Snapshot

by Craig Robertson

  He didn’t utter another word until they hammered into Dixon Blazes and roared down to the far end of Lawmoor Road, passing warehouses, offices and industrial units, heading for the last plot before the railway line.

  Two blue and yellows and a couple of unmarked cars were the X’s that marked where the spot was. Addison didn’t bother locking the Audi and was out and onto the tarmac before Winter had even opened the door. He was still fishing his camera gear out of the back when he heard him utter:

  ‘What the fu . . .’

  It was only then that Winter took in the look on the faces of the handful of cops that had beaten them there. All looking at them with something approaching pity on their faces. Addison couldn’t have noticed them either because he had blundered round the corner and straight into the face of whatever it was. Now he was standing stock-still with his mouth open.

  Winter sprinted to the corner, aware that his head was slowing it down like it was some nightmare version of Baywatch. He caught his feet in time to follow the gaze of Alex Shirley, Jan McConachie, – fuck, Rachel was there too – Julia Corrieri, two other CIDs and four uniform, including Jim Boyle and Sandy Murray.

  Thirty yards away was the door to what looked like a half-finished warehouse. There was no sign on it and an unpainted roof sat on top of unpainted walls. Standing hard against the door was a man, arms wide as if he was being held at gunpoint. His head was slumped against his chest like he had fallen asleep but his arms said that couldn’t be the case. It filtered through to Winter’s brain slowly, the only way it could because what he was really seeing was just so terrible.

  The guy wasn’t standing or leaning against the door, he was being held up by it. He was somehow pinned against it and his arms were out straight as if . . . as if he were crucified against it. That’s exactly what it is, Winter thought. The itch on his lip was competing with a thud in his heart and the potential collapse of his bowels.

  He was aware of Shirley beckoning him forward, waving him towards the door, everyone else standing back to let him by, almost reverentially. He was aware of grim faces and quizzical looks, someone was saying something but he didn’t hear it. He was zeroing in on the door, focusing on it as if he’d fall unless he concentrated on it. His camera came out of his bag on auto-pilot and he looked down, surprised that it was in his hand.

  As he approached, he saw dress shoes and suit trousers, a pale-blue shirt open at the collar, no tie. He saw tousled dark hair that had been wet or sweaty and had dried that way. Blood. He saw falu red at the man’s open palms and daubs of it at his feet. He got closer and saw nails driven through his hands, and his gut tightened and his breathing became harder. There were nails through his feet, too, driven through the black leather of his shoes and causing the unholy puddle beneath him. There wasn’t just blood in that spill though, it ran with the fear that had soiled the front of his navy-blue trousers. He’d been alive when some of this had happened.

  Closer. Winter’s nose picked up sweat, blood, urine and fear. And death. His nose wrinkled at the smell of it just as his lip itched. He stopped, focused and shot, stepped a few yards to the side and repeated the process. He circled right, snapping as he went. Every detail from every angle. This was a new one even for him, no amount of Glasgow could prepare you for this. His mind flew back to Father Mulroney at St Simon’s in Partick Bridge Street. Mark Chapter 15. ‘And they crucified two bandits with him, one on his right and one on his left.’

  He was no more than six feet away and the man filled his viewfinder. Switch, zoom, focus. His hands punctured and still bleeding, slowly, ever so slowly, dripping away what was left of him. The nails that pinned him were bog-standard B&Q specials, intended to be driven through planks of wood, not flesh and bone. Right hand, left hand, neither knowing what the other had done. Closer.

  Winter knew before he finally saw it for sure. Every angle, every detail. He’d seen it in his camera’s eye but had shut it out, willing it not to be so but there was no getting away from it. He kneeled before the man, careful to avoid the pool of blood and piss at their feet. His lens turned to the man’s face in a final act of supplication and saw Inspector Graeme Forrest look despairingly back down at him, his last hope long since dripped onto the concrete.

  Forrest’s mouth was stuffed with twenty-pound notes, his cheeks bulging with them, and a hundred, maybe two hundred quid’s worth hanging from his lips. Used notes stuffed between his teeth, either ensuring his silence or choking him to death.

