Black Mail (2012) (10 page)

The plinth at the base of the statue was overgrown with twisted vegetation. As he stooped to pick up the case the inscription in the white stone informed him that it was a memorial to Thomas Carlyle. Dusting the snow from the dented briefcase he turned
to face the bridge, furtively scanning the rising ground on the other side of the river, the wide-open, snow-covered parkland stretching as far as the eye could see. All the paths leading to the bridge were deserted, as were the towpaths running alongside the river. There was nowhere for anyone to hide, except, perhaps, behind the statue of a mounted Highland Light Infantry officer on the opposite bank. As he walked towards the bridge the icy air caught him in the back of his throat, causing him to wheeze and splutter. Hacking up a mouthful of phlegm he spat it into the snow.

Billy McAteer’s body tensed when he heard the coughing and the muffled footsteps on the bridge above his head. He lay completely still. The twittering of the dawn chorus had just broken out and the first rays of daylight were appearing low in the sky. His watch showed four minutes past eight. He glanced upwards when a cloud of snow billowed from the parapet of the bridge, disturbed by the briefcase being slid across, then he saw the case arc down silently and almost disappear from view in a puff of powdery snow. McAteer heard the pad of rapidly retreating footsteps, interspersed with coughing, as he eased his rifle into position, the sights trained on the spot where the case had landed. It was the first time he’d squinted down rifle sights since he’d lost his left eye. It was a strange sensation not having to wink.

Within moments he heard the laboured breathing of someone sliding down the far bank while holding onto the bushes growing out of the steep embankment to prevent himself slithering all the way down to the river. He stopped when he reached the briefcase. McAteer’s view was restricted by the arc of the bridge and he could see only the back of a pair of jeans as
far as the top of the thighs. Training the cross wires on the left knee, he wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip and squeezed the trigger. There was an agonised curse as the figure slumped down on to his knees in a cloud of soft snow, bringing his back into the line of sight. McAteer’s second shot was aimed between the shoulder blades, slightly off centre, going for the heart. The victim’s arms jerked backwards in spasm, clawing at the point of impact as his body started to pitch forward, slowly at first, then accelerating rapidly when the next bullet slammed into the nape of his neck.

McAteer got to his feet and quickly massaged some life back into his frozen legs. Draining his hip flask he slipped his watch onto his wrist, slung the rifle over his shoulder and picked up his holdall. He scrambled up the near bank and checked to make sure the coast was clear before crossing the bridge and slithering down the opposite bank. Blood was oozing from the motionless figure, crimson at the point of contact with the snow, diffusing to a soft pink as it seeped away from the body. Placing the tip of the short rifle barrel against the back of the half-buried head he pumped three rounds into the skull. He dismantled his rifle quickly and stowed the parts in his holdall before picking up the briefcase and clambering back up the steep embankment.

As he headed along the towpath in the direction of his car he tugged off his balaclava and stuffed it into the pocket of his camouflage jacket.

Charlie Anderson was sitting in his office, trying to interpret the crime statistics, when his phone rang just before nine o’clock. Swearing at the unwelcome interruption he snatched up the handset. ‘Anderson,’ he barked.

‘Good morning, sir.’ He recognised Colin Renton’s voice. ‘I realise you’re not on duty today but there’s news coming in of a homicide. I thought you’d want to know.’

Dropping his pen onto the desk, Charlie’s fist gripped the handset tightly. ‘Where?’

‘Kelvingrove Park.’

‘What do we have?’

‘It’s all rather sketchy at the moment. It seems a girl was walking her dog in the park this morning when she came across a body half-buried in the snow, down by the river. The initial report from the uniformed boys is that half the victim’s head was blown away. I’m going across there now with the scene-of-crime officers and the forensic team.’

‘Keep me posted, Colin.’ Charlie replaced the receiver and tried to pick up the threads of his analysis, but he found it impossible to concentrate.

Colin Renton was updating Charlie when Tony O’Sullivan ambled into the office just after ten o’clock. Charlie raised an open palm to acknowledge his presence.

‘Thanks for the alarm call,’ O’Sullivan yawned.

‘Thought you might appreciate a bit of overtime on the
run-up
to Christmas.’

‘Nice of you to think of me.’ O’Sullivan stifled another yawn. ‘I was getting bored. I must’ve been in bed for almost six hours.’

‘Not every day we get a high-profile murder on our patch,’ Charlie said.

‘Anyone we know?’

