Killing With Confidence (15 page)

Patricia Sharpe
interrupted, ‘Right, that’s enough. Please mind your language,
David – and to answer your final point, no, April has not been
dismissed. We want to establish what happened yesterday to see
what, if any, disciplinary procedure should be followed.’

Paterson knew HR was
backing down. He had won a concession. He then asked for what he
had really hoped to gain from the meeting: ‘I want an adjournment
to be able to present our case of mitigating circumstances.’

Patricia instantly
replied, ‘Granted. We’ll reconvene in two days’ time. Until then
April is suspended on full pay. Thank you both for your time.’

Patricia and the
Weasel remained seated as Paterson led April outside.

When they were out of
earshot, he stopped her and said, ‘You have a stay of execution.
Sort out in your head who you’re working for – the
Daily
Herald
or the Strathclyde polis. Then, when you’ve come to the
correct conclusion, write your story. You’ll find all is forgiven
if you can produce an exclusive splash. Good luck.’



April was
in floods of tears as she sat across from Connor in the Peccadillo
café.

‘Bastard,’ Connor
spat. ‘What an utter bastard. I’d love to get someone like Colin
Harris to take him out. Or better than that, I wish the Weasel
would contract some horrible disease. Seriously though, why doesn’t
a back-stabbing bastard like him get terminal cancer instead of
good people like Badger. Does that make me a nasty person?’

‘Well, you can be
pretty cutting with me, but nasty, no. I’d call you many things,
but never nasty,’ she answered truthfully. April had been about to
give an ‘oh, you don’t really mean that’ response and generally
patronise her younger colleague, when she paused for a moment and
thought about the hypothetical picture Connor had just painted.

Cancer was an awful,
awful disease. She had nursed her own aunt and uncle through it
until they were left with the skin hanging off their bones,
stripped of all their dignity. Part of her wanted a self-obsessed
loathsome individual like the Weasel to experience the same, to see
him humbled and learn some humiliation, but experience had taught
April only too well. There would always be another Weasel waiting
in the wings, ready to take his place. ‘And we thought our teachers
were tough,’ she laughed.

Puzzled, Connor
asked, ‘What the hell are you on about now, you daft old bat?’

She explained,
‘Remember at school you always had a teacher you hated as you felt
they were constantly on your case? Well, I couldn’t wait to leave
and be “free” from all that. School was a walk in the park compared
to working life. I’ve had more bad bastard bosses than bad
teachers. But to answer your question, no, Connor, I do not wish
cancer on anyone. However, you reap what you sow. I know it’s an
age-old saying, but it’s one I happen to believe in. We are good
folk, with flaws like everyone else. Our saving grace is our flaws
will never be as bad as the Weasel’s.’

29

A New Man

DCI Crosbie
sat at his desk, looked at the mountain of paperwork and chuckled
to himself. Before the session with Watt Wilson, his inner self
would have been cursing profusely at the amount of work he had to
get through. But the foul-mouthed fury within remained silent.
That’s why Crosbie could afford a smile. ‘It worked. It actually
worked. The old fraudster has cured me. In just one session –
incredible.’

‘Talking to yourself
is not a sign of a sane mind,’ Crosbie’s senior officer DS
Cruickshank said as he entered his office, taking Crosbie by
surprise. ‘Are you feeling alright? I’m worried the stress of the
inquiry is getting to you.’

Crosbie leapt to his
feet and chirped, ‘I have literally never felt better, sir. And
it’s inquiries, sir – two of them. Selina Seth and Jackie
McIvor.’

‘Ah yes, the
prossie,’ Cruickshank snorted.

Crosbie deplored the
way that society – including the police – never seemed to
give a damn about streetwalkers. As far as Crosbie was concerned
Selina Seth was the real prostitute. She didn’t have to sleep with
the various rich businessmen whom Crosbie’s team were currently in
the process of tracking down for questioning, but she did so. And
willingly. Albeit not for fifty pounds a shag, but it had become
clear from his inquiries that Selina definitely slept with men to
help secure contracts for Seth International. In Crosbie’s book
that definitely made her a bigger ‘whore’ than poor Jackie who had
simply slept with punters to feed her drug habit. From what Crosbie
had learned, Jackie been a loyal and loving girlfriend before
meeting the wrong man.

