Fraser ran his forefinger under his left eye, and the commander was pleased to see the nervous gesture.
‘She ran the agent who died, and on top of that she’s going to tell the investigation team that she saw a young Peeler assault Doyle shortly before he died in custody. The Peeler concerned is the brother of Billy Crawford, who you might remember was abducted by PIRA and killed down on the border.’
Fraser knew the case well and had been involved in giving legal advice to the murder-squad detectives who’d investigated the killing. He knew the commander was playing some game and was losing patience. ‘I really am sorry but I have a busy schedule today so if you could tell me what you need from me?’
The commander smiled, which was another bad sign, and Fraser became uncomfortable, an unusual feeling for a man who was always in control. He knew that bad news was coming, and he wanted the commander to get to the point.
‘You’ve done great things for the police service, and the people of Northern Ireland. You worked with us, guided us on the legal problems we’ve had to resolve and helped put a lot of terrorists where they belong. You come from good stock, and you’re needed here. You more than most know what we do and what we were faced with during the height of the Troubles. This province was under the most intense surveillance of any country in the developed world during the Troubles and we have agents everywhere, from the top to the bottom of society. We intercept and bug, and we do all this because we have to do it to save lives. We only ever use a small part of all the information we gather, and in among it we pick up information about otherwise law-abiding people that we tend to leave alone.’
Fraser was smart enough to think he knew where this was going, but he didn’t. The commander took another sip of his coffee, and Fraser completely ignored his.
‘You’ve been having a long-running affair with Grace Macallan, and it’s probably time it stopped. You really don’t want to be associated with the woman who puts Jackie Crawford in prison. You have a lot of friends here, and we provide your business, so think about it. You’re a married man and have a future. No doubt when this is all over, you’ll get yourself a judge’s wig and your backside on the bench.’
Fraser was surprised, but of course in a small part of the world like Northern Ireland he’d known that it would eventually come out. He cared deeply for Grace, and his marriage was just a show until one of them plucked up the courage to admit that it was over. He felt a small sense of relief because he could handle this – and knock this ill-educated plod off his perch. Against his training for the bar, he even allowed himself to appear annoyed before putting the man in his place. Maybe it was all for the best and he could move his life on, although in reality he wanted his marriage over more than he wanted to live a life of domestic bliss with Grace. They worked well together, but being lovers and being partners were two different things, and that could wait.
‘I have to say, Commander, that I find this whole meeting an insult. My private life is just that, other than to admit to problems that are well known to our friends. I don’t count you as a friend, so I don’t need to say anything more on that subject. As for Grace, as far as I can see she acted properly apart from reporting late. If she’d asked me for advice as a lawyer, I would have told her to tell the truth. What else are we here for? Don’t approach me again on any of this, or I’ll make sure there’s a price to pay.’
He sat back and waited to revel in his small victory, and at least an apology from the man sitting opposite him. But the commander was completely unruffled and the only change in his expression was that a small thin smile had opened up on his face. The bastard was keeping something in reserve, and as a barrister he had to admire the tactic.
‘I’ll continue. I’d hoped you’d be reasonable, and you will be. I’ve told you already about all this other information we pick up, and for the last two years we’ve had an agent reporting on you. Nothing too serious you see, and as I said we have them at all levels. You mix with the best people in smart circles and you think you’re immune. However, the businessman who supplies you with your odd packet of cocaine is one of ours. I know it’s recreational, and all the best people are doing it, but as a trained lawyer you’ll remember that it’s against the law even here in Ulster. Now you have a choice, son: that information will never see the light of day and you can carry on serving the good people of this province, or you can wreck your career and live with a woman who no one in this place will come near for years. You’ll have no friends in the PSNI watching your backs when the paramilitaries come looking for a Branch officer and a lawyer who put so many of their boys behind the wire. It’s your choice, my friend. Do the right thing, Jack.’
Fraser’s face had paled, and he leaned back in his chair. ‘Is that all, Commander?’
His voice lacked the angry edge of his last delivery. The commander thought that it had all gone rather well, but he’d been a bastard for a long time and had a lot of practice. He’d always thought how naive these lawyers could be. Huge brains and they lived in a non-reality bubble where they actually believed that their law books contained the answers. Welcome to the real world, son. The commander knew that the lifeblood of a man like Jack Fraser was his position in life. A ruined career was a death sentence. Ultimately, men like him would choose their careers, being far too selfish to choose the love of a woman ahead of the spotlight of professional success. ‘You be on your way now and think about what I’ve said to you, but don’t take too long. I’ll expect a phone call.’
Fraser got to the door of the office and turned to the commander before he left. ‘Grace had no idea about the cocaine. You do know that, don’t you?’
The commander smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I know that and she’s got enough to be going on with. Just don’t mention any of this to her – and that’s non-negotiable. Are you sure you don’t want one of these biscuits? It’s a terrible waste.’
Fraser closed the door behind him without saying another word.
