ran around the room. ‘Don’t worry, Sammy, he doesn’t know that you’re dealing coke.’ The groans turned to guffaws. ‘Did anybody here phone the cops to report someone getting stabbed in the bogs?’
‘Tell him he’s here a week early,’ was shouted from the back of the room. ‘That’s not going to happen until next Saturday.’ More guffaws followed.
The barman drew hard on his cigarette, the aromatic fumes wafting across the bar and drifting into O’Sullivan’s face.
‘Sorry I’m not able to help you, pal,’ he said, exhaling smoke slowly through his clenched, tobacco-stained teeth. ‘It looks like someone’s been pulling your plonker, though, come to think of it, there is a pub in Dundee called The Jacobite Arms. Maybe you should try there?
‘Right, you lot,’ the barman called out. ‘Start drinking up. I’ve got a home to go to, even if you don’t.’
As the customers turned their attention back to their drinks, the barman slid a folded piece of paper across the bar towards Tony. ‘Take this,’ he whispered, ‘then fuck off.’
All the eyes followed Tony again as he turned round and made his way out of the pub.
When he got back to the car, Tony unfolded the slip of paper and read the hand-printed note:
‘GIVE ME A CALL ME ON THE PUB PHONE AT HALF-PAST ELEVEN’
*
Apart from a few high, wispy clouds, the night sky was clear when DCI Charlie Anderson merged with the M8 from the Renfrew slip road. He was mulling over what Kay had said. Not long to go now till he retired – nine months, and counting. Understandably, Kay wanted him to get through the next few months with as little hassle as possible, and he’d promised her he’d do that. There was no reason he should have to get involved in this case. He had more than enough on his plate right now, trying to trace the source of the recent influx of crystal meth and cracking down on the dealers. Just help Renton take the witness statements tonight, he thought to himself, then he would delegate everything tomorrow. Hugh Munro wasn’t overloaded. He would allocate the SIO role to him.
Charlie checked the time on his car clock. It showed a quarter past eleven. The motorway didn’t seem too busy, but by the time he got to the Kingston Bridge there was a fair amount of traffic heading towards the city centre. Having crossed the bridge, he took the exit for Waterloo Street before looping up the steep incline towards the CID headquarters in Pitt Street. At the crest of the hill he turned left, then drove round the block towards the entrance to the underground car park. The officer on duty waved in recognition when he saw Charlie’s car approaching. Charlie lowered his window and leaned out.
‘How’s it going, Frank?’
‘Not too bad, sir. I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.’
‘I wasn’t expecting to be here.’
‘Which means bad news, I suppose?’
‘It looks like there’s been a murder in the West End.’
‘At least that makes a change,’ Frank said with a grunt as he raised the barrier. ‘The last two homicides were both in Govanhill.’
Charlie drove down the steep ramp before reversing slowly into a narrow parking space between two concrete pillars. Getting out of his car, he trudged up the flights of stairs to his office on the second floor where he found DC Colin Renton sitting behind his desk, a young couple seated on the chairs opposite him.
As soon as he saw Charlie enter the room, Renton scrambled to his feet. ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Have you offered these good people something to drink?’ Charlie asked as he stripped off his jacket and hung it on the hook on the back of the door.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘What would you like?’ Charlie asked, taking a handful of loose change from his jacket pocket and spilling the coins onto the desk. ‘Tea, coffee, juice or water? I’m afraid that’s as good as it gets around here.’
The girl made eye contact with her friend, then nodded. ‘Coffee would be good for both of us, thanks.’
‘I’ll go for them,’ Renton offered, scooping up the coins. ‘How do you take it, miss?’
‘Black with no sugar for me,’ she said. ‘And white with sugar for Kyle.’
‘The usual for me, Colin,’ Charlie said, settling down on his swivel chair. ‘I’m DCI Anderson,’ he offered by way of introduction. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Gill,’ the girl said, ‘and this is my partner, Kyle.’
Charlie made small talk to put Gill and Kyle at their ease until Renton arrived back with four coffees balanced on a tray.
‘Before we get round to taking your official statements,’ Charlie said, picking up his coffee and blowing on the hot liquid, ‘tell me what happened this evening.’
‘We were, like, walking home from Cottiers – along Lawrence Street,’ Gill said.
‘We have a flat in Elie Street,’ Kyle chipped in.
‘As I was saying,’ Gill continued forcibly, looking askance at Kyle, ‘we were walking along Lawrence Street on our way home from the pub. It had started to rain, so we were, like, hurrying. When I looked across the road I saw a pair of legs sticking out from behind the rear wheels of a van. I wasn’t at all sure about going across. I thought the guy might’ve had one too many.’
