Snapshot

by Craig Robertson

  Devastated? No shit, Winter thought. What a stupid fucking line. It would have been much more of a surprise if they’d been anything other than devastated.

  All very routine. Someone was taking a powerful interest in this kid’s death, though. Enough to beat the shit out of someone to get it, leaving the same mark as he did on Stevie Strathie. If Winter was right, the shooter, the man they weren’t supposed to call the Dark Angel, was very interested in how Kieran McKendrick died.

  Winter went back to Google. ‘Kieran McKendrick funeral’.

  The one result that showed was for the Evening Times. The local paper was the only one that gave a toss enough to cover the boy’s service. Four paragraphs.

  Drug death funeral

  The funeral took place today of 17-year-old Kieran McKendrick from Whitevale Street in Dennistoun who died three weeks ago of a suspected reaction to the drug mephedrone.

  The teenager’s life was celebrated in a service at Lambhill Crematorium attended by a large number of family and friends.

  Kieran’s mother Rosaleen, his elder brother Ryan and sister Suzanne led a cortege of over one hundred well-wishers, including a number of his present and former schoolmates from St Mungo’s Academy.

  A police investigation into Kieran’s death, which was linked to the drug miaow-miaow, proved inconclusive.

  That was it. Seventeen years and all the entire World Wide Web can be arsed to run to was a grand total of four paragraphs. No one batted an eyelid and the Clyde still flowed towards Dumbarton. No one gave a fuck, the rest of the place ploughed on, blissfully unaware or uncaring about the latest stain on the pavement. Walking on by, stepping over it like a Tory MP dodging tramps on the way to the opera. This time somebody cared though. Cared enough to kill.

  Winter put ‘Ryan McKendrick’ into the search engine and got businessmen, social workers, librarians and jockeys. ‘Ryan McKendrick Glasgow’ scored better though. It got him a couple of Bebo and MySpace hits then it got him ‘Naval rating Ryan McKendrick’.

  ‘Navy Ryan Kieran McKendrick’ hit paydirt on another Bebo site. A friend of the family mentioned both of the boys in a tribute.

  He found the McKendrick’s number in Whitevale Street in the phonebook and was shaking slightly as he put 141 before the number to disguise where he was calling from then dialled, not sure what he was going to say. Or why.

  A woman’s voice answered, polite but tired, barely summoning up the energy to rouse herself enough to say hello.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Eh, hi. Could I speak to Ryan, please?’

  ‘Ryan? Ryan’s at sea. He has been for three weeks. Who’s calling?’

  Winter panicked.

  ‘It’s um, it’s Tony. Okay, sorry to have bothered you. Bye.’

  He ended the call before there could be any more awkward questions, appalled at himself for lying to a mother whose son had just died. Arsehole, he raged at himself, throwing his phone on to the chair in the far corner and shutting down the laptop. He needed a drink and luckily enough he knew a man who wanted one with him.

  The Station Bar was on Port Dundas Road in Cowcaddens, near where the old STV studios used to stand. Just five minutes’ walk from the city centre but far enough away that it was a local bar for local people. It got its share of cops from Stewart Street and journalists as well as firemen, civil servants, brickies, workies and assorted loonies.

  As Winter pushed his way through the door, he saw Addison sitting at the table next to the open fire, stewing over a Guinness. He had obviously been counting bodies.

  ‘Fucking eight of the bastards,’ he muttered almost as soon as Winter sat down.

  Nine, Winter thought to himself.

  ‘So what is being looked at now?’ he asked him.

  ‘Anything and everything. No stone unturned. It’s the way the Temple works.’

  ‘Something that I shouldn’t know?’

  ‘Everything that you don’t need to know.’

  Fuck you, he thought.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said aloud.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Winter decided that if Addison was only going to give him partial information then that was going to be a two-way street. The names of Sammy Ross and Kieran McKendrick were staying with him for now but he did have something he wanted to share, as much for his own purposes as the DI’s.

  ‘Addy, when Cat Fitzpatrick went through Strathie’s pockets at Harthill, she found his wallet and driving licence, right?

