Snapshot (36 page)

He knew he could try and follow the footsteps and see where they’d entered but didn’t want to hang around down there and anyway, it wouldn’t matter. He’d got in, McKendrick had got in and so had his killer. It didn’t make any difference if there was one entry point or three. All that mattered was Rachel.

He scuttled through the passageways as quickly as his legs and the light would allow him. Round, along and up. Double doors and damp hospital corridors, by the recess with the generator, the white tiles then the yellow ones, passing under the walkway on Union Street which was now lit by neon. It was only then that the fear gripped him with the realization that someone could have replaced the metal sheet over the hole. Either a deliberate ploy to keep him in there or just some civic-minded twat with nothing better to do with their time. Getting out again had never occurred to him but if the sheet was back over the hole then he’d never shift it.

It was only when he passed through to the faintly moonlit hallway that he breathed again, knowing that the sliver of pale light meant the sheet was as he’d left it. He climbed the stairs gratefully and popped out onto the overgrown corridor behind the burger joint.

As soon as he was out he reached for his phone and was glad to see that the buildings weren’t cutting off his signal. He didn’t have time to go through his contacts and trusted his fingers to punch in the numbers quicker. Come on. Thank Christ, after four rings she answered.

‘I can’t talk just now. I’ll need to phone you back.’

She hadn’t used his name, meaning there was probably someone else there. Someone who couldn’t be allowed to know she was talking to him.

‘No. I need to talk to you now. Right now.’

‘I can’t do that, sorry. Things are really busy.’

She lowered her voice.

‘There’s been another shooting.’

‘Fuck. Who? In fact it doesn’t matter, just listen to me.’

‘I have to go.’

‘No! This is really important, Rachel . . . Rachel. Rach! You have to get away. Listen to me—’

‘I’m going into a press conference. I’ll call you once I’m home. Bye.’

‘Fucksake, Rach!’ He was talking to himself. She’d already hung up. He switched the phone to text and began frantically typing in a message.

He scrubbed it. Would just scare the hell out of her. And pose too many questions. He started again.

Again he deleted it. The press conference would last a while and it would be at least half an hour, probably longer still, before she left Pitt Street. At least she’d be safe there. Instead he hurried back to his car where he’d left it off St Enoch’s Square, immediately turning the radio on when he got there and pushing the button for Radio Clyde.

Good timing. The presenter was announcing that they were interrupting the programme to go to a live news conference at Strathclyde Police Headquarters where there was news about the killing which they’d exclusively told their listeners about earlier. Another voice took over but only got out a few whispered words of unnecessary explanation before loud familiar tones began to talk above it. Alex Shirley.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending at such short notice. I am going to read a prepared statement then take questions but I must warn you in advance that there are operating issues that I cannot and will not discuss. I’m sure you understand that and I thank you in advance for your co-operation in this matter.’

Shirley paused and Winter could imagine him glaring at the press and daring them to disagree.

‘At 20.30 hours this evening, officers received a 999 call from Causewayside Street in the Tollcross area, just off London Road. On arrival outside the premises of Eastern Salvage, they found the body of a man they identified as Alastair Riddle, the owner of the scrapyard. He had been shot in the head at point-blank range and was already dead when officers reached the scene.’

Winter could hear a flurry of background noise breaking out and Shirley paused until there was silence again.

‘Mr Riddle was twenty-five years old and a known associate of members of Glasgow’s criminal fraternity and had close connections with Malcolm Quinn. Owing to the specific characteristics of Mr Riddle’s injuries and the nature of his business, we are – subject to full and proper forensic examinations – linking his death with the others under the remit of Operation Nightjar.

‘The investigation into the other killings are ongoing and a matter of the utmost priority for Strathclyde Police. We are working round the clock to apprehend the person or persons responsible for these killings and will not rest until they are in custody. We are determined this will be done as quickly as is possible.

‘Now I’ll take questions.’

‘Who found the body, Chief Superintendent?’

