‘Yeah?’ he replied as casually as he could. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I probably shouldn’t say but she was out in Stirling – Stirling of all places! Poking her nose into some old case that was none of her business. Now she’s taking random days off for no apparent reason. There’s something going on but she’s not telling me what. You and her are pretty pally . . . you any idea what she’s up to?’
Winter shook his head.
‘Nope. No idea. I’ll keep an eye on her though.’
‘Yeah, I bet you will,’ Addison teased. ‘No hardship in that, eh?’
The DI held Winter’s gaze, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, defying his mate to challenge him. Tony couldn’t get a read on what Addison did and didn’t know. The sod liked playing games and Winter was going to do his damnedest not to get dragged into this one. Salvation from Addison’s silent interrogation was at hand in the shape of Winter’s mobile beeping in his back pocket. He knew right away it was work because of the alert tone and might not have bothered to check it there and then if it didn’t offer an easy escape from Addison’s stare. He hauled the phone out of his pocket, ignoring Addison’s look of disgust.
Winter saw it was a text signalling to him that the R2S had been updated on the Cambuslang case. Addison’s games could wait and so could his pint. There was no way he was going to be able to resist a quick look at what had been added on the headless guy. He tapped his way through to the system and brought up the highlighted area where the new information had been placed. As he read it, his eyes widened and he felt a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He instinctively brought his pint to his lips and drew down a large mouthful of the Guinness as he reread what was in front of him. Drawing his hand across his lips, he pushed himself to his feet.
‘Addy, I need to go outside. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘I take it it’s a woman,’ Addison jeered behind him. ‘One text from her and you jump. You’ve got to let her know who’s boss, wee man. Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen. It’s the way they like it.’
Winter wasn’t at all sure that the call he was about to make was the way Rachel would like it. She answered on the third ring as he stood outside the pub, his mind racing and his feet shuffling in a vain attempt to keep warm.
‘Hi. It’s me.’
‘So I see,’ Narey laughed at him. ‘You do know that your name comes up on the screen on these newfangled mobile phone things, right? I seem to remember someone making fun of me for saying the same thing.’
‘Aye, very funny. Listen, there’s something you need to know. It might be nothing but . . .’
She sensed the tension in his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘I told you about that suicide I photographed yesterday, the one at Cambuslang station? Well, they’ve just ID’d him. His name’s flashed up on the R2S. He’s a guy named Adam Mosson.’
‘And?’
‘It’s his occupation. Rachel, the guy was a school teacher.’
A loud silence came back at Winter from the other end of the phone.
‘Two school teachers. Dying in suspicious circumstances,’ he continued. ‘Maybe I’m being . . .’
‘No, you’re not,’ she interrupted. ‘And of course it’s his name too. Tony, one of the other three names the blackmailer emailed along with Laurence Paton was . . .’
‘I know. Adamski something or other.’
‘Yes. Jesus. Adamski was Adam Mosson.’
CHAPTER 25
Monday 10 December
The easy thing, of course, would have been to ask Tony to go to Derek Addison and use the old pals act to get her on the case, explain to him what had being going on and convince him of the truth behind the apparent suicide. The easy way wasn’t an option, however, and it was, of course, her fault for keeping their relationship secret. Naturally, Tony hadn’t been exactly slow in pointing that out.
It would also have been a hell of a lot easier if she understood just what was going on. Ever since Tony had called on Saturday night, she’d known it was too much to think that Adam Mosson’s death was the suicide it seemed. If he’d walked in front of that train, then Narey was sure someone, probably the blackmailer, had driven him to do it. If so, how bad had things been for Mosson that he saw it as the only way out? Of course, the other possibility was that it wasn’t suicide at all. The little that had been gathered in the way of witness statements said it was but she could see they didn’t carry much weight.
