The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Page 18

  37

  The taxi driver is a fucking idiot. Knows nothing. He can remember picking them up and dropping them off, but it seems like he’s the only person in the world who drives with his eyes shut. He’s obviously bullshitting. Fisher struggles to keep his patience in check. The guy knows that a serious crime has happened, that it’s to do with the underworld. He’s keeping his mouth shut, in case he says anything that gets him called as a witness. Nobody wants to be seen going into court to act as a witness against gangland people. Fear of reprisals. People keep their mouths shut even when they might hold the key to a case.

  Chances are the taxi driver didn’t see anything. Pros like these gunmen wouldn’t have done anything that might draw the attention of the taxi driver and his cab’s occupants, but still, you hope. One interesting thing he does say – and even that’s largely by accident – is that the young couple seemed very much a couple. It hadn’t occurred to the driver that they were anything else. They were close. They were together. They didn’t seem, Fisher gleans from the conversation, like the sort of couple who would break apart at the front door. Seems like Cope had found herself a little playmate, someone more energetic than her usual decrepit partner. The other thing the driver says was that, as expected, the older guy looked pretty smashed. Didn’t look like he could stand up by himself. A few pieces of ammo to throw at Cope.

  The plod who had been looking after Cope comes upstairs to see him. She knows that Fisher is in a monstrous mood with her, but that’s frequent and expected. She’s convinced she has done nothing wrong, and she’s sure that she now has the ammunition to prove it.

  ‘Zara Cope called the station, looking for me,’ she says, just a little smugly. ‘Wanted me to know the new address she’s taken. Little flat somewhere, away from the scene. Called me up without prompting.’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ Fisher’s saying as the plod passes a piece of paper across the table with the address on it.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘She was prompted.’

  Another visit to her. This time to find out about her little bit on the side. Who the hell was he? She’s opening the door of her flat. Minimal make-up. Hair tied back. Simple, casual outfit. Very pretty. But scum. Total scum.

  ‘Nice to see you, Miss Cope. How are you feeling?’ Fisher’s asking. He hopes she can spot how little he really cares. She’s smart. She will.

  ‘About as well as can be expected. Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Please.’

  Small flat. Basic furnishings. It looks, and feels, short-term. He’s found a place to sit down and he’s making himself at home. No need to wait to be invited.

  ‘I want to ask you some questions about the young man you took home with you. I want you to tell me who he is and where I can find him, and I don’t want you to lie to me.’ He says it sternly, but matter-of-fact. He’s not looking for a screaming match here. He’s giving her a chance to be straight with him for once. Fisher can’t help but feel that he’s showing more generosity than her behaviour has earned.

  ‘I don’t . . . I don’t know what you mean,’ she’s saying, and she’s sitting opposite him in the cramped living room. But she already looks rattled, and she knows it.

  ‘I mean that you lied to me about your relationship with this man. I mean that you know who he is. I mean that I’m fed up of you thinking you can string me along. Do you understand how that makes you look, in the light of what’s happened?’

  This time she really does want to cry. It won’t do her any good, though. Quite the reverse, with this hard bastard. Don’t give away more than you absolutely have to.

  ‘You’ve obviously got the wrong end of the stick somewhere, Mr Fisher.’

  ‘DI Fisher, and I know what I’ve caught a hold of. A liar. You and this young man were practically inside each other’s underwear at the nightclub. You went out to the taxi. You didn’t just bump into him because he was leaving at the same time you were. You met him in the club, you got close, you invited him home. Hey, I’m not judging you and your old man – whatever you two got up to with consenting adults in your own home is your business – but I hardly . . .’

  ‘How dare you,’ she’s shouting. ‘How dare you speak about Lewis that way. Whatever we got up to? You cheap and nasty bastard.’

  Okay, that went too far. Trying to avoid a screaming match, but letting your temper get the better of you. It happens. Now rebuild the bridge and try again.

