Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  ‘What are you doing beside my car? Yer a dead man, y’old bastard,’ he screamed as he swung back his meaty right arm to launch a punch at Danny. The blow never landed, as Danny quickly stepped in towards Paxton and grabbed his left arm, pulling it towards him and twisting as he crashed the man into the car. In an instant, Paxton’s arm was behind his back and his face was pressed hard against the metal. Paxton was a big man though and he struggled against Danny’s grip, stretching his other hand round to grab hold of his attacker’s clothes. Danny raised his eyebrows at Winter, wondering if he was just going to stand there or do something.

  In response, Winter stamped down hard on the back of Paxton’s calf, causing his leg to collapse at the knee, bringing the big man to the ground with a belligerent groan. Danny smiled approvingly before knocking Paxton’s baseball cap off his head and grabbing a handful of his hair. He pulled the debt collector’s head back and slammed it towards the car, stopping just inches short of the metal.

  ‘This was all so unnecessary, Glenn. Don’t you think? All I wanted to do was ask you a couple of questions. You ready to answer them now?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Is that all you can say, big man? I don’t think it is.’

  Danny nodded towards Winter, who again put his foot to Paxton’s calf, this time pressing down steadily until the man yelped. Danny simultaneously knocked Paxton’s head against the side of the car.

  ‘What the fuck d’you want, granddad?’

  ‘That’s better. One simple question: who is Sam Dunbar?’

  No answer came so Danny pulled Paxton’s head back from the car, tightening his grip on the hair and making it clear he was ready to crash it against the car again.

  ‘Wait!’

  Danny steadied his hand.

  ‘Dunbar works for Terry.’

  ‘Terry Gilmartin?’

  ‘Naw, Terry’s Chocolate Orange. Of course, Gilmartin. Now get the fuck off me. If ye’d telt me it was that mental bastard ye wanted to talk about I’d have telt ye.’

  ‘Of course you would have. So tell me about him.’

  Paxton spat on the ground and sighed heavily.

  ‘He’s new. And I don’t like him much. Cocky young cunt, aff his heid. He sorted out two of Terry’s boys and Terry liked what he heard, gave him a few jobs to do. I think Terry’s got something on him though, keeps him working.’

  ‘What kind of jobs?’

  ‘Frighteners – and worse. Couple of times Terry’s wanted people hurt to send out a message. So he sent this mental fucker to do it. Couple of wee chancers were selling on Terry’s turf so he got this Dunbar to cut them a bit. Stuff like that.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying he’s mental?’

  ‘I think Terry must be paying him in nose candy because the guy always seems to be wired tae the moon. But I don’t know if it’s the coke or he’s just a psycho but the guy enjoys it too much. Ye can always tell the bad nutters when they take a real pleasure in their work. He was sent after some poor bastard to pull him back into line and ended up killing the guy’s fucking dug. A dug, can you believe that?’

  A bell rang in Winter’s mind: Swanston Street. The ned named Jason Hewitt and his dead bullmastiff.

  ‘He killed a dog?’ he repeated to Paxton. ‘And did he cut the guy’s arm off as well?’

  ‘Well, aye. He did that anaw but that was just business. He had nae right to go killing the poor fucking dug.’

  Danny looked questioningly at Winter but he just shook his head and mouthed the word ‘later’ at him.

  ‘So where do we find Dunbar?’

  ‘It’s on the east coast, doon the road from Edinburgh. Fuck off.’

  ‘Funny man, Glenn. Where do I find him?’

  ‘Gilmartin will kill me if he thinks I’ve put ye onto Dunbar. He’s got a soft spot for him, sees him as a pet psycho.’

  ‘So we make sure that doesn’t happen. Tell me somewhere we can find him, somewhere away from Gilmartin. That will suit both of us.’

  ‘Munn’s Vaults on Maryhill Road. He drinks in there. That’s aw know and aw you’re getting.’

  ‘That’s all I need. Okay, Glenn, thanks for your help. You better get back inside before your chicken jalfrezi gets cold. And think of a nice wee story to tell if someone asks why you had to step outside for a while. Maybe tell them some wee lassie’s granddad wanted a word ’cos you were cheating on her. How about that?’

  Paxton just grunted, his arm still held in place by Danny’s strong grip.

  ‘And don’t even think of coming after us, Glenn,’ Danny continued. ‘For starters, I’ll finish off this job on your arm and, secondly, I’ll be forced to tell mad, mental Sam Dunbar and his boss where I got my information from. Capisce?’

  ‘Aye, okay, okay.’

  ‘Good. I thought you’d see sense but just in case . . .’ Danny fished in the man’s pockets till he emerged with a set of car keys. ‘I’ll drop these into the snow at the top of the car park. You can get them there.’

  ‘Fucksake.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Glenn. You know it makes sense. The exercise will do you good.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Wednesday 12 December. 9.23 p.m.

  ‘DI Sutton, please.’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Aaron, hi. It’s Tony Winter. You okay for a quick chat?’

  ‘Tony, how you doing? Yeah, sure. Free as a bird. Apart from a caseload that could sink the Titanic and an ex-wife who’s making my life a misery by phoning me every five minutes. What can I do you for?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that job we were both on in Swanston Street. The dog that was cut in half and the guy that had part of his arm chopped off?’

