Cold Grave (20 page)

‘So who is this guy who told you about him?’

‘Away ye go — like I’m going to tell ye that.’

‘Come on, Shug. I need to know who this guy is.’

Shug stared gravely into his pint, looking like a man who’d found a penny but lost a pint of blood.

‘Believe me, ye don’t need to, Mr Neilson. He’s not the sort that’s going to take too kindly to being asked that kind of question.’

‘Look, Shug. You tell me who he is and I’ll take my own chances talking to him. He’ll never know it came from you.’

Shug gave a despairing shake of his head and downed a huge mouthful of lager.

‘If this comes back to me, I’ll no be a happy man. I’m more likely to be a deid man.’

‘It won’t.’

‘Fucksake,’ Shug’s gruff voice got even lower. ‘It’s Glenn Paxton. He’s a debt collector for Terry Gilmartin. Ye know him?’

‘I know the name. Where will I find him?’

‘Christ, ye don’t ask much, do ye?’

‘Shug, you know you’re going to tell me and I’ll make it worth your while so just spit it out.’

‘He drinks in the Roadhouse on Gartloch Road.’

‘Aye, right, Shug. How fucking stupid do you think I am? The Roadhouse? I’d be as well going in with a uniform on and a target painted on my forehead.’

The Roadhouse was a windowless brick bungalow sitting back off the road behind Glasgow Fort with only a neighbouring Ladbrokes for company. It was strictly locals only and any strangers would have been seen coming from a mile away.

‘Where else does he drink?’

Shug sighed.

‘Wednesday nights you’ll get him in The Springcroft in Baillieston. It’s curry night. And he better never find out it was me that telt ye.’

‘Springcroft? That a Brewer’s Fayre?’

‘Used to be. Some other chain’s got it noo. I mean it, Mr Neilson. He cannae know it was me that telt ye.’

‘And I told you — he won’t.’

‘Well, ye better take someone with ye.’ Shug gave a withering sideways look at Winter. ‘Someone who can handle hisself.’

Danny laughed as Winter took offence. Okay, so he was a lover not a fighter but he was hardly useless either. Being reasonably tall in Glasgow, as he was, meant he’d lived his life having to fend off a succession of wee hard nuts who’d wanted to prove they could fight despite their stunted growth.

‘I’m sure we’ll be just fine, Shug. Tony isn’t as hopeless as he looks.’

Thanks, Uncle Danny, Winter thought. He saw Danny’s left hand slip casually under the table and Shug’s right hand do the same, neither men taking their eyes off their drinks. No one else in the room would have noticed a thing.

‘So what’s happening in the motor trade, Shug? Business good?’

‘No bad, Mr Neilson. No bad. It never changes whether there’s a recession on or no. People always need a motor and if they’ve got less money to spend, then all the more reason they don’t buy one aff the forecourt. Know what I mean? And wherever they buy them from, things always go wrong. Keeps me in beer money, you know?’

‘Oh, I know. A bit of cut and shut, remove the VIN number, scratch out engine and chassis numbers, give the engine a bit more va-va-voom and turn back the clock like there’s no tomorrow. All in an honest day’s work for a dodgy mechanic, eh, Shug?’

Shug’s pint had been halfway to his mouth but he carefully put it back on the ring-marked table with a look of righteous indignation on his face.

‘Now, haud your horses right there, Mr Neilson. While not acknowledging any of the actions you mentioned, I have to tell you that I take great exception to the phrase “dodgy mechanic”. Okay, you may well be using the word in the sense of it meaning illegal. And I’d grant you there may be a small element of truth in that. However… dodgy, in the motor business, also suggests incompetence — a cowboy, if ye will. And I’m no having that. I know my stuff. I prefer the term “black market mechanic”, if ye don’t mind.’

Danny laughed.

‘Well, Mr Shug, I apologise if I have offended your professional sensibilities. Heaven fucking forefend if anyone were to think I was suggesting you were in any way unskilled. Fucksake, Shug, half of Glasgow knows that if you weren’t a lazy wee shite and as bent as a six-pound coin, you could have been sorting cars for a Formula 1 team. A great loss to the world of Grand Prix racing but a gain for backstreet garages across Glesga.’