  Graeme was staring at the pavement as if it offered some kind of answer, fear in his empty blue eyes. Winter closed in on one of them, a photo that would never appear in any evidence submission. He saw alarm and guilt and pain.

  Forrest had always been a bit of a devil yet here he was crucified like Our Lord. Father Mulroney wouldn’t have approved of this. Who the fuck did he think he was?

  Forrest’s mouth looked sad, loose and wide with the bank notes and turned down at the corners. All that, whatever it was, for this. Police college, being nice to his mum, catching criminals, always brushing his teeth. All that just for some bastard to nail him to a door. He looked fat, his head slumped down like that and his cheeks bulging – whatever blood he had left had been rushing there too and left him looking like a chipmunk. Poor bastard.

  Winter could hear Forrest telling him not to photograph him like that. Always was a vain bastard. Forrest would have wanted a better angle but there weren’t any more of them. There was only one shot. Anyway, God help him, but he’d never looked better. Frozen for time immoral in the biggest case in town.

  Winter stepped down and back, easing himself out from under the dead cop, vaguely aware of more voices behind him. He could pick out Rachel – what the hell was she doing there? – and Addison among them but hadn’t a clue what they were saying. More pish, no doubt. It was all pish. Pictures painted a thousand words so why talk? He turned away from Forrest to let the vultures in to pick over his bones. He’d recorded him for posterity and for the high court, now they were going to rip him to bits. If he was thinking it then so were they – the crucifixion and the cash, shades of Jesus and Judas, saint and sinner. They’d crowded in on Winter, watching him work. Rubberneckers. Gawpers. They weren’t rushing forward to get to Forrest though and for a moment Winter thought their reluctance was down to it being one of their own until he realized there wasn’t a forensic among them. Baxter, Cat or whoever was on duty hadn’t got to the site and the cops would have to wait. Graeme’s dignity was spared for a few minutes longer.

  He was in a world of his own again and it was the first ring of the mobile phone, no, phones, that made him jump. Two ringtones cut through whatever talk was going on among the cops, the sounds jumbled together, but Winter recognized one of them, his brain trying to unscramble it from the other. CID and uniform were looking at each other and hands started to reach into pockets to pull out the phones, some stopping when they realized it wasn’t theirs.

  It was Jan McConachie, standing maybe ten feet to Winter’s right, who emerged with a phone first, looking at the screen display with puzzlement and discomfort. She was still looking at it when a shot rang out and a bullet took her clean off her feet. She fell straight back, a circle of pure candy-apple red bursting her forehead.

  Winter spun instinctively to the left where the other ringtone, the familiar one, was coming from. He turned just in time to see Addison holding his mobile and trying to move, to dive, to duck. He was too late and another gunshot exploded from somewhere over Winter’s shoulder and sent Addison spinning. Winter saw the gush of blood like an oil well being struck, a burst of scarlet showering him before he hit the deck.

  CHAPTER 31

  Winter heard the thud of Addison hitting the tarmac then nothing. His ears were full of gunshot, ringing with horror. The cops who were still standing, some having thrown themselves to the ground, were frozen to the spot. He looked over Addison’s stricken body and saw Rachel looking back at him, her eyes locked on his. He held
his breath for another shot and in the hour that seemed to flash by in a split second, or the split second that lasted an hour, he had time to hope the next bullet would hit him and not her.

  Shirley found his voice, piercing the hush and roaring at everyone to get down. Lying flat, Winter saw the spurt of blood pooling round Addison, gathering quickly round him like a shroud. He thought his heart was going to burst. Death didn’t seem so beautiful after all.

  What was he doing lying there, he thought? He got back to his feet, shakily, turning to face away from the warehouse door where Forrest was hanging. Turning to face where the shots were coming from.

  ‘Get fucking down, Winter,’ Shirley bellowed. Winter ignored him, staring out to wherever the bastard with the gun was, his heart hammering at his ribs and his throat dry. He stared the shooter down even though he couldn’t see him. He gave him ten long seconds and then made his move, turning towards Addison with his camera in his hand. The sniper with the rifle wasn’t going to shoot him, he’d have done it by then.

