Black Mail (2012) (2 page)

‘It’s after half-past!’ Jude Ramsay stood on the bottom step and shouted up the stairs to the study where her husband was gazing out of the bay window. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ she yelled in an attempt to make herself heard above the driving beat of the music.

‘I heard you!’ Simon continued staring out of the window, intrigued by the sight of a large black crow with its beak buried deep in the snow, tugging hard at some unseen morsel. ‘More’s the fucking pity,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘It’s time you were getting ready.’ Jude peered short-sightedly into the hall mirror to massage the excess blusher into her cheeks. Checking her hair, she fussily twisted a sculpted blonde strand into position against her high cheekbone. ‘You know what Helen and Bjorn are like. They’ll be here on the dot.’

Simon crossed to the desk to tweak down the volume of the CD player in his computer. ‘I’m almost through. I just need to check my email.’ He coughed harshly – a hacking smoker’s cough that brought up a mouthful of phlegm. Fishing in his trouser pocket for a tissue he wiped it across his mouth as he slumped down on the swivel chair and swung round to face the screen. ‘As soon as I’ve done that I’ll get changed.’

‘Don’t take all day about it. And don’t forget – it’s DJs.’

‘What!’

‘Bjorn’s hired one specially and Mike’s coming in his dress kilt.’

‘You can’t be serious! There’s no way Alison will ever get Norman into a monkey suit.’

‘They won’t be able to make it. Alison’s just phoned. They’re snowed in.’

‘Why the hell do I have to dress up like a bloody penguin?’ His words came wheezing out from between clenched teeth.

‘Bjorn and Mike are making the effort for your birthday, for God’s sake!’ Jude shouted, peering into the mirror again and licking her fingertips to smooth down her plucked eyebrows. ‘The least you can do is show willing.’

Simon cursed under his breath as he took an envelope from the top drawer of his desk and spilled the white powder onto a CD case. Using a credit card to divide the cocaine into two parallel lines, he took a ten-pound note from his wallet and rolled it into a tooter which he used to snort a line up each nostril. Inhaling deeply, he wiped the back of his hand back and forth across his nose. He licked his index finger and rolled it in the remaining powder dust to rub it hard into his gums. Reaching for the mouse, he clicked on the ‘send and receive’ icon. ‘I don’t see why I should have to spend my fortieth with your bloody sisters,’ he muttered to himself, ‘to say nothing of their
mind-bendingly
boring appendages. Can’t decide what I’m looking forward to more – Bjorn’s incomprehensible ramblings or Mike’s hoary jokes. And who ever heard of dressing up in dinner suits for eating at home? Load of fucking nonsense!’

When the words ‘Receiving message 1 of 6’ appeared on the screen he reached down to the bottom drawer of the desk
and pulled out a fresh carton of Marlboro. Bursting open the cellophane wrapping he removed a packet and tapped out a cigarette as he prised his cigarette lighter from his jeans’ pocket. The first five items of mail arrived quickly but the progress bar showed that the sixth message was downloading slowly. ‘What pillock’s spamming me now?’ he muttered, drumming his nicotine-stained fingers on the mouse pad as he stared impatiently at the flickering screen. Getting to his feet he crossed to the window, but the crow had gone.

The snow, which had started falling before lunchtime in flakes the size of golf balls, had now turned to sleet. From the vantage point of Park Terrace he could see through the leafless branches of the trees on the opposite side of the road and across the deserted, white wasteland of Kelvingrove Park as far as the Glasgow Art Galleries where batteries of concealed floodlights had transformed the Victorian building into an enchanted castle with its phalanx of white turrets stretching up towards the lowering skies. His gaze swung left towards the Scottish Exhibition Centre on the north bank of the river, its striking armadillo profile smoothed away by the drifting snow that had almost filled in its ridges.

Glancing at his watch he strode along the corridor towards the master bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt as he went. He flicked on the top light and stripped to his underwear, discarding his clothes in an untidy heap on the bed. His electric razor was lying on the bedside table, already plugged in. Picking it up he flicked it on and made a token gesture of skimming it over his cheeks and his stubbly chin. He ran his fingers along the row of hangers in the wardrobe until he came to his dinner suit and his dress shirt, still wrapped
in the dry-cleaner’s polythene bag. He took a long lingering drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply, before folding the
half-smoked
cigarette into the ashtray on top of the chest of drawers. Ripping the polythene cover from the hanger he slipped his arms through the shirt sleeves and buttoned the shirt
one-handed
while rummaging in the dressing table drawer for his clip-on bow tie. When he stepped into his dinner suit trousers he had to suck in his stomach in order to fasten the top button, the cheval mirror at the foot of the bed reflecting the folds of flesh bulging over the taut waistband. ‘Flabby before you’re even forty!’ He sighed and slapped his stomach, then breathed in hard as he yanked up the zip. Selecting a pair of cufflinks from the jewellery tray on the dressing table he fumbled to thread the cufflinks through the awkward double cuffs. He pulled on his dinner jacket and shot the shirt cuffs through the sleeves. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he ran his tongue across his tobacco-stained teeth, then picked up a comb to smooth his thinning hair across the bald patch on the crown. Squinting again in the mirror, he flicked away the spots of dandruff from his shoulders.

