Snapshot

by Craig Robertson

  ‘So, assuming this is the same guy . . .’ Winter began.

  ‘It is,’ muttered Addsion.

  ‘If it’s him then why go to all the trouble and all the risk of shooting them so publicly?’

  ‘So that we would know it was him.’

  McConachie held up her hand to signal for attention and began nodding confirmation to Addison and the rest of the team. Strathie was a courier all right while Sturrock had previous for dealing and worked for the Mighty Quinn. Then her eyebrows furrowed and her jaw dropped. She looked up at Shirley, almost apologetically.

  ‘Sir, a white van has been abandoned in the middle of George Square with two petrol containers sat away from it. They say there’s what looks like twenty kilo bricks of cocaine sitting next to the petrol cans.’

  ‘What?’ Addison was stuck like Winter had never seen before. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Who’s at the scene?’ demanded Shirley.

  McConachie blinked. ‘Three cars and two fire engines and more cars on the way. They’ve got the square cordoned off but they can’t get near the van.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘One of them tried and a shot was fired at his feet. From a distance.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ recovered Addison. ‘I don’t suppose the van is registered to either of your men here by any chance?’

  ‘Nope, but one of them might well have been driving it till an hour ago. DVLA say it’s Malky Quinn’s.’

  CHAPTER 15

  The call from Joanne Samuels had been left on Narey’s answering machine and hadn’t left much room for manoeuvre or much time to get there.

  ‘Rachel, it’s Joanne. I hope you get this soon. I’ve managed to talk to one of the women who knew Melanie quite well. Be at the Criterion Café at the beginning of the Gallowgate at two o’clock. She’s very jumpy so if you’re late then I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep her there. Criterion Café. Two o’clock.’

  It was nearly one-thirty when Narey, still fuming from the bombshell at the morning conference, picked up the message and she didn’t have much time to get across the city centre to the east end. She jumped in her car and battled her way across Cowcaddens Road and George Street before crawling down High Street, cursing the traffic and the never-ending succession of red lights. As the digital clock on her dashboard shifted ever nearer to two, Narey became less convinced that she would make it on time. With just two minutes to the hour, she spotted a space near the Tolbooth Steeple and braked sharply, ignoring the horns that complained at her, and threw her car into the opening so she could run the rest of the way.

  At last the powder-blue sign and low roof of the Criterion were in view. Surely the woman wouldn’t have left yet, surely Joanne could keep her there that long. With thirty yards to go, she slowed to a walk in order to get her breath back, knowing she would now be able to see anyone leaving the café. As it happened, no one came through the door by the time she reached it and as she pushed her way inside she saw Joanne at a corner table, sitting with her back to her. Opposite her sat a young woman with short, spiky dark hair who was nervously fidgeting with a napkin and looking around anxiously.

  Narey didn’t take the chance of asking if she could join them, instead just pulling back the chair next to Joanne and sitting down. The girl continued to look round the room as if worried that someone would see Narey with her.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Joanne. Hi, I’m Rachel,’ she said, holding her hand out to the girl opposite. No handshake came back though, the girl holding on to the napkin and twisting it below the table where a cup of coffee had been barely touched.

  ‘This is Pamela,’ Joanne explained. ‘She was a friend of Melanie’s.’

  As Narey looked at Pamela she could see that her nervousness wasn’t just down to meeting a cop. The girl was an addict. The paranoia went way beyond their meeting; Pamela jumped every time the door opened or someone at another table laughed. Her bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils might have been many things but Narey knew what they really were. With barely any make-up on, the dark circles under her eyes were as obvious as the sour smell from her breath. When she finally spoke, there was a noticeable tremor in her speech.

  ‘I’m doing this for Melanie, right?’ she slurred. ‘It’s the only reason I’m here.’

  ‘Okay,’ Narey nodded. ‘I understand that. Did you know her long?’

  ‘Long enough,’ the skinny girl said quietly. ‘A year maybe.’