  ‘Right. What’s your point?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking more about what she didn’t find.’

  ‘Let’s hear it. We know the shooter had taken the car keys.’

  ‘He didn’t have a mobile phone on him, did he?’

  ‘Nope, and someone like Strathie, doing what he did would have had at least one mobile, more likely two or three.’

  ‘Addy, why do I get the impression you don’t sound surprised?’

  ‘Because I’m not. The same thing occurred to me. But I’m impressed though. We could make a traffic warden out of you yet.’

  ‘Fuck you. I’m trying to help.’

  Okay, so maybe he wasn’t trying to help as much as he could. For a start he could have mentioned how Sammy Ross didn’t have a mobile on him either when he was found.

  ‘Thanks for that, wee man,’ Addison laughed drily. ‘Very public spirited of you. But the question isn’t why Strathie, or Sturrock for that matter, didn’t have mobiles. It’s what the cunt that took them wanted with them.’

  ‘And what’s the answer?’

  ‘Obvious enough. Most probably information. If this guy is doing what it looks like he is doing and cleaning out anyone and everyone at the top end of the city’s drug operations then most of the names in those phones should be double-locking their doors at night. And they won’t all be criminals either.’

  Winter raised his eyebrows questioningly but Addison just shook his head wearily.

  ‘Work it out for yourself when you are at the bar. Another Nigerian lager for me.’

  Winter shook his head at him, kicked back his chair and headed to the bar. Derek the bar manager had seen him coming and had already stuck the first of two Guinnesses under the tap.

  ‘Your pal alright, Tony?’ he asked.

  Winter immediately went on the defensive. Derek was the kind of barman who knew when and when not to ask questions. He knew his punters and wouldn’t have stuck his nose in without good reason.

  ‘Aye, he’s fine. Why do you ask?’

  The manager frowned.

  ‘It’s just he’s been hitting it pretty hard. He’s had a large malt with every second pint. That’s heavy going even by his standards.’

  ‘He’s just got a lot on at work. You’ll have read about the shootings.’

  ‘The Dark Angel? Aye, of course. It’s all anyone that comes in here is talking about. It’s time someone sorted those bastards out if you ask me. They’ve had it coming for years. The guy deserves a medal,’ he sighed softly.

  ‘Well, don’t let Addy hear you saying that. I’ll keep an eye on him, Derek. He’ll be no bother.’

  The bar manager nodded and Winter took the pints back over in time to see Addison knock back the last of the glass in front of him.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ he asked as Winter returned.

  ‘Derek? Nothing. He was just talking about the Celtic game.’

  ‘Don’t kid a kidder, wee man. Especially not when he plays at being a detective for a living. He on about how much I’m drinking?’

  ‘No.’

  Addison eyeballed him.

  ‘Aye,’ Winter conceded.

  ‘He should keep his nose out and just count the money,’ Addison snarled. ‘Stressful job, don’t you know?’ He paused and slugged some more. ‘Getting more stressful by the day.’

  Winter let the comment hang there, drawing deep on his own pint, letting the silence settle both of them for a bit.

  ‘Who else then?’ he asked at l
ast. ‘Who else should be worried about their numbers being on those mobile phones?’

  ‘Know what I miss?’ the DI replied. ‘Being able to smoke in here. Just being able to light up and have a fag without dragging your arse out into the cold.’

  ‘You don’t smoke.’

  ‘I used to. Haven’t had one for eight years but I’m still a smoker at heart. Still miss it. See, wee man, you don’t know everything. And that’s my point.’

  ‘It is?’

  Winter was pleading ignorance even though he was pretty sure where Addison was going with the conversation.

  ‘It is. You don’t know who else was listed in those phones. And neither do I. But the nature of the business that Strathie and Sturrock were in it stands to reason there are people in those mobiles who wouldn’t want anyone to know they knew drug dealers. Especially a big bad wolf with a gun.’

  ‘Uh huh, people like who?’ he persisted.

  ‘You no listen? I told you, I don’t know.’

