The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Read online

  Higgins seems like a decent enough fellow. Matheson’s heard a few people speaking well of him. Even Greig had good things to say about him. Plus, Fisher hand-picked him for this job. If he can impress those two opposites, then he’s worth knowing. Didn’t expect him to be this quiet. You hear about a copper doing good work, you expect him to have a mouth. You expect him to be pushy and determined – that’s how most stand out. Not this one. He’s keeping it quiet and polite at all times. Greig once told Matheson that Higgins came from a family on the other side. Bunch of crooks, apparently. Petty stuff, but still, not good people. You wouldn’t think so to meet the boy. He seems like good people.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, could you have a look at this photograph and tell me if you recognize the man in it?’ Standard question. The standard response is infuriating. People stop and stare at the picture. They make it look as though they’re really concentrating, because they want to make a good impression on the man in uniform. They stare at it, and slowly begin to shake their head. ‘No, officer, no – don’t know him.’ You say thank you, and you let them get on. It’s a nonsense. If you know the person, then you know him when you look at the picture; you don’t have to spend thirty seconds trying to look intense in order to work it out.

  The manager’s been out into the foyer twice in the last hour. He wants rid of them. They’re scaring away the customers. It won’t do to have a couple of uniformed officers welcoming his regulars into the building, even if it is a slow night.

  ‘We’ll be here all evening if we don’t get anything,’ Matheson took great delight in telling him. He nodded miserably and left them to it, presumably praying that someone would give them some information that they could rush back to the station with. They went in to see him when they first arrived. On Fisher’s orders, they told him they were going to spend the evening at his club. They warned him about respecting his opening hours, and not to stay open late. They also warned him about his security cameras at the front of the club. He needs one to cover the whole pavement out there. Fisher had said the manager was a prick, wanted the fear put into him, but he seemed relieved more than anything. He had obviously thought he was in for more legal trouble than that.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, can you have a wee look at this photograph?’ Matheson’s asking a young man. There’s two young men and two young women. The women look a little ragged to Matheson. The young men are obviously not of discriminating taste when it comes to temporary relationships. ‘Do any of you recognize this man?’ They stop and look at it. The women give it a glance and shake their heads; at least they’re not messing around. The two men pause a little longer. Always the men. Who are they trying to impress?

  ‘Is that . . . Aye, it is. That’s Stewart what’s-his-name. Christ, what’s his surname? He’s Tom’s flatmate. You know the guy,’ he’s saying to his mate.

  Turns out his mate, tipsy though he may be, does know. ‘Macintosh, that’s his surname. Like the jacket. Aye. Shares digs with Tom Shields. Tom works with Harry. D’ya know Harry?’ he’s asking Matheson.

  ‘No, but do you know where they live?’ He wants to hurry them along; it sounded disturbingly like the conversation was heading for a Tom, Dick and Harry joke.

  ‘Oh God, I dunno the address. I got Tom’s number on ma phone, though. Ya wan’ it?’ The man seems to be getting drunker as the conversation goes on. He’s losing the will to hide his pre-clubbing drinking.

  They have a name, they have a mobile number (albeit for the wrong person), and at the station they’ll get an address. In the car on the way back Higgins puts in a call to Fisher, giving him the details. Before they get back Fisher will know what history this Macintosh character has. There’s a good mood between the two of them. They were given a job – an irritating, uninspiring one – and they delivered. It may seem like very little, just getting the job right, but they both want to impress Fisher. He’s the sort of detective who can get you moved up the ladder. The sort who can bring you in on more cases that count.

  Upstairs at the station. Fisher is walking around in circles, looking irritated. He sees them come in.

  ‘Good, you’re back, let’s go. I’ve got the address. Come on, both of you.’ He’s marching past them. Often it would be two detectives who went, but Fisher has monopolized the investigation and he calls the shots. He works with whoever is most useful to him, and if that’s not a fellow detective, then that’s just too bad. That’s why you want to impress him.

