‘So, you’re Burns’ new rent boy, are you?’ he said, reaching for a packet of Benson & Hedges on the table in front of him.
‘Sir?’ replied Daley, pretending he didn’t know to what Donald was referring.
‘You listen to me, you lanky bastard. Let me remind you, I had the pleasure of writing your probationary progress report the other day. I’ve not finished, mind, and I’ve discovered a couple of things that won’t go down too well. In fact, could well put the skids under your career,’ he sneered.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant.’
‘I was signing books out in the darkest recesses of Two Section, the other night. Bumped into oor old pal Davy Fraser.’ Donald drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Of course, he was well on. Had a good cargo of bevy aboard, as per.’
‘What does that have to do with me?’ asked Daley, his heart already in his mouth.
‘Nice to see you’ve the decency tae go pale when you’ve been sprung, Daley. Aye, when I telt him I had nae choice but to put him on paper for the drink, he started blabbing. You know, the way he does when he’s pished.’
Daley said nothing, fixed his gaze to the wall behind Donald. Like most new cops, his initiation onto the shift had been to take a glass or two of whisky when out on duty while the experienced officer was supposed to be showing him the ropes. He’d been unlucky enough to be assigned to Fraser, an officer notorious for his illicit boozing. Despite dire warnings of instant dismissal, young police officers still serving their two-year probationary period had no choice other than to accept the alcohol forced on them by their so-called mentors. The risk of being caught was infinitely preferable to the disapproval of colleagues, who would simply ostracise a young officer who didn’t play the game, thereby reducing the chances of getting through probation unscathed.
‘So you like a glass of whisky or two,’ said Donald, the smile on his face one of triumph.
Daley did not reply, merely looked straight ahead, though his heart was now pounding in his chest. If Donald chose to pursue this, his police career would indeed be over.
‘Och, you know me, Jim.’ Donald stood up and walked over to his young charge. ‘I’m no’ the grassing type, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ The shorter of the two, his face was angled up, only inches away from Daley’s, and the stench of stale booze was obvious at close quarters. ‘Just you tell DCI Burns that you’re not interested in becoming CID’s little helper, and we’ll forget all aboot it.’
Daley recoiled as flecks of Donald’s spit landed on his face.
‘If any bastard’s going tae get a shot at CID from this shift, it’s going tae be me. Comprende?’
There was silence between them for a few heartbeats, then Daley made the only reply he could. ‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘Good,’ said Donald in a brighter tone, as he returned to his desk. ‘Noo, get yourself out on the beat. You’re late.’
As Daley turned to leave the office, the sergeant had the final word, the menace evident in his voice. ‘Oh, and remember to be a good boy and stay off the whisky, won’t you.’
Daley went over what Donald had said as he walked the beat. He was called to a domestic dispute in the Townhead, which fizzled out on his arrival. As was often the case, when Daley questioned the husband, clearly the worse for drink, his hitherto sullen wife jumped to his defence, demanding that the constable leave them alone to sort out their own problems.
About an hour later, being the closest available officer, he was called from Killermont Street to respond to a code 26 in Sauchiehall Street – an alarm sounding in an office block. He waited in the cold for almost an hour for the fractious keyholder to arrive, then checked the building with him. There were no signs of anything untoward, and the incident was assigned to a system malfunction, the cause of many similar call-outs across the city every night.
As he walked back down Sauchiehall Street, his thoughts turned again to Donald. He didn’t have a choice. Donald was twisted enough to follow through with his threat. Daley had enjoyed his brief time working with the CID – it was what he’d joined the police to do. Now, he would have to speak to DCI Burns and tell him that he couldn’t take on extra duties. He cursed his luck, and the fact that, not only had he been unlucky enough to have Davy Fraser as a tutor cop, his section sergeant was one of the most venal men he’d ever met.
A knocking noise to his right attracted his attention. Across the road, up a set of broad stairs, a uniformed security guard was waving at him from behind the glass entrance doors of a multi-national oil company’s office.
