Cutting Edge Page 17

  ‘Bert, it’s Charlie. What are you up to?’

  ‘Just surfing the channels.’

  ‘I could use a dram. Fancy joining me in James Davidson’s’?’

  ‘Fine – eight o’clock?’

  ‘See you there.’

  Malcolm Stuart’s eyes were glued to the computer screen in the incident room while his fingers danced around the keyboard. He didn’t hear Tony O’Sullivan approaching from behind.

  ‘Bit of a whiz at the typing, I see.’ Malcolm’s fingers didn’t slow down as he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘I’ve never got beyond two fingers, myself,’ Tony said. ‘It’s Catch 22. I must have started the touch typing course a dozen times, but just when I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it, I have to break off to type something urgent.’

  Getting to his feet, Malcolm pushed his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, stuck out his stomach and started strutting round the room. Lowering the pitch of his voice, he made a passable imitation of Charlie’s accent. ‘This touch typing nonsense will never catch on, O’Sullivan. Passing fad. Stick to shorthand and you’ll be all right.’

  ‘Ahem! Good evening, sir,’ Tony said, forcing a cough.

  Malcolm spun round, blushing furiously.

  ‘Fifteen-love!’ Tony shouted triumphantly, thrusting up his right arm in a self-congratulatory high five.

  ‘You bastard!’ Malcolm reached up to slap his open palm.

  ‘Swearing at a senior officer. That’ll cost you a pint.’ O’Sullivan looked up at the wall clock. ‘Time we were knocking off, Malcolm. All work and no play makes Tony a dull boy. Seven o’clock on a Saturday night is late enough for anybody.’

  Malcolm sat down again and spun round to face the terminal. ‘I just need to finish this off. It’ll only take me a couple of minutes.’ He raised his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. ‘What did you think of the boss on the telly last night?’ he asked as he was tapping away at the keyboard.

  ‘Under the circumstances, I thought he did all right.’

  ‘Do you think he’d had a few jars before he went on?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so.’ Tony frowned. ‘What gave you that impression?’

  ‘He looked pretty hot and bothered – and he got flustered over a couple of questions.’

  ‘Probably the studio lights and the pressure,’ Tony said. ‘I wouldn’t have fancied bearding the lioness in her den.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ Malcolm grinned slyly. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘You’re getting ideas way above your station, my lad. Anyway, the word on the street is that Fran prefers female company to randy toy boys.’

  ‘Oh, don’t spoil my fantasy! I was hoping I might be able to talk her into being my Mrs Robinson.’

  ‘Dream on!’ Tony snorted. ‘Now if I can bring you back to reality with a resounding thud, what do you have planned for this evening?’

  ‘If you’re one hundred percent sure Fran’s out of the frame –’ Malcolm gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’ll probably grab something to eat and have an early night.’

  ‘Do you like curry?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How about we pick up a take-away and head back to my place? I’ve got beer in and maybe I can educate you with a malt or two?’

  Malcolm’s fingers darted around the keyboard as he filed the document he was working on. ‘Best offer I’ve had all day,’ he said, leaning forward to switch off the terminal.

  ‘If we’re going to have a session, it would make sense for you to drop your car off at your flat and walk over to my place. It’s only about ten minutes. Here’s the address,’ Tony said, plucking a sheet of paper from the stack on the printer and writing it down. ‘I’ll draw you a map. It’s straightforward,’ he said, sketching. ‘Up to the top of Byres Road, across great Western Road, along Queen Margaret Drive and Wilton Street is the second on the right. My flat’s on the right hand side of the road, two up, left hand side of the landing. My name’s on the bell.’ Tony handed across the sheet of paper. ‘While you’re dropping off your car, I’ll pick up a take-away from the Shish Mahal. What do you fancy?’

  ‘I’m easy.’

  ‘How about chicken curry and onion bhajis?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Vegetable pakora to go with it?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How hot do you take your curry?’

  ‘I usually go for vindaloo.’

  ‘Have you tried Glasgow vindaloo?’