  A few feet in front of Addison, Winter stopped and took a photograph, realizing for the first time that he had tears in his eyes. Addison was lying on his back, one leg caught under him, one arm at his side, the other across his chest, his mobile a foot away.

  His skull was torn and bathed in red, his eyes wide in shock and his mouth contorted in a final grimace. Fuck, he was tall, stretched out long and getting cold. Winter ripped off his jacket and knelt beside his friend, suffocating a scream that he could feel building up inside him, trying to stem the wound with the coat but only succeeding in getting it saturated with blood in seconds. Addison’s eyes were lost somewhere and though Winter turned his cradled head towards him, he couldn’t see. How could this be? Then he felt it, a kicking somewhere below him. Addison’s legs were convulsing like a man suffering a mild electric shock. Did it mean he was alive, did he mean he was dying? Winter was panicking.

  From behind him, he felt an arm on his shoulder. He tensed, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off. The voice surprised him though.

  ‘Ease his head back down slowly. You could paralyse him, you fool. Then get out of the way. Please.’

  Winter looked back and saw that it was Campbell Baxter. He hadn’t heard him arrive. The tone of his voice was gentle and understanding but firm. Winter looked from him to Addison and back, unsure.

  ‘Look, Winter. I know I’m more used to dealing with dead bodies but I have more knowledge on how to help him than anyone else here right now. The ambulance is two minutes away. He’s still alive. Let me help him.’

  Winter nodded wordlessly, helplessly, pushing the sleeves of his jacket on the ground below Addison’s head and letting Baxter reach his hands underneath his and place the DI gently on it. Sound rushed into his ears again, hearing Shirley roaring to get every cop within miles to the spot they thought the shots had come from and to shut off every road leading to and from it.

  Baxter took Addison’s wrist in one large paw and searched for a pulse, finding it and declaring it very weak. Winter felt more hands on his shoulders, pulling him up and away. He gave in to them, letting the hands turn him. He stood and looked and fell into Rachel’s arms. His face was smothered in her hair and the smell of it filled his senses, making him realize how much he’d missed it. She hugged him tight, facing him away from Addison, seemingly not caring that they were in public. He wanted to kiss her, lifting his head to do so, but she grabbed him back towards her, locking his head to her shoulder.

  It was only the blare of the arriving ambulance that made Winter rip himself away, pulling free to see paramedics jump from the vehicle and run to Addison. Baxter had already wrapped something round the wound and had seemingly stopped the flow of blood. He spoke quickly to the paramedics then stepped aside as they secured his neck, eased a stretcher under him and lifted him into the ambulance. Rachel held Winter again as the doors closed, a last glimpse of tubes and wires being fitted as the engine fired up and it left, siren blaring.

  The ambulance turned the bend and disappeared out of sight. Winter looked around and saw Alex Shirley standing over the body of Jan McConachie, realizing that the ambulance hadn’t taken her because she was dead.

  ‘Let me go,’ Winter told Rachel.

  Her eyes pleaded with him not to but he leaned in and whispered to her.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m okay. Let me go.’

  She nodded, reluctantly releasing him and looking to see who had been watching them. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He had other things to do. Jim Boyle, the PC, saw him coming and cut across his path. Boyle was a burly big guy, shaven-headed under his hat, and Winter couldn’t have pushed him aside very easily but he would if he had to.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Tony,’ he was telling him.

  ‘It’s my job, Jim.’

  ‘Fucksake, Tony. There will be others on their way. Get someone to take you and follow the ambulance. Addy’s your best mate.’

  Winter shook his head.

  ‘Work to do. It’s the only thing I can do for him now. Let me past.’

  The constable held Winter’s eyes for a second or two then stepped back, letting him push on by. Superintendent Shirley heard his footsteps and turned, looking Winter up and down. His face was set, grim and angry, chewing on his bottom lip, and Winter couldn’t tell what he was thinking. The look on his face could have been disgust or understanding; Winter didn’t know or care. They were pretty much the same feelings he had about himself.