  ‘How could I forget? What about it?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you had any more on it. I’ve been finishing off my filing and noseying through the R2S to see what was doing.’

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Sutton answered.

  ‘Well, there’s not much on the R2S because we don’t have much to put on it. Witness statements gave us fuck all, as per usual. Victims were saying fuck all, as per usual. I don’t have a name for it or I’d have pulled someone in. But to be honest, Tony, this is way down my priority list. I’ve got at least a dozen cases that need attention before this one.’

  ‘Right. So no one’s been suggested as the guy behind this?’

  There was another lengthy silence.

  ‘I said so. You doing house calls these days as well, Tony?’

  ‘Eh? No. I’m just . . . It was the dog being cut in half, you know. I took an interest in it.’

  ‘Didn’t take you for an animal lover.’

  ‘No, I’m not really. But it made a great picture.’

  ‘A great picture? Addison always said you were weird. C’mon, Tony, spill. Why are you so interested in this?’

  Winter hesitated.

  ‘It’s like you said: I’m weird. The dog being sliced in two and the guy having his arm chopped off just got me interested. It’s not the kind of thing you forget in a hurry.’

  ‘Bollocks. If you know something about this, you should tell me. Fuck knows when I’ll get the chance to do anything about it but you should still tell me.’

  ‘Aaron, I can’t. For a start, what I know might not be right. It could be way off the mark. And . . . I just can’t. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘So why the hell are you phoning me?’

  ‘Looking for info. You heard of any other cases with a similar MO?’

  Sutton laughed.

  ‘I just love it when civilians start quoting jargon at me that they’ve heard on CSI: Miami. Okay, so what do you reckon his MO is?’

  ‘Well, the samurai sword, of course. Cutting off arms. And for the record, I don’t watch CSI: Miami. The guy who plays Horatio Caine is terrible. I’m more of a CSI: New York man.’

  Sutton sighed heavily.

  ‘Okay. Here’s what I’ll do: if I get a minute, I’ll
look through the computer and see if there’s anything else like this on the go. If there is, I’ll tell you. And if I do, then you tell me what you know. And don’t piss me about. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And Tony . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re wrong about Horatio Caine. The guy who plays him is supposed to be as cheesy as that.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. Mind you, that thing with the sunglasses gets right on my tits.’

  CHAPTER 30

  Wednesday 12 December. 11.45 p.m.

  ‘How’s your dad?’

  ‘Not good. The home say he seems to be getting a bit worse each week. They’re seeing him more than I am and I think they’re right. I just can’t stand the thought of him slipping away. I feel like I’m losing him.’

  They were in bed together, Rachel lying facing the window, staring at the slate-coloured sky, and Tony tucked in behind, his arms around her. He was naked; she was in pyjamas and still cold despite the heating being on twenty-four hours a day since the cold snap began. According to the telly, the temperature would drop to minus fifteen that night and she was feeling every degree of it. It was just after midnight and they were both on in the morning but, despite being tired, neither was ready for sleep.

  ‘I want to tell you that everything will be all right but I can’t.’

  ‘I know. He won’t get better. But maybe . . . maybe he won’t get worse. That’s the best I can hope for.’

  ‘But you’re doing all you can do for him. You’re pushing yourself to the edge as it is.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘It’s all you can do, Rach.’

  ‘Do you not think I fucking know that?’

  Tony didn’t react. He knew she didn’t mean it. He’d never known her hurt the way she had been the past couple of weeks and he was beginning to feel the hurt pushing him aside. He settled for pulling her closer and letting her blow herself out.

  ‘Shit. I’m sorry,’ she breathed, her hands rubbing at her temples. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean that. This is doing my bloody head in.’

  ‘It’s okay. I understand. Just remember that I’m on your side.’

  ‘I said I was sorry.’

  ‘Just making sure.’

  She dug her elbow into him a bit. ‘Sod.’

  ‘So where do we go next?’

  ‘We find Dixie and Paddy. God knows where they are or who they are but if we find them, then we start to get to the bottom of this. At least one of them knows what happened. At least one of them knows who’s blackmailing them. We’ll find them.’

  ‘And Lily?’

  ‘Don’t start on me with the forgetting about Lily stuff. I’ve never forgotten about her, despite what you and Danny might think. I’m sure your sick mind is full of images of her lying on the island but, just because mine isn’t, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about finding who did that to her.’

  He said nothing, feeling guilty for something he couldn’t control, knowing she had him nailed and not feeling any better for that. His head was his own place – or so he thought. He didn’t like the idea of it being an open book, even to Rachel. His dreams should be his own grubby little secrets.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she told him. ‘I think I understand. As much as I understand anything about you, sicko.’

  ‘Ha ha. You should give up policing and become a comedian.’

  He began to kiss her neck and move his body against hers, hoping for a reaction but not the one he got.

  ‘Forget it,’ she slapped a hand against his leg. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Jeezus, the sooner we find out who the fuck killed these bastards the better.’

  Despite everything, she giggled. ‘So that you can get your end away?’