‘Assuming he was carrying his own driving licence,’ Renton chipped in, ‘we’ve got Mike Harrison’s corpse on our hands.’

‘Mike Harrison!’ O’Sullivan let out a long, low whistle. ‘A gangland hit?’

‘A fair assumption,’ Charlie stated.

‘A professional job, for sure,’ Renton said. ‘Three shots from behind – one in the knee, one in the back and one in the neck, following which his skull was reduced to bone chippings from close range.’

‘Barely enough of his ugly mug left to give us a positive ID,’ Charlie said grimly. ‘But Bobby Ralph over at the mortuary knew Harrison well and he’s in no doubt that it’s him.’

‘Where did this happen?’ O’Sullivan asked.

‘Kelvingrove Park, down by the river,’ Renton said. ‘Sometime earlier this morning.’

‘Does earlier than this actually exist?’ O’Sullivan said, stifling a yawn.

‘As soon as you’ve had your fix of caffeine, Tony, I want you to go over to Bearsden and break the news to the widow. Here’s the address.’ Charlie tore a slip of paper from the pad on his desk and handed it across. ‘Her name’s Laura Harrison. We’ll need her to go to the mortuary to formally identify the body. Lillian McArthur’s been called out. She’ll go with you. Colin, I want you go through the files and dig out everything we’ve got on Harrison – his associates as well as his known enemies.’ Charlie’s fingers
travelled over his bald skull. ‘We never did manage to make anything stick but Harrison had his fingers in a lot of dodgy pies. He’s dabbled in just about everything in his time – from porn and pimping to protection rackets and drugs. Half of Glasgow had a motive for seeing the back of him, so work on the assumption that you’re both going to be busy little beavers for the next few days.’

‘Glad I had the foresight to book time off,’ O’Sullivan said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Committing the Harrisons’ address to memory, he tucked the slip of paper into his notebook.

Tony O’Sullivan turned off Great Western Road at Anniesland Cross and took the Switchback in the direction of Bearsden. He glanced across at Lillian McArthur sitting in the passenger seat, humming quietly to herself as she filed away at a chipped fingernail with an emery board. He’d never been able to figure out what age Lillian was. Her greying hair gave the appearance of being in her fifties but the smooth tone of her skin suggested she might be quite a lot younger.

‘Did you have anything exciting lined up for this morning, Lillian?’

‘Nothing in particular, Sarge.’ She stopped filing her nails. ‘Smoked salmon and fresh strawberries for breakfast, probably washed down with a couple of glasses of bubbly, then a bit more rumpy-pumpy with Mel Gibson.’

‘With or without the woad?’

‘Without, of course!’ She blew on her fingertips and buffed her nails on the lapel of her jacket. ‘You men don’t realise what a mess that stuff makes on the sheets.’

O’Sullivan pulled up outside a large detached house in Canniesburn Road and checked the number on the gate post against the address he’d been given. ‘This is it, Lillian.’

Getting out of the car they walked up the driveway, their feet scrunching noisily in the frosted gravel. O’Sullivan pressed the bell push and the door was opened before the echo of the ring had died away.

‘Laura Harrison?’ he asked.

‘What can I do for you?’ Laura was dressed in a white
open-necked
blouse and a knee-length, black and white striped skirt. Despite her make-up, the angry bruising around her left eye was clearly visible.

‘Detective Sergeant O’Sullivan and Police Constable McArthur,’ Tony announced as they both produced their warrant cards. ‘Could we please come in for a minute?’

‘It’s concerning your husband,’ Lillian stated.

‘Mike’s not at home. He plays poker at Ronnie McGavigan’s place every other Friday,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘He always stays over.’

‘It’s you we’d like to talk to,’ Tony said.

Laura furrowed her forehead. ‘What about?’

‘Could we come inside, please?’

Reluctantly Laura took a step back, allowing them to cross the threshold, then she led the way along the hall towards the lounge, their footsteps making no sound on the plush, thick-pile carpet. ‘What’s this all about?’ she asked, motioning towards the settee while propping herself against the edge of a chair.

O’Sullivan and McArthur remained standing. ‘Mrs Harrison,’ Lillian began, ‘there was a tragic incident in Kelvingrove Park earlier this morning. A man has been killed.’

Laura’s body visibly stiffened. ‘What does that have to do with me?’ she stammered.

‘We have reason to believe that the victim was your husband.’

Laura’s fingernails dug into the chair. ‘That’s not possible!’

Taking Laura by the elbow, Lillian guided her down onto the settee. ‘The person who was killed was carrying your husband’s driving licence, Mrs Harrison.’

