by Alex Gray
Hardly daring to breathe, Michael waited. All his senses seemed to be heightened. His eyes flicked to a glittering green beetle wandering across the back of his hand. It tickled intolerably, its tiny feet tracing a path over his skin. If he could only brush it off. Above him a passing crow flew through the hot dense air, its wing-beats a swish of sound. And still he lay, never daring to move. Immobility would be his saving, he knew. If JJ should come upon him then one swift bullet would make an end of him. But while he remained motionless, the sun beating on his naked head, there was still a fragment of hope.
After what seemed an eternity Michael heard the sound of an engine starting up. Still he lay, terror gripping him. What if it was a ruse to make him show himself? He could imagine JJ standing by the vehicle, the engine running and his shotgun slung over his arm, waiting to train it on his prey. No. Better to wait until he was sure. The engine note changed and he could hear the tyres rumbling down the track then the distant whine as the van took to the open road once more.
The trembling in his body made him feel as if he were in the grip of some fever. Perhaps he was? In his weakened state there was no telling what he might have picked up.
Michael looked down at his hand. The beetle was gone. He blinked once then saw its shining carapace clinging to a single stalk of grass. It could only have been minutes since it had crawled over his skin but it seemed like hours. With a shuddering sob, he pulled himself up onto his elbows and looked over the ditch. There was no one there. Even the dust kicked up from the van’s wheels was drifting towards the edge of the field.
He looked ahead at the farmhouse. It seemed empty, maybe it was only a desolate shell of a place, but on further inspection he saw that the shingled roof was intact and a pile of sawn logs were stacked neatly to the side. With one fearful glance behind him, Michael raised himself up and began a clumsy run towards the farmhouse.
JJ glanced once at the petrol gauge. He’d enough to see him way beyond the county line. Things hadn’t gone according to plan. Something had happened and it could only have come from that bastard in Scotland. The bankteller had looked blank as he’d demanded the money from his new account. Then everything had started to unravel. There was no account set up after all. Somehow the big money that he’d expected from Forbes Macgregor had vanished into the ether. The six hundred thousand dollars he’d extorted from the Glasgow partner were all he had to show for his pains.
JJ had driven at breakneck speed, tyres screaming on the hot road. Then he’d arrived back to find Michael gone. The empty house had unnerved him. The Scotsman could be anywhere. Probably hitched a ride to the next town and it would only be a matter of time before the guy called the cops.
JJ didn’t look back at the old homestead as he drove on. So, he’d lost out on the biggest scam he’d ever tried. Well, there was still plenty of mileage in it if he played his cards right. Knowledge meant money and what this guy had told him could still be turned into big bucks. JJ’s eyes narrowed as he nodded at his reflection in the windshield. It wasn’t over yet. And his expertise as a hitman would keep him free for as long as he wanted.
CHAPTER 43
‘Fancy a pint?’ Alec Barr stood in front of West just as he was packing his briefcase for the last time. He was about to shake his head, make an excuse, when the man’s eyes bored in to his. A hollow lie might alert Alec’s suspicions. It would be best to go along with him for now.
‘It’s a grand night. How about we take a wander over to the pub? Leave that babe magnet of yours in the garage for a change?’ Alec laughed out loud as if he’d said something really funny. West shrugged. That was fine with him. He was all ready to go in the morning. A quick pint with Alec might be just the very ploy to allay any trace of guilt. He’d talk about seeing the football at the weekend, about his team’s prospects for the League, something innocuous that could make it seem as though he’d be around for weeks to come.
It was a pleasant April evening and the signs of spring were already showing in the primary colours of daffodils, tulips and grape hyacinths stacked neatly into their window boxes outside the office building.
