‘Your office?’
‘No. Too many busybodies wandering in and out. Meet me in the car park. My car.’
An hour. Winter was going to drive himself crazy before an hour was up. He needed to know what Cat’s pet pathologist had found. Too much was depending on it.
Within moments of ending his call to Cat, his mobile went again and, with a pang of guilt, he saw that it was Rachel.
‘Hi. I phoned just now but you were engaged.’
‘I was on to the hospital,’ he lied.
‘Any change?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Listen, there’s been another one.’
Rachel sounded more nervous than he’d ever heard her. It wasn’t like her at all.
‘Where? Who?’
‘Jo-Jo Johnstone. He was shot at the front door to his detached villa in Bishopbriggs. We’re sure it’s our man but he’s missed this time. Jo-Jo’s got it in the neck and he’s bleeding like a geyser but they think he’ll live. There’s more though. Terry Gilmartin’s kid died in hospital this morning. The poor wee bugger never regained consciousness after the firebomb.’
‘Christ.’
‘It’s out of control out there, Tony. Those animals are ripping each other apart. It’s kicking off everywhere.’
‘Okay, what’s Johnstone’s address? I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘What?’
‘The Temple says you’re off the case. I shouldn’t even be phoning you.’
‘You’re kidding. What the hell has he done that for?’
‘Tony, he knew how close to Addy you were. From his point of view it makes sense. I’ve got to say I understand why he’s done it.’
‘Thanks a fucking bunch.’
‘I’m on your side, you know that. But he can’t take any chances. If Addy was on the wrong side of this . . .’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘You don’t know that for a fact and neither do I. If he was wrong then you’re going to be at arm’s length till we know otherwise. Look, I’ve got to go. This is fucking terrible. Speak later.’
And she was gone, his reply cut off before it started. He gripped his mobile tight and resisted the temptation to hurl it to the ground. Mobiles, fucking mobiles. Addison had been shot because he’d answered his phone, McConachie too. He couldn’t stand the thought of Rachel being out there and at risk.
Shit, he so wanted to be at the scene. And he knew that he wanted to be there for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t just about joining the dots that were Ross, McCabe, Strathie, Sturrock and McKendrick. It was also about his sgriob and the itch to see the Dark Angel’s handiwork. He needed to see it but knew Shirley was going to let him nowhere near it.
He hustled into his clothes and made for Pitt Street as fast as he could. He couldn’t afford to wait an hour on Cat. As it turned out, his office was empty, no doubt because of the Bishopbriggs shooting.
Winter hurriedly fished out the blown-up sectionals of the bruise marks on Sammy Ross and Stevie Strathie, showing the identical circular marks and scanned them into his PC. He cursed himself for not doing it before then, realizing he’d put it off but now couldn’t do it quickly enough. The computer let him crop and scale until the two images were the same size and there was clearly no doubt that both had been caused by the same thing. It was like the men had been branded, although he was sure it was far from deliberate.
He popped the first image, Sammy’s, into Photoshop and used the software to map out the rest of it. He filled in where the lines disappeared and made guesses where they were needed. He adjusted the tone, removed the purplish colours of the contusion and eventually had a complete image which he was able to separate from the original photograph.
It was almost certainly a ring, a signet ring of some sort. The symbols on it seemed to be a sword or a dagger, with two wavy lines on either side. An insignia? He desperately needed to find out.
A look at his watch told him it was nearly time to meet Cat and he closed the image down and hurried towards the car park. He quickly found her sporty green MX-5 and saw that she was already sitting behind the wheel, the look on her face suggesting she had news.
‘You were right,’ she started as soon as he’d climbed in beside her.
‘I don’t know how you knew and I’m not sure I want to know but you were right. There was something else with Ross. Something that was missed.’
His heart dropped through his stomach and he struggled to find an answer but thankfully she didn’t wait for one.
‘It might not be much but it is odd. We found pollen fibres in his nose and in his throat which we think come from something like a face cloth, the kind of thing that you might find in any bathroom. There was also some unexplained damage to his lungs which would have been easily overlooked if you hadn’t been actively searching for it. It had routine stabbing written all over it though. My friendly man in the morgue was a bit embarrassed because he was the second hand on the original PM.’
‘What sort of damage to his lungs?’
‘It’s difficult to say. I think he’d define it as “distress”. Nothing major in itself but it would probably have caused him severe breathing difficulties in years to come if he’d lived that long.’
‘And the cloth fibres?’
‘Well, I have a theory but without more information from you, that’s all it is. What’s this all about, Tony?’
‘I don’t know yet. What’s your take on it?’
