But sadly for Baxter, photography always comes first at a crime scene, recording everything as is before the SOCOs get in to touch anything. It meant his time was dictated to and that wasn’t the way he thought it should be. Monkeys with cameras ought not to take precedence over highly trained scientists. This morning he was clearly pissed off that Winter hadn’t been on site earlier as well as being annoyed that he was on site at all. He didn’t say anything, just glowered. Well, he could get to fuck. Winter only had one chance to record this scene and he wasn’t going to rush it even if it was just yet another stabbing.
He lined up a full-length shot of the body and focused. Two Soups was shut out and so was the rest of the world. It was just him and Sammy Ross.
He took in the look on the face below him for the first time. Resignation. Total defeat. Not shock though. Sammy Ross had seen this coming. Now he had this thousand-yard stare and it didn’t look as if he liked what he saw.
Winter did, though. For all its ugliness, it was a thing of beauty.
Rigor mortis had begun to kick in so he must have been dead for a few hours. The knees that had given way as he buckled and fell were already locked. One arm bent under him, clutching at the hole in his chest, the other twisted at his side where he had tried to break his fall. No chance of breaking a fall like that though – it descended straight into hell.
The burgundy bloodspill soaked his jeans and drenched his light-blue T-shirt but was already drying on both. His skin was alabaster pale, his lips kissed with blue.
It was a deep incision. Through the torn, bloodied scraps of cotton, Winter could see the ripped skin where the knife had been stuck. An initial entry wound then it rose sharply up the chest tearing skin as it went. The killer had stuck it in then twisted the knife before pushing it up deeper and deadlier, seeking out vital organs to destroy. Whoever did it had used a knife before. In Glasgow, that narrowed it down to maybe a quarter of the male population between twelve and twenty-five.
Winter focused on the wound. It was almost big enough to reach inside and grab those punctured organs, enough room to get in and search for the spirit that was no longer there. The skin was split and smiling up at him, the treasures behind already starting to fester without the beat of life to sustain them.
Focus. Shoot. Every detail, from every angle. So tempting to lift the T-shirt and see the full extent of the damage but that was strictly forbidden. Look but don’t touch. Record but don’t interfere. Observe but don’t violate. Chronicle but don’t contaminate.
Designer trainers, at least £120 the pair. Hideous, flash shoes in black and gold. The Burberry cap that had tumbled off his lank, unkempt hair and lay by the side of his sleeping head. The navy-blue Ben Sherman jacket sprayed with his own blood and the Tag Heuer that was smashed on his wrist but still ticked even though his heart had stopped. It all said money. It all said bad taste. It all said trash with cash.
His blue-purple lips said no. His eyes said please. A rabbit caught in the headlights of his own destiny. Bastard child of greed and poverty.
All that was laid out in the broken body before him, writ large in the wound in his middle and on his freeze-frame face. Sammy was a picture all right.
This was why Winter took photographs. To show it how it was, every wart, every insult, every injury, because every city is defined just as much by its ugly wounds as its architecture. He’d always imagined that if you cut Glasgow’s gutterbelly, you’d see it run blue and green with bitterness but with as much hope as there was bile. It was a great city where terrible things happened, things that should never be ignored but should be captured for ever.
His job had taken him to dark places that most civilians never go, seeing bloody puddles where life used to be, recording the moment before the mourners descended. All life was there, sitting cosy right next to death.
That was the bit that always got to him, just how close they sit next to each other. A split second, a nanosecond, an angstrom from one to the next. And he was there to ensure that that precise moment, where life turns to death and hope turns to shit, is always recorded right there on their face. Recorded for ever by a Nikon FM2 and a Canon EOS-1D.
A thing of beauty really.
CHAPTER 2
‘If I remember right then Sammy boy is from Royston, east end somewhere for sure.’ The voice came from behind Winter and dragged him out of his dwam. It was Addison. ‘He’s thirty-two, thirty-three. Old to be still knocking it out on the street. Sure-fire sign he was going nowhere fast. Kind of bam that pushes out coke, heroin, jellies, ecstasy, dope, uppers, downers, steroids; whatever the junkies want, this cunt would stuff it down their throat, in their arm or up their nose. ’
Addison was angry and it was obvious in his voice. He’d seen way too much of this shit.