  ‘Doesn’t have a history, but you never know,’ Fisher’s saying from the back seat of the car as they speed through the streets. ‘He may be our killer, and he may still have the weapon. Let’s move fast and hard. We’ll see if we can’t catch him by surprise. I think Mr Macintosh is going to have a few interesting things to say to us.’ You can hear the excitement in his voice. Loving it.

  At the front door of the building. A buzzer. The front door locked. Damn! Fisher finds Macintosh’s name on the list and presses the buzzer for the correct flat. Pray it’s the flatmate. Better chance of him playing straight.

  ‘Come up,’ the crackly voice says. That’s it. That easy. He’s obviously expecting someone else. He’s obviously in for a surprise. The buzzer goes. Fisher pulls the door open; Matheson and Higgins follow him in. A well-lit staircase up to the first floor. A well-maintained building. This is not a grotty little flat. This is home to the middle class. It doesn’t feel right to Fisher. This isn’t a gangster’s flat.

  A hitman doesn’t live with his buddy in a comfy area. Not unless the buddy is in the business too, and he wouldn’t have let them in without checking, if he was. Could be a couple, of course, but that sort of thing is still kept largely hidden in the criminal world. Not a liberal-minded bunch. Happens, though. They just keep it quiet. So Macintosh probably ain’t a hitman; doesn’t mean he’s not a killer. Up the stairs and round the corner. Two doors, one on either side of the corridor. Two front doors. Fisher is walking over to the correct one when it’s pulled open. A young man stands looking down at a mobile phone. ‘You took your time. Col was already phoning and he . . . ’ The young man stops the moment he sees the cops.

  He’s standing still, looking like he’s never seen a policeman before in his life. He looks scared, which is good.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Fisher. You are?’

  ‘Erm . . . Tom. I’m Tom. Tom Shields. Is there something the matter?’

  ‘Could be, Mr Shields. We’re looking for your flatmate, Mr Macintosh. Is he home?’

  ‘No, he just went out. Just to get money, though. We’re just going out for a few drinks. Just . . . What’s going on?’ Now he’s really scared. It’s not idle speculation any more; he knows there is something wrong.

  ‘You might be able to help us, Mr Shields. You can answer a few questions.’

  They’re sitting in the flat. Fisher opposite Shields at the kitchen table. Matheson and Higgins are standing nearby, waiting for orders. They don’t have a warrant to search, just to arrest. They’ll have a search warrant within thirty minutes. Then they’ll turn the place upside down.

  ‘Friday night. Were you in Mr Macintosh’s company?’

  ‘Erm . . . Friday night, no. We went our own way. I had a date. Nice girl. He went clubbing, I think. I don’t know.’

  ‘He did. Did you hear what time he got home?’

  ‘No. I had a . . . late night. Well, early morning. You know. I wasn’t here when he got home.’

  If this wet drip is in the criminal business, then the criminal business is going to hell in a handcart. Life would be very easy if they were all as pathetic as this guy. Terrified. Eager to please. Ready to tell whatever truth is necessary.

  ‘Has Mr Macintosh told you anything of what happened on Friday night?’

  ‘No,’ Tom’s saying, ‘he hasn’t. Not at all.’ Then a pause. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘Has Mr Macintosh been behaving any differently since Friday night? Have you noticed anything?’ Fisher’s asking in a way that m
akes it clear that Tom has no right to ask questions of his own.

  ‘No, not that I’ve noticed. I haven’t seen him that much, but . . . I don’t think so.’

  Then the buzzer goes again. Shields is looking at the intercom, panic-stricken.

  ‘Let him in,’ Fisher is saying, ‘don’t say anything.’

  Shields walks across to the intercom and presses the buzzer. He doesn’t say anything. Just one flatmate opening the door for the other. No big deal. He’s walking back across and sitting at the table. He looks on the verge of tears. He has no idea what his friend has got himself involved in, but if it involves a detective and two uniformed officers then it must be bad. Was there something he could have said to protect his friend? Is there anything he’s already said that’s likely to get his friend into further trouble?