‘Get a move on, Simon!’ Jude’s anxious voice came echoing up the staircase. ‘Helen and Bjorn will be here any minute.’

‘Relax, for God’s sake! I’m ready.’

When he returned to his study he saw that all six messages had now been received. He flopped down in front of the screen and scanned them: two copies of the same spam email offering the possibility of a penis enlargement that would change his life for ever; another peddling cut-price Rolex watches; a cancellation of a rendezvous next week from one of his bridge partners; a confirmation from his bank concerning the price of
the shares he’d sold that afternoon and a message from someone he didn’t recognise – ‘[email protected]’.

His brow creased as he read the text:

Narrowing his eyes he slid the mouse across to click on the attachment, then his jaw went slack as a photograph gradually filled the screen. He felt his legs go weak and he grabbed hold of the arms of the chair for support. Globules of sweat broke out on his forehead. Spluttering, he reached for the packet of cigarettes on his desk and, as he fumbled to light up, the Westminster chimes rang out downstairs.

Charlie Anderson gave a sharp toot on his horn as he pulled up at the entrance to the underground car park of CID headquarters in Pitt Street. With an acknowledging wave the security guard in the adjacent booth put down his newspaper and raised the barrier, Charlie winding down his window and shouting his thanks as he drove slowly down the steep slope. Twisting round in his seat he reversed carefully into a tight parking space between two wide concrete pillars before levering himself out of the car and hurrying across the courtyard, turning up his coat collar as he went to protect his neck from the biting wind funnelling down the slope.

Charlie plodded up the flight of steps to the main building and kept climbing until he reached the second floor. When he came to the vending machines he rummaged in his pocket for change and dropped the coins into the slot, punching in the code for black coffee with extra sugar. He waited until the last drops of liquid had dribbled out before picking up the plastic cup between thumb and forefinger and heading along the corridor. After a few paces he stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel. ‘Second time this month,’ he muttered as he made his way back along the corridor. Nudging open the fire door with his knee, he trudged up another flight of steps.

What was it Niggle had said when they’d bumped into each other on the second floor last week? ‘Old habits die hard’,
probably, though to Charlie’s ears it had sounded more like: ‘Old habits, die-hard!’

Charlie paused in front of his office door to admire the gleaming brass name plate with ‘DCI Charles Anderson’ etched in black letters. Glancing up and down the corridor he transferred the coffee cup to his left hand and burnished the plate with his coat sleeve. Six months now.

Earlier in the year Charlie had been on the verge of packing in the force due to the cumulative effects of twenty years in the same job, Kay nagging at him to quit, his arthritis giving him gyp, modern technology he didn’t understand and a new Welsh boss he didn’t get on with. The paperwork for his early retirement had been signed off and a date had been set – the nineteenth of June.

In the last week of May a drunk driver had hit DCI Williams’ car head-on in Rutherglen and Williams had lain in a coma for a fortnight before, at his family’s request, the life support system had been turned off.

The Assistant Chief Constable had waited until the funeral breakfast in the Marriott was breaking up before taking Charlie to one side for a quiet tête-à-tête. ‘Have a think about it,’ he’d said, wrapping an avuncular arm around Charlie’s shoulders and guiding him towards the bar. ‘It would only be for a couple of years,’ he’d added, signalling to the barman for two more large Ballantines. ‘You’d be doing us all a favour. No one else is ready to step into the breach right now and two years would give me time to groom an internal candidate – a much better arrangement than having to draft in another outsider.’ Charlie had agreed wholeheartedly with the latter statement. ‘And two years as a DCI would give a nice wee boost to your pension. Like I said,
have a think about it over the weekend. Talk it over with Kay and let me know on Monday what you decide.’

When Charlie had got home the discussion had lasted late into the night, Kay doing her best to persuade him to stick to his plans, primarily for the sake of his health. Charlie had realised the arguments weighed heavily in favour of him leaving; after all, hadn’t he introduced most of them himself to justify his early retirement? And to complicate matters, if he were to accept the promotion it would mean he would be reporting to Detective Superintendent Nigel Hamilton, someone he disliked even more than Williams. Despite all that, the carrot of attaining the rank of Detective Chief Inspector was dangling before his eyes; his aspiration, his dream these past ten years, his chance to prove to them all that he should have been promoted years ago. How could he adjust to a life of pottering around in his allotment knowing he’d turned the opportunity down?Realising how much the promotion meant to him, Kay had finally opted for the pragmatic approach. She’d go along with his decision as long as he promised to delegate a lot more and cut down on the ridiculous amount of time he spent in the office. Charlie had agreed. His resolution had lasted for the best part of a fortnight before he was sucked back into the quagmire.