‘How are you doing, son?’ asked the security guard, through the now opened door. ‘Could you do with a cup of tea? Quite chilly tonight, is it no’?’
Daley knew the man – an ex-traffic warden called Bobby – and was pleased to accept his invitation to get out of the cold for a while.
‘While since I’ve seen you about here,’ said Bobby, now sitting behind a large set of screens, showing black-and-white images from CCTV cameras around the building.
‘Yeah, I’ve been up in the Townhead for the last few months. My new beat,’ replied Daley. ‘I was down on Plate Glass Patrol the other night, mind you.’
‘Aye, no’ many places to get out of the cold up there, I wouldn’t think, son,’ said Bobby, handing Daley a warming mug of tea poured from his Thermos.
As Daley sipped his tea, he noticed that the security man had a troubled look. ‘Anything wrong, Bobby?’
‘Well, something and nothing,’ replied the older man. ‘You’ll remember that I’m involved with the Salvation Army? When I’m not toiling away in here, that is.’
Daley nodded. ‘Glutton for punishment, Bobby. Don’t you hand out soup at the bus station?’
‘Aye, I do. Poor souls. I don’t know how they survive, out in all weathers all year round. It’s a bloody sin we’ve got homeless people on the streets in the eighties.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘Since my dear wife buggered off down south with the kids, I’ve not got a lot else on – might as well try to do some good.’
‘I see them every nightshift,’ said Daley sadly.
‘Can I ask you a question, son? You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.’
‘Fire away, Bobby. I’ll give you an answer, if I can.’
‘It’s not just the down-and-outs we help when we’re doing our soup runs. Some of the ladies of the night come and get some hot tea, or that, too.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s just I heard that one of the lassies we see quite often was found dead.’
‘Oh, what was her name?’
‘A nice lassie, polite, well brought up, I thought. She wasn’t like the others. She seemed out of place, somehow. Tracey. Tracey Greene she was called. I just wondered if what I’d heard was right.’
Daley sat forward in his chair. ‘I shouldn’t really tell you this, Bobby, but yes, you’re right. She was found in her flat up in the Townhead,’ he said, leaving out the fact that she had been murdered.
‘Oh, I’m sad to hear that. Funny enough, I just saw her the other night. When I say “saw her”, she was picked up on here,’ he said, gesturing towards the screens.
‘Oh, what was she doing? Just touting for business? This isn’t where she usually worked.’
‘No, she wasn’t working. Well, I don’t think so. Here, I can show you. We’ve got it recorded.’ He reached under his desk and produced a large VHS tape, which he pushed into a video player in front of him. ‘We usually erase the tapes to use again, but I kept this when I heard she was dead. I’m not sure why, really.’
A screen in front of Daley flickered into life. The image was black and white, but the resolution was as good as Daley had seen. It was obvious that the oil company spared no expense when it came to protecting their property. A painfully thin young woman in a short skirt was walking up the street towards the camera. She stopped, and it looked as though she was talking to a huddled figure on the kerb.
‘That’s definitely Tracey Greene,’ said Daley.
> ‘I can zoom in a wee bit,’ said Bobby. ‘You lose a wee bit of definition, but you can make out who she’s talking to.’
The image on the screen enlarged slightly, became less sharp. Daley looked on, fascinated by this vision of the girl whose corpse he had just seen a few hours ago in the mortuary – alive, animated.
She opened her handbag, and appeared to hand something to the person crouching on the pavement.
‘See,’ said Bobby. ‘Heart of gold, that lassie. She’s giving him money.’
Daley stared at the screen. Tracey Greene had certainly taken something from her handbag. The pair appeared to be having a conversation, then after what could only have been a couple of minutes, the young woman stepped away, walking up the street and out of shot.
‘Can you stop it there?’ asked Daley.
When the security guard pressed a button to freeze the picture, it became obvious just who Tracey Greene had been talking to. The figure of Dandy, with his distinctive matted hair and long coat, was obvious, even on the blurred screen.