  ‘Did you meet her on the street?’ Pamela’s eyes briefly flickered with resentment.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, what can you tell me about Melanie, Pamela? Anything you know could help us find out who did this to her.’

  The hooker looked at Joanne for reassurance and must have got it because after another fretful look round the café she leaned in towards Narey.

  ‘She was awrite. Some people didn’t like her ’cos she could get a bit full-on when she was high but she was awrite really, know what ah mean? Never did me any harm.’

  ‘Where was she from?’ Narey asked.

  ‘Like where did she come from, you mean? Glasgow, south side somewhere, I think. She didn’t talk ’bout it much. I think she fell out with her mum and dad.’

  ‘Can you remember where on the south side?’

  ‘No. Told you. She didn’t like talking about it.’

  ‘And she was living somewhere in Maryhill?’

  ‘Aye. She had a room there in the high flats in the Valley.’

  ‘You know the address, Pamela?’

  ‘It was the big block in Collina Street but ah cannae remember the number. She hudnae been there that long.’

  ‘That’s okay. Did Melanie have any children?’

  Pamela looked at the table then the door.

  ‘Aye, she had wan. A wee girl. She’s six.’

  Narey and Joanne swapped a quick glance.

  ‘Where is she now?’ Joanne asked.

  Pamela was twisting the napkin furiously now, her interest seemingly taken up by her shoes.

  ‘Where is Melanie’s wee girl?’ Narey repeated anxiously.

  ‘The wean’s wi her dad,’ Pamela answered quietly.

  ‘And who’s her dad?’ Narey pushed.

  Pamela just shook her head, still staring at the floor. Her anxiety levels had just rocketed.

  ‘Please, Pamela,’ Joanne Samuels broke in. ‘It could be important, pet. I think if you know then you should tell her.’

  The girl’s hands went unconsciously to her face, wiping under her nose.

  ‘He’s trouble. A real bad bastard,’ she hissed. ‘He’d kill me if he knew.’

  All Narey’s senses were telling her that this was a name she had to know.

  ‘He won’t know, Pamela,’ she assured the girl. ‘No one will know except the three of us round this table. Melanie was your friend and I think she deserves for the person that killed her to be caught.’

  Pamela was tilting her head to one side and repeating the gesture: anxious, thinking, afraid. ‘Tommy Breslin,’ she whispered.

  ‘Okay. Tell me about Tommy,’ Narey pursued.

  The girl repeated her head-tilting routine and nibbled on the inside of her cheek.

  ‘They call him T-Bone. Or he calls himself it, anyway. He was Melanie’s boyfriend. Sort of. Thinks he’s some kind of gangsta but all he is is an arsehole dealer.’

  She looked up suddenly, remembering who she was talking to. ‘It’s okay, Pamela. He’ll never know we’ve spoken to you. This is between us. How did this T-Bone treat Melanie?’

  She shook her head bitterly.

  ‘Like shit. Like a piece of shit. He was always laying into her for nothing. He broke her arm once and was always leaving marks on her. Kicks and punches. And he was the bastard that got her onto the shit in the first place.’

  She looked up at them fearfully again but the thought of what Breslin had done to her friend gave her some steel.

  ‘He was her dealer too. And mine.’r />
  Narey nodded, grateful for the girl’s information.

  ‘Do you think he could have done this to Melanie?’

  Pamela said nothing but looked Narey straight in the eyes and nodded.

  Narey mentally crossed her fingers and asked the question she hoped for an answer to more than any other.

  ‘Did Melanie ever tell you her real name?’

  ‘Yeah. She told me once when she was out of it and after that it didn’t matter. Her name was Una. Said she’d always hated it.’

  ‘Did she tell you her surname?’

  ‘No sure. She told people her name was Melanie McCulloch. Don’t know if that was real or not. Look, I’ve had enough. I need to go. Told you enough.’