Charlie was crumpling the plastic coffee cup in his fist when Tony O’Sullivan appeared in the office doorway. ‘Did we manage to nail them?’ he demanded.

‘We got Fraser and Devlin, sir, but McCulloch did a runner into St Enoch’s Centre and we lost him in the crowd.’

‘Forget about McCulloch.’ Charlie waved his hand
dismissively. ‘We can pick him up any time. Where are we holding Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’

‘Downstairs, in the interview rooms.’

Charlie heaved himself to his feet and dropped his coffee cup into the waste paper basket. ‘You take Devlin. I want a go at Fraser. Especially now I know for sure he’s supplying McCulloch,’ he added with feeling. ‘My daughter saw McCulloch mooching around outside her school again last week – and she didn’t get the impression he was trying to sell the kids sweeties.’

Jude Ramsay passed round a silver platter containing blinis smothered in caviar, black olives, cheese fingers and pistachio nuts. ‘Simon,’ she hissed out of the side of her mouth. ‘Would you please pay more attention to our guests!’

‘What?’

Jude pointed towards the empty champagne flute standing on the coffee table. ‘Helen needs a refill.’

‘Oh! Right. Sorry.’ Struggling from his armchair he hurried to the kitchen and returned with a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot which he uncorked expertly, tilting the bottle at an angle to prevent any spillage. Flicking her long blonde hair away from her eyes, Helen Cuthbertson picked up her glass and stretched out a slim arm. As Simon poured, his eyes were drawn to her shapely legs, displayed to full advantage by a minuscule black dress. She held her champagne flute at an angle until the bubbles died down, then straightened her glass. When Simon topped it up to the brim she fluttered her long eyelashes in appreciation.

‘Put on a few pounds since the last time I saw you, little sister?’ Jude said, popping an olive into her mouth.

‘Miaow!’ Helen jabbed out her tongue.

‘No!’ Jude laughed. ‘It was meant as a compliment. You were far too thin. It wasn’t healthy.’

‘Not a lot I could do about it,’ Helen shrugged. ‘I had to waste away to almost nothing for a swimsuit catalogue during the summer, but the shoot in Rio last week was more interested in the handbags and the shoes than the models so I could afford to let myself go a bit.’

‘And you’ve definitely decided to pack it in?’

‘You’d better believe it! Ten years of that lifestyle is enough for anyone. Besides, Bjorn wants to see me for more than a couple of days a month, which suits me down to the ground. The days of starving myself so I could flounce down a catwalk are behind me for ever.’

‘Welcome to the civilised world,’ Jude said, offering the platter.

Helen took a cheese finger and raised her glass in front of her eyes. ‘Cheers!’ She toasted the room. ‘Another thing I won’t miss about the fashion circuit is being ogled by dirty old men,’ she added disdainfully. ‘There was one particular pervert who seemed to get a press pass for all the London shows. I never did find out his name. I’m not even sure he was attached to a magazine. He would always turn up early, grab a seat in the front row and sit with his nose stuck in a newspaper until a model appeared in something skimpy, then he’d leer at her through his piggy little eyes. I’m sure that all he lived for was a flash of nipple.’

‘There’s plenty more where he came from.’ Jude curled her lip.

Helen popped the cheese finger into her mouth and washed it down with a long sip of champagne. ‘It’s a shame Alison and Norman weren’t able to make it tonight. It’s ages since I’ve seen either of them.’

‘Anyone mad enough to buy a farmhouse in Ballinluig has to live with the consequences.’ Jude smoothed down her silk dress. ‘Getting snowed in comes with the territory. When I spoke to Alison on the phone she told me they haven’t been able to put a foot across the threshold since last Saturday.’

‘There’s something comforting about that,’ Bjorn said. ‘Don’t you think so, Simon?’ Bjorn Svensson’s English was fluent, albeit with typically Nordic, stretched-out vowels.

‘Comforting about what?’.

‘Don’t you think there must be something very satisfying about being completely cut off from the rat race?’ Bjorn was perched on the edge of a high-backed chair in front of the smokeless fuel fire. His hair was spiked with gel and his long fingers fiddled constantly with his deeply dimpled chin. A hired dinner jacket sat awkwardly on his narrow, sloping shoulders.