‘Let’s take this way round,’ Alec suggested, turning right towards the suspension bridge. West smiled his agreement. That was fine with him. He liked to look up and down the river from the swaying structure. It felt like being on the bridge of an ocean liner. Alec chatted companionably as they approached it. It was empty except for one man coming towards him carrying what looked like a case for snooker cues. West glanced away, not wishing to make eye contact with a stranger. This was a funny part of town; sometimes a drug addict would stop him blearily in the street, asking for a few pennies for a cup of tea. A few pennies to put stuff in his veins more like, West always scoffed to himself. That was one reason why he’d always preferred taking the Porsche across the road bridge into town whenever he was by himself.
A sudden nostalgia washed over him, taking him by surprise. He’d miss his car, his flat and yes, damn it, he’d miss this bloody city. For a moment he hesitated, staring ahead at Saint Andrew’s Cathedral and the glass-fronted building next to it reflecting the rush-hour traffic.
‘Okay?’ Alec was speaking to him and West realized he had stopped walking and was standing there like an eejit.
‘Och, there’s something I’ve forgotten,’ West improvised rapidly. ‘Look, you go on ahead. I’ll catch you up. Okay?’
For a moment he thought that Alec was going to question him further but the older man simply shrugged and walked on.
‘Make mine a Tennent’s!’ Graham called after him, turning once more towards the office. He saw Alec’s hand raised in acknowledgement.
It took an effort of will not to break into a run back to the office where his Porsche was waiting. His last night in Glasgow would not be spent sharing a pint with Alec Barr. No way. He had better things to do with his time.
Alec Barr sat frowning at the clock. He should have been here by now, surely? West hadn’t turned up and there was no response from his mobile. Still the minutes ticked by and still the man sat on, sipping his beer and gazing into space.
Eventually he drained the pint and, with a heavy sigh, heaved himself to his feet and headed for the door. Ella would have his dinner ready, so he ought to be on his way home now anyway. He’d leave a message, though, just in case.
‘Steve,’ he caught the barman’s eye. ‘I was supposed to be meeting someone for a drink. Graham West. Tall fellow with dark hair. D’you know him?’
The barman shook his head in reply.
‘Well, if he comes in tell him I waited till now. Have to get home. Can’t stay here indefinitely,’ Barr grumbled. ‘That’s nearly six-thirty. I’ll be caught in the rush if I stay any longer. Rangers are playing at home tonight.’
The barman watched as the customer shrugged a powerful pair of shoulders into his overcoat and glared around the room before thrusting the door open. He’d keep an eye out for his mate. Wouldn’t like to be in this West fellow’s shoes when Alec Barr finally caught up with him though, he told himself, polishing the spot where the pint glass had left a wet ring. The man who had just walked out didn’t have the look of a guy you’d want to cross.
Joseph Reilly stood in the middle of the bridge and looked anxiously at his watch. The call had been made an hour ago and whoever had made it should be here by now. ‘Something useful to you about Tony Jacobs,’ the voice had told him. An educated voice that had held the sort of authority Joe hadn’t heard since his schooldays, reminding him of big Eddie Docherty, the heidie at St Roc’s. No names had been given and Joe hadn’t expected any. His late brother-in-law had moved in a twilight world where shadowy figures had come and gone. Joe had put up with it for Shelley’s sake: seeing her happy had been enough. But Tony had been another matter. Just being in the same room with the man had made his flesh crawl. Joe wasn’t sorry someone had put a bullet in him. But Shelley was in despair and frightened now too. If this guy turned up with something substantial that he co
uld take to the polis then maybe his wee sister would see her husband for what he had really been, a thoroughgoing crook. Okay, he was no saint himself, but Joe’s brushes with the law were small beer compared to what Tony Jacobs had been up to.
A sound to his right made Joe Reilly turn. A man was walking towards him, swinging a case of snooker cues. He grinned at him and the grin was returned by a diffident sort of smile.
‘Okay, pal?’ the man put out his hand and Joe felt its grasp cold within his own sweating palm.
‘Aye, what the—?’ Joe’s bewildered question was cut off as the man pulled him close and a pain seared through his chest. He heard a voice yelping in agony. Then everything went sideways and he was falling, falling through space until the dark water came rushing up to embrace his flailing limbs.