‘You know more than you’re telling me, Winter, that’s my take on it. The cause of death was definitely the stabbing. The blood coagulation was consistent with that and it would have stood out like a sore thumb otherwise. But tell me one thing, do you think someone was trying to get information out of our Mr Ross?’
Winter’s heart missed a beat with excitement.
‘Yes. That’s exactly what I think.’
Cat tilted her head to one side and upwards as if thinking the answer she sought might be up there somewhere.
‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘Unlikely as it may be, it fits with something like waterboarding. You know what that is?’
‘A torture technique? Something to do with Guantanamo Bay?’
‘Not just a pretty face,’ she smiled grimly at him. ‘Yes, but not limited to Gitmo. It’s a Special Forces favourite, used in operations from Baghdad to Beirut to God knows where. It’s classed as a professional interrogation technique. You put a wet cloth or cellophane over the subject’s face and pour water over it till they start telling you whatever you want to hear. It triggers the mammalian reflex and makes the subject believe they are actually drowning. The average that anyone lasts before they give in is fourteen seconds. The beauty of it is that it doesn’t leave a mark. Not so much as a bruise.’
In Winter’s mind, one dot just joined to another.
‘So who would have the knowledge or the skill to do something like that?’ I asked her.
‘The CIA, MI5, MI6, SAS, Barlanark Boy Scouts. Take your pick.’
‘The Navy?’
‘Yes, maybe, but it would more likely be the Special Ops boys. SBS or US Navy Seals. What the hell is going on, Tony? What has this got to do with what happened to Addison, McConachie and the others?’
He knew that she deserved an answer but he didn’t want to get her into trouble. He was likely to be in enough for both of them.
‘How about I do us both a favour and don’t tell you?’ he answered. ‘And you don’t tell anyone else? Ross was just a two-bit drug dealer who got stabbed. No one cares.’
‘Okay, that’s obviously a lie. And you know I could lose my job over this. You’re asking a lot.’
‘I know. But I am asking. I need you to do this for me, Cat.’
She held his gaze for an age, trying to read his mind and make her own up before shaking her head slowly at him.
‘Are you involved with someone, Tony?’
‘What?’
It wasn�
��t the response that he was expecting.
‘It’s a straightforward question. Yes or no would suffice.’
‘Well . . .’
‘That was neither yes nor no. Are you involved with someone? I’m not asking who it is.’
Thank God for that, he thought.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just answer the question, Winter. I’m serious.’
‘Yes. Yes I am.’
‘There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?’
She looked him over again, finishing her deliberations.
‘Okay, I won’t tell anyone about Sammy Ross and neither will young Alastair. I think he’d just as rather no one knew. But don’t make me regret it. You do and I’ll have no hesitation in making you pay.’
He believed her.
‘Thanks, Cat. I really appreciate it.’
‘You should.’
‘I do. Honest. But . . . why did you ask . . . what you asked?’
‘God it’s like talking to a teenager. Because if you are involved with someone else then it gives you a valid reason for not shagging me again. Okay? If it was because you didn’t like it then I’d have been very offended.’
‘I did. I mean I . . .’
Winter stumbled over his embarrassment, realizing it was probably not best to mention that he fell for Rachel so shortly after his dalliance with Cat. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
‘Oh shut up,’ she stopped him. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. If you are involved then you stop looking at me the way you do. It’s not on. I like you, Tony, and can now forgive you for being so stupid as to not know a good thing when you saw one, but you keep your eyes off my ass in future.’
‘It will be difficult.’
‘At least you didn’t say it would be hard. I might have had to change my mind about the deal if you had. And I mean it, don’t give me cause to regret this. Whatever it is, sort it soon. This deal might expire.’
‘I intend to.’
‘You be very careful. You’re a photographer, not a cop. Promise me that if you are in over your head then you will go to someone who actually knows what they are doing and get this dealt with properly.’
‘I will,’ he said, knowing almost certainly that it was a lie.
CHAPTER 37
Smeaton Drive in Bishopbriggs was a family residential area and the neighbours were never likely to take too kindly to having anyone shot on their doorsteps, let alone someone who turned out to be a major gangster. By the time Narey arrived, Jo-Jo Johnstone had been rushed to hospital and what was left behind was a pool of blood and a shocked and unhappy group of locals.
The crime scene examiners were busy at work and the police were going door to door to get every bit of information they could. No one doubted who had done it but they still didn’t know who that someone was. The word Dark Angel went unsaid.
Narey sensed the strange mood that pervaded the scene and couldn’t help but share it. She’d known of Jo-Jo Johnstone for as long as she’d been on the force and knew just what a bad bastard he was. Every officer there was aware of the money laundering, extortion, violence, brothels and drugs.