  Jan McConachie was flat on her back, arms and eyes wide. Winter’s hands were shaking as he framed the full-length shot but steadied with the first click. She was almost expressionless beyond the confusion she had registered at the phone call.

  His mind was full of thoughts of Addison but he shook them out of his head. No time for that. McConachie was stone-cold dead, the circle in the middle of her head already turning fire-engine red before his eyes and her lost life juices spreading under her. Black trousers, flat shoes, a green blouse under a black waterproof jacket. Waterproof but not bloodproof: it was already soaking. Her phone was a couple of feet behind her right hand.

  Winter didn’t know her beyond a few shared words. A hard ticket, a woman in a man’s world, just as good as any of the guys, swore like a fucking trooper but a good mum to her kid. Hair dyed blonde, a conceit offset by the careless cut. Dress-down clothes, nothing overtly sexual. Male cops probably thought her a hard bitch. Female cops probably thought her a cold bitch. Winter circled McConachie, using the spherical camera for the R2S as he swept round behind to photograph her in situ with the whole warehouse in sight. Not just it but the cops as well. Rachel, Shirley, Corrieri, the uniforms. They knew he had them in the shot but said nothing. They were frozen like they were when Addison was shot, frozen with fear and helplessness. Shirley was stern and glaring, Rachel was looking right into his lens, worried and on the edge, Boyle and Murray were both looking round like sentries, scared and strong.

  Where was the beauty in this? He shifted a foot to the right and focused again but saw the other movement through his viewfinder. All bar Rachel had turned their backs away from him and from McConachie and were walking quickly towards the now-open warehouse door where Forrest still hung. Baxter stood beside it, a look of utter confusion on his face as the cops filed past him and inside. Seconds later, Sandy Murray appeared again, waving at Winter. The look on his face didn’t encourage Winter at all. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  Without a final look at McConachie, he followed the wave of Murray’s arm. His bag over his shoulder and his Nikon now in his hand, he hustled through the door. No more than a few steps inside, he ran straight into the broad back of Shirley, bouncing off him and almost falling to his knees. He looked where Shirley was looking and saw four men tied to four chairs arranged in a sort of semi-circle facing the door. All dead.

  CHAPTER 32

  The first was a bloody mess, his face battered beyond recognition. Lips burst, nose flattened and cheekb
ones smashed, his shirt soaked so deep in blood that you couldn’t have guessed what colour it had been originally. The whites of his lifeless eyes were like beacons among the blood, staring emptily into nowhere. Behind the gore he might have been nineteen, he might have been thirty. His jeans were damp with God knows what and his shoes seeped. Most of what had been inside him was now leaking out.

  To his right sat a wiry ginger-headed guy in his mid-thirties, tied with wire at his hands and feet, unmarked compared to his neighbour but alabaster-white on account of the deep slashes at his wrist through which every drop of blood had poured. His lips were the palest blue, as if he’d been left out in the snow too long, his eyes rolled back in his head. The swimming pool at his feet was purest crimson, a gorgeously horrendous bath of unadulterated jus de vie. His blood streamed to the feet of the third victim. Not that the next guy needed it, he had plenty of his own. He had been gutted, a deep vertical incision into his chest from which gushed a mess of lust. His head was back staring at the ceiling or beyond, his last act maybe, screaming or straining against what was being done to him. The tips of his fingers were bleeding too from where he’d been gripping onto the chair for dear life. He was in his early twenties, a skinny ned with flinty features and a shock of dirty, blond hair. Winter looked at the cut in his chest and wanted to get Baxter to check something that he couldn’t ask. Was it the same knife that had been used to kill Sammy Ross? He couldn’t ask because he should already have told them of the link between Ross and Strathie before now. Before McConachie and Addison were shot and before Forrest and these four were murdered. Before it was all too late . . .

  The fourth man had a hood over his head, his neck slumped at an unnatural angle. There was something wrong about his legs too, dangling askew from the knees down, bones seemingly jutting out where they shouldn’t. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt, both dirty as if he’d been rolled on the ground, maybe taking a kicking as well as what was most probably a baseball bat beating.