  ‘Okay,’ he’s saying to her now, trying to find a tone that sounds contrite. ‘I accept that I went too far. It was wrong of me to insult Lewis that way. But you were not honest to me about your relationship with that young man, when we spoke at the station. I’ve come here to ask you to be honest with me. I don’t think it’s necessary for us to do this at the station, because I think we can find the right answers without taking it that far. What d’you say? I want you to start again, and tell me everything you can about that young man.’

  She’s nodding her head. All right, he doesn’t know much, just that they were heavy in the club. You can still talk your way out of this one. ‘He was just some guy in the club,’ she’s saying, talking quietly. ‘He came over and we started dancing. He was nice. He was cute. We got close. I’d had a lot to drink. We’d been drinking at the house before we left; I had a few more at the club. I don’t . . . I remember leaving. Lewis was really drunk. He helped get Lewis out to the front. I hailed a taxi. This guy got in with us. I didn’t invite him, he was just imposing himself. We went back to the house. At the front door I told the guy it wasn’t going any further. That was it. I had to persuade him. He didn’t like it. He thought he was on a promise. That was it.’

  Still lying. Still fucking lying. What is it with this girl? She doesn’t seem stupid, but maybe you’re misjudging her. Maybe it’s your fault, Michael Andrew Fisher. Maybe you overestimated her from the start. Just another dumb slut. Fine, time to shoot her down. He’s leaning back in his chair, going for the stern and disapproving look that he does so well.

  ‘So tell me what his name is.’

  She’s sighing, putting her head in her hands. ‘I don’t remember. I really don’t. I think it was Sean. It was something like that. Sean. I don’t remember. I was drunk. He said it in the club. It was loud, and I didn’t really care.’

  She really is something else. You can see why so many men fall for her, you really can. There’s something rather sexy about devious women; it’s what makes them so dangerous.

  ‘You dance with this guy for hours. He goes home with you. He thinks he’s getting some action. You turn him away at the door. You don’t even know his name.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she’s saying, carefully allowing a little defiance to return to her voice.

  ‘Thing is, I have witnesses saying you and this young man were still acting very much like a couple after you left the club. That you and he were still close.’ Okay, that’s exaggerating what the taxi driver said, but let’s see how she reacts.

  ‘Well, your witnesses are liars. I’m not sure I spoke a word to him from the time we left the club to the time I told him to go home.’

  Last throw of the dice. You don’t have enough to take her in anyway. You don’t even know why she’s lying to you. It looks like she might have known what was going to happen, maybe was even involved. No evidence. You might have visited her too early.

  ‘You say you got Winter into the house by yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got him up the stairs by yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Along the corridor and into the bedroom by yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet when he left the club he could hardly stand up. I happen to know that when he reached the house he could hardly stand up.’

  ‘He could stand up. It wasn’t easy, I never said that, but I got him to the bed by myself.’ Defiance, real and strong.

  Leave her. Just leave her. You don’t have enough. Not yet. She knows
that she’s under pressure, though, and you know that she’s likely to make a mistake because of that pressure. As soon as she does, you’ll be there.

  Back to the station. Get a couple of plods up. Going to need a little bit of help finding this guy. Nobody seems to know who he is. Need a couple more bodies to get out on the street and see what we can find. Start by interviewing people at the club. Pick a couple of plods. Bollocks to who-ever’s due to be on duty tonight. Bollocks to whoever the desk sergeant recommends. You need people you can trust. Get a couple of good coppers. Young, willing to learn to do things the right way.

  PC Matheson and PC Higgins standing in front of his desk. They both look like kids, but that seems to be the way of it. Both good young coppers. Both coppers who need to be taken in the right direction. Fisher knows Matheson is the better of the two. He knows that he needs to learn a few good lessons, having probably picked up a multitude of bad ones from that dickhead Greig. He’s heard good things about Higgins. Conscientious, decent, a proper copper. It would be nice to have a couple of plods that he can rely on. Call for them whenever he needs the help, and know that they can be trusted. Push them up the ladder.

  ‘Okay, you two; I want your help finding a man in connection with the Winter murder. This is the fellow we’re looking for,’ he’s saying and passing a picture across the desk.