The platform had been busy with commuter traffic waiting for their train into Central and no one claimed to have seen Mosson actually step in front of the express. A couple of them had turned in time to see the impact, including a traumatised middle-aged woman who had thrown up not long after. There was a whole lot of screaming and general chaos, pushing both towards and away from the point where the train had struck Mosson. No one there could have been sure who had done what to whom – far less why – which made it harder for her to persuade Addison it was worthy of her time.
She knocked on the door of his office and was immediately greeted with a gruff roar that didn’t bode well for her chances. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
The DI was sitting with his feet up on the desk, determinedly lobbing scrunched up bits of paper into a bin in the corner. Narey stood bemused and watched as he successfully landed three in a row right in the wastebasket.
‘Paperwork,’ Addison said without taking his eyes off the bin. ‘This is the only kind that doesn’t send me completely fucking mental.’
The next effort hit the edge of the bin and joined a collection of others on the floor.
‘Fucksake. Now see what you’ve done. What the hell do you want anyway?’
‘A few minutes of your valuable time would be good, sir.’
‘Less of the fucking sarcasm. I’m not cooped up in here through choice. Right, talk.’
Addison swung his long legs off the desk and reluctantly assumed some vaguely professional position in his chair. It was blindingly obvious he wasn’t in the best of moods and Narey considered making her excuses and trying her luck another time. However, she knew it might be a warm day in Whiteinch before he was actually in a good mood so she decided to take her chances.
‘You’ll have heard about the suicide at Cambuslang railway station,’ she began.
‘No. Next.’
‘A commuter supposedly stepped out in front of an express,’ she persisted. ‘Body parts thrown to the wind.’
‘Okay. So?’
‘So, I have reason to believe it wasn’t a suicide.’
Narey saw a light go on in Addison’s eyes and, even though he tried to cover it with a bored expression, she knew he was curious. The bad-tempered bastard was going stir-crazy, and she was suddenly confident he would bite at the lure of an interesting case. She just had to make him think it was all his idea.
‘Okay, I’m listening. Tell me more.’
‘No one actually saw this guy, Adam Mosson, step in front of the train. I believe he was either pushed or someone forced him into doing it.’
‘And you’re basing that on what exactly?’
Narey took another deep breath. ‘I think Mosson is linked to another case and another death.’
Addison’s eyes narrowed and a scowl formed on his lips. ‘Okay, why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?’
Narey’s gaze fell to the floor as she developed a sudden interest in Addison’s office carpet. He wasn’t going to be diverted though.
‘Rachel, what is this other fucking death?’
‘Laurence Paton.’
‘Oh, for fucksake. You have got to be bloody kidding me. Get out. Get out my fucking office now. As if I’ve not got enough shit to put up with without you making it worse. Go on, beat it, before I put you back in uniform and have you cleaning up tramps’ puke.’
‘Hear me out. Please?’
Addison’s head fell into his hands as he melodramatical
ly let out a muffled scream. As he sat back up he blew out an exaggerated puff of air and glanced at his watch.
‘It’s only ten o’clock and I’m already wondering when I can get a drink. That’s not a good sign so this better be bloody good. I told you to forget this Paton shit.’
‘Yes, sir. I know. And I had,’ she lied. ‘Then this Mosson thing came up and . . .’
‘What makes you think they’re linked?’ he asked wearily.
‘Two deaths: one seemingly an accident; the other seemingly a suicide. I don’t think either were what they seemed. Paton and Mosson were both teachers . . .’
‘That’s it? They were both teachers? Jesus Christ, we’d better get a warning out to Professor Dumbledore. Tell him he might be in danger. Teachers? Is that all you’ve got?’
Narey realised how thin it sounded but couldn’t tell Addison about the other link. They only knew about the adamski email address because Tony and Danny had broken into Paton’s house and hacked into his computer. Addison wasn’t going to thank her for telling him that.
‘Fucksake, Rachel,’ Addison continued to rant. ‘Mosson was from Glasgow, I take it. Your man Paton was a teacher in bloody Stirling.’
‘Yes, but Paton is originally from Glasgow and he studied here.’