‘Just a foot soldier in Malky Quinn’s army,’ he went on. ‘Funny how Malky and his like never end up lying stabbed in the rain. It’s always the Sammy Ross’s that get it. One of Malky’s boys . . . brilliant. Means trouble for someone. Probably means trouble for everyone. Fuck’s sake, it’s not even eight o’clock and the day’s already turned to shit. I want a bacon roll.’
Winter had finished his photographs but hadn’t stopped looking. He was irritated at Addison for shaking him out of it but when he caught the look on Two Soups’s face he thought maybe it was just as well. The old sod looked fit to burst. Winter ignored his glare.
‘You ever stop thinking about your stomach, Addy,’ he said as he stood up. ‘No wonder you are such a fat bastard.’
The DI was six foot four and skinny as a rake, his height just making him look even thinner. He was just about to come back with a smart-arse remark of his own when his DS, a haunted-looking guy with dirty fair hair, name of Colin Monteith, wandered up towing a human skelf wearing trackies, a heavy white jacket and the obligatory baseball cap. Junkie ned. Monteith must have had the uniformed boys talking to the walking dead that were anywhere near the market at that time of the morning. Though if any of them had ever known anything, chances were they had already forgotten. Addison rolled his eyes as if to say, jeez, this better be good.
Monteith told the skelf to stay put and came up to where the pair were standing.
‘Might have a live one, Addy. This guy was dossing in the market but he actually knows what day it is, so I’d say he’s worth a wee word. Says he heard noises that sounded like it was our man meeting his maker.’
‘Knows what day it is?’ Winter butted in. ‘Does that qualify him for some award scheme? Junkie of the Month maybe.’
Monteith fired him a dark look.
‘I’ll have a word,’ said Addison with a sigh. ‘He might be as near to compos mentis as we are going to get from the zoomers round here. Bring him over.’
The inspector’s lanky frame towered over the undernourished user, leaving him in no doubt who was in charge. The skelf looked up at Addison uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.
‘So, you heard noises?’ It was as much a statement as a question. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘It’s like ah telt the other polis. Ah’d been sleeping. It was still dark o’clock. Know what I mean, man?’
Addison looked like he was resisting the temptation to tell him to get on with it but settled for a nod instead.
‘Aye well, it wis still pure dark an ah heard voices. Arguing, man. But no that loud. It went on for a bit then there wis this bit eh a mad scream that stopped quick an ah heard the guy hit the deck.’
‘What did you hear after that?’
‘Nothing, man.’
‘Nothing? Anyone walking away, anyone running? Anyone crying for help? A car starting, maybe a motorbike? Something hitting the ground after being thrown away?’
‘No. Well, aye. Someone walking away. I’d say he wisnae running, kinda slow like he was maybe dragging something. Naebody crying for help though. Would say he was well deid.’
‘And what did you do? Call the police like a good citizen?’
‘No way, man. Sorry but no way. I was jist laying low in case the guy came back. Nae point in me getting offed as well. I might have fell asleep again. No sure. Next thing I know the place is full of polis.’
‘Did you see the person that did it? Height, hair colour, anything?’
‘It wis dark, man, telt ye. Anyways, didnae lift ma heid tae look. Just listened.’
‘What did you mean when you said he was dragging something? Carrying something with him?’
‘Mibbes. Ah’ve nae idea. Carrying, dragging. Mibbes.’
Addison shook his head despairingly then nodded Monteith back in to take the junkie away and finish taking notes.
‘Tell him anything and everything you remember and don’t go booking any foreign holidays any time soon.’
‘Aye, very funny. Any chance of a few quid for coming forward?’
‘Sure. See the officer at the cash desk on your way back out the market. Mind and duck in case there are any pigs flying past.’