‘A police officer who knew your husband well has confirmed that he was the victim,’ Tony added quietly.

Laura sat in silence, fingering her swollen face and staring unblinkingly at the far wall.

‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ Lillian offered. Laura shook her head. ‘When you feel up to it,’ Lillian said, ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to come down to the mortuary and make a formal identification.’

Laura grasped the arm of the settee and gripped it tightly. She sat rigid for a few moments before pulling herself to her feet. ‘I’m ready.’

‘It doesn’t have to be straight away,’ Tony said quickly. ‘We could leave it until later in the day.’

‘I’d rather get it over with, Sergeant,’ she said, picking up her handbag from the coffee table and draping the strap over her shoulder.

‘You can come in our car,’ Lillian said. ‘We’ll drop you back home.’

‘I’d rather drive.’

‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mrs Harrison,’ Lillian said. ‘You’re still in shock.’

‘I’m all right,’ Laura nodded, taking her car keys from her handbag. ‘You lead the way, I’ll follow.’

‘I’ve dug out all we have on Harrison and his associates, sir,’ Renton announced as he walked into Charlie’s office carrying a thick sheaf of paper.

‘O’Sullivan called in a couple of minutes ago,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s on his way back from Bearsden. We might as well wait till he arrives, then you can brief both of us at the same time.’ Renton dumped his papers down on Charlie’s desk. ‘Tell me something,’ Charlie said, indicating to Renton to take a seat. ‘I’ve been trying to make sense of the crime stats this morning. Is this city getting worse or is it just me getting old?’

‘Sir?’

Charlie swung his feet up onto his desk. ‘My first posting in the uniformed division was in Ferguslie Park. The station sergeant there was a sadist. I was barely eighteen at the time and he started me off on the night shift. It was the worst housing scheme in Scotland by a long chalk – all because some pillock of a town planner had come up with the brilliant idea of moving every reprobate, hooligan and rent defaulter in the west of Scotland there.’

‘If I remember correctly,’ Renton said, ‘the harebrained theory was that if all the trouble-makers were concentrated in one place it would make it easier to keep an eye on them, while at the same time we’d be cleaning up the other estates.’

Charlie nodded. ‘Talk about creating a ghetto. It was the nearest thing to a no-go area we’ve ever had in Scotland. But despite that, the crime stats were never as bad as they are today.’

‘There was probably as much in the way of violence, protection rackets and pimping as there is today,’ Renton said, ‘but most of the aggro was among the gangs themselves – turf wars – and the violence didn’t get reported. Nowadays it seems like we’re the
prime target – like that incident in Barmulloch last week when two officers were dragged from their patrol car in broad daylight and had the shit beaten out of them.’

‘And, of course, no witnesses,’ Charlie growled. ‘Nobody ever sees a bloody thing!’ He shook his head. ‘I’m no sociologist, but when I see these gangs of louts on the rampage – some of them barely out of short trousers – it makes me want to throw up.’

‘It’s the casual use of knives that gets to me,’ Renton said. ‘You just have to look at these kids the wrong way and the blades are out.’

‘Is it really all down to drugs?’

‘Drugs? Drink? Unemployment? Boredom? Who knows?’

‘My son-in-law used to lay the blame at Thatcher’s door, but that’s too glib. We were already up to our necks in shit before she shoved us under.’

‘Politicians are all the same,’ Renton said. ‘I mean – take New Labour. What’s that all about? Who asked for a new Labour? Did you? Did anyone in Scotland? The Labour Party that was good enough for Keir Hardie and Jimmy Maxton was good enough for me.’

‘Fair comment.’

‘I can’t remember the last time there was a socialist politician in charge of the Labour Party.’

‘Harold Wilson wasn’t bad,’ Charlie suggested.

‘Wilson was okay, but he was a lot more politician than socialist. What about Kinnock?’

‘Welsh – need I say more?’

Renton guffawed. ‘How about John Smith?’

‘Now you’re talking,’ Charlie nodded respectfully. ‘He would’ve been one of the great socialist prime ministers if he’d lived.’

‘But instead, we got Blair!’

‘He did give us our own parliament.’

‘What the hell’s that all about?’ Renton snorted. ‘Millions of pounds of taxpayers’ money pissed away on a new parliament building so yet another bunch of tossers can sit on their arses all day and contemplate their navels. What’s that got to do with the price of mince?’