‘Well, what’s the
update, Crosbie?’ Cruickshank demanded.

‘As you know, we
covertly recorded an interview with Selina’s husband Martin, after
you obtained a warrant, sir, but it’s thrown up more questions than
answers, to be honest.’

‘Like what?’
Cruickshank said in an impatient tone.

‘Well, like the way
he claimed he’d strangled his wife,’ Crosbie replied nervously.

‘You mean to say that
after I arranged to obtain a warrant to record Martin Seth, having
to jump through hoops with a prickly judge to do so, you get a full
confession yet don’t bring the murder suspect in for questioning
for one of the highest-profile murder cases the Strathclyde Force
has had to handle in years? Am I actually hearing this
correctly?’

Long, rambling,
rhetorical questions were Cruickshank’s speciality. But Crosbie
stood his ground. ‘Yes, sir. But he’s lying, sir.’

‘A hunch, DCI?’
Cruickshank mocked.

‘A fact, sir. We
tracked his mobile phone signature to his parents’ home at the time
of Selina’s death. We have collaborative alibis from his folks and
his kids, including the six-year-old son. As you’ll be aware, sir,
a six-year-old is incapable of keeping a secret. Look at those
weather balloon pranksters in America, sir.’

In 2009 a couple of
reality TV wannabes staged the disappearance of their son, saying
he’d been holding onto a weather balloon when it soared miles into
the sky. The boy was later found, safe and well in their family
home. When questioned by a TV crew, he immediately blurted out how
his folks had told him to hide in the garage while they pretended
he’d flown away.

The balloon analogy
seemed to resonate with Cruickshank, as his tone audibly softened.
‘Okay, so what next, Crosbie? The pressure I’m getting to solve
this case is unbelievable.’

Crosbie explained the
case so far. ‘Forensics have several DNA samples from the crime
scene. There’s the usual contamination with DNA from a couple of
police officers and a paramedic who were first on the scene, but
two unidentified male samples, too. I also want to bring Seth in
again. There are a few questions I’ll make sure he’s asked, that
I’d like to hear his reaction to. Whoever did this, sir, we will
get him.’

Cruickshank
instructed Crosbie to keep him informed ‘every step of the way’
then turned on his heels and left.

DCI Crosbie smiled to
himself again. ‘I didn’t even call him a cocksucker. I really am
getting better.’ He picked up his BlackBerry and called his new
recruit – the formidable April Lavender.

30

Borrowed
Trousers/Borrowed Time

April’s
mobile rang once more. She’d been ignoring most calls since her
suspension, talking only occasionally to Connor. She hadn’t even
bothered telling her daughter what had happened. Jayne was always
too busy with her own life to be concerned with her poor, old, mad
mummy, April thought in a moment of self-pity.

April believed that,
on the whole, she’d been a good mum. She would occasionally have to
work late, and when a big story like the death of Princess Diana
broke, she’d disappeared at short notice to the coastal town of
Oban to try and interview Frances Shand Kydd, Princess Diana’s
mother. April had spent a week on Scotland’s west coast not getting
anywhere near Shand Kydd’s front door, which was being protected
round the clock by uniformed officers.

As she’d left in a
hurry, she’d had to borrow a photographer’s waterproof trousers,
normally used by snappers at football games. She’d worn the plastic
attire for three straight days, before she and some fellow female
reporters had gone foraging into town for new clothes and knickers.
There had been a real camaraderie between all the hacks on that job
since it became apparent on the first day they wouldn’t be getting
any chats with the grieving mother. But since this was the biggest
story in the world at the end of September 1997, they had all been
ordered to stay put.

April’s daughter had
been seventeen at the time and had just started dating her first
‘serious’ boyfriend, which was a polite way of saying they were
having sex. Maybe it had been a familiar look in her teenage
daughter’s eyes, but shortly before she lost her virginity, April
had marched her down to the family doctor and insisted she was put
on the Pill. Jayne was mortified, but April wouldn’t take no for an
answer, saying, ‘You are not going to end up in the same shit as
me. Pregnant, no job, no man – no way.’