The skelf’s comeback about pigs died on his lips and he slunk off with Monteith’s meaty paw on his arm.
‘Sunday, bloody Sunday,’ moaned Addison. ‘Hurry up and finish photographing that muppet and bring your camera with you,’ he told Winter. ‘There’s a van down the street that does good grub even though most of the folk who go to it are too shit-faced to know the difference. You can photograph me eating two bacon rolls. Brown sauce on it and a cup of coffee. You’re paying.’
Winter didn’t bother asking why. Just as Addison didn’t bother asking why he’d been photographing the dealer’s body with his Canon EOS-1D as well as the standard issue Nikon FM2. The same reason Addison didn’t ask why Winter had sneaked a shot of the haunted look on the skelf’s face as he stared down at Sammy’s corpse. Addison was one of only two people who knew about Winter’s collection. He’d even said Winter should stage an exhibition but that was usually when he was pished.
Suddenly, Two Soups barged in between them, asking if they were quite finished. Big mistake. He could pull that shit with Winter but not with Addison.
‘Mr Baxter,’ he glared down at the forensic and growled. ‘I was interviewing possibly the only witness to whoever killed this guy. Tony Winter was photographing the body. Both of these tasks are vital to this investigation and it was imperative that they be done without delay. The body, on the other hand, isn’t going anywhere. I take it you have no fucking problem with that?’
Two Soups blinked in disbelief at being spoken to that way and struggled for a reply. ‘Well I was just . . .’
‘Fine. I’m glad you agree. We are both finished so now you and the lab monkeys can begin your equally invaluable work. Winter has footprints to photograph and I’ve got stallholders to interview. We won’t keep you.’
With that Addison took Winter by the arm and led him away from Baxter and the body, leaving Two Soups spluttering with discontent behind them before calling his forensic soldiers to the battlefield.
‘That man is an arsehole,’ said Addison with a grin on his face.
‘Where are these footprints?’ Winter asked him.
‘Two pairs of them together on soft ground near a wall on the north side. Suggestion is that it could be our man Sammy and whoever came in with him because they were heading in the direction of where Ross was found before they were lost on tarmac.’
‘So if they are on the north side, why are we heading this way?’ asked Winter with a quiet laugh.
‘Because I want bacon rolls. Jesus Christ, do you never listen to anything I say? Two uniforms have got the area secure and covered over, the footprints can wait but my stomach won’t.’
Addison drove his hands deep into his pockets as he led Winter towards the van.
‘How many times are we expected to do this?’ he moaned. ‘If I’d wanted to sweep the rubbish off the street I’d have joined the council bin squad. At least I’d have been back in my fucking bed by now.’
Bed. She’d still be lying there, thought Winter, probably sprawled over onto his side by now. Addison was still whinging but all he could think of was her. A dead dealer and a bacon roll didn’t really cut it in comparison.
It was less than a five-minute walk. A dark-haired fat guy who was far cheerier than anyone had a right to be at that time in the morning was serving two teenagers as they arrived. The pair immediately spotted Addison for police and couldn’t wait to get their grub and leave. Their hurried departure didn’t bother either Addison or Winter. If there was a soul in Glasgow whose conscience wasn’t bothered by the sight of a cop then chances were it was another cop. ‘Four bacon rolls, Charlie,’ Addison said to the fat man.
‘Three,’ Winter corrected him.
‘Four,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll have your other one if you don’t want it.’
‘Brown sauce, Mr Addison?’ asked Charlie.
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course, brown sauce.’ Addison turned his collar against the morning chill and took in the smell of pork and fat coming from the van’s grill.
‘This place should have a Michelin star,’ he said to Winter. Then, ‘What time did you start this morning, Charlie?’
‘Half six. Think your boys and girls were already at the market by the time I turned up if that’s what you were thinking.’
‘Who was on before you?’
‘Jimmy Frize. He’d been on since eleven last night. Never mentioned anything out of the ordinary. Usual shit.’
‘Drunks and druggies?’
‘Does a bear wear a big hat?’
