The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Page 15

  ‘The footage from last night should be here,’ the manager’s saying, picking up tapes from the table. ‘Obviously we keep everything, just in case. Cameras go on when we open, off when we shut. Expensive stuff, ya know. Very expensive.’ He’s shoving a tape into a machine and switching on a monitor. ‘What time was yer man here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fisher tells him, and ignores the sigh that follows. He knows roughly when they arrived, and roughly when they left, but that’s not the point. It’s not them he’s looking for. It’s the people near them. It’s the man who shared the cab with them.

  Fisher sits in that little room for more than an hour. He fast-forwards through long sections of video. He picks them out when they arrive. He watches the footage of the night and gets a new impression of the relationship between Winter and Cope. They arrive with others. They dance together for a while, but he looks absurdly out of place. Hard to spot an older person there. She starts dancing with a younger man right in front of Winter. Treating him like shit with legs. Getting close to this young man.

  The rest of the hour is taken up in watching Zara Cope dancing close with a young man, looking to all the world like a couple. Winter is sitting by himself. A lonesome figure. Downing bottle after bottle of beer. Numerous questions are flitting into Fisher’s mind now. They can wait. First priority is picking out anyone at the club who seems interested in Winter. Nobody stands out. A woman, apparently desperate, goes and sits next to him. The pictures aren’t good, jumpy and at a distance. They look like they’re talking. Eventually the woman gets up and walks away. It takes Fisher a few minutes to realize that Winter is asleep at the table.

  Nearly an hour later – after half past midnight on the security-camera clock. Club should be shut at midnight. Cope and the young man she’s been getting happy with walk across to Winter. She’s talking to him. She’s sitting beside him. She’s helping him up. Struggling. The young man steps in. It looks like young siblings carrying their embarrassing father to the exit. They go out through the hall. Fisher marks the time. A quarter to one. He ejects the tape and finds the one for the doorway CCTV. The manager has long since disappeared, leaving the detective to his own devices. Said he had a lot of work to do. Probably gone to call the owner. Remember to check who the owner is too.

  The doorway tape in the machine. Fast-forwarding. He’s given up on looking for the killers. Long shot that they would have been there. Probably waited at the house. That makes the taxi driver and the young man who shared the taxi more important. First problem. Damned club. Bloody idiots. Who-ever’s in charge of their security wants shooting. The camera doesn’t record a wide enough area. You can see the doorway and most of the pavement outside, but you can’t see right up to the road. It’s too close. He won’t see them getting into the taxi. Shit! Why the hell have they got the camera focused on so small an area? Ah, easy enough to guess. They don’t trust their own door staff. They want to keep an eye on them. Hard to blame them for that.

  Not as good as he hoped it would be. Interesting, though. The three of them come out of the club and onto the pavement. Zara hails someone, presumably a taxi. The younger man helps Winter across to the taxi and they move out of view. Can’t see the taxi, can’t see who gets into it. They shared the taxi with a young man who just happened to be leaving at the same time as they were. That’s what she said. Coincidence; not someone she knew. Random stranger – don’t know his name. Nope, not buying that any more. She was lying about this much at least. Look at Winter. Jesus, look at him. He can hardly stand.

  Think about her story. They share a taxi with a stranger. He helps her get Winter to the door, then leaves. She gets Winter all the way up the stairs, along the corridor and onto the bed by herself. No fucking way. Not a chance. Look at him! He can barely stand up. If the young man wasn’t helping him out of the club, he would have been face-first on the pavement. Lying bitch. You did not get him all that way by yourself, not in that state, not a wee girl like you. Someone helped you. The young man. He came into the house. Had to. He came into the house, and yet he’s nowhere to be seen when the plod arrive. Fisher rewinds, gets a shot of the young man, mostly the back of his head. That could be our killer. More than a stranger.

  Fisher goes looking for the manager. He finds him in his office, on the phone. The manager hangs up when he enters without knocking.

  ‘D’you have a list of the taxis that wait outside to pick up your customers?’