But for one glorious
late summer week, she got to escape all that. It was red wine and à
la carte meals every night in the best restaurants Oban had to
offer with the rest of the press pack. There had even been some
time for a fling with one of the snappers. She’d never coughed to
his identity, but he’d appreciated the return of his waterproof
trousers with interest.

That all seemed so
long ago now. When she looked in the mirror, an old woman stared
back. An old woman who’d just suffered the indignity of being
suspended from her job. But an old woman Connor had made promise
not to give up. Together, he assured her, they’d find the
truth.

DCI Crosbie’s named
flashed up on her mobile. This was one call she would not ignore
today.



Connor
arrived at Gartnavel’s Beatson unit in a hurry. He’d received a
distraught phone call from Badger’s wife Rita, saying her husband
didn’t have long to live. As he approached Badger’s bedside, he
could see there had been some sort of incident. His wife was in
tears and a medical team were wheeling away various pieces of
equipment, with his old mentor clearly in distress.

Badger soon settled
after a massive dose of morphine. He opened his eyes and stared at
Connor. ‘I thought that was me gone there, son. A heart attack,
they reckon. A bit of a scare, to tell the truth. They zapped me
with their doodahs there. That seemed to do the trick. But not long
to go now, Connor. Not long at all.’

It was the first time
in years Badger had used Connor’s real name. He sat beside his
mentor’s bed, and without warning clasped Badger’s hand, waited for
the dying man to snatch it away and tell him to get lost. He
didn’t. Instead, the older man squeezed back.

Badger ordered his
wife to, ‘Go and get the boy a cuppa coffee, for god’s sake –
he must be gasping. I’m fed up with all your snivelling, anyway.’
It was his way of telling his wife to take a break after the shock
of seeing him nearly die before her eyes.

A nurse approached,
and still Badger didn’t let go of Connor’s hand.

‘How you doing, Nurse
Ratchet?’ Badger asked playfully.

‘Now then, Mr
Blackwood, you know very well my name is Miss McFarlane,’ she
responded.

‘Aye, so you keep
saying, but you’re as sadistic as that Nurse Ratchet from
One
Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, always poking and prodding me.
Never giving a dying man a moment’s peace.’

A dying man. Never a
truer word spoken in jest, Connor thought. Badger was dying. This
could be the last time Connor ever saw him.

‘And who’s your young
friend?’ Nurse McFarlane enquired with the hint of a twinkle in her
eye. She was about Connor’s age and attractive even in her
unflattering striped tunic and shapeless blue trousers. Connor also
noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring on her wedding finger, although
that was no guarantee she wasn’t married, as many nurses in high
dependency units removed all jewellery while on shift.

‘You’re in there,
Elvis. This could be your Priscilla,’ Badger beamed.

Both Connor and the
nurse blushed slightly.

‘I am not fourteen
years old or whatever ridiculous age Priscilla was when she started
dating Elvis,’ Nurse McFarlane retorted.

‘It’s better if you
just ignore him,’ Connor interjected. ‘That’s what I always
do.’

‘Cheeky cunt,’ Badger
said in a mock sulk.

‘Now don’t make me
get a swear box for you again, Mr Blackwood,’ Nurse McFarlane said
as she finished taking her patient’s observations. She smiled
briefly at Connor before leaving the two friends by themselves once
more.

Badger nudged Connor.
‘You’re in there, lad. Gagging for it. I can tell. I’ll get her
number for you. Just leave it to your old man here – although
I better make my move quick. I could be dead by teatime,’ he
laughed.

Connor thought to
himself how no one would have known Badger had just had a heart
attack and was riddled with cancer, as he sat in his deathbed
teasing and joking while playing Cupid. Badger hadn’t complained
about his lot once. He’d accepted his fate with a bravery Connor
doubted he’d ever have.

‘Before I forget,’
Badger said changing the subject, ‘I’ve had loads of cunts coming
up to see me. Sends Nurse Ratchet and her cronies mental. But I had
a visit from plod – the CID boys, old-school, mind. Your man
DCI Crosbie came up. My guys reckon he’s a bit of a nutter. Caught
the top brass’s attention, and not in a good way. Watch yourself
with that one, Elvis. A shifty bastard by all accounts.’