Daley lingered in the office toilet at the end of his shift. After a few minutes he walked across the corridor and peered out of the window which overlooked the staff car park. Sure enough, there was no sign of Sergeant Donald’s battered old Ford Escort, so Daley retrieved the video tape from the pocket of his raincoat and went to the CID offices.
He was surprised to see DCI Burns already hard at work at his desk. Daley knocked on the open door, and Burns looked up from the document he was examining.
‘Daley, what can I do you for?’
The young policeman handed Burns the tape and explained its significance.
‘Excellent. Come with me and we’ll take a look.’ Burns led Daley through into the general CID office, where six detectives were busy. On the wall, three photographs were linked with red tape and spidery black writing. One of them was of Tracey Greene. The incident board also bore images of the Cool Winds Sauna, Greene’s flat, and a number of other locations Daley didn’t recognise.
Burns called to a couple of detectives, who joined him and Daley at a large television. They watched the footage a few times, Burns rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he did so.
‘Aye, that’s Dandy, right enough. He’s been knocking about the city centre for years.’
‘Looks as though she’s given him money, sir,’ said Daley.
‘If she has, it’s the first time I’ve seen anything like it in nearly thirty years. But I suppose anything’s possible. Junkie prostitutes don’t usually make good philanthropists, but by all accounts she was a decent lassie, so you never know.’
‘That footage was shot the day before she died, sir,’ observed a young woman in a neat trouser suit.
‘I lifted Dandy the next night, sir. He was sleeping in a skip off Sauchiehall Street, not far from that locus, in fact.’
‘Aye, and you spewed your ringer, man,’ shouted a voice from the back of the office. Brian Scott was hanging up his raincoat.
‘And you’re late,’ rebuked DCI Burns.
‘Yes, sorry, sir. My train didn’t turn up.’
‘Right, I want to speak to Dandy,’ said Burns, ignoring Scott’s excuse. ‘You and Daley get out there and find him. Shouldn’t be too hard, just look in the nearest doss house, or in that skip.’
Daley shifted uncomfortably. ‘Sir, could I have a word?’
Burns looked at his watch and sighed. ‘Yes, if you’re quick. Come with me.’ He led Daley back to his office. ‘And, Brian, you get that coat back on – no time for your usual three mugs of tea.’
Daley shut the door behind him as Burns took a seat behind his desk.
‘What’s the problem, son?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a run-in with Sergeant Donald, sir,’ replied Daley uncomfortably. ‘He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want me to do any more work with the CID.’
‘And let me guess, he’s threatening to bugger up your probationers’ report, by way of leverage.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Daley, surprised by Burns’ prescience. ‘That’s basically it. I–’
‘Right, that’s it. I won’t be gainsaid by that prick. As from tomorrow, I want you to report here for duty. You’re officially aide to CID, and I’ll clear it with the boss today.’
‘Sergeant Donald won’t be happy, sir,’ said Daley, fearing a reprisal from his shift sergeant.
‘You’re right about that, son. He most certainly won’t be happy when I’m finished with him. Now, get changed and get out and find me Dandy. Welcome aboard, ADC Daley.’
VIII
The man admired himself in the bedroom mirror. He was in his late fifties now, but still had a square jaw, not the jowly folds of most men his age. He kept fit: ran, played squash and golf, and swam regularly. Though he enjoyed alcohol, he was careful to limit his consumption. Similarly, he restrained his appetite, eating no more than eighteen hundred calories a day. He liked a good cigar, but was careful not to inhale.
His grey hair was the only pointer to his true age. He liked it, though. It gave him gravitas, something he’d lacked in his twenties and thirties when he was taking control of the family haulage business from his ailing father. Though his parents had doubted his business acumen he’d expanded the company; he now had a fleet of some forty vehicles, as well as a burgeoning civil engineering company – his own creation. Sadly, his father was too long dead to apologise for his error of judgement in doubting him. He saw little of his mother, now that she was safely ensconced in an inexpensive retirement home, and had the sprawling family mansion on the leafy northern boundaries of the city to himself.