  They both laughed and she turned and they kissed before she hugged back into him again, leaving him to his thoughts. He knew she was right – of course she was. When night closed in, his mind was full of Lily.

  He did wonder, in his more reasoned moments, why he obsessed about her quite so much. It wasn’t because he had photographed her, her shattered skull displayed on his wall with the other trophies of his labours. No, eventually he realised it was because he hadn’t photographed her. She was a stray soul like him yet she had eluded his lens and his inner itch ached to put that right.

  It wasn’t that he dreamt about her, more that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. In truth he probably couldn’t tell where his thoughts stopped and his dreams began; it was just the way his head worked. The image of her filled his mind, her face becoming formed ever more clearly as each day passed. Behind his eyes he could see her pale skin and the light freckles on her nose. There was a cheeky grin in defiance of all they knew had happened to her. Lily was a pretty girl and probably looked even younger than she was – a face that was never going to grow old.

  Sometimes he’d think about her like that, fully formed, even though he knew his imagination was taking a leap. Mostly, though, he thought of her as half-finished, the way Fairweather was describing her, the picture becoming fuller and clearer with every passing telephone call or email.

  But other times . . . other times he thought of her as she was found: blackened, battered, bloodied and broken. That wasn’t how he wanted to picture her but there was no way he could stop himself. That image was buried away in a dark corner of his mind he couldn’t help but visit. Fighting it was always going to be a losing battle.

  In his waking hours, he could realise the moment when the insects came was a sure sign that he had passed over from imagination to dreams. But there and then, in the depths of the dark night, the line was blurred and his mind recoiled at the illusory sight of ants, blowflies and dermestid beetles gorging on Lily. He had to watch in fascinated horror as flies, maggots and beetle larvae feasted on her flesh. He could hear too: the buzz and the crawl and the chomp. It was his own perfected method of self-torture.

  This night, however, the insects hadn’t yet come to take their fill of Lily and so he was fairly sure he was still awake and therefore simply tormenting himself. Lily and Paton and Mosson had formed an unlikely chorus line of characters, flitting through his mind in various stages of distress, each leaving a bloody footprint on his fading consciousness. It was somewhere in the midst of this dark meandering that his eureka moment came.

  His eyes flashed open and he let the thought run through his head once more for confirmation that it made some kind of sense. Sure enough that it did, he reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on, getting out of bed in the same movement.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Rachel grouched, immediately awake and staring at the sight of Tony groping around, naked, among the papers on the desktop. He didn’t reply but kept searching until he picked up a sheet of A4 and held it up to the light.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked again.

  Tony looked up at her, then back down at the paper.

  ‘Dixie,’ he told her.

  ‘Dixie? As in dixie1970? The other name on Paton’s email?’

  ‘Yes. This probably sounds nuts but it occurred to me that . . . well, Dixie is a nickname for footballers. Or it used to be.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘There was a guy called Dixie Dean who played for Everton between the wars. Scored sixty goals in one season. And there was a Celtic player in the seventies, John Deans. He was known as Dixie as well – wee barrel of a guy. I was sure I’d seen the name Deans on the Jordanhill list but I had to check.’

  Winter held the papers up in front of him.

  ‘And?’ Rachel demanded.

  ‘And I’ve checked his age against the record as well. This guy was born in 1970. Dixie 1970. His name is Gregory Deans.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Thursday 13 December. 6.15 p.m.

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s Aaron Sutton. You might want to get yourself over to Mansionhouse Drive in Springboig. Right away.’

  ‘Sure. What is i
t?’

  ‘Let’s just say that the key words are samurai sword.’

  ‘Leaving right now.’

  He drove as fast as he could get away with towards the east end in the evening traffic. As he ran to his car, he tried Danny’s mobile but didn’t get an answer and left a message saying where he was going. Danny would see the connection right away. Springboig was just five minutes from Terry Gilmartin’s home turf in Easterhouse.

  There were lots of streets in Glasgow where Winter would have a fair idea what to expect as soon as he heard their name. Mansionhouse Drive didn’t fall into that category. It was one of the strangest streets in the city, the product of two very different building eras. If you came from the western end of Hallhill Road, you could see how it got its name: maybe not mansions exactly but big, expensive homes at the end of leafy drives, behind high manicured hedges on a tree-lined street – until you came to the junction of Croftspar Place. The street abruptly changed, from mansion house to Eastern European prison cells: ugly grey mono blocks that were barely worthy of the word house never mind mansion. Croftspar Place marked the point in the road where house prices fell by over a hundred grand and life expectancy by ten years.

  Surprise, surprise. When Winter came off Springboig Road onto Hallhill Road, there were no signs of flashing lights and the echoes of sirens were still in the distance. It was only when he was halfway along the more salubrious section of Mansionhouse, the road rutted with ice and snow, that he saw the circus ahead. Sure enough, the cars and cops were en masse a hundred yards past the turn into Croftspar Place. Winter parked as near as he could, battled his way through a fuck-muttering crowd, and flashed his identification at the first constable who tried to block his path. It was the look on the cop’s face that gave him the first clue all was not well on Mansionhouse Drive.