‘But I said,’ Kyle interjected, ‘what if the poor sod’s had a heart attack, or something like that? I think we should, like, go over and check.’
‘He was lying face-down on the pavement,’ Gill said. ‘I tapped him gently on the shoulder, but he didn’t stir.’
‘I bent down and turned him over,’ Kyle said. ‘As soon as I saw the state his face was in, I knew straight away he was dead.’
‘I called 999 from my mobile,’ Gill said. ‘We waited with him until the ambulance got there.’
‘When the medics arrived, they confirmed that the guy was dead,’ Kyle said, ‘and they called the police. The ambulance driver told us to wait with them until the cops arrived. It was raining quite hard by this time, so the paramedics let us sit in the back of the ambulance with them. When Constable Renton arrived he asked us to come back here with him to give our statements.’
‘Tell Inspector Anderson what you saw earlier in the evening – in the pub,’ Renton prompted.
‘I’m sure it was the same guy,’ Kyle said. ‘We were in the garden area, outside at Cottiers, and so was he.’
‘Was he with anybody?’ Charlie asked.
Kyle shook his head. ‘He was sitting by himself at a table near the gate. I noticed him because he seemed to be, like, drinking a lot for someone on his own. He walked past our table three or four times in the space of less than an hour to get another drink. All the time he was sitting at his table he was, like, constantly checking his phone and looking at his watch, as if he was waiting for somebody. Then all of a sudden he got to his feet and hurried off, leaving an almost–full pint.’
‘What time would that have been?’ Charlie asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Kyle said, looking at Gill.
‘It was about a quarter of an hour before we left the pub,’ Gill said, ‘which means it must have been around half-past ten.’
‘And the next time we saw him,’ Kyle said, swallowing hard, ‘he was dead.’
‘Did you see anyone else in or around Lawrence Street at that time?’ Charlie asked.
Gill and Kyle looked at each other, both of them shaking their heads. ‘No one, Inspector,’ Gill said. ‘Nobody at all.’
‘Okay, thanks for that.’ Charlie got up from his chair and used both hands to massage the stiffness at the base of his spine. ‘When you’ve finished your coffees, go downstairs with DC Renton. He’ll take your statements and get you to sign them. We might need to talk to you again later, once the dead guy’s been identified, but that’s all we need from you this evening. Thanks for coming in – and sorry about messing up your Saturday night.’
‘No need to apologise, Inspector,’ Kyle said as he slowly got to his feet. ‘Our evening wasn’t really messed up, like – not compared with that poor sod’s.’
Deciding he might as well do something useful while he was waiting for Renton to come back, Charlie unlocked the top drawer of his desk and lifted out a pile of unanswered correspondence. Unscrewing the top from his fountain pen, he read the first memo and jotted down his response in the margin. He had dealt with three items of mail and was half-way through reading the next one when Renton rapped on his door and walked in. Putting down his pen, Charlie rocked back in his seat and swung his feet up onto the desk.
‘What do we know about the dead guy, Colin?’
‘Not a lot, sir. No ID on him. One thing we can be sure of is that the motive for the murder wasn’t robbery. Apart from forty quid in his wallet, there was an envelope in his inside jacket pocket stuffed with a thousand pounds in tens and twenties.’
‘Very interesting. Why do you think he would be carrying money like that around?’
‘Have you checked the price of bus fares recently?’ Renton asked.
Charlie smiled. ‘Assuming for the moment that he wasn’t planning to catch a bus, an envelope stuffed with cash smacks of blackmail. Could his killer have been a blackmailer who lured him to Cottiers?’
‘In which case, why did he not relieve him of the cash after he strangled him?’ Renton asked.
‘Good point.’
’There is one other interesting thing, though,’ Renton added. ’The kids who found him in the gutter told us the victim had been checking his mobile phone regularly while he was in the pub, but there was no sign of a phone on the body. For some reason, the killer appears to have relieved him of it.’
‘Not a random killing, then? Probably somebody who knew him,’ Charlie suggested. ‘Perhaps someone who was in the contacts’ list in his phone?’
‘That seems like a distinct possibility.’
‘Has the cause of death been established?’ Charlie asked.
‘It looks odds-on that it was strangulation. We’ll have to wait for the post mortem for formal confirmation, but from the abrasions on his neck the paramedics reckoned he’d been choked to death with something like heavy duty twine or rope.’
‘Which increases the probability that the murder was premeditated,’ Charlie said, swinging his feet down to the floor with a thud. ‘Okay, Colin. Let’s call it a day. There’s not a lot more we can achieve here tonight. Are you on duty tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who else is in?’
‘O’Sullivan and Freer.’