  Too late. A key in the door. Stewart pushing it open. Talking as he pulls the key from the lock. ‘Stupid old woman in front of me, don’t think she even knew how to use a cash machine. Why do they have cards if they . . . ’ He stops when he sees the uniforms.

  ‘Stewart Macintosh?’ Fisher asks. He’s getting up from the table, while Matheson and Higgins move in behind Stewart to ensure that he can’t make a run for it.

  ‘Yes,’ he says in response. In that one word, there’s acceptance. Like he knew this was coming. It’s almost as if he was expecting it.

  The detective arrests Stewart. He’s not just looking for a witness; he’s arresting him as a suspect. This isn’t just to ask a few questions. Jesus! – he just used the word ‘murder’. They want to talk to Stewart in connection with a murder. They’re arresting him over a murder.

  ‘Stewart . . . ’ Tom says, and then pauses. The cops are opening the front door, ready to take him out. ‘What’s going on?’

  Stewart looks back at him. There’s a broken look in his eyes. He’s got mixed up in something that’s overwhelmed him. He looks heartbreakingly guilty. He says nothing.

  ‘Is there anyone I should get in touch with?’ Tom’s asking.

  Stewart pauses. ‘No.’

  40

  It’s dark. The room seems to be spinning. Fear in everything. Underscoring it all, the death of the thrill. It had all seemed so wild. Otherworldly. Now it’s intruded into reality and his stomach is lurching. He can hear it making little noises. Didn’t happen instantly – it’s taken the car journey to the station and being booked in to realize what happens next. Throwing your life away. Shocking everyone who knows you. The reality has become inescapable, and the reality is no fun at all. The little part of Stewart that enjoyed this has shut its mouth and gone to lie down in a dark corner. Sitting in the interview room, waiting for a lawyer to arrive, Fisher’s been treating him like a killer. It scares him. He doesn’t want to go to jail. He doesn’t want the consequences of the thrill. Living like a villain is fun. Being treated like one is not.

  The door opens. A lawyer comes in. Bearded fellow, mid-forties. He looks angry already. Fisher, sitting across the desk from Stewart, turns and looks at him. The lawyer can’t see it, but Fisher rolls his eyes. Not impressed with the new arrival. The bearded man walks over and sits next to Stewart.

  ‘I’d like a few minutes alone with my client, please,’ he says to Fisher. There’s history there. Not happy history. Fisher is sighing and getting up from the desk. ‘And I do hope you haven’t mistreated him already. I know how enthusiastic you can get.’

  Fisher scoffs as he reaches the door. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve treated the precious little lamb with the utmost respect.’

  Just Stewart and the lawyer now. ‘First of all, my name’s Norman Barnes. Second of all, you would appear to be wrapped up in a whole lot of trouble. They have you on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Lewis Winter. Now, I want you to be completely honest with me. If we’re going to get you out of here, then we need to know how to fight this.’

  Stewart’s nodding. Involved in a murder. That could be a life sentence. The thrill is dead, it’s funeral-brief. Time to be honest. Time to minimize the damage.

  ‘I wasn’t involved in the murder. Not really. I was there, though.’

  He’s thinking about Zara as he talks to the lawyer. Where is she right now? Does she think she’s safe? He’s letting her down by talking to the police. He’s betraying her. He knows how it works on TV and in the movies. The man comes up with some clever story that protects the beautiful girl from the police. He ends up going to jail instead of her. Jail. No. She’s beautiful, and thrilling, but she’s not worth jail. Nobody is worth that. Surely she’ll understand that a relationship as fledgling as theirs can’t justify a jail term. He might go to jail anyway. But he has to be honest.

  It takes a few minutes, but he tells Barnes everything. The lawyer writes copious notes in shorthand as Stewart talks. He sits with one hand to his mouth, the other writing, looking at the paper all the time. Stewart reaches the end of the story.

  ‘Okay. Stewart, have you any police record?’

