19
‘I said to the other guy a wee minute ago. I heard them last night, thumping about. Not the first time. He’s not a bad lad, but sometimes they make a bit of a racket, so they do. Woke me up last night, so it did. It stopped, though, so I left it. Came up this morning to have a word. Not the worst kid, that boy. You can talk to him – not like some of them. Some of them treat you like crap. Real bastards. It’s the parents. Having them too young. So I come up. I knock on the door. Nothing. I think, uh-huh, what’s going on here? So I looked in the letter box. Wouldn’t normally, you understand. I was concerned. That’s when I saw them. Then I called your lot.’
Your lot.
Michael Fisher’s been a cop for twenty-three years; he loathes the dismissive description of the police. He’ll never get used to it now. So many people who can’t accept that the police are on their side. He’s long since decided to get on with helping people, whether they like it or not.
He got the call less than half an hour ago. In his house, all alone, getting ready for work. Possible murder-suicide, possible double murder. Two young men, found in the flat belonging to one of them. He’s there now because one of them has possible links to organized crime. Thomas Scott was once reported for dealing, but was only charged with possession. Even that charge went nowhere; he got away with a few hours’ community service that he probably never carried out. The other dead man, Andrew McClure, doesn’t seem to have any record. Only known as a friend of Scott’s. If they were friends, then McClure was almost certainly involved in the same life as Scott.
Fisher came straight here from home. He found a few cops here ahead of him, some plods and a couple of detectives. The scene wasn’t under control yet – people wandering around the corridor and using the lifts. That changed drastically two minutes after his angry arrival.
After a glance at the bodies, he had sought out the man living downstairs. He’s the one who reported it, the closest thing they have to a witness. The only one who seems to have anything to say for himself.
‘This noise they were making, can you describe it?’ Fisher’s asking him now.
‘Describe it? It was noise. Thumping about. Could have been music or anything, I don’t know – the things that pass for music. It was noise, so it was. I heard it, I was going to say something, but it stopped. I came up this morning to have a word. That’s it.’
It’s obvious to Fisher what’s happened. The man in the flat below heard the gunshots. He would have known they were gunshots. He thought about doing something, but didn’t want to get involved. Not yet, anyway. Wait until the danger has passed. Next morning he comes up to nosy about, sees the bodies. He calls the police and swears that he heard nothing sinister, just noise. He’s trying to keep himself out of it.
Fisher’s scowling at him now. Hard to respect someone who stands in the way of an investigation just because being a witness is inconvenient. Two men are dead.
‘So this noise. It was loud enough for you to notice. How long did it last?’
The man’s puffing out his cheeks. Colin Thomson, he introduced himself as, pointing out the lack of a p in his surname. Seems to matter to him. He liked being the centre of attention, until the questions got tough.
‘I don’t know,’ Thomson’s saying now. ‘Could’ve been for a short while. Maybe not. I noticed it once or twice, that’s all. Woke me up, you see, so it might have been going on a while before it woke me up, I don’t know. Bothered me, is all. Inconsiderate. I went up this morning to tell him so. I’m not young any more, and my health hasn’t been good, you see.’ He’s pausing for a few seconds, waiting for an expression of sympathy that isn’t coming. ‘They’re saying his wee mate killed him and then himself. Is that right?’
Fisher’s extricated himself from the pointless interview and gone back upstairs. Just standing in the doorway, looking at the two bodies, trying to take it all in. Work out the movements of a killer. If it was the boy with the gun beside him, then work out his movements. The first plods there reported it as a probable murder followed by suicide. It looked like two mates turned on each other. An argument over some stupid thing. There’s a gun in the flat. McClure pulls it out, waves it around. Scott says something provocative and McClure fires. Seeing that he’s killed his friend, and knowing he’s not capable of getting off with it, he turns the gun on himself. That’s the story the scene tells. The story it’s supposed to tell. It could be telling the truth. He’ll wait on the toxicology reports, to see if drugs were involved. If they were, then he might believe it. Otherwise, he’ll retain a healthy scepticism. When someone in that business dies, there are always other suspects worth looking at.
Fisher wants to get into the flat, have a good rummage around, but the forensic team is still on its way. Let them do their work, then have a free run at it. He’s seeing a plod he recognizes coming along the corridor. Higgins, a good young cop, lot of potential. In his mid-twenties now, been in the force a few years. He’s good enough to make progress, Fisher’s decided. Might push to get him out of uniform soon, make better use of him.
‘Any news?’ Fisher’s asking the younger man.
‘We’ve woken most of the building – anyone who’s likely to have heard or seen anything.’ Higgins is shrugging. ‘Not many of them. Most of these flats are empty now. Fellow down the corridor says he didn’t hear anything. Neither did anyone else, apparently. Not sure how much I believe them; I think they just want to avoid bother. Just the guy downstairs who’ll admit to hearing anything. Have you spoken to him?’
‘Yeah,’ Fisher’s nodding, ‘I had a word.’
Everyone goes deaf. Two gunshots at least. If the weapon on the floor is the killer, then it’s a standard handgun, no silencer. It’s not as if the walls in this damp-ridden dump are terribly thick. They must have heard it. That bastard downstairs knew exactly what it was. He didn’t report it until morning to make sure all danger had passed before he got involved. Other people get to pretend they heard nothing at all. It’s not just a fear of giving evidence against a killer. People fear being mixed up in organized crime, they fear that they’ll be forced to shut up. Fair enough. There have been plenty of cases where criminals have targeted witnesses; Fisher doesn’t blame them for their fear. Others just aren’t willing to get involved in any court case. Not just with organized crime, but with any case. They won’t suffer inconvenience for the sake of justice.
‘I want to find out everything there is to know about this pair,’ Fisher’s saying to Higgins. ‘I want to know who they were working with, if anyone. We know Scott was selling on the street. He has to have been getting his supply from somewhere. Let’s try to find out if there was a puppet-master behind these idiots. Find out who else was in their circle of friends, see if there’s anyone with more than a dozen brain cells. Find out about their families, any interesting connections.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Higgins is saying, and wandering off. He’s a good cop, but he’s not likely to find out much by himself.
Where the hell is that forensics team? Fisher wants in there and he can’t get past the body until forensics have worked their magic. A crappy little flat in a grotty tower block is a horrible place to have to do his job anyway.