  ‘Cops?’

  Addison’s hand and pint were halfway to his mouth but he stopped and placed the tumbler back on the table, looking into its murky depths for an answer.

  ‘Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.’

  They both looked at their drinks rather than each other and it stayed that way for an age till Addison eventually broke the silence.

  ‘My round.’

  ‘Just pints, Addy, eh?’

  He gave Winter his best undertaker’s smile.

  ‘Just pints, wee man. Not a problem.’

  He barely missed a beat on the way to the bar, just a slight brush against the chair hinting that all wasn’t as it should be. He signalled Derek towards him and Winter saw him grimace before setting up the two pint tumblers. But as they were pouring, he shoved a glass under the optic, twice, and set it down in front of Addison. He had his back to Winter but Winter still saw his arm come up to shoulder height then fall back down in one swift movement.

  Seconds later he was back at the table, a Guinness in each hand.

  ‘Two pints, wee man. Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Addy . . .’

  Winter let his question disappear into the air. How can you ask just one question when there’s a hundred of them battering at your skull?

  ‘What is it, wee man?’

  ‘Nothing. Cheers.’

  Addison grinned widely and scooped half a pint of Guinness down his throat. Winter knew it was his round again.

  CHAPTER 28

  Saturday 17 September

  Brendan and Margaret McCullough lived in a smart semidetached bungalow in Merryburn Road in Giffnock on the city’s south side. Driveway, garage and four bedrooms, it would set you back a quarter of a million or so. Not flash, just smart and cheaper than most houses in the area.

  Oonagh McCullough’s parents had lived there for twenty-five years, the two of them before their only daughter was born.

  Narey and Corrieri pulled up outside the low wall and neat hedge,both unbuckling their seat belts before taking a deep breath.

  ‘You ready?’ Narey asked her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. Let’s go.’

  The two women got out of Narey’s Megane, walked up the driveway and climbed half a dozen steps to the front door. Narey raised her hand to press the bell but the door swung open before she could hit it and a stern-looking man in his late fifties looked at them doubtfully.

  ‘Sergeant Narey?’

  ‘Yes, Mr McCullough. This is my colleague, DC Corrieri. May we come in?’

  The man didn’t answer but pursed his lips and nodded them past him inside. Everything about him was neat. Closely trimmed reddish hair and a manicured greying moustache, immaculately ironed trousers and shirt and polished shoes. The front room that he directed them to was equally tidy, albeit in an explosion of floral chintz.

  As they entered the room, an anxious-looking woman pushed herself up out of a chair and greeted them with a nervous smile, extending her hand to meet theirs. Behind them, her husband introduced the visitors although there was no doubt Mrs McCullough had spent the afternoon waiting for them to arrive.

  ‘Margaret, these are the police officers,’ he was saying unnecessarily. ‘Ladies, Officers, this is my wife.’

  Mrs McCullough smiled again.

  ‘You said on the telephone that you might have some information about Oonagh?’

  ‘We think we have, Mrs McCullough. Is that your daughter in the photographs on the mantelpiece?’

  Six separate portraits showed the same auburn-haired girl at various ages. On one side of the shelf a baby picture, wide eyes and an unlikely mass of hair; a shyly smiley toddler in a short summer dress; then in school uniform aged about five. In the middle was a wedding portrait of her parents, the husband in army uniform and the wife in a white dress and veil. On the other, was Oonagh with a pony and rosettes; a birthday shot complete with thirteen candles on the cake; and finally a sulkier teenager looking bored in a family wedding photograph aged about fifteen. There was little doubt that it was the face of Melanie the hooker that was looking back at them.

  ‘Yes,’ her mother was confirming with another smile, this one managing to be at once proud and sad. Mrs McCullough was fearing the worst but hoping for the best. Narey knew it wasn’t fair to prolong their agony any longer.

  ‘Mr and Mrs McCullough, I think it would be better if you sat down.’

  Her words slapped across the mother’s face and Narey saw her recoil from them. The husband shook slightly but refused to budge.