Shug puffed himself up, preening at the compliment, and dragged a hand through his extraordinary ginger locks.

‘Thank you, Mr Neilson. It’s always gratifying when a fellow professional such as yersel recognises the merits of one’s work.’

Danny smiled back and began to get up from the table, nodding to Winter that it was time to make a move. However, as he did so, Shug Brennan put a hand on Danny’s arm, leaned in towards him and whispered hoarsely.

‘Mr Neilson, you be careful with Paxton. The guy’s a sort of pal of mine but he cannae half be a fucking bad bastard when he’s got a drink in him. Terrible temper the man’s got. Call me sentimental but I wouldnae like to see ye get hurt.’

Danny roared with laughter.

‘Man of my age, you mean? Ha. I’m touched, Shug. Didn’t know you cared. Don’t you worry; I’ll be fine. I’ve got Tony here to look after me.’

Danny and Shug both laughed like a couple of fishwives. Winter wanted to smack their fucking heads together.

Jordanhill College of Education had turned out most of the teachers, primary and secondary, in west and central Scotland for nearly a hundred years until it became part of the University of Strathclyde in the early nineties. Among the former students were the two that Narey was particularly interested in. She was on campus with an appointment to see one of the senior members of staff.

A receptionist directed her up one floor and along a corridor until she found the room she was looking for. The nameplate on the door read Dr Hilary Henderson, Vice Dean. Narey knocked and almost immediately a woman’s voice called out, urging her to enter.

A short, blonde woman in her late fifties was already bounding towards the door by the time Narey had opened it and stepped through. Casually dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and with a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose, she had her hand out in greeting.

‘Sergeant Narey? I’m Hilary. I see you managed to find your way here okay. How can I help you?’

‘Thanks for taking the time to see me. It’s a bit of a strange one, actually. I’m trying to track down a group of students who were here nearly twenty years ago.’

The woman took a step back in mock surprise, then scratched her head.

‘Really? Well, you’ve come to the right person. I’m the Vice Dean of Education and that basically means I get a posh title because I’ve been here longer than anyone else. It also means I might be able to assist you with your enquiries, Sergeant.’

The professor laughed at her own joke, then shrugged to show she knew it wasn’t really very funny. Narey liked her immediately.

‘Please, sit down. So, tell me, who is it you’re looking for?’

Narey eased herself into an armchair and took a sneaky look around the impressively messy office, which was overstuffed with books, folders and half-drunk mugs of coffee.

‘I wondered if you might remember two students called Laurence Paton and Adam Mosson?’

Professor Henderson slipped her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.

‘You’re really testing me now. There’ve been thousands of students through here in that time. I must admit neither name immediately rings a bell. Tell me more. Oh, and I’d offer you a coffee but I’m afraid I’ve run out of mugs.’

‘That’s okay, thanks anyway. They were both here in 1993…’

‘The year we merged with the University to create the Faculty of Education,’ interjected Henderson. ‘I remember that year well so there’s more chance I’ll be able to recollect the boys. Well, not that they’ll be boys any more.’

Far from it, Narey thought. Far from it.

‘Laurence went on to teach English in Stirling while Adam taught history at Shawlands Academy,’ she told the woman. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more at this stage.’

Henderson shook her head, clearly frustrated with herself. She puffed out her cheeks and deliberated. ‘Nope, nothing. Let’s go and find their matriculation photographs. They might help jog my memory.’

The Vice Dean led Narey back out of the office, down another flight of stairs and into a basement.

‘My memory’s like a sieve these days. Time was I could have told you the name of every student who’d been here and what they liked on their toast in the morning — not that I ever saw any of them in the morning, I hasten to add. If they’d been training to be primary school teachers, then there’s much more of a chance I’d remember them. For every ten primary students going through here, only one is male. It’s a bit different at secondary though — three women for every two men. Which still sounds like a pretty good deal for them, don’t you think?’

Narey smiled. ‘Men always get the better deal.’

‘Don’t they just. Should I ask why you want to know about Laurence and Adam or is it best that I don’t?’

Narey didn’t slow her stride or change her tone.