8
Nancy Park dragged her feet through the damp, rust-coloured leaves that covered the street on her way to the house where she worked as a cleaner. It was a quiet street lined with beautiful old homes in an affluent district of Glasgow, half filled with old money, the other half with new business stars and the odd lawyer. Nancy Park worked in the house owned by Peter Yip, who’d come from Hong Kong as a young man with barely the price of a coffee in his pocket. Like so many of his countrymen he only knew how to work hard, starting as a cook in a third-rate carryout shop in the East End of the city. He’d grafted his way to owning three of the best restaurants in Glasgow and branched out to Edinburgh and Dundee.
Nancy liked Peter Yip and his family, although her husband resented immigrants doing well, missing the irony that he’d barely done a day’s paid work in his life. Nancy had filled that role. She loved the old-world charm of the street and the trees that lined its edges. She would dream that she lived there with a husband who loved her – and her dreams were all Nancy had now. She was getting old, worried about the arthritic pains in her legs and how they would live if she had to give up work. Peter Yip and his family were good to Nancy, and she loved the children who were so courteous to her, all so different from the world that she inhabited. Their life was a contrast to hers, and it made her ashamed, so she would manufacture a different life and she would tell the Yips about her tradesman husband, how well her children were doing and that her lovely grandchildren were a joy. The truth was that Nancy hadn’t seen her son since his last spell in prison, and although she was close to her daughter, she’d ended up with a man about as useless as her father.
When she opened the gate, Nancy was surprised to see Peter’s Merc in the driveway, as he was normally off working before the rest of the family were up and about. She marvelled that given all that Peter had achieved, he worked as if he was still climbing the greasy ladder.
The door was still locked and she frowned because the Yips had the most ordered life. The front door was
always open at this time of the morning and she’d had no message from Mrs Yip that they were going anywhere.
She fumbled through her bag and found the key to the door. Her instincts were firing up as soon as she entered the house; it was too warm and there was a barely perceptible smell that she couldn’t identify but which was ringing an alarm deep in her subconscious. She would normally have called out but walked slowly through the hall trying to rationalise what was starting to frighten her.
The house was too still and seemed to be holding its breath until Nancy was startled by a cry from upstairs – a child’s voice. She called up the stairs, praying that her imagination had run away with her and all was well, but it wasn’t that kind of day. There was another cry and she recognised it as belonging to the eldest of the children. She padded upstairs as quickly as she could and pushed open the bedroom door, trying to work out why the room was empty. Another cry made her put her hand to her mouth as she realised it was coming from a cupboard in the room – and that it was locked from the outside.
The children had recognised Nancy’s voice and were begging her to open the door. The key was still in the lock and, when she opened it, the three children grabbed her as if their lives depended on it. They were in shock but told her enough for her to realise that something terrible had entered their home. Nancy knew that there was a question she didn’t want to answer – where were Peter Yip and his wife?
She made the children sit on the bed and tried her best to calm them. ‘You sit there and I’ll go and get your father.’
The children were still terrified and she dreaded what they had seen. She walked slowly down the stairs, pressed the three nines on her phone and told the operator the story so far and that she was frightened. The operator was good and started to get what was needed, steering Nancy on what she had to do next – but she was already pushing the lounge door open. The blood spray on the walls caught Nancy’s eye first, and although they would tell the scenes of crimes officers a great deal, they just added to her sense of horror at what was waiting in the middle of the floor.
Peter Yip and his wife were neatly tied up and seated on antique dining chairs that she’d polished just a couple of days earlier. She dropped the phone and the operator knew enough to press the right buttons and get the cavalry on its way. Nancy stared at Peter Yip, who couldn’t answer because he was dead – she didn’t need any medical qualifications to know that. The right side of his head had been beaten to a pulp and something had flowed from the open skull. He hadn’t been able to scream because his mouth was taped. Elizabeth Yip had the same sort of mess for a head. It was a horror, and as Nancy hit the floor, somewhere in her dimming consciousness she could heard the two-tone sirens approach.
When the intruders had entered the Yips’ home through the French windows at the back of the house, Peter had tried to put up a fight, but they were three very hard guys and had more practice than Peter in hurting people. They gave him a couple of cracks in the ribs and a good slap had sorted his wife. The biggest of the three gave the orders. ‘Up the stairs and take care of the brats.’
Elizabeth Yip panicked at the thought of what might happen to her children. ‘Please don’t hurt them; we’ll give you what you want.’
The big guy seemed to be enjoying it – and he was. Seeing fear was what worked for him, and wielding power over people who had so much more than he did. ‘Think we’re animals? They’ll be left alone as long as you play ball.’
They wanted money and their research had told them that Peter should have plenty in the house. As far as they were concerned these Chinese fuckers kept it under the bed so they didn’t have to pay tax, and all they had to do was hand it over. The problem was that Peter was a straight peg and kept it in the bank. But they’d come a long way and spent a lot of time on this job and that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. The big man put his face close to Peter’s and all Peter could see beyond the balaclava were his eyes. But Peter Yip was no one’s fool and decided to try and get every detail possible; he looked at the dark brown eyes and saw that there was an unusual black fleck on the left side. He was a law-abiding man but this was an attack on his family and anger boiled in his chest.