  Narey still had a head full of questions but could see that Pamela was right on the edge and had made her mind up to go. Anyway, she thought, she had a hell of a lot more to work with than she had when she sat down.

  Joanne said that she would take Pamela home, noticeably refusing to say where that was, and Narey left them after picking up the bill for the coffees. She saw Joanne’s hand comfortingly placed over the girl’s but by the agitated look on her face it was going to take more than that to put her mind at ease.

  The door of the Criterion swung closed behind her and she was immediately hit by the cool afternoon breeze that had picked up. Her first thought was to telephone Addison with what she’d learned until she remembered that the bastard had dumped her with this and she was the one in charge. Well, sod him and whatever he was attending at Harthill, she was the one with the breakthrough.

  When she got to the Tolbooth she found a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen and swore at the paperwork that was going to be involved getting it overturned. Fuck it, it had been worth it. She turned her car round and threw it headlong back into the traffic heading for George Square and from there would go on to Stewart Street. Christ, it seemed even busier than it had been earlier. The traffic was at a complete standstill and there was nothing at all coming the other way. What the hell was going on?

  Up ahead, she could see flashing lights, blue as well as red. For the second time that afternoon, she abandoned her car in the nearest available space, this one with double yellow lines, and continued on foot. The closer she got to George Square, the more she realized some serious shit was going down.

  She pulled out her phone and got onto Stewart Street, demanding to know what was happening. As the answer came through, so the old red square came into view. Narey couldn’t believe her eyes.

  CHAPTER 16

  Narey arrived at George Square no more than fifteen minutes after the white van was parked up and about ten minutes before it began snowing. When the response came from the desk at Stewart Street, she raced the last couple of hundred yards until she reached the politburo splendour of the City Chambers itself.

  A large crowd of shoppers and office workers had already gathered round the square and Narey pushed her way through them, alternately shoving, shouting and waving her ID card. She could see a ring of yellow-jacketed uniforms and two fire engines and headed for them as quickly as she could.

  A uniformed inspector was standing at the nearest corner of the square, speaking into a walkie-talkie and looking like he was ready to punch someone or shit himself. Narey made a line straight towards him, trying to remember what his name was. Benson, Bett, something like that.

  The guy saw her coming, looking her up and down in a way that made her want to puke. Prick, she thought. What the hell was the sleazeball’s name?

  ‘Inspector?’ she started. ‘I’m DS Narey, I—’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are. I’m a bit busy, Sergeant. What is it?’

  ‘We have reason to believe this is connected to an ongoing CID case and I need to ask you what you know about what’s happened here.’

  ‘Oh, do you now? What case is that then?’

  ‘The shootings of Cairns Caldwell and Malcolm Quinn. I’m sure you are aware of them.’

  To Narey’s satisfaction, the inspector blanched, his eyes widening as he took in the consequences of what she said.

  ‘From what we’re told, the van came along the Queen Street side,’ he began. ‘It drove off the street and onto the square where it is now. No one’s got a clue where the driver is but we’re told he ran off as soon as he’d laid things out. You see the petrol canisters?’

  Narey nodded.

  The two green canisters sat close together about twenty feet away from where the van had been abandoned with its doors wide open. It sat on the red concrete, shunned by the statues that ringed the square, all with their backs turned to it.

  Beside the canisters were a couple of dozen bricks, quite obviously kilos of cocaine, wrapped in white paper and stacked in four hurriedly constructed piles. She knew if it hadn’t been for the presence of the cops, the bricks would have been nicked in two seconds flat.

  ‘So did any one of your guys try to approach the van, sir?’ she asked the inspector.

  ‘Twice,’ he answered with a curt nod. ‘Both times they got shot at. Nothing too close the first time, maybe a few feet away but enough to scare them off. After the first try we got someone togged up and had another go but the second time the shot missed him by inches. We haven’t tried again.’