‘God help me,’ Addison muttered before lapsing into a dour silence, his feet back up on the desk again.
‘Where?’ he asked at last.
‘Where what?’
‘Where did he study? Jordanhill?’
‘I assume so, yes,’ Narey told him.
‘Don’t assume anything. If you do, you make an ass out of you. Not me. Go to Jordanhill and check out the student records. Come back to me with something that actually links Paton and Mosson and we’ll see. Until then, drop the fucking conspiracy theories and do some proper work. You hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t “yes, sir” me because it only makes me think you’re up to something.’
‘Yes . . .’
Narey closed the door behind her, nothing more than a faint smile on her lips, leaving Addison to resume his challenge with his paperwork and the wastebasket. It was probably for his own good she hadn’t told him she’d already phoned the college and been told that Paton and Mosson had indeed enrolled at Jordanhill in the same year. Now she was going to find out who else had been there with them.
CHAPTER 26
Finding someone in Glasgow who is ‘hurting people’ is not so much like looking for a needle in a haystack; it’s more like looking for hay in a haystack, knowing the haystack might head-butt you at any minute. Rachel had left the search to Winter and Danny, making it pretty clear she thought the whole gypsy thing was probably a wild-goose chase. Between Paton and her regular caseload, she told them, she didn’t have time to run down the Sam Dunbar lead as well.
She had also warned Winter off going to get help from Addison. She was taking too many risks as it was and didn’t want Addison getting a sniff of what she was doing. He would inevitably ask Winter why the hell he’d been out to Stirling talking to the travellers in the first place. In fact, the very mention of Stirling would have Addison launching into a suspicion-fuelled rant.
Worse still, they knew it might all be a complete waste of time. There was a very good chance that Tommy Baillie was playing them for his own ends but he still represented the only apparent lead they had if the gypsy connection were to stand up.
That was why Winter and Danny were slowly working their way through an assorted selection of cops, criminals and contacts in an attempt to get a handle on Sam Dunbar. They were all people who could be asked questions without them feeling the need to ask why. Instead, they exchanged scraps of information in return for a few quid, a few pints or a favour owed. Inevitably, there was no end of ‘people hurting’ reported back to them but none of it added up to much of any use. Instead, the usual suspects had been hurting the usual bampots by the usual methods. Baseball bats, stabbings and heavy bruises were the order of the day from Possil to Partick.
The name Sam Dunbar meant nothing to any of them until they sat down in the Whistlin Kirk at Glasgow Green with a mechanic named Shug Brennan. The guy was a contact of Danny’s from way back, a cut and shut expert of some renown whose talents were still in demand from those who couldn’t get all the services they required at Kwik Fit. Shug was the sort of happy drinker who got told all sorts of things and was happy to share them with Danny as long as his glass got topped up and his back pocket bulged with spending money.
Winter hadn’t met the guy before but as soon as they walked into the Whistlin Kirk, he recognised Shug from Danny’s description. The shock of unruly hair was unmissable and its colour seemed to defy nature by existing outwith the confines of a cartoon. It was hair so ginger Winter thought it must have come out of a tin of paint. Shug was known as Irn-Bru Brennan because his hair was the precise colour of the fizzy brew that claimed to be Scotland’s other national drink. It wasn’t Irn-Bru that was in front of Shug though, it was lager, and Danny went straight to the bar and bought him a fresh one along with a couple of Guinness for himself and Winter.
The Whistlin Kirk was a Celtic pub, which suited Winter and Danny just fine. The green leather seating was matched with whitewashed walls lined with retro Guinness signs above the oak panelling. It was the kind of pub where the only two things on offer were booze and chat. Shug was positioned in a corner under a sign declaring ‘Guinness gives you strength’, far enough away from anyone else that they could talk without being overheard. Even if the punters smelled cop, his age would have made them think their senses needed retuning. They slid in beside Shug, Danny introducing Winter with a brief nod and just two words, ‘Tony. Shug.’