‘Two local men heard the shot and they were first on the scene. I am not prepared to release their names at this stage.’

‘Will they be available for interview later?’

‘I doubt it. We’ll let you know if that situation changes.’

‘Can you reassure the public that you have firm leads in this case?’

‘I can reassure them that everything that can be done is being done. We have several leads and every one of these is being fully explored. I cannot say that an arrest is imminent but I can say that we are closer to an arrest than at any other time during this investigation.’

‘Can you tell us what information leads you to say that?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell us the nature of this information?’

‘No.’

‘Chief Superintendent, the Dark Angel case has attracted worldwide publicity. Is this something that Strathclyde Police are comfortable with?’

‘The Nightjar investigation has now involved the deaths of fourteen individuals and that is something we are not comfortable with. The extent of the publicity these killings has received is perhaps inevitable but it is not something that affects this force one way or the other.’

‘Chief Superintendent, are you happy that drug dealers and crime bosses are being shot? Many members of the public say they are not unhappy with what the Dark Angel is doing.’

There was nothing but dead air coming from his car radio. Eventually Shirley responded icily.

‘Thank you for attending, ladies and gentlemen. This press conference is now at an end.’

The station cut back to the studio where the presenter segued slickly into ‘Psycho Killer’ by Talking Heads. Winter switched it off.

He sat looking out of the car window and drumming his fingers. He gave it five long minutes until he couldn’t stand it any more and called Rachel back. Straight to voicemail. Winter swore at the phone then paused, waiting till he could leave a message.

‘It’s me. Call me back as soon as you can.’

Ten minutes passed that seemed to last an hour. He called again and again but only got the answering service.

He fingered through the contacts book looking for another number even though he knew it off by heart. As usual, it picked up on the third ring.

‘Hullo?’

‘Uncle Danny? It’s Tony.’

‘I know who it is,’ he growled back at him. ‘Are you going to tell me what it is this time?’

‘Danny, it’s complicated . . .’

‘Fuck off, Tony. Let me rephrase, you
are
going to tell me what it is this time. What kind of trouble are you in?’

‘It’s not me.’

‘So is it the guy in the Special Boat Service or is it your mate the cop who’s been shot? Or is it to do with the latest guy that’s been shot and just been on the news?’

It stunned him into silence.

‘I did this for a living, son.’

‘I need your help, Danny.’

‘I’d kinda gathered that. Okay, what do you need?’

‘There’s a friend that I . . . my girlfriend. I need you to look after her.’

Danny paused, taking the information in.

‘Okay, so who is she?’

She wasn’t going to like this but it was too late for that.

‘She’s a cop. A detective sergeant.’

‘I need her name, Tony.’

‘Rachel Narey. DS Rachel Narey.’

Danny laughed lightly.

‘I know her. You’ve done well there.’

Despite everything, Winter laughed too.

‘Cheers, Danny. You can tell her that yourself. I want you to pick her up from Pitt Street. You still know enough people in there that you can get past the front desk, don’t you?’

‘Course I do. And where do you want me to take this girlfriend of yours?’

‘Somewhere safe. She won’t want to go with you and she’ll not be happy when you tell her who you are. Danny, I want you to not take no for an answer.’

‘Okay. You going to tell me why?’

‘We need to get her safe because she might be next. I know that this Dark Angel guy knows where she lives and I think he might be looking to shoot her.’

A long pause.

‘Why would he want to do that, Tony?’

‘She’s not on the take, Uncle Danny. I’m as sure about that as I can be. But one of her informants had her name in his mobile and the cunt that’s doing all the killings has that phone.’

‘Tony, you should be going to the cops with this. I know Alex Shirley, he’s sound. You can talk to him.’

‘No. I can’t. I can’t go to anyone in Strathclyde with this.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . . because I’ve fucked up and I need to sort it.’

‘That’s not good enough, Tony. People are dying here. It can’t be about your pride being hurt.’