It had been the same with Caldwell and Quinn, and to a lesser extent with Strathie, Sturrock, Haddow and Adamson plus the four at Dixon Blazes: Houston, Faichney, Honeyman and Arnold. Every cop knew of them and knew they were no loss to society.
The shock wasn’t the same in Smeaton Drive as it had been with some of the others. It was just the latest and there wasn’t enough sympathy on that street to fill a teaspoon. Narey could smell it. They didn’t give a fuck that Johnstone had been shot and what was in the air was the whiff of disappointment.
She saw the TV crews and press pack that were being held back at the end of the street, vultures in a feeding frenzy, delighting in the latest kill but probably sharing the dissatisfaction that there was a survivor this time. The Dark Angel was going to claim yet more headlines. Deadlines, she thought darkly.
There was a difference too in the work of the forensics. They were meticulous as ever but she sensed they were cutting with the dull blade of someone who knew what they would find. Baxter would ensure that their standards didn’t slip but they somehow lacked urgency as they laid out yellow markers – for photographs that Winter hadn’t the chance to take, she reflected – measured blood spatter and calculated angles. She wondered if they too had come to the conclusion that a gangster being shot wasn’t perhaps the worst thing in the world.
Then she saw a child being hugged in a mother’s arms a few doors away from Johnstone’s house, a neighbour whose daughter had got out of the front door and seen the blood that soaked the steps where Jo-Jo had stood. Johnstone had kids, she remembered, and wondered where they might be now. With one of the neighbours, maybe, or waiting anxiously at the hospital. Whatever their dad did for a living, they were still children and she couldn’t wish this on them.
The thought triggered memories of Jan McConachie and her daughter. What was her name? Amy. Narey wasn’t sure if she believed that Jan was dirty, whatever the evidence of the phone call from George Faichney suggested, but either way, her heart bled for that wee girl.
She realized someone was standing next to her and turned to see Corrieri and Colin Monteith at her shoulder.
‘All the neighbours have been interviewed,’ Corrieri was saying. ‘Only one of them actually saw Johnstone being hit, the others only heard the shot. It gives us a firm time of the shooting but nothing much more.’
‘Okay, thanks, Julia. What do you think, Colin?’
Monteith shook his head at the scene before him.
‘I think it’s a hell of a waste of manpower for a scumbag like Johnstone.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ Narey chided him.
‘Don’t I? How many people here do you think actually feel sorry for him? Not the neighbours, I mean. Us, the police. If any of them are sorry it’s that the Dark Angel didn’t finish him off.’
‘Yeah well, keep that to yourself,’ she hissed at him. She nodded at the woman cradling her crying daughter. ‘There are people here who are upset even if you’re not. That kid probably played with Johnstone’s children.’
‘You want me to feel sympathy for a gangster’s kids?’ he mocked. ‘Where did the money come from for the big house that they lived in? What paid for their toys and their holidays? Other people’s fucking misery that’s what. Don’t lecture me about what to think, Narey.’
Maybe it was the guilt she felt at having let similar thoughts pass through her own head earlier but Narey bit back at him.
‘And what about Terry Gilmartin’s kid? You heard that his boy died in hospital this morning?’
‘Same answer,’ Monteith snarled. ‘He was a gangster’s son. Don’t lay that emotional blackmail pish on me.’
‘That kid was five years old!’ she blasted.
‘Dry your eyes, Rachel. I’m not losing any sleep over what some scumbag did to a scumbag like Gilmartin. He has fucked this place over for years without any of it bothering his conscience. Well, what goes around comes around. Fuck him.’
She stared at him, bothered as much by the fact that so many people seemed to be in agreement as by what he had said. She hadn’t read one ounce of sympathy for the victims of the Dark Angel and she doubted she’d read much the next morning about Gilmartin’s son. It certainly didn’t make what Monteith said any more appropriate though. She didn’t know how many wrongs it took to make a right and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
She didn’t have an answer for him that he’d understand or want to hear so she settled for the only answer she could muster.
‘Fuck you.’
CHAPTER 38
The moment Cat Fitzpatrick left, Winter hurried back to his office and jumped back onto his PC, bringing up the Photoshopped image of the ring that had punched its mark into McCabe and Strathie. He hadn’t known what it was but now he had a fair idea where to start looking. Special Ops, Navy, water-boarding, torture
techniques.
His first guess turned out to be the right one. He typed ‘Special Boat Service’ into Google Images and hit enter. Twenty pictures leapt up onto