  He gives them their instructions. Go to the club, question people. If this guy’s been there before, then someone might just recognize him. They’re both nodding along, happy to be involved in something on this scale. They know it’s an opportunity for them. He tells them they can go now. Matheson turns and walks out of the office with his copy of the picture taken from the CCTV. Higgins stays. He looks nervous.

  ‘Something the matter?’ Fisher asks him.

  ‘I was given a tip-off, sir, and I don’t know if it relates to this case or not. It might, it might not. I certainly think it’s worth passing on.’

  ‘Okay, go on.’

  ‘Shug Francis.’

  Fisher pauses. He’s sitting in his chair, thinking about the name that’s just been thrown at him. He knows who Shug is. Owns a chain of garages. Everyone knows that he moves stolen cars and parts through his garages. He’s a crook, but the cost of proving it wouldn’t be worth the reward. Tame stuff.

  ‘Shug Francis?’

  ‘I was told,’ Higgins is saying nervously, ‘that he was moving up in the world. I was told by a contact that he was worth keeping an eye on. At the time I wasn’t sure exactly what it was all about, but then this happens. I think, maybe, I was tipped off because people on the street suspected this might happen. I wouldn’t trust my contact much – lowlife, but still.’

  Fisher is nodding. The boy might be onto something. Shug wants to move into drugs, so he needs to get rid of people like Winter and take over their patch. It’s possible. Not the most likely cause, but worth remembering. ‘You did right to tell me.’

  38

  You always get a warm welcome. Everyone is treated as a friend. How much of that warmth is real, only Frank ever knows. He has a policy, though: welcome them in, treat them as friends and listen carefully. Might not sound like much, but it has helped keep him at the top of the game all these years. Everyone who knows what Frank does for a living also knows that he’s the best. Well, was the best. He isn’t anything any more. Now he’s an invalid. Temporary invalid. That’s what he keeps telling people. Had his hip done. Coming back stronger and better than ever before. He has to say that. He listens carefully. He can detect the doubt in others.

  Calum is ringing the doorbell. He waits a while. How does a cripple answer the door? He doesn’t. The lady who’s been sent round to clean up for him does. She lets Calum in, without even asking who he is. Good God, woman. Calum’s shaking his head and smiling as he enters the living room, knowing that Frank’s going to be mortified. The idea that this stout little tyrant is going to let people in uninvited . . . A man who’s carried out as many jobs as Frank has over the years does have to be careful, and this isn’t careful. Still, how could she know?

  ‘Calum, good to see you, wee man,’ Frank’s saying, reaching out a hand and shaking his head at his help. He’s sitting in his comfy chair, with one leg resting up on a cushioned stool. The whole leg looks ramrod-straight, and Frank looks older than he ever did. Frank plays it like the jolly old man, happy to see a young colleague come and visit, but he’ll be on the alert already. He knows Calum isn’t the type for social calls. He’s here on business.

  ‘Thought I’d come round and see how you’re getting on.’ Calum is lying. This is just the typical preamble, making sure the woman is out of earshot before anything else is said. ‘You look . . . like a guy who just had his hip done.’

  Frank’s laughing. ‘I feel like a guy who’s just had his hip done.’

  The woman says a goodbye to Frank, tells him she’ll be in later to make his tea. She seems awfully rough, but when you’re in Frank’s position you must take what’s given.

  ‘So what’s happenin’, kid?’ the old man asks, reaching for a packet of sweets that have been placed out of view of the carer.

  ‘Maybe nothing. Maybe bad things.’ It’s a strange thing. You spend your whole life and career making sure that you never spill the beans about your work to anyone. You train yourself. You work hard to make sure you never talk. Yet there’s a person out there that you can’t help but talk to. Calum knows he can trust Frank. He knows there’s nothing he’s done that Frank didn’t do thirty years before him. Frank has that rare skill of being easy to talk to.

  ‘There’s always bad things goin’ on. What now?’

  Calum pauses. He has to get the message to Jamieson. ‘I was sent on a job. Got the job done, nice and easy. No loose ends. Nothing that could come back on me. Then I get a phone call from Glen Davidson.’