  ‘No, none. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. This was a complete accident.’

  ‘Good. You see, a judge is going to hear that and he’s going to wonder about you. Does he need to punish you, or does he need to put you on the straight and narrow. You see, if you have a record, he’ll believe there’s something darker behind this. If you don’t, then he might believe that you’ve been naive. He won’t send you to jail, ruin your life, over this.’

  Send you to jail. Ruin your life. It could happen. It’s all in the hands of others.

  ‘I think the best thing you can possibly do,’ Barnes is saying, ‘is tell DI Fisher everything you just told me. Tell him the whole truth. What you did was a crime. You fled from a murder scene. You handled class-A drugs and possibly drug money, although they’ll have to prove that’s what it was. You withheld information about a murder. They’re all serious. Even a generous judge might feel obliged to put you behind bars for a few months. Your best bet is to give them everything you have. You get a positive report from the police, and the judge will look favourably on you. That’s as much as you can hope for right now.’

  He wants to cry. Barnes has left the room to make a phone call. A DC has come in to sit opposite him. Fisher has gone upstairs to get some paperwork. Fisher took great delight in telling him that the two uniformed officers were already going back to his flat to look for any evidence. They would be ripping the place apart. Fight back the tears. Barnes has warned him. Fisher is a bully. He’ll try to intimidate you. He’ll try to browbeat you into confessing to things that didn’t even happen. Don’t let him. Tell him only what you told me. Tell him only what you know to be true. If he asks you anything you’re uncomfortable about, then you say nothing. If you pause, I’ll step in. The lawyer is good. Comforting. But Stewart still wants to cry.

  Fisher comes in and sits next to the DC. Doesn’t say anything. He’s just sitting there, looking across the table. The boy looks emotionally wrecked. He looks ready to spill his guts. Still, got to watch out for the lies. He has no record. His back-story is convincing. College-educated, working for a respectable company. If you can call advertising respectable. The hairy-faced lawyer comes back in, ready to be a nuisance as usual. Always looking to pick a fight. Always keen to make himself the centre of attention. So many of these lawyers are media whores these days. They’re a bloody embarrassment.

  ‘Okay, Mr Macintosh, shall we begin?’ Fisher says, not bothering to wait for a response before switching on the tape recorder.

  He goes through the formalities. He introduces himself and DC Davies, introduces the suspect and his lawyer. He tells Macintosh that, as well as the tape recorder, they will now be switching on the camera in the corner to record the interview.

  ‘My client would be happy to tell you everything that happened on Friday night,’ Barnes says, before Fisher can even get a question in. Fisher looks at him and glares. That forest-faced prick is enjoying undercutting the detective. Fine. Have it your way.

&
nbsp; ‘Would he really. Well, Mr Macintosh, why don’t you press ahead and tell us what you can.’

  Stewart is pausing. Not for dramatic effect, just a last-ditch effort to think of a version of events that doesn’t incriminate Zara. Or at least doesn’t incriminate her any more than is necessary to keep himself out of jail.

  ‘I was at Heavenly, the nightclub. I saw a girl I liked. I went over and started dancing with her.’

  ‘This was Zara Cope?’

  ‘Yes, Zara. She was dancing with an old guy; I didn’t think he was her partner. He went away; we kept dancing. Then she invited me back to hers. I was happy to go.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Fisher is saying.

  Stewart’s sweating and shivering at the same time. Struggling to maintain control.

  ‘We went back to the house.’

  ‘Hold up,’ Fisher says. ‘I want more detail than that. Tell me about the journey back. Tell me about Cope and Winter and what happened in the taxi.’

  Stewart blushes. ‘The old guy, Winter, he was struggling. He’d been drinking. A lot. We got him out to the taxi. We were all in the back. I was in the middle. Zara was next to me on one side. Winter was on the other. The atmosphere was pretty bad. I guess he drank a lot. I don’t . . . I don’t think he treated her well. I thought maybe she wasn’t – you know – interested in me any more. But then she . . . she touched me.’