by Alex Gray
‘Okay, okay, keep yer hair on.’ Greer raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I’m listening. Sure I am.’
Bert leaned closer. ‘There’s a lot goin on at this club. Mair than you or onybody else knows aboot.’ He paused then sat back, as if unsure of what to say next.
‘If it’s the money...?’
‘Well, it’s got tae be worth my while. This could cost me ma joab, know whit ah mean?’ Bert’s voice took on an aggrieved tone.
‘I’ll see you all right, pal,’ Greer replied. ‘Double what I gave you today and the same at the end of the month. For three months. Okay?’
Bert seemed to consider this. ‘Aye, ah suppose so,’ he said at last.
Greer took another long draught of his pint and set down the glass with a thud. ‘Right, let’s be having you, then.’
‘Big Pat Kennedy had a real humdinger of a row wi Jason White jist afore he died,’ Bert said.
Greer’s eyebrows rose. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, ah wis in the next room but you couldnae help but hear him. He wis yelling at the lad as if he wis gonnae knock his block aff. Then,’ Bert paused for effect, ‘then he says if White ever pulled a stunt like that again he’d have him. Says nobody wis expendable,’ he added, nodding solemnly.
Greer made a face. ‘You really expect me to think that Big Pat Kennedy had something to do with White’s murder?’
‘Well,’ Bert said, still nodding, ‘he’s got one hell of a temper.’
Greer frowned. ‘What’re you trying to say? Do you actually know something about all this? I can’t write something that’s mere speculation, you know.’
Bert looked hard at the journalist then picked up his whisky and downed it in a shot. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gave another sniff. ‘Mibbe ah do, and mibbe ah don’t.’ He stood up, ready to leave the pub.
Pushing aside his chair he fixed Greer with a different look, his head to one side, a thoughtful expression on his weather-beaten face. ‘Oh, and there really is a ghost. More than one person’s seen it over the years. Ask Jim Christie if you don’t believe me.’ And with that Albert Little walked away, leaving the Gazette reporter staring after him.
Jimmy Greer gave a slow smile as he watched the groundsman leave. He was an arrogant little shit, right enough, but he could be useful. Greer knocked back the last of his pint then put down his empty glass. Aye, he could be useful but, though he might think it, Albert Little sure as hell wasn’t his only source of information at the club.
CHAPTER 17
Maggie stretched slowly, her toes pointing towards the end of the bed. If she didn’t disturb him maybe he’d stay a little longer, warming her body. It felt so good to have him in bed beside her, his breathing deep and regular, his head tucked against her breast. It was after eight o’clock and she really should have been up and about. Her husband would be at work by now, this case was making extra demands on his time. She smiled ruefully. Their holiday in Mull had done them both the world of good but how long would he feel its benefit? Already his eyes had taken on that all-too-familiar look of intensity, heightened by darker circles that spoke of sleepless nights spent puzzling things out.
It was funny how life turned out. They’d met as students at the University of Glasgow, she was studying English Lit, Bill immersed in History of Art. Maggie had kept to her vision of teaching English but her husband had dropped out and become a policeman, though his passion for art had never diminished. Maggie remembered the nights they’d spent in bed when they’d first been married, whispering plans about their futures: they’d have two kids, a rambling house in the country with dogs and cats, maybe hens at the foot of a long back garden. She’d had an image of herself as the earth-mother type, tending her young, her husband coming home after a hard day’s work to a pot of something wholesome bubbling on the stove. Well, she’d certainly become a damned good cook, even if she said it herself, but other elements of that faraway dream had melted to nothing over the years.
She turned slightly but it was enough to disturb the slumbering cat and he slithered away from her side and landed on the carpet with a gentle thump, leaving a warm spot where he had been curled beside her. Maggie sighed. The soft fur against her bare skin had been such a sensuous pleasure. Now she may as well get up and be about her day, there was plenty to be done. Still she lay there, relishing the sense of freedom and considering the day ahead. Summer holidays were for catching up with things that were neglected during term-time and she had made good inroads into the garden, but there was also the forthcoming term to prepare for. A load of paperwork was waiting for her downstairs. Maggie had ignored it during this fine weather, telling herself it couldn’t last: the rains would come eventually and she’d tackle it then. Yet this spell of heat had gone on and on for weeks now and there was no sign of it breaking. Maybe she’d potter in the garden and then have a look at the Edinburgh Festival guide. There was plenty she wanted to see at the book festival, for instance, and she’d miss her favourite authors if she didn’t book up soon.