  ‘Aye,’ Jones is saying, reaching into the drawer of his desk. ‘Your lot made us draw up a list, keep a watch on who uses the place.’

  Your lot. Charming. The manager passes a list across to him. At a glance, he sees nothing that stands out. There are taxi firms that he knows are owned or controlled by organized crime, but he sees none of them on this list.

  Fisher shoves the list into his pocket. He looks at the manager, sitting looking back across the desk at him. Looking nervous. Looking at the tapes, wondering what’s been found on them.

  ‘I’m taking these tapes with me. They’re important. I might send someone else round to have a word about a few other things I happened to notice while I was here,’ he says and leaves the office. It’s an idle threat. If the club was open past its hours, then that’s for the plods to deal with. He might send someone to warn them about it, though, so that they can bitch about the positioning of the security cameras while they’re there. Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. Make them see that they need to have a better view of the outside.

  Back to the station. Give the tapes to someone with the time to go through them in detail.

  ‘Find out who the guy leaving with them is. Try and spot anyone else that might stand out.’ They won’t spot the killers. That’s too much to ask for. You never know what might come up, though. They might spot someone talking to Winter or Cope that he didn’t spot. They might find out that the younger man has connections. A bit of luck. That’s what he needs. Luck. Now the taxi driver. Find him. He can add to the picture. The picture of Cope and the younger man.

  A thought. A grim thought. Cope wasn’t treated as a suspect. She was a witness and she was a victim. There was no pressure to make sure that they knew where she was going next – people assumed the house where Winter had died. Maybe not. Maybe she goes somewhere else and he has no way of getting to her at short notice. Fisher stops in the middle of the office.

  ‘Someone get me that plod that was looking after Cope.’ He’s worried. She’s a suspect to him. She lied to him repeatedly when he interviewed her, and he now has the proof. She’s hiding something, and that’s something he wants to find. First, Fisher has to know where she is.

  32

  His phone jingles in his pocket. He takes it out, looks briefly at the screen. A text from Shug Francis. Greig puts it back in his pocket, unread. Standing outside a newsagent’s, waiting for his colleague to come out with a bottle of water. Walking the beat. Reassuring the public. Utterly tedious. Largely pointless. Catching criminals whilst walking the beat is very rare. Being in the car, you get the call and you’re there that much faster. You have a better chance of actually catching criminals. This is just a way of being uselessly visible, letting the public see your pretty face.

  His colleague comes out, hands him a bottle. Surprisingly warm day. Busy Saturday afternoon. The shops are busy; it reassures the owners to see you popping in and out. Stops them complaining, that’s the main thing. Walking along the street, not saying much. Not on the beat with young Matheson today. They’ve given Greig an older cop to work with, which seems pointless. A cynical guy, obviously bored with his job. Doesn’t seem to treat it with a lot of respect. Needs to realize that this is a vocation. He won’t last much longer. Mind you, he’s lasted long enough already. Amazing how some people hang on.

  Plod through the day. Hot and dull. Nothing happening. No big incidents, nothing of much note. Hot Saturday, though, so there’ll be a lot of unpleasant work for the night-shift. People drinking all day in the heat. People fall
ing over, falling off things. People knocking each other down. Men trying to impress women by knocking lumps out of each other. Men trying to have their own way and knocking lumps out of women. Lot of ugly domestics on a night like this. Greig hates domestics. Tricky business. Better avoided. He’s glad when the shift’s ending and they can wander back towards the station. Out of the uniform, into a T-shirt. Maybe go for a drink before he goes home? Nah, better go home, check that text.

  Into the flat. He has a casual girlfriend, but it’s very casual. Hasn’t spoken to her for a few days. That’s how his relationships go, and it’s how he likes them. It’s always been that way. He needs space – he feels everyone does. That’s where relationships go wrong, when someone intrudes on the space of the other. No desire for marriage, no desire for children. Love the job. Enjoy the life. Don’t spoil it. Don’t let others spoil it. Well, that’s obviously harder to do. It’s that thought that leads him to take his mobile phone out of his pocket and look at the text.