  ‘I’d rather stand, Sergeant,’ he said soberly. ‘Please, continue.’

  ‘I really think it best that you take a seat too, sir.’

  ‘I’ll stand.’

  ‘Very well. I’m afraid that we have some very bad news for you both. The body of a young woman, whom we believe to be Oonagh, has been found. She was murdered.’

  Mary McCullough grabbed at her skirt and a hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘Believe. Believe. You said you “believe” it to be Oonagh. You aren’t sure, then. It could be some other poor girl. Right?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that we are quite sure, Mrs McCullough. We will need to ask you or your husband to identify the body but . . .’

  The phrase produced a scream from deep within Mrs McCullough. As soon as it escaped she clamped a hand over her mouth and looked to her husband, eyes pleading.

  ‘Where was she found, this girl that you think is Oonagh?’ Brendan McCullough asked grimly.

  ‘In the city centre, sir. In the area near Waterloo Street.’

  ‘In Glasgow?’ the parents chorused.

  ‘She was living here all this time?’ the father added. ‘Living here but wouldn’t come to see us?’

  ‘We believe she has been here for the last few years,’ Narey nodded. ‘She disappeared when she was sixteen, is that correct?’

  ‘Sixteen years and one day, Sergeant,’ he replied. ‘She left on the twenty-third of March 2004, the day after her birthday. We never saw her again. I can’t believe she was so close all the time. We have never moved, she knew where we were.’

  ‘I realize this is very difficult news to take in,’ Narey continued. ‘But we believe that Oonagh became a drug addict and this led her into a life of prostitution.’

  ‘No. No, no, no.’

  Mr McCullough’s denial wasn’t spoken in anger but more in an unwillingness to accept what had been said. He was dismissing the possibility out of hand. His wife had silent tears streaming down her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr McCullough, but there seems little doubt. We have already checked Oonagh’s last known dental records with your local practice and despite considerable decay in the intervening period, there is a convincing match.’

  ‘We always made sure she had a check-up every six months,’ the mother burst in. ‘Regular as clockwork, never missed an appointment.’

  Her husband opened his mouth as if to scold her but his gaze softene
d and he just nodded in her direction instead.

  ‘Have you had any contact at all with Oonagh in the past seven years?’

  Brendan McCullough turned to his wife again.

  ‘The postcard.’

  At that Mrs McCullough jumped up, glad of something to do, and almost ran to a teak sideboard against the far wall. She opened a drawer and instantly brought out a card adorned with a photograph of the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘It arrived four years ago,’ the husband explained. ‘May 2007.’

  Narey took the postcard from the woman’s trembling hand and turned it over.

  Don’t worry. I’m safe. O.

  The card had a Paris postmark and was dated as the man had said.

  ‘It is definitely Oonagh’s handwriting?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And this was the only time she got in touch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there anyone she was particularly close to before she left, someone that she might have stayed in touch with?’ asked Corrieri.

  The father shook his head impatiently.

  ‘We spoke to all her friends, all the ones we knew of. The police did the same at the time. They knew nothing.’

  ‘Brendan went out all the time looking for her,’ his wife said, her red eyes staring at the floor. ‘Day after day, night after night, scouring the streets. But nothing. After the postcard came we stopped looking, knowing . . . thinking . . . that she wasn’t in the country any more.’

  Mrs McCullough sprang out of her seat and plucked one of the photographs from the mantelpiece, the one of Oonagh in her first school uniform. She sat carefully back onto the sofa, cradling the framed picture to her breast. Her husband sat down beside her and put an arm around her.

  ‘Mr and Mrs McCullough, might it be possible for us to take a photograph of Oonagh away with us, as recent as you have?’ Narey asked. ‘I’ll ensure it gets back to you safely.’

  The husband nodded without looking up.

  ‘I’ll get you one.’

  ‘And could we arrange for one of you to identify Oonagh’s body at the city police mortuary at the Saltmarket?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll do it,’ he replied.

  ‘Thank you. I am so sorry to have had to bring you news like this. I will arrange for a family liaison officer to be in touch with you this afternoon.’