Chancer jumped back on to the bed with a meow that Maggie had come to recognise as feed me. She was out of bed and on her feet before she had time to think about it.
‘You’ve fairly got me trained, haven’t you, wee fellow?’ Maggie laughed, wrapping her cotton dressing gown around her.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Maggie watched the ginger cat scoffing his breakfast. ‘Wonder if anyone’ll phone today,’ she thought aloud. It was a while now since she had put up all those posters of Chancer with the message that he was a stray and asking if anyone wanted to claim him. She’d left her number but she’d also left a postscript saying she was happy to give him a home if he remained unclaimed. Her eyes rested on their back door. A good joiner could cut a cat flap out of the bottom panel. She’d seen different ones in the pet shop where she had left one of the flyers. Chancer would have to have a collar, she thought, and she would need to have him chipped. Stop it, woman, Maggie scolded herself. This was daft. She was simply setting herself up for a disappointment if Chancer’s owner suddenly materialised.
Life had brought her too many disappointments already, she thought sadly. She could just imagine somebody like Solly Brightman telling her that this wee cat was simply a substitute for the baby she couldn’t have. Or would he? The psychologist was a gentle man and somewhat other-worldly. Maggie smiled. He and Rosie Fergusson made a good pair: the pathologist’s brisk common sense a foil to her fiancé’s dreamy manner.
‘Wonder what sort of kids they’ll have?’ she addressed the cat. Chancer ignored her, head down in his bowl.
Dr Solomon Brightman gazed out across the Glasgow rooftops. The skyline was hazy today, the view on the other side of the river Clyde blurred by the heat that shimmered over the city. He stared at the familiar dark spire with its distinctive spikes that so reminded him of a knight’s mace. Glasgow University’s tower was a landmark that could be seen from many points in the city and Solly was fiercely proud to be part of it. The new university term was still weeks away and he had plenty of time to think about next year’s intake of students but he continued to look at the buildings on Gilmorehill as if seeking inspiration.
These murders were far from simple. Despite what DCI Lorimer wanted to think, there was more than one hand at work. It had happened to them before: jumping to the conclusion that a serial killer was on the loose when in fact that had not been the case at all. Solly had considered the locations of each crime and thought long and hard about the modus operandi: two different sorts of guns had killed the referee and Jason White, a kitchen knife had fatally wounded Faulkner. There were so many possible permutations for motive. But it was all conjecture. What if someone had a grudge against players from south of the border? That ruled out the referee, of course. Or what if someone from inside the club was trying to prevent any new signings taking over from existing ones? Again, that precluded Norman Cartwright. Or, to look at it another way, what if Janis Faulkner had killed her husb
and in a fit of passion? Was it a mere coincidence that another team player had been subsequently gunned down and that this other player had also been a new signing from England? Solly absent-mindedly ran a finger through his beard. He’d never felt any hostility from a single soul in this city, only kindness and helpfulness. Even late-night drunks had been generous in their garrulity, plying him with their life stories as if he were one of their mates, not a man whose accent still betrayed his London origins. No, he would confidently rule out any racial motive.
What he had to do was to put himself inside the skin of these killers. Why had someone mercilessly shot the referee? Spectators shot their mouths off about what they saw as a bad decision, they didn’t stalk the man in black to his own home and then shoot him dead in cold blood. It was more than that, Solly decided. There was a calculation about this killing, and of Jason White’s, that spoke to him of an agenda. This man (and he was certain that it was a male killer) had a reason for killing these two sportsmen. Perhaps a person of normal mentality might not see whatever had driven him as a valid reason for killing, but Solly knew that the mind behind these killings saw things in quite different terms. The deaths had been necessary to him, a logical conclusion to whatever mental pathways he had taken.