‘Aye, aye. Where can I get hold of Jimmy?’
Charlie wrote Frize’s number on a piece of paper and handed it over to Addison who had already scoffed his two rolls even though Winter had only managed half of one.
‘Another roll, Mr Addison? On the van.’
‘You trying to bribe a police officer, Charlie? Aye, go on then.’
‘No as if you are going to put on any weight, is it? Put a slice of black pudding in there too, Mr A. Ah know how you’re partial.’
‘Plenty of brown sauce, Charlie.’
Addison started on his third roll as they turned their backs on the van and ambled back towards Blochairn, the debris of a good night out still kicking at their feet. Like its people, Glasgow looked at its gallus best on a Saturday night and at its worst on a Sunday morning. Empty Buckie bottles, vomit and broken windows. This was the Glasgow they didn’t put in the glossy ads. It was a ten-minute drive from Princes Square and the designer shops on Buchanan Street but it was a world away.
Two seagulls fought over the cold remains of a fish supper dropped by a drunk. The wind and rain made an empty can of Irn Bru scoot along the gutter.
‘Fuck this,’ complained Addison. ‘There are times I hate Scotland and it’s usually when it’s raining. Which is most of the time. Having to scrape a dealer off the floor of the market sure isn’t doing much for my mood either.’
‘Ah, cheer up, big man,’ Winter laughed. ‘Maybe by the time we get back that twat Monteith will have solved the case and we’ll know the secret of the mysterious death of Sammy Ross.’
Addison snarled.
‘Sammy Ross? Waste of fucking space, waste of fucking time. He’s just more paperwork.’ The DI’s phone rang and he swore as he transferred the remains of his roll from one hand to the other, digging his mobile out of his jacket pocket. Swallowing food down, he held it to his ear and grunted a hello.
‘Yes? Yes, sir . . . You’re fucking joking me . . . No sir, I don’t suppose you are. Sorry . . . Shit. Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.’
Winter was stuck between trying not to smirk and worried about what he’d been told.
‘What’s up?’
Addison shook his head wearily.
‘This town will be the death of me. They’ve found the body of a hooker in Wellington Lane. Some bastard’s strangled the poor cow.’
Winter tried to conceal the look that wanted to flitter over his face, a look that would register somew
here between disgust and excitement.
‘We finishing up here before we go?’
‘We’re not going,’ replied Addison. ‘Just me. Monteith can run the show here but forensics are already photographing the prossie so you’re not needed. And don’t even bother arguing, it’s out of my hands.’
‘Fucksake,’ blurted out Winter. ‘They pull you off one fucking murder for another. Why? Because it’s more important. Yet they don’t want to photograph it properly!’
Addison smiled gleefully at his friend’s irritation.
‘You know how it is, wee man. Everything’s got its place in the scheme of things. Some scumbag getting stabbed on a Saturday night is worth about the same as an A in Scrabble but a murdered prossie is a J. And photographs of deid bodies are the same whether they are taken by you or a trained monkey.’
Winter knew that he was winding him up but, despite himself, he bit.
‘Fuck you. Fuck right off and stick your letter J up your A for arse.’
Addison laughed loudly.
‘Nice comeback, wee man. And so eloquently put. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date with a young lady.’
CHAPTER 3
It was raining harder by the time Addison got to Wellington Lane, one of the handful of narrow alleyways that cut their way across the lower city centre. With just enough room to drive a car or van through, the lanes acted as a service for the rear entrances of upmarket shops, offices and hotels. At night, dark and out of sight, they serviced a different type of business altogether.
The DI parked on West Campbell Street, cursing at the downpour that forced him to turn his collar up and hustle past the rain-soaked constable who guarded the entrance to the lane. Up ahead, spotlights and a tent had already been set up where a knot of uniforms, CID and forensics gathered in the gloom. Addison, head down, marched by a procession of large red, industrial wheelie bins and found his DS, Rachel Narey, waiting impatiently by the last of them – the one that was covered by the white crime scene tent.
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