‘I can see the pros and cons,’ Simon said, balancing his buttocks against the arm of the settee while adding a splash of champagne to his already half-full glass. ‘However, if I had the choice, I’d rather live within range of civilisation during the week – by which I mean decent pubs and restaurants – as long as I had the option of heading off to the wide open spaces at the weekends when –’ His comment was interrupted by the jangle of the Westminster chimes. ‘That’ll be Laura and Mike – late as always,’ he said, placing his glass and the champagne bottle down on the coffee table.

Mike Harrison stomped the snow from his shoes on the doormat as he ushered his wife in ahead of him. ‘It’d freeze the goolies off a brass one out there,’ he complained, tugging off his scarf and overcoat and shaking out the sleet. ‘My knees are red
raw. If I’d known it was going to be chucking it down like this I’d have come in salopettes instead of a bloody kilt.’

‘Laura! What on earth happened?’ Simon stared at her face in astonishment.

Despite her best efforts, Laura Harrison’s make-up couldn’t disguise her swollen jaw and blackened left eye. ‘It looks a lot worse than it is,’ she said, slipping her ocelot coat from her shoulders and handing it across.

‘Mugged, she was,’ Mike said, draping his coat over the hallstand.

‘What!’ Simon said incredulously. ‘When? Where?’

‘Monday night,’ said Mike. ‘The back of eleven, in Renfrew Street, right outside the cinema. I was trying to flag down a cab when two morons on a motorbike mounted the pavement and tried to snatch Laura’s handbag.’

‘Good God!’

‘I managed to hang on to my bag,’ Laura said, delicately fingering her bruised cheek. ‘But I got a punch in the face for my trouble.’

‘Did you get a good look at them?’

‘Sure!’ Mike snorted. ‘Two thugs, dressed in black leather gear, wearing crash helmets, on a bike with no licence plates. As much chance of identifying them as flying to the fucking moon.’

‘Come on in here, you lot!’ Jude’s voice came echoing out from the lounge. ‘I don’t want to miss anything!’

Tracey Reid came to a tittupping halt outside the cashpoint booth and stared through the slush-splattered glass door. Relieved to see there was only one person inside she swiped her cashpoint card through the reader and pushed open the door.

The elderly woman, huddled over the screen, snatched an anxious glance over her shoulder when the blast of cold air hit her in the small of the back. She eyed the shivering young girl up and down, frowning disapprovingly at the diamond stud piercing Tracey’s shiny nose and the rows of pewter rings lining both her ears. Hunching her shoulders she turned her attention back to the screen, peering myopically over the top of her spectacles at the faint instructions. The cubicle door swung closed and the traffic noise was once again muted.

‘It’s, like, starting to freeze out there,’ Tracey said, forcing a cheerfulness she didn’t feel, not quite sure whether she was trying to reassure the woman or herself. There was a grunt of a response, more in annoyance that her concentration had been broken than in acknowledgment of the comment. Tracey stood near the door, twiddling her cashpoint card in one hand while flicking at her braided hair with the other, trying to dislodge the melting sleet. The woman pulled her headscarf tightly underneath her chin and moved her face as close to the screen as possible to block it from prying eyes. Tracey idly wondered why she needed to withdraw cash so late at night, but to ask would have been an invasion of privacy too far.

Tracey was annoyed with herself. She’d meant to come to the cashpoint earlier in the day but it had slipped her mind. She hated the silence and claustrophobia of this place. She wouldn’t normally come here this late at night but she couldn’t go clubbing with the two pounds fifty she had in her handbag and she wasn’t prepared to tramp through the snow in her high heels to a busier cashpoint. She’d thought about giving the Arches a miss – she was shattered – but it was the last chance she’d get to see Linda before Christmas and exchange presents.

It seemed to take an age before the woman finally withdrew her card and tucked the single banknote that emerged inside her woollen glove. Avoiding eye contact with Tracey she depressed the button to open the cubicle door.

Tracey slid her card into the slot and was entering her PIN when she saw his reflection in the screen. He’d caught the door with his foot before it could close. She felt her heartbeat quicken as he shuffled to a halt behind her. No reason to panic, she told herself. She’d intended to withdraw a hundred so she could give Stevie the money she owed him but she decided to ask for twenty instead – just in case. Stevie had already waited a month for his money – another couple of days wouldn’t be a problem. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, not wanting to give this guy any pretext to start up a conversation. Snatching out her card as soon as it reappeared she shoved it into her coat pocket, the pounding of her heart against her ribcage seeming louder than the mechanical shuffling of the notes about to be disgorged. She could hear his quick, shallow breathing and she sensed he was standing very close to her. His cold breath came wafting over her shoulder and she felt something brush against her earlobe. Instinctively she lifted her hand to flick it away, then there was a sudden, violent, searing pain in her left ear as she was yanked across the confined space, her ankle twisting beneath her as she toppled over on her high heels and thumped down painfully on the tiled floor, skinning both knees. Her handbag fell from her grasp.