  Come round and see me when you can. That’s all it says. Innocuous, you would think. Greig knows better. He knows that Shug doesn’t ask him to pay a visit unless it’s urgent. He wants Greig to come and see him as soon as he gets the message. Greig texts back. Just finished shift, still want me to come round? He hopes not. It might have been urgent in the afternoon, but not important now. Better always to try and keep your distance. Doesn’t matter how good you are at this sort of thing – you don’t want to be seen too often in the company of people like Shug. The phone gives a little rumble. He checks the text. Yes is all it says.

  He hates visiting Shug. Hates visiting anyone in the business. They ought to know better than to ask him. His relationships with people inside the criminal industry are important. They help him to be a better copper. People find it hard to get their heads round that. They think that no cop can have any relationship with any crook. Not true. Knowing them makes it easier to know who’s up to what. His relationships with career criminals have brought him a wealth of information that he has often put to good use. Those relationships have resulted in some very serious criminals being put behind bars, but there are some who don’t want to admit that. Some, like that stuck-up prick Fisher, want to believe that policing means there must always be a ‘them and us’ attitude.

  People think Shug is a nice guy. Everyone who knows him considers him a harmless and charming character. Obsessed with cars. Obsessed with them. Loves racing them. Loves fixing them up. Seen as a wee bit of a crank. There are some who genuinely think he’s only in the business because of the cars. He has a string of garages, all round the city. People steal cars, take them to the garage. They get resprayed. They get retagged. All distinguishing marks – like the engine block number – are filed down and removed. A false service history is created. The car is then driven south and sold across the border somewhere. Doesn’t do it too often. Not enough to raise undue interest. Not enough ever to be a crime wave. Shug’s smart about it. The best car man in the city.

  But he’s smart. People forget that. People think of him as a harmless geek and forget what he’s actually doing. He’s running a lucrative business within the criminal industry. He’s been running it for more than a decade, since he was in his mid-twenties. It takes a smart man to start that young and last this long. It takes a ruthless man to ensure that he has no competition. People think Shug has no competition because others think it’s too hard to set up and run a car ring. There’s some truth in that. It’s a tough thing to do these days, car security being so good. Others have been tempted, though. Money to be made, and only one competitor in the market.

  That’s where Shug’s reputation has served him well. Nice guy. Charming geek. Hard to imagine him doing anything worse than nicking the occasional car. His people don’t use violence. They steal cars – that’s it. They don’t car-jack. They do no harm. Except to people who try to muscle in on their business. They’ve driven people out of the city. Out of the industry. They’ve used some tough cookies to do the work for them. Violent work. Ruthless. As soon as he knows you’re making moves on his patch, Shug sends people round to wipe you out. Greig’s not sure if he’s ever had anyone killed – doesn’t think so. Wouldn’t put it past him, though.

  Greig turns a blind eye and a deaf ear to these things. Shug is one of the criminals that the city needs. The least of all available evils. If others get involved in the car racket, then they might get ambitious, might start using violence. People break into houses just to get the car keys these days. That’s something to be avoided. Only tends to happen here with opportunists: burglars who stumble across the keys, or junkies getting desperate. Shug keeps things simple, reduces the amount of work that the police have to do. It’s crime management. It’s why Greig is involved with people like Shug. No violence. Keep the number of stolen cars down. People are insured. It could be worse. That’s the point. It could be a lot worse.

  Greig pulls up outside the large house that Shug owns. A big double garage. It has two cars inside it, another two on the driveway. His network of garages creates the kind of credible front that allows him to live a good life without questions being asked. Greig parks his Mondeo on the street and feels rather insignificant. He doesn’t know a lot about cars, but the two on the driveway are both worth good money. One is a BMW M5, the other one he thinks is a TVR Tuscan. He knows Shug has a Ferrari California, but it’s obviously in the garage. The most expensive two get the protection of the garage. He walks to the door and rings the bell.