And Solly was beginning to feel that the man who had pulled those two triggers had also watched Kelvin football team from somewhere other than the comfort of his own armchair.
‘We need an update,’ Lorimer said. ‘The press are snapping at our heels and Mitchison’s on my back demanding public reassurance before Kelvin’s next game.’
The DCI was walking towards the nightclub where Jason White had last been seen before his death, DC Niall Cameron loping along by his side. Lorimer’s brow was furrowed in a permanent crease these days, the Lewisman observed, glancing at his boss. He’d hit the ground running after his holiday and, as usual, was breaking all the rules about working-time procedures. Cameron had been happy to do overtime, his daily cycle through the city becoming earlier with each passing day, a fact that had so far gone unnoticed by Superintendent Mark Mitchison.
They reached the black door of Jojo’s, one of the city’s classier nightclubs, with its familiar bright pink logo. Lorimer rang the buzzer and waited. Niall Cameron noticed his boss shifting from one foot to the other, his impatience barely concealed. The Detective Constable knew how he felt; they all wanted something, anything that could provide a clue to untangling this triple killing.
A muffled voice sounded from the intercom.
‘Strathclyde Police,’ Lorimer announced to the grey metal box, then an unseen lock shifted and the door clicked open.
Pushing the black door open, they entered an unlit reception area with a door marked ‘cloakroom’ to their left. Footsteps coming from a basement room below made them step further into the darkness.
Lorimer looked around him, trying to see each shape in this claustrophobic place, aware of the breath tightening within his chest. It was a weakness he had struggled to overcome in his job, but sometimes it still caught him unawares. It was a relief when a figure loomed towards them and snapped on a light switch on the corridor wall.
‘Sorry about that,’ the man said. ‘Forgot you were coming in. Tam Baillie,’ he announced, offering his hand to each of the officers in turn. ‘Assistant manager,’ he grinned. ‘Jist – just promoted,’ he corrected himself, as if the job description had included the need for brushing up his spoken English. Or was it the presence of two of Strathclyde’s finest?
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer. Detective Constable Cameron.’
Lorimer felt the strong grip that matched the assistant manager’s physique; those broad shoulders and athletic frame told him that Baillie was a force to be reckoned with. But the man’s grey eyes were smiling at him.
‘Hell of a business, isn’t it?’ Baillie began, motioning them to follow him to where the light now showed a spiral stair descending downwards. All three men had to bend to avoid the low ceiling slanting across the turn of the stair.
‘In here, if you don’t mind. It’s a bit cramped but at least we can sit down,’ Baillie grumbled, adding, ‘If we can find some chairs.’ In one easy movement he heaved three plastic chairs from a stack in the corner resting against a towering pile of empty drinks crates. ‘There we are, sit yourselves down.’
Lorimer resisted the temptation to dust down the seat. Baillie’s attempts at friendliness might just as easily turn to pique if he showed any sort of criticism of the place. Truthfully, it was a shambles. The walls were dingy with age and grime, dotted here and there with bits of Blu-Tack where posters had been. Behind Baillie a flyer had been pinned, showing forthcoming events. Lorimer recognised one of them, a local indie band called Micronesia. Tam Baillie sat down in front of the poster, obscuring the date of the band’s next gig.
‘Right: Jason White. Your lads came down already to ask us what happened that night,’ the recently promoted bouncer began, his eyebrows raised. ‘Some-thing come up, then?’
Lorimer bent his head in a neutral gesture. ‘We’re still looking into the events of that night,’ he began. ‘What I’d like is for you to cast your mind back to the other incident,’ he said, ‘the one where White ended up in custody.’
Tam Baillie slouched back in his chair, the friendly expression vanishing in a sudden scowl.
‘Know what, Chief Inspector?’ he said. ‘That wee guy was an accident waiting to happen, if you want my opinion.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Och, he had attitude, know whit I mean? He was full of himself. Had money to burn, paraded it all the time. Pulled the birds like it was a game to him. Him and these two mates of his. Right wankers, they all were.’
‘And on the night White was arrested ...?’ Lorimer pulled Baillie back to the matter in hand.