‘Bring O’Sullivan up to speed with what happened tonight as soon as he gets in. Tell him he’s in charge of things until I get here. The usual routine. Check the victim’s description against the missing persons’ list and organise door-to-door enquiries in Lawrence Street and Hyndland Street.’
Renton raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Charlie let out a world-weary sigh. ‘I do realise that tomorrow’s Sunday, Colin, but unfortunately the Glasgow criminal fraternity don’t take into account the fact that I’ve got a tight overtime budget to manage. Organise appeals in the newspapers and on television for anyone who was in Cottiers tonight between nine o’clock and eleven o’clock to come forward – and also anyone who was walking or driving in the vicinity of Lawrence Street between ten o’clock and eleven o’clock. And arrange for someone to talk to the bar staff who were on duty in Cottiers tonight,’ Charlie added, ‘to find out if they know anything about the victim.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘Is there anything I’ve missed?’ Charlie asked, stifling a yawn.
‘How about an appeal for anyone who committed a murder in Lawrence Street at around half-past ten tonight to come forward?’
‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ Charlie said, snapping his fingers. ‘With an incisive brain like that, Colin, you’d be a shoo-in for promotion to sergeant.’
Renton’s craggy features broke into a broad grin. ‘I’ve got less time to go till I retire than you have, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I don’t think I’ll bother applying.’
Having looked up the phone number for The Jacobite Arms on his mobile, Tony O’Sullivan waited until half-past eleven before punching it into his phone.
‘Is that the landlord?’ he asked when the call was taken.
‘It is.’
‘This is DS O’Sullivan. You asked me to give you a call.’
‘I couldn’t say anything earlier on, but it was me who phoned the cops about the stabbing in the pub.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of my regulars, a bloke called Jack Mulgrew, got nailed tonight – literally.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of the customers went downstairs to the bog and he found Mulgrew pinned to the door of one of the cubicles. A rusty, six-inch nail had been hammered through the palm of his hand.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ O’Sullivan said, wincing.
‘There were certain similarities,’ the landlord agreed. ‘I’ll give you that.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I do? I fetched a hammer from my flat upstairs and I thumped the point of the nail back through the door from the other side. It was one hell of a carry on, let me tell you. Mulgrew had passed out, but he came round when I started hammering on the nail and he started squealing like a stuck pig.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘My brother took him across to A&E.’
‘What state was he in?’
‘His life’s probably not in danger, but I don’t think he’ll be playing tennis for a while.’
‘Does he know who attacked him?’
‘He told me it was two complete strangers.’
‘Does he know why they picked on him?’
‘I asked him that. He said he’d no idea.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’
The landlord hesitated. ‘One of Jim Colvin’s goons was in the pub earlier on this evening – about seven o’clock. He was asking around if anyone knew where he could find Mulgrew.’
‘Jim Colvin? Is he still running his pay-day lending racket?’ O’Sullivan asked.
‘No one around here has got a job, pal. We call it dole-day lending.’
‘Does Mulgrew borrow from Colvin?’
‘Aye. And when one of Colvin’s heavies is asking about somebody’s whereabouts,’ he added, ‘it’s a pound to a pinch of shit that the guy’s going to get a doing. Everyone knows the goon works for Colvin, so when word gets out that Mulgrew’s been claimed, Colvin’s clients all know who was responsible. That way, none of them get any smart-arsed ideas about not paying up on time.’
‘You don’t normally involve the police in your domestics,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘Why this time?’
‘Colvin’s interest rates stink,’ the landlord said, ‘They make Wonga look like a charitable institution. His guys have been leaning on Mulgrew for the past couple of weeks. In fact, they’ve been putting the screws on quite a few of my regulars recently – and that scares them off from coming into the pub – which isn’t good for business. It’s about time your lot sorted Colvin out.’
‘If you’d be prepared to take the stand and testify against him, that would be a big help.’
The barman chortled. ‘Aye, right!’
The rain had slackened off and the motorway traffic was light as Charlie Anderson was driving home. Leaving the motorway at the exit for Renfrew, he drove a short distance along Paisley Road before turning left into Wright Street, a wide avenue of nineteen-fifties, semi-detached houses. Pulling up in the driveway alongside his pebble-dashed house, he got out of the car. He turned his key in the front door as quietly as he could, then used the downstairs toilet before tip-toeing up the staircase without switching on the light. Changing into his pyjamas in the dark, he slipped under the duvet.
‘What time is it?’ Kay’s sleepy voice asked.
‘It’s just after one o’clock.’
‘Was it a murder?
‘It looks like it.’
‘Did you manage to delegate everything?’
Charlie hesitated. ‘I’ll tell you all about it in the morning, love.’
Rolling over onto his side, Charlie closed his eyes. It was another two hours before he managed to drop off to sleep.