  ‘Okay. Where are the shots coming from?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘We think it might have been from the north of the square, the City Chambers end, but to be honest, the place is in such chaos that no one’s sure. Everything was so quick that I don’t think anyone could have told you where their arse was. The only way to find out would have been to send someone in a third time but I couldn’t sanction that.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she agreed, having to shout now above the growing clamour around them. ‘But what’s been done to find out where he might be? He’s got to be somewhere high up, right?’

  The inspector stared hard at her, nodding but looking up and around him to prove his point. The square was surrounded on all sides and beyond by towering buildings that could have hidden a hundred snipers.

  ‘Which way did the driver run, sir? And do we have a description of him?’

  The inspector – suddenly she remembered his name, Begley – began to answer but he was immediately interrupted by a huge roar behind him. He spun and they both saw a surge in the crowd near Queen Street station and the start of a punch-up as people barged into each other.

  Narey looked around her and saw that a huge crowd had now gathered and the cops were struggling to hold them back. George Square was bang in the middle of the city centre and there were always hundreds of people walking along one of its sides or across it. Closing off the four streets that formed the square had immediately created a growing bottleneck and was continuing to draw a curious swarm. More people were joining the throng every minute and the human dam was threatening to burst at every access point.

  The surge at the station seemed to be caused by another commotion a hundred yards down the same stretch of the street. A Sky news crew had somehow managed to talk and push their way through from North Frederick Street and had taken up a vantage point near the Millennium Hotel, not giving a toss for the people that had been standing there. Two officers had run over and were arguing with the reporter while the cameraman and sound guy were busy focusing on the white van.

  Much later, it occurred to Narey that maybe it was all that the sniper was waiting for. Right then, though, when it happened, she had no time to think. Like everyone else round George Square, all she could do was duck.

  The air exploded with a gunshot that had hit before anyone knew it had been fired. The first she was aware of was the result of the bullet thudding into and through the petrol cans. They burst into flames with a roar that immediately had police and public instinctively stepping back from the square. In seconds, the newly burning petrol had ensnared the cocaine bricks, setting them alight with a snarl.

  Narey saw Begley’s jaw drop. To be fair, she could hardly bl
ame him. In seconds there was a Class A funeral pyre. At first it was just the petrol that leapt high and violently in dark, furious flames. But as they subsided it was clear to see the bricks breaking and burning and a wispy, creamy smoke snaking across the square and into the city beyond, seeking bloodstreams to invade.

  The reaction among the crowd was a loud, excited chatter but that was silenced when another bullet suddenly rang out, the sound hitting them a split-second after it drove straight through the fuel tank of the white van, exploding it and wiping out the potential forensic evidence inside. The transit roared into an orange fireball and blazed away in support of the cocaine.

  Begley seemed transfixed, staring at the flames with his mouth open. Narey wasn’t though. She’d seen the impact on the canisters and how they’d moved towards them as they exploded.

  ‘The north of the square,’ she told him, part explanation, part order. ‘The shots are coming from beyond the City Chambers. Get your men over there, sir.’

  Begley looked at her as if he wanted to reprimand her but settled for spinning on his heels and barking orders at the nearest uniforms.

  Narey’s attention was caught by the blare of a car horn coming from North Frederick. She saw a car bulldozing its way through traffic and ploughing through the crowds. It was a wonder that they didn’t run someone over because everyone that they were pushing past was gawping at the scene on the square. The car doors opened and as people emerged, Narey realized with a snort and a shake of her head that it was Tony, Addison, Colin Monteith and Iain Williamson. She took in the looks of disbelief on their faces and saw Tony pull a camera out of the bag over his shoulder. Christ, this will be right up his street, she thought. It was undeniably an amazing sight and she found herself wishing she had his gift of seeing the beauty in it.

  George Square like you’d never seen it before, snowing as if it were Christmas and bonfires as if it were Guy Fawkes Night. The air was thick with smokes and smells: one the familiar pungent tang of petrol and the other a sweet, rubbery whiff that reminded her of caramel.