The man rolled his shoulders as if sitting still for any length of time would make him seize up. He didn’t look as if he’d had much experience of a desk job. Lorimer wondered briefly about his change in status. Was the promotion a way of rewarding faithful service or shutting him up?
‘He was wasted,’ Baillie began. ‘Don’t know what he’d had before he came into the club. This is a clean place, we don’t tolerate substance abuse,’ he continued, sounding as though the phrase was a practised one that rolled off his tongue whenever authority loomed. ‘But he had a real skinful in here and then just started the aggro.’
‘Can you describe what took place?’
‘He had this bird.’ Baillie made a grimace of distaste. ‘Wee lassie she was, all gooey-eyed to be fancied by a footballer. They’re all the same,’ he complained, ‘daft wee lassies running after the Armani suits, sniffing a bit of glamour. And money,’ he added cynically. ‘Anyway,’ the bouncer caught Lorimer’s warning glance at this further digression. ‘He has this girl up against the wall and she’s screaming blue murder. Then a lad appears from the dance floor and tells White to leave her alone. Next thing we know he’s laying into the boy and then, before I could step in, there’s a real free-for-all going on. Lassies screaming and bottles being flung across the room; White in the middle of it all. He’d head-butted the lad and there was blood runnin’ down the boy’s face. I grabbed White and told him to cool it, but he just went mental, so we called the police and had him carted off.’ Baillie looked from one to the other. ‘That’s it, really.’
‘So,’ Lorimer began, ‘how did you react when he returned to the club the night he was killed?’
Tam Baillie dropped his gaze and the DCI sensed his discomfort.
‘Ach, the boss said to let him in if he came back again.’
‘Is that company policy? Don’t you normally ban troublemakers from your club?’
Baillie met Lorimer’s intent stare. ‘The boss is a Kelvin supporter. Obviously. Likes to encourage the lads,’ he muttered.
‘You didn’t approve of that?’ Cameron asked quietly.
‘Naw, ah didnae,’ Baillie retorted, his attempt to
match the DCI’s fluent tones suddenly deserting him. ‘Ah follow Kelvin an all, but if it had been up tae me ah’d have banned the wee nyaff!’
‘But your boss thought differently?’ Lorimer asked.
‘Aye.’
‘Who exactly is your boss, Mr Baillie?’
Tam Baillie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Mean, youse didnae know?’ The man looked from one officer to the other. ‘It’s Pat Kennedy.’
Lorimer tried not to look surprised. ‘And he didn’t ban White from his club?’
The former bouncer shook his head. ‘Naw. I even phoned Kennedy up that night, like he’d asked me to.’
Lorimer swallowed hard. This was one bit of information the Kelvin chairman had not thought to share with the investigating team. Still, it wouldn’t progress things to take out his displeasure on Tam Baillie.
‘So White was no trouble that night?’ he asked, keeping his tone as diffident as he could.
‘Naw,’ Baillie smirked suddenly. ‘Tried tae pull a bird but she wasnae havin any of it. Gave him a right dizzy. So he jist left.’
‘And that was the last you saw of him?’
Baillie sat up suddenly as if he had heard something in Lorimer’s tone that he didn’t like. ‘What’re you saying?’
Lorimer stared at the bouncer, his blue gaze unwavering. ‘Just that. Did you see him after he left? Which direction did you see him take?’
Baillie’s relief was palpable as he answered, ‘I was in the doorway. On duty. Saw him go down the lane. But I didnae see which way he went. Told your other lot that,’ he added, sticking out his lower lip petulantly.
‘Thank you, Mr Baillie. It’s really helpful to have an idea of the background,’ Lorimer said, rising to his feet and extending a hand.
‘Tam,’ the bouncer told him, ‘jist call me Tam.’
Tam Baillie waited until the two men were out of sight then pushed the black door hard-shut. He clenched his fists and found that they were damp with sweat. Rubbing them on the seat of his new Slater suit, Tam shook his head. That hadn’t been so bad, the busies were just doing their job, checking up. And he’d told them the truth, hadn’t he? The boss couldn’t fault him for that, surely.