On the south side of the river the man with the snooker cues walked with a jaunty spring in his step. It would never pay to look as if he were running away from anything. He even stopped once to light a fag, throwing the match spinning away towards the river. Smiling to himself, he imagined the sizzle as it hit the water. One moment alight then instantly snuffed out. Like that bloke. He shook his head. Maybe he’d find out the man’s name in the papers tomorrow but that didn’t bother him. It was just a name, wasn’t it? Just another job. If he hadn’t done it someone else would, he told himself with a shrug of his shoulders. He continued his walk along the pavement, past the boatyard and beyond until he came to the gate into Riverside Gardens. They were waiting. The man did not even look behind him as he strolled towards the red car. The easy bit was over, he thought. Now the hard bit was about to begin.
George Parsonage took less than eight minutes to reach the body below the bridge. There was the usual cluster of onlookers peering down with uniformed officers, keeping them back as best they could. There hadn’t been time to set up a police cordon yet, by the looks of things. George rowed hard against the strong current, his arms a mere extension of the rhythmic beat of the oars. He could see the body floating several yards away from the suspension bridge, still in mid-stream.
Slowly he approached the lifeless shape, a lifetime of experience heightening his caution. One wrong move and the man’s body could be engulfed by a wave then sink deep below the murky surface. It was over in a matter of seconds, the swift dip of the hull and one mighty heave lifted his cargo inside the safety of George Parsonage’s sturdy craft. For a moment he let the oars rest in their rowlocks as he examined the man in the bottom of his boat. Blood mingled with water sluiced from his side, a darker patch staining his suit. George shook his head briefly then glanced upwards. Something bad had happened up there and the sooner he took this fellow into the van waiting by the quayside, the better.
Above him several pairs of eyes watched as he rowed back towards the city, the dark shape of a corpse at his feet. Already the people were moving away as the officers began their questions. They’d just been passing. Hadn’t seen it happen: didn’t want to be involved.
DCI Lorimer’s face was grim. Through the viewing screen he watched as Dr Rosie Fergusson made that first incision into the man’s flesh. The naked corpse lay under the lights, a case for the pathologist’s scrutiny. He was no longer a human being, Lorimer thought, merely a collection of bones, flesh and fluids. Lorimer tried to concentrate on Rosie’s voice telling them what she was doing to Joseph Reilly’s cadaver. He listened as she talked about the wound in the man’s chest.
‘Measure this, will you, Dan?’ she asked her assistant. ‘Boat-shaped wound here. So we’ve got a blunt and sharp edge to whatever weapon caused this.’ Her latex-covered fingers pushed the lips of the wound together. ‘Still got to see now how deeply it penetrated,’ she muttered, half to herself.
Lorimer watched with his customary fascination as the pathologist sought to interpret the injury that had proved fatal for Shelley Jacob’s brother. One deep plunge with the weapon was all it had taken. Then that shove over the edge of the suspension bridge. Why had the killer not simply left him there to die? Had he wanted to make sure his victim would never recover? And had this been a random act of violence in a city too well renowned for its knife culture? Nothing seemed to have been taken from the victim; his wallet had still been inside the jacket pocket when George Parsonage had pulled him out of the river. But somehow he doubted that this was sudden and unpremeditated. He felt certain that Joseph Reilly had been taken out by a hired killer. Lorimer stared at the body. It was as if some statement was being made. Everything seemed to be revolving around the river: Jacobs Betting Shops on one side, Forbes Macgregor’s palatial offices on the other. And Jennifer Hammond had lived right on the water’s edge, he reminded himself.
Lorimer nodded. He couldn’t yet see a pattern in all of this but he sure as hell knew somebody who might.
Solly sat up straight, listening intently to the news item on the radio.