‘I heard a good one down the pub a while back,’ Charlie said. ‘Round about the time there was a panic on about the possibility of the state opening of the new parliament building having to be delayed. Do you know that: ‘Months late – at this price!’ is an anagram of ‘The Scottish parliament’?’

Renton chortled. ‘Right on the nail!’

‘If you’re not a Blair fan, what did you make of Irn Broon?’ Charlie asked.

‘At least Gordon was Scottish.’

‘So was Blair.’

‘Your arse in parsley! He was as Scottish as … as the bloody Duke of Edinburgh!’

Tony O’Sullivan nudged the office door open with one knee. He was carrying three plastic cups of coffee and several packets of shortbread biscuits balanced on a tray. ‘Breakfast’s up!’ he announced.

‘Just in time,’ Charlie said with a grin. ‘Colin was flirting dangerously close to high treason.’ Taking his coffee, Charlie rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk for a pencil to stir in the sugar. ‘When you’re ready, Colin, give us the low-down on Harrison.’

Renton lifted his sheaf of paper from Charlie’s desk and balanced it on his knees. Sipping at his coffee he referred to the
notes. ‘The legal side of Harrison’s business was bookmaking,’ he stated, ‘though even there he was sailing pretty close to the wind. He was prosecuted a couple of years back for supplying incorrect turnover data to the Inland Revenue but his lawyer managed to get him off with a ‘not proven’ verdict. The Revenue boys are conducting another investigation into his affairs right now and charges are pending. There’s a sleeping partner in the business, a bloke called Ronnie McGavigan. He’s a bit of a chancer as well. He used to be in the bookmaking business but he lost his licence five years ago because of persistent tax evasion. Harrison ran six betting shops in Glasgow, four of which were in premises owned by McGavigan. It’s common knowledge that Harrison was involved in some pretty murky activities – drugs, protection rackets, pimping, hardcore porn and the like – but he was adept at covering his tracks and we never managed to gather enough evidence to prosecute. By the way,’ Renton added, turning to Charlie, ‘it seems that Billy McAteer joined Harrison’s payroll a while back.’

‘Billy McAteer?’ Charlie scratched at the back of his neck. ‘Now there’s a name to conjure with.’

‘That name means something to me,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘But I can’t place it.’

‘He was way before your time,’ Charlie said. ‘You remember him, Colin?’

‘A hard man to forget, sir.’

‘A hard man in every sense of the word. Thirty-odd years ago his face was splashed across the front pages of the tabloids,’ Charlie said, ‘but he’s been out of circulation for quite some time. If I remember correctly he got fifteen years for armed robbery with violence.’

‘And he picked up a few more years for assault while inside Barlinnie,’ Renton said. ‘His idea of a Guy Fawkes Night celebration was to pick on a fellow inmate – a defrocked priest who was doing time for molesting altar boys. McAteer and one of his cronies stripped the poor bugger naked, tied him
face-down
to the bed in his cell, rammed his Y-fronts into his mouth, stuck a Roman candle up his arse and lit the fuse.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Tony flinched and screwed his eyes shut.

‘It wasn’t the first time he’d used that trick,’ Renton said. ‘Anyone McAteer suspected of being a kiddie fiddler was liable to get the treatment. You can just imagine it. If the victim struggles the flames cascade all over his back and his legs – and if he tries to lie still he gets his bum barbecued.’

‘You could spare us the graphic details, Colin!’ Tony winced.

‘McAteer claims to have invented the punishment,’ Renton said.

‘Another name to be added to the list of great Scottish inventors,’ Tony said. ‘How the hell did he manage to smuggle a Roman candle into Barlinnie?’

‘Christ only knows!’ Renton said. ‘I suppose we should be thankful that he didn’t have a supply of bangers. He had a motto whittled into a piece of wood that he kept on display in his cell: “
An eye for an eye and an arse for an arse.
”’

‘Despite his track record,’ Charlie said, ‘he got out of prison earlier this year. If there was a vote for Glasgow’s number one psychopath of this, or any other, decade Billy McAteer would be right up there with the best of them. How about this for a background? His family emigrated from Belfast to Glasgow when he was about two and he was brought up in Govan, a stone’s throw from Ibrox. He was Rangers daft. Even as a teenager he
was a complete and utter bampot. When he had a drink in him his party trick was to climb up onto the table in his local and belt out “The Sash”, then he’d down a pint in one swallow and announce to the world that he wouldn’t rest until every Catholic had been driven out of Northern Ireland. In the meantime, just to keep his hand in, he wasn’t averse to taking his razor to the occasional passing Tim.