His father had been driven by demons: an almost overpowering desire to leave his poverty-stricken roots in Glasgow’s East End behind him. His son had made sure those roots were now a very distant memory indeed.
But he had demons of his own.
He ran a finger over an eyebrow and stalked over to the chair where his overcoat – the best Savile Row could muster – was draped. He shrugged it on and checked that the keys to his Jaguar XJS were still in the pocket, along with his wallet.
He glanced over to the bed where a naked young woman lay motionless.
‘You have a good day,’ he said to her, as he turned on his heel and left the room.
She didn’t reply. Her eyes stared blankly at the roughcast ceiling and into oblivion.
Try as they might, DC Scott and ADC Daley couldn’t find any trace of Dandy. They made enquiries at every doss house in the city, then checked the hospitals – even the mortuary. It was as though the tramp had disappeared into thin air.
‘Bugger this,’ said Brian Scott. ‘Yer man could be anywhere: in a derelict flat, on some poor bastard’s couch, lying dead in a ditch. There’s no telling where he is. We’ll have tae go back and tell the gaffer we can’t find him.’
Reluctantly, Daley had to agree, though he wasn’t happy that his first official task in the CID had ended in failure.
Burns looked at them distractedly. ‘Right, lads, I’ve put this out to the uniform shifts across the city. Somebody like Dandy is going to turn up sooner than later. I want you pair to sign off. Get some rest – you won’t have the chance for much in the next few days, so take advantage.’
‘Are we going for it, sir?’ asked Scott.
‘Aye, we are that, son. The ACC has put me in charge of this investigation, so I want this bastard caught pronto. I’ve only got eighteen months left until I retire. I don’t want the prospect of dead prostitutes lying across the city to be my legacy. Get back tomorrow at eight sharp, and bring your toothbrushes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Daley and Scott, in unison.
‘And wear a suit, Daley,’ added Burns, then returned to his paperwork.
As they left the office, Scott sighed. ‘The gaffer’s got the bit between his teeth. Nae chance of any time off until we’ve cracked this.’
‘Guess that’s my rest days up the spout,’ replied Daley.
‘The joys of the
CID, young fella. What are your plans now? I’m gasping for a pint.’
‘I was going to go out for a while tonight. I suppose I better just forget that and get to my bed,’ declared Daley gloomily.
‘Bugger that. You’ll soon learn in this game, Jim, unless you make hay while the sun shines, there’s never any hay tae make. Where were you thinking of going?’
‘Oh, just for a couple of beers, then to this club in Paisley. I’ve got my eye on a lassie. She’s there every Wednesday night with her mates. They go for a few drinks after playing badminton, or something.’ Daley looked into the distance.
‘I’m yer man,’ replied Scott. ‘If I go hame noo, I’ll end up having tae go roon my mother-in-law’s for dinner, or some bloody thing. I’ll just tell Ella we’ve had a recall tae duty. Any chance o’ crashing on your couch, big man?’ Scott thought for a minute. ‘Badminton. Is that no’ something tae dae wae horses?’
The club was loud and cavernous. Discreet lighting disguised the flaking paint, stained carpet and torn seats. Though the over-arching smells were of tobacco, alcohol and cheap scent, something musty with a hint of disinfectant underpinned it all. On the wall behind the DJ a depiction of the Eiffel Tower with the word ‘Paris’ flashing in the strobe lights.
Daley and Scott bought expensive bottled beer from the busy bar and then found a table as far away from the rabble as they could.
Daley had changed into his casual suit, a powder blue affair with pleated trousers and sleeves worn pushed up to the elbows. A white shirt, with a buttoned-down collar, left just enough room to display the knot of a thin burgundy tie, which matched his ankle boots. He’d gelled his hair to make it look more slick, in an attempt to appear less like an off-duty policeman.
Scott was still in his working suit; his only concession to going out on the town being to splash his face with water and then spray on some of Daley’s Jovan Musk Oil, which he’d sniffed at warily.
Two One Three: A DCI Daley Thriller Short Page 4