‘It’s more than that. I owe it to people. Give me two days and keep Rachel safe. If I’ve not sorted it by then, I’ll go to Alex Shirley. I promise.’

‘No need to promise,’ Danny growled at him. ’If you haven’t done it by then, I’ll drag you there myself.’

It was well after dark o’clock and Winter knew it was no time to be going visiting but then again it was no time to be standing on ceremony.

Just minutes after phoning Danny, he was driving up the High Street past the cathedral, his head full of Rachel and Addison, safe houses and hospital beds. He could still hear Danny’s warning, knowing he was right and only managing to shut him out when the lights at the Royal turned green and the road before him swung right and down the hill onto Alexander Parade. It felt like he’d been in Dennistoun more often than he’d been in his own flat the last few days and he was beginning to get sick of the place.

Maybe Mrs McKendrick would be out or in bed but his guess was that she was in her flat, peering into the bottom of a glass of brandy or gin and wondering how the hell it all happened. She’d be up half the night, doped up on Prozac and booze and too tired to sleep. Whether she wanted a visitor to share her misery was another matter but he had to find out.

Winter parked on the other side of the road and looked up. Sure enough, there was a light on in the McKendricks’ flat, a dim light like that given off by a table lamp. He crossed the road and pressed the buzzer, hoping that it wouldn’t simply scare her. Stepping back, he saw the curtains twitch as a shadow looked down onto the street. It didn’t pay to let someone know you were in at that time of night without checking them out first. Rosaleen couldn’t have been happy with what she’d seen because there was no voice through the intercom and he had to buzz again. Another minute passed and finally a crackle and she spoke, her voice weary and slightly slurred.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Tony. Ryan’s mate. I was round yesterday.’

‘Oh.’

She fell silent and for a moment he thought she’d walked away.

‘Are you still there, Mrs McKendrick?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want to speak to you.’

‘It’s very late.’

‘I know but it’s important.’

‘About Ryan?’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause as she deliberated then he got his answer as the intercom buzzed loudly. He pushed against the open door and made his way quickly but quietly up the stairs. She was standing just inside the door, holding it to her as if it was some kind of ill-considered protection. He read the look on her face and immediately felt like shit. She thought he was there to bring her bad news about her son.

In some ways, it was the exact opposite. He was there to not tell her the bad news that he knew. He wasn’t protecting her for her sake but for his. And Rachel’s.

‘Do you . . . is Ryan . . .’ she faltered.

‘No, no,’ he reassured her, lying through his teeth. ‘I haven’t heard anything.’

She fell against the door frame in her relief, immediately making him feel even worse, and burping out a small, fake laugh. Her eyes were frazzled and either prescription medicine or alcohol had been hard at work. She looked at him again, trying to remember who he was.

‘Tony?’

‘Yes, could I come in Mrs McKendrick?’

She shrugged and turned, leaving him to follow her once more into the flat. Winter closed the door behind him.

Rosaleen fell back into her armchair, a half-full/half-empty glass within easy reach. It had only been a day since he’d seen her but she was already two years older, a greyer and smaller version of her yesterday self. He knew he could make her age another ten years with a few careless words but he wouldn’t.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ she asked as if startled by remembering her manners.

‘No thanks.’

‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Something stronger?’

It was tempting but he said no.

‘I just needed to ask you a few questions.’

‘Oh.’

‘About what we talked about yesterday.’

‘About Ryan.’

‘Yes. You said he was always on about going to Grahamston.’

‘Did I? Yes, that’s right, he was always talking about it. How he and Kieran wouldn’t be able to go there again. How he’d promised Kieran. Grahamston. That’s right.’

The woman was all over the place.

‘Mrs McKendrick, has anyone else come to visit you?’

‘Oh yes, lots of people. The boys have so many friends. It’s been non-stop. People have been very kind. Although, to be honest with you,’ she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘it’s all a bit much and I’d rather they didn’t any more. Oh I didn’t mean you though. Sorry.’