‘They both died recently. One seems to have been an accident and the other a suicide.’

‘Fucking hell.’

The expletive surprised Narey and she nearly laughed but thankfully managed to restrain herself.

‘That’s terrible. Well, obviously, anything I can do to help then I will. You said that they “seemed” to be an accident and a suicide…’

Narey smiled at her apologetically, making it clear she wasn’t going to say any more on the matter.

‘Right, right. Understood. Sorry,’ Henderson flustered. ‘Okay, the old records are in here. They should be easy enough to find.’

After just a few minutes of raking around and some low muttering, which seemed to include more swearing, the Vice Dean let out a whoop of triumph and hauled out two folders. From each she produced a single sheet with a photograph attached. She pushed her glasses firmly up on the bridge of her nose and studied first one, then the other.

‘Goodness me. I do remember him. Laurence, that is. I’m afraid I don’t remember Adam at all.’

She held out the first sheet of paper, which was headlined with the name Laurence Brian Paton. The photograph showed a young, fair-haired man smiling sheepishly at the camera. He looked tanned and fit, full of the joys of youth. His hair was shoulder length and swept down over his forehead till it fell nearly in his eyes.

‘Laurence Paton. Of course,’ Henderson reminisced. ‘Funny how seeing someone as they were then takes you right back. He was a bright kid, very outdoorsy and sporty. I seem to remember that he was laid back, quite a happy chappy. Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s dead.’

‘Do you remember if Laurence had any particular friends he hung around with at college?’

Henderson held the photograph of Adam Mosson up again and had a second look.

‘I really don’t… Maybe. He’s vaguely familiar but my mind could just be convincing me of that. Let me think. So many students under the bridge since then. I’ll dig out the complete register from Laurence’s year. I’m guessing you’ll want that?’

‘And maybe the years either side for good measure.’

‘No problem.’

‘Do you remember anyone called either Dixie or Paddy?’ Narey persisted.

Henderson looked perplexed again.

‘Let me… No. Sorry. Are those nicknames, do you think? I wouldn’t necessarily know them by their nicknames. It was very much a register, proper name kind of arrangement. I’m sorry I’m not being much help.’

‘Don’t worry. The register of names should be a big help.’

‘I’ll get you copies of them. And of these photographs as well.’

Half an hour later, Narey was sitting at a wooden corner table in Café Gandolfi on Albion Street. The chinking of glasses and the splutter of the cappuccino machine — Gandolfi famously had the first one in Glasgow — failed to dent her concentration as she pored over the list in front of her, desperate for answers to the riddle of Paton and Mosson’s email accomplices. Of course, it was possible that the names behind the nicknames weren’t to be found in the college register at all. But her gut told her otherwise.

There was no Dixie, no Dixon, no Dickson, no Dickerson, no Dickinson or any of the other variations she had hoped might be there. No one called Richard and, unsurprisingly, no Dixie Chicks. For Paddy, there was better news and yet little extra light. There was a Patrick and two Patricias; there was a Padfield and a Padgett. There were also eight surnames that could have been classified as Irish: Kelly, O’Neill, Gallagher (two of them), Nolan, Moran, Mulvey, Byrne and McCarthy.

In all, there were just over three hundred students on the course, just over a hundred of those men but, of course, there was no certainty that their missing links were male. It was a bloody big haystack but at least she had some possible needles. As soon as she got back to Stewart Street she would commandeer DC Julia Corrieri and get her to work her way through all the possible Paddys.

Narey had first worked with Julia the year before and had initially been driven to distraction by the task of playing big sister to the tall, gangling DC with the awkward, uncoordinated air. Corrieri was smart and determined but by God she was hard work, taking everything Narey said as literally as she did seriously. She had learned quickly though, just as Narey had learned to like her. Sometimes Julia was still so endearingly, fastidiously studious that Narey wanted to slap her but, more often, she wanted to take her home and keep her as a pet. Not that Corrieri was a soft touch: she was an expert in a martial art called Kuk Sool Won and Narey had seen her bring guys twice her size to their knees. Searching under every possible rock for paddy38 was just the kind of thing Julia loved doing and no stone, far less a needle, would be left unturned.