The big man gripped him by the throat. ‘Now listen carefully, Mr Egg Foo Yung.’
The second intruder snorted a laugh.
‘You hand over the money or we’re going to spend a bit of time hurting you and your lovely wife. Don’t take too long because we’re a bit rushed and want to catch the pub.’
The second man snorted again and ran his hand through Elizabeth Yip’s hair. She recoiled and looked across at her husband, who wanted to kill another human being for the first time in his life. If he could track these men down he knew some Triad boys who were always happy to oblige and get the meat cleavers out for a few notes.
The big man walked over to Elizabeth Yip and taped her mouth closed. Her eyes were bulging and seemed to be screaming at her husband to find an answer and get these predators away from her door and children. The third man came back into the room. ‘There’s a big cupboard up there and they’re locked in it. They’re going nowhere.’
Peter Yip tried to explain over and over again that there was only a couple of hundred in cash in the house. The problem was that the intruders didn’t believe him. He told them to take some of the antiques but this team was professional and knew how easy it was to trace them. They did cash only, and maybe a bit of jewellery at a push. The big man just couldn’t be bothered fucking about and offered a last chance.
‘Right, you give us the cash or we start to hurt the missus.’
Elizabeth Yip was hyperventilating. Her husband realised that these were men who took pleasure in hurting, and if they didn’t get the main prize then there was a consolation. He’d never pleaded in his life and it was all he had left, but it didn’t work. He strained at the rope that held him to the chair as they taped his mouth and one of them held his head and made him watch as they tore at Elizabeth’s lower clothing.
After a few minutes they ripped the tape from his mouth and asked him again about the money. Peter Yip knew that this had moved too far past the point of no return for him and the intruders. He spat in the face of the big man, who didn’t even seem surprised. In fact, he was happy enough – and this was all the justification he needed. He stood up and pulled the iron jemmy from a side pocket. ‘Fuck it and fuck you!’
The last thing Peter Yip saw was the big man raising the jemmy above his shoulder before smashing it into the side of his head. He didn’t die with the first blow but was beyond pain and feeling. He was making a snoring noise and the second intruder wanted to get the job done. ‘Finish him. We can’t leave them now.’
Elizabeth Yip tried to scream through the tape.
The big man took the two paces towards her and used the jemmy again. They made sure with another few whacks and then checked the place to make sure they hadn’t left any traces.
The intruders were professional and burned the stolen car on the outskirts of Edinburgh. They picked up a clean set of wheels and managed a few pints before calling it a day. The big man, or Billy Drew to his friends, directed his last order at his younger brother. ‘Frank, you take the boiler suits with the other gear and burn it.’
The big man thought his younger sibling was a complete arse, but he was family and he had to give him something to do. Frank Drew was happy and loved working with his brother, who was a bit of a legend, but he knew he had to be careful, as he tended to fuck up on a regular basis. He got the bin bag from the car and walked the few hundred yards to his house, where he would have a couple of shots of vodka before turning in.
Billy Drew spoke to the third man, Colin Jack, as they stood outside the pub. They had worked with each other for years and had become friends after a spell in Barlinnie prison together. ‘Keep an eye on Frank for the next few days. I’m going to look at another job. He’s a mouthy fucker and I’m worried he’ll land us in it one of these days.’
> Colin Jack slapped his friend on the arm. ‘No problem, Billy, it’s done.’
They walked their separate ways.
Frank Drew had his shots of vodka and the next morning his head felt like he’d been hit with the jemmy and not the Chinese fuckers they’d turned over. He had an old tin drum outside and got it fired up, thought about the job the night before and how good it had felt. He tossed the gear on the fire a bit at a time and was glad they hadn’t got the money. Doing the Chinks had been a laugh.
The fire began to die, and it started to piss down as he tossed the last balaclava and boiler suit into the drum. Running inside, he got his face into the racing section – he felt lucky and thought he would put a few bets on the horses.
9
Pauline Johansson shivered under what passed for a blanket, realising it was just another day as the pale sun tried to force its way through the grime and the torn blind on her window. Sunshine just wasn’t enough to lift her spirits. She reached for a cigarette, trying to steady her hand long enough to get a flame to it. She dragged on the fumes and coughed wetly, like almost every other morning, and tried to run through the previous night. Nothing much ever changed in the script, only the players.
She rubbed her eyes and looked round to see if anyone was next to her, but she was alone. She got out of the bed, swore at the freezing bare wood beneath her feet and tried to tiptoe through to the kitchen. She flicked on the kettle, looked at the pile of crusty dishes in the sink and decided they could wait as she dropped a tea bag into a cracked mug embossed with the Glasgow Rangers logo, which like her was fading with age.
She tugged on a woollen pullover and tried to stop shivering, but there hadn’t been heating in the flat for weeks since the gas had been cut off.
She sat on the toilet and sipped her tea, trying to work up enough fight to manage another day and avoid thinking about the future, unless being a working girl with a smack habit gave you something to look forward to.
Cause of Death Page 6