  Calum can see the look on Frank’s face. He hates Davidson. Hated his father before him. With good reason, although it’s never been entirely clear to Calum what that good reason is.

  ‘He calls me up this afternoon. He asks me if I’m busy. What can I say? I have to admit that I am. Then he plays nice, and that’s the end of it.’

  Frank seems to have forgotten about the chocolate he’s holding. He’s staring off towards the window, contemplating things that he has no intention of sharing.

  ‘He wanted to know if you’d been working recently,’ Frank says in a low growl.

  ‘Aye. I figure he wouldn’t turn to me if he had a two-man job – way better options.’

  ‘Not better, cheaper. But you’re right; he wasn’t fishing for a friend. Looks like he’s fishing for info, and that ain’t a good thing.’ He’s nodding his head. Frank knows what he’s going to do. He’s going to make sure that Young finds out about this as soon as possible. He has that tingling feeling that he gets when big moves are afoot. The excitement starts to build. You know you’re going to be busy. You know there’s going to be a lot happening. The thrill of the job.

  Sitting with his leg up. A cripple. This industry isn’t an equal-opportunities sort of a place. No room for elderly cripples. They only get in the way.

  ‘You know that Peter’s told me to take a few weeks in his villa in Spain when I’m able to get up and about,’ Frank’s saying now. Time to move the conversation along towards a friendly conclusion. The message has been given. Calum knows what he has to do. He’s a smart boy. Frank’s always respected him.

  ‘I didn’t know that. That’ll be nice – a bit of sun on your back for a wee while.’

  ‘Aye, air-sickness, sunburn, poofy drinks and a hairy wee lassie to keep me company, then back to work. I’m lookin’ forward to it.’

  Back at the flat, Calum is riddled with paranoia again. There’s nothing more to do. Get a weapon? No, never. Don’t go down that road. Don’t ask for trouble. You don’t know there’s anything to be afraid of yet. You know what’s happening right now. Frank is calling up John Young and passing on the information about the Davidson
phone call. He and Jamieson will better understand what the threat is. They might sort things out. Have a sit-down and talk with whoever is behind this. Get them to call off the dogs. We already killed one of your guys, don’t make us kill a whole lot more, that sort of conversation. It works, sometimes.

  This could be the start of a war. The start of something big. Frank had that far-away look in his eyes, the sort that implies something impressive is on the horizon. The old guys like this sort of thing. It’s all they have left to live for. Not good if you want to live for a lot longer. Could be nothing. Could be a little flare-up between people testing each other out. Even if it is war, it may not have an awful lot to do with you. You’ve fired the first shot, now you stand back. Jamieson is smart enough not to overwork one of his better options. So you might have little to do. The threat right now is from Davidson. The next move for Jamieson and Young may be to get rid of Davidson. High-profile move. Comes with more risk than Winter. A well-connected man. Not well respected. Certainly not liked. Could be a good way of slapping down whoever’s standing up to them, though.

  A dim light in the corner of the room. Curtains drawn. Keeping the volume of the TV down. He tries to play a game on the PS3, but his nerves won’t let him. Too much pausing every time he hears a distant sound. No way to play. Beginning to hate himself. He’s never been on the receiving end like this, but he’s dealt with threats before. You’ve been in the business long enough to handle this better. You know you’ve done what you can. You know there’s little else to do but go about your business as you normally would. Get rid of the clothing you used to hit Winter. Get some money back from your runner. Keep your head down. Play it straight.

  39

  The club’s loud, but there aren’t many people there. A few stragglers going in and out, but they look like they emerged from the rough end of hell even before they went in. Only the dregs are clubbing tonight. Matheson and Higgins are standing in the foyer, asking everyone who comes in whether they recognize the man in the photo. It’s boring work. It’s unpleasant work. There are a lot of unpleasant people around. A surprising number who see the police as their enemy. Matheson’s never been able to understand that attitude. One drunken halfwit even spat on Higgins’ copy of the photo, in protest at being asked to help. Matheson threatened to arrest him, Higgins was more forgiving. Should have arrested him.