  ‘No. Is there a difference?’

  ‘I’ll put you down for mild, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just kidding.’

  Charlie found a parking bay in the High Street in Renfrew and went into the Fish Bar to get a chicken supper. He was picking at it half-heartedly as he walked along Hairst Street when he saw Bert Pollock pull into a parking space on the other side of the street.

  ‘Fancy a chip?’ Charlie said, offering the supper to Bert as he crossed the road.

  ‘No thanks. I’ve already eaten.’ Bert eyed Charlie up and down. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so Charlie, you look like shit.’

  ‘I don’t feel that good,’ Charlie said, scrunching up the chicken supper and dropping it into the nearest bin.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ll tell you inside.’

  Bert went up to the bar and ordered two Lagavulins and two half pints of heavy which he carried across to the table where Charlie had installed himself.

  ‘I saw you on the telly last night,’ Bert said as he took the seat opposite. ‘I thought you handled the situation pretty well.’

  ‘I hated every minute of it. But things have taken a turn for the worse.’ Charlie threw back his whisky in one, then tipped the dregs into his beer. ‘The bastard has somehow got hold of Sue’s address and her phone number and he’s terrorising her.’

  ‘How did he manage to do that?’

  ‘Christ only knows!’ Charlie picked up his beer and glugged it down. ‘Same again?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

  ‘I’ve haven’t even touched mine yet,’ Bert protested, indicating the drinks on the table in front of him. He put a restraining hand on Charlie’s sleeve. ‘Getting smashed isn’t the answer, Charlie.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Charlie said, shrugging his arm free. ‘I’m only going to get myself a fucking drink.’

  ‘You weren’t joking about Glasgow vindaloo,’ Malcolm said, wafting his hand in front of his mouth as Tony came back from the toilet and took his seat at the other side of the kitchen table.

  ‘I used to take vindaloo, but I must be getting old,’ Tony said. ‘These days I never go for anything hotter than Madras.’

  ‘I think I’ll join you next time. That was a lot hotter than anything they serve down south,’ Malcolm said, scooping up the last of the pilau rice with his fork. He hesitated with the fork half-way to his mouth. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, Tony?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Does Dino have a drink problem?’

  Tony raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. Why?’

  ‘A couple of times in the office I thought I could smell whisky on his breath.’

  Tony took a slow swig of beer. ‘Charlie likes his drink as much as the next man, but I’ve no reason to think he has a problem.’

  Malcolm swallowed his forkful of rice. ‘I probably just imagined it.’

  ‘Are you ready for a wee malt?’ Tony asked, getting to his feet.

  ‘To quote Colin Renton,’ Malcolm said, making a dreadful attempt at a Scottish accent: “Haud me back, Jimmy!”’

  Darkness had fallen by the time Harry Brady regained consciousness. When he came round slowly, he found himself slumped across his counter, his left arm and hand completely numb. Gingerly, he gripped the handle of the vice with his right hand and tried to unwind it, but it r
efused to budge. Taking a deep breath, he summoned all the strength he could muster and gave the handle a sharp tug. The stab of pain that pulsed through his left hand was excruciating and he almost passed out again, however, he had managed to move the handle a quarter turn. Heart pounding, he rested for a minute to recover, then he gripped the handle tightly and forced it through another quarter turn, the searing pain in his left hand easing slightly as the pressure slackened on his crushed fingers. Two more quarter turns – and he managed to free his hand. As he cradled his broken fingers to his chest, he noticed a piece of paper protruding from his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and crossed to the window where he could read the note by the light of the street lamp: Pay me a grand tomorrow – or we pay Sheila a visit.

  Limping back across the room, he lifted the cassette recorder from the shelf underneath the counter. He rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The recording was crystal clear. Removing the tape from the machine one-handed, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘There’s no way you’re driving, Charlie.’ Standing outside James Davidson’s, Bert Pollock plucked Charlie’s car keys from his hand.