‘The body of a man was taken from the river Clyde in the centre of Glasgow earlier this evening. He had been fatally wounded. Police have asked for any member of the public who may have witnessed the man’s fall from the suspension bridge to come forward.’
The psychologist stroked his luxuriant beard thoughtfully. Was this too much of a coincidence or was the killing of Tony Jacobs’s brother-in-law linked to any of the other murders? No. There were too many little strands beginning to tie together for this not to be part of a pattern. And the choice of the river as a locus was once again an interesting feature. The riverman had told him all about the suicides and attempted suicides: the folk who had cursed him upside down for giving them back another chance of living in whatever hell they’d been in before thrusting themselves over the edge. But the riverman had never encountered an episode of murders like this, not in all the decades he’d been patrolling the waterways.
Tomorrow that young pop singer would be in Glasgow helping Lorimer to gain more of an insight into the death of Duncan Forbes. Until then the psychologist would continue to study his maps and make more red lines across the meandering blue of the Clyde.
The car radio had finished relaying the main headlines including the fate of Joseph Reilly. His relationship to the dead bookie had been mentioned, too. These journalists weren’t stupid, the man told himself as he waited patiently for the red Vauxhall to appear. The briefcase full of money lay on the passenger seat. He’d pass it over and go home. End of story. End of fuss.
The man flexed his fingers through the black leather gloves. He’d taken every precaution. No trace of him would ever be found. Even the car he sat in could not be identified as his.
It was all over in minutes, the briefcase handed over and the car door slammed. Then he was driving away from the darkened quayside. His skin tingled under the latex mask and he tore it off before he reached the main road. It was just another item he’d have to discard before he reached the sanctuary of home. He pressed the unfamiliar button to let down the window and flung the green mask away from him, watching briefly as it landed among other rubbish lining the embankment. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.
They hadn’t been expecting to see the Incredible Hulk pass over their money and their astonished reaction had caused him a moment of unguarded delight.
CHAPTER 44
DCI Lorimer closed the front door quietly behind him. The darkness in the hall told him what he already suspected: that Maggie was fast asleep. It had been one of those long days when one event tumbled hard on the heels of another. A killer was out there somewhere while Joseph Reilly was lying stiff in the mortuary.
Lorimer didn’t believe in coincidences. They all knew a pro had been hired to take out Tony Jacobs and he suspected the very same thing had occurred today. As he tiptoed up the stairs he recalled the angry scene back at HQ. Nobody had minced their words about this latest killing in broad daylight. It was a total slap in the face for Strathclyde Police. Reilly may well have had things to add to the background of the murder of his bookie brother-in-law. Maybe this would end up being one of these unsol
ved cases that the new unit would investigate in years to come. He fervently hoped not, at least while he was still senior investigating officer.
The bedroom was in thick darkness when Lorimer crept in but gradually his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he made out Maggie’s shape under the duvet. Leaving his clothes on the floor where he stepped out of them, he slid his naked body in next to hers. Maggie moaned softly, feeling the chill against her skin, so he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer, letting his fingers caress her breast. She gave a sigh and snuggled closer, but whether she still slept or was half-awake, he couldn’t tell. Lying there in the dark, feeling her warmth was enough for now.
‘Any luck?’
‘Aye, thank God!’ DS Wilson sighed and rubbed eyes that were reddened from lack of sleep. ‘We got a description of the assailant. Good witness, too. Picked out one of our likely lads. Guess who?’
Lorimer shook his head.
‘Dougie McAlister: Shug’s younger brother. Would you believe the cheek of it? And him banged up for the bookie’s killing.’
‘Runs in the family then,’ Lorimer said wearily. ‘You’d think they’d have more savvy.’
‘Aye, well there’s a warrant out for his arrest but nobody’s seen a thing. Or so they say.’
‘Who’s telling the worst porkies then?’ Lorimer asked.
‘His old mum, for a start. She swears her boy was innocent of it all. Butter wouldn’t melt et cetera, et cetera.’