From the point Winter was offered a grudging nod from the Irn-Bru Man, he became part of the furniture as Danny and Shug talked turkey. It was just the way Winter liked it: he was always happier as an observer, sitting back comfortably and watching the play unfold. As the other two men talked, Winter took in Shug’s rosy cheeks and reddened nose, which could have been put down to the weather outside but probably wasn’t, his nicotine-stained fingers, muscled arms and pot belly. He was no hard man, not by Glasgow standards, but he’d be able to look after himself and, given the nature of his trade, he’d probably have to. The remainder of his first pint disappeared at a rate of knots and a large gulp of the second followed suit after a cursory wipe of his mouth with the back of his hand. Shug spoke quietly, probably the only person in the pub who was doing so, his gravelly cigarette tones disappearing within a few feet of their table.
‘Dunbar? Aye, I’ve heard the name.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘I don’t know much. Except that the guy who dropped his name suggested Dunbar wasn’t the sort ye’d want to bump into.’
‘In what way?’
Shug shrugged.
‘Bad bastard is the vibe I got.’
‘Hardly anything new in that,’ Danny replied. ‘The place is full of them. Why’d he mention this guy?’
‘Like I said, he didn’t say much. Got the impression this guy was a new face and my man was wary of him.’
Danny nodded and supped on his Guinness, a foamy moustache forming on his grizzled features. He let Shug’s words settle on him, mulling them over.
‘Is your guy the sort that normally worries about new faces?’
Shug gave a short laugh. ‘No, he’s no. And just as well he’s no here if you’re going to be slagging him off for being scared.’
‘So why’s he worried about Dunbar?’
‘I didn’t say he was – not quite. Look, all he said was that there were some people running scared of this Sam Dunbar character. He didn’t say that he was. Said this Dunbar was making a bit of a rep for himself. I asked him what the guy had done but he just shook his head like I didn’t really want to know. “Mental” was all he’d say.’
‘So who is this guy who told you about him?’
‘Awa
y ye go – like I’m going to tell ye that.’
‘Come on, Shug. I need to know who this guy is.’
Shug stared gravely into his pint, looking like a man who’d found a penny but lost a pint of blood.
‘Believe me, ye don’t need to, Mr Neilson. He’s not the sort that’s going to take too kindly to being asked that kind of question.’
‘Look, Shug. You tell me who he is and I’ll take my own chances talking to him. He’ll never know it came from you.’
Shug gave a despairing shake of his head and downed a huge mouthful of lager.
‘If this comes back to me, I’ll no be a happy man. I’m more likely to be a deid man.’
‘It won’t.’
‘Fucksake,’ Shug’s gruff voice got even lower. ‘It’s Glenn Paxton. He’s a debt collector for Terry Gilmartin. Ye know him?’
‘I know the name. Where will I find him?’
‘Christ, ye don’t ask much, do ye?’
‘Shug, you know you’re going to tell me and I’ll make it worth your while so just spit it out.’
‘He drinks in the Roadhouse on Gartloch Road.’
‘Aye, right, Shug. How fucking stupid do you think I am? The Roadhouse? I’d be as well going in with a uniform on and a target painted on my forehead.’
The Roadhouse was a windowless brick bungalow sitting back off the road behind Glasgow Fort with only a neighbouring Ladbrokes for company. It was strictly locals only and any strangers would have been seen coming from a mile away.
‘Where else does he drink?’
Shug sighed.
‘Wednesday nights you’ll get him in The Springcroft in Baillieston. It’s curry night. And he better never find out it was me that telt ye.’
‘Springcroft? That a Brewer’s Fayre?’
‘Used to be. Some other chain’s got it noo. I mean it, Mr Neilson. He cannae know it was me that telt ye.’
‘And I told you – he won’t.’
‘Well, ye better take someone with ye.’ Shug gave a withering sideways look at Winter. ‘Someone who can handle hisself.’
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