  The door is answered by one of Shug’s mates. There’s a bunch of them that hang around with him, and have done since they were at school. They were all petrol-heads together, and have been together since they were teenagers. Now they all help in the business. A close-knit group. Close enough to treat like family, to trust like family. It’s what makes Shug’s operation so strong. The chubby bearded fellow – the stereotype of a car nerd – nods for him to come in. There’s no conversation; the man knows this is business. Greig follows him into the house. Expensive, nice place. The garage is Shug’s; the house is his wife’s. She too has expensive taste. Nice, kindly woman, apparently. Another boost for his image.

  He’s led through to what’s been previously called Shug’s office. It’s a loose term. Maybe some work is done in there, but it looks a lot more like a large playroom to Greig. He’s said that to Shug before, and got a loud laugh in reply. Shug’s full of laughs. Doesn’t take anything too seriously. He admits it. His kids have a playroom, so why shouldn’t he?

  ‘Paul, come in, take a seat,’ Shug’s saying, on his feet and offering a hand. Always friendly. Always on first-name terms.

  ‘What’s up?’ Greig’s asking. Time to get down to business. No messing around; not here to be friends.

  There are two other men in the room with Shug, plus the friend that led Greig in. Shug nods and two of them leave the room. Now it’s Greig facing Shug and his right-hand man. David Waters, known to everyone as Fizzy. Another jolly fellow. Another with a tough core. Those two are sitting on a leather couch against one wall, with Greig in a swivel chair opposite. It feels relaxed, as it’s supposed to. But he wouldn’t be there if they were relaxed. A criminal doesn’t invite a cop to his home if he’s feeling relaxed about life.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about a crime that happened yesterday sometime,’ Shug’s saying to him. ‘A friend of mine. I’m a wee bit upset about it.’

  The Winter hit leaps immediately to the front of Greig’s mind, but he pushes it back. Implausible. Nothing to do with Shug. Must be something more innocuous. Something that Greig isn’t aware of, flown under his radar. That happens a lot. What look like little crimes to a guy like Greig feel like something big to a guy like Shug.

  ‘Lewis Winter was shot dead in his house,’ Shug’s saying, and Greig is struggling to hide his surprise. ‘Looks like a professional job. What do you know of it?’ It’s asked with a tone filled with innocence. A friend asking about a friend. Asking a cop that he doesn’t thi
nk has anything to do with it.

  How much does Shug know? Why does he care? Does he know that Greig was first on the scene? Might do, if he has another cop on his books. What does that matter? Why should he care a damn? Is Shug trying to muscle in on getting a share of the Winter estate? No. No way. That ain’t Shug. He doesn’t push his luck. Not ever. He doesn’t muscle in on areas that don’t concern him. Never been involved in a crime beyond the car ring. Something to do with Zara Cope? Nah, not that, either. He’s a loyal husband, everyone knows that. Gives a wide berth to all those cheap temptations. So what?

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Lewis Winter,’ Greig’s saying to him. It’s the only way – go straight for an answer. Normally he wouldn’t, but he has a deal with Cope and he doesn’t want it falling apart because of Shug. He’s asking awkward questions only because there’s money in it for him.

  ‘I knew him,’ Shug is saying. Not happy to be asked, but not surprised. ‘Wouldn’t say I knew him well, but I knew him a wee bit. Heard he got hit by a pro. I’m concerned about it. I feel like I need a wee bit more detail on the subject.’

  Greig’s nodding along. Fair enough. You know a guy, he gets hit, you ask a few questions. But you don’t send everyone but your right-hand man out of the room. You don’t drag a cop round to your house at the first opportunity.

  ‘He was hit by a pro,’ Greig’s saying, ‘no doubt about that. Textbook. Very well done. I doubt they’ll catch the guys who did it. Guy leading the investigation is DI Fisher. Good copper,’ he says grudgingly. ‘If there’s no clue to find, though, you don’t catch the guy.’

  Shug is nodding. He doesn’t know what sort of facial expression he should have. He doesn’t know what Greig would expect of him. He goes for poker-face. Give nothing away.

  ‘You said guys? There was more than one?’

  Greig’s nodding. ‘Two-man job. One to keep watch on Winter’s girlfriend, the other to do the killing.’