  ‘Give me back my keys,’ Charlie slurred, grabbing hold of Bert’s wrist. ‘I’m okay to drive.’

  ‘You are not okay.’

  ‘For God’s sake! It’s only a couple of miles.’

  ‘You’ve got enough on your plate without getting done for drink-driving. Why don’t you come back to my place and kip down for the night?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got a cat to feed.’

  ‘Then I’ll drop you off home. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so your car will be fine where it is. You can pick it up in the morning.’

  Charlie heaved his shoulders. ‘I’m all right to drive.’

  ‘How many haufs was it?’

  ‘Not that many.’

  ‘Aye, right! Come on,’ Bert said, pocketing Charlie’s car keys. ‘I’m just across the road,’ he said, pointing as he led the way to his car.

  Charlie’s slumped low in the passenger seat, his eyes never leaving the wing mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed as Bert drove the length of Paisley Road. When they got to Wright Street, Bert turned the corner and pulled up outside Charlie’s gate. He handed him his keys. ‘I’ve no idea what the solution is, Charlie, but one thing’s for sure – it doesn’t come in a bottle.’

  Charlie unclipped his seat belt. ‘Thanks for the lift, Bert. I’ll give you a bell.’

  Getting out of the car, Charlie stood on the pavement while Bert executed a U-turn and drove off. He looked up and down the street, seeing no one, before swaying his way up his steep drive. He hesitated at the front door with his house keys in his hand, then went round to the back of the building to check for any sign of a forced entry. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but nothing seemed to be amiss.

  The house was cold and unwelcoming. He went through to the kitchen and was fixing himself a cheese sandwich when a clatter behind him made him spin round, bread knife poised. Blakey’s plaintive miaow drowned the bang of the cat flap closing behind him. Charlie put down the knife and picked up the purring animal, draping him over his shoulder. ‘How are you, my big boy?’ he said, scratching at the top of the cat’s bony head. Blakey started struggling to get down. ‘More interested in food than cuddles, as always,’ Charlie said, setting the cat back down on the floor. Opening the cupboard above the cooker, he took the nearest tin of cat food from the shelf and bent down to fork the contents into the bowl by the door, Blakey nudging his hand out of the way as he tried to get at the food. ‘You’ve got more of an appetite than I have, big man,’ Charlie sighed. Picking up his sandwich, he took a couple of bites, then dropped it into the pedal bin.

  Going through to the lounge, Charlie poured himself a large belt of malt whisky and carried it up to his bedroom.

  The pain in his hand had been replaced by numbness as Harry Brady trudged up Gibson Street, his broken fist cradled inside his jacket. He made his way up University Avenue and down the hill on the other side, as far as the Western Infirmary. When he went into A&E he saw there were more than twenty people waiting to be attended to. He went over to the reception desk.

  ‘What seems to be problem?’ the receptionist enquired.

  Brady held up his hand. ‘I think I might have broken my fingers.’

  ‘How did that happen?

  ‘I was working in the garden when a rock fell on me and crushed my hand.’

  ‘Not a great idea, that – working in the garden in the dark.’

  ‘It wasn’t dark when it happened. My hand was trapped under the rock. It took me a long time to get it free.’

  ‘I need some particulars,’ she said, selecting a form from under the counter. ‘Name, address, GP, next of kin and religion.’

  ‘Religion?’

  ‘It’s on the form,’ she said, tapping the sheet of paper in front of her. ‘And please don’t say “Jedi Knight”,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘How about “none”?’

  ‘None’s fine. I just have to fill in the boxes.’

  When the receptionist had completed the form, she indicated the row of blue chairs opposite. ‘Take a seat over there and wait till your name’s called.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Sunday 26 June

  Checking his bedside clock for the umpteenth time, Charlie saw it was quarter past four. He rolled over and closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. His heartbeat was in overdrive and everything was churning inside his head. Could he be absolutely sure that all three victims had been killed by the same person? His brain was hurting. If so, who could the sick bastard be? Assume nothing without proof, he told himself. The man who went to see Irene McGowan at her campsite was wearing a cap. The guy who gave the parcel to the kid in Sauchiehall Street was wearing a baseball cap. The murderer on the train was wearing a baseball cap. Coincidence? Don’t believe in coincidences, deal only in facts. Was he wearing the cap as some kind of act of bravado? Did he want to be noticed? Was he showing off? Was he toying with the police? Charlie rolled over in bed again. How did the guy manage to identify Kay? How did he know she’d be in Sainsbury’s on that particular morning, at that particular time? How did he know Charlie’s grandson’s name was Jamie? He’d addressed the letter to Jamie Paterson. How did he know Sue’s married name? How did he find out her address? How did he get her mobile number?

  The night dragged by slowly. Long periods of tossing and turning trying to make sense of what was happening, interspersed with short bursts of troubled sleep. Charlie found himself walking the length of an identity parade that snaked away into the far distance. The faces were familiar – all men he’d been instrumental in sending to jail, though he couldn’t recall many of their names. A few of them were trying to avoid eye contact, some were sneering at him, others laughing in his face. And each and every one of them was holding out an amputated hand and thrusting it at him as he walked past. A voice some way down the line shouted out: “It wasn’t me, Anderson. It was him!” while pointing an accusing finger at the man next to him. Others joined in the chant: “It wasn’t me, Anderson. It was him!” The line formed a circle around him and started to close in slowly. “It wasn’t me, Anderson. It was him!” A hundred Glaswegian keelies leering at him and, incongruously, every one of them was taunting him in a refined Glasgow accent. “It wasn’t me, Anderson. It was him!” A hundred raised voices – a hundred amputated hands – a hundred accusing fingers. The chanting rose in a crescendo. It became deafening.

  The screech of the alarm clock going off at six o’clock dragged Charlie from his nightmare with a jolt. He climbed slowly out of bed. His throat was parched. His head was pounding. His pyjamas were soaked in sweat.

  Charlie turned the temperature up us much as his skin could bear as he stood under the shower and let the water cascade down his body. Stepping out of the cubicle, he towelled himself down vigorously. He took a jar of Paracetamol from the bathroom
cabinet and spilled two tablets onto his palm. Filling a beaker with water from the cold tap, he gulped them down. While he was shaving, he decided to go across to Elderslie to see if Kay was all right before going into the office.

  Although he didn’t feel in the least bit hungry, he made himself a bowl of porridge in the microwave. Sitting down at the kitchen table, he poured on milk and forced most of it down.

  Having whistled outside unsuccessfully for Blakey, he re-filled the cat’s empty food bowl and left fresh drinking water by the cat flap.

  Rather than catch a bus, Charlie decided to walk to Renfrew town centre to collect his car. It was less than two miles and he needed the walk to clear his head. The sun had already been up for a couple of hours and it was shining in a clear blue sky as he made his way down Paisley Road, with only a handful of vehicles passing him en route. When he got to his car he checked his watch. Quarter past seven – too early to turn up at Grace’s. He decided to go for a drive. The Sunday morning traffic was light as he joined the M8 in the direction of Greenock. He continued on past the airport turn-off, following the signs for the Erskine Bridge. There was no traffic behind him as he crossed the bridge and he slowed right down so he could appreciate the magnificent vista of the Clyde estuary as it started to open out at Langbank and yawn its way across towards Dumbarton Rock, clearly visible in the distance on the far bank.

  From Duntocher, he headed north, through Dumbarton, past the golf course he used to play on every weekend until the arthritis in his fingers made it too painful to grip a club. When he got to Balloch, at the southern tip of Loch Lomond, he drove up the west side of the loch for half a mile before pulling into a large, deserted, lay-by. He got out of the car and sat on a rock by the side of the road, gazing at the view. In the middle of the loch, the imposing island of Inchmurrin with the ruins of Lennox castle was bathed in the early morning sunlight. In the far distance, on the other side of the loch, the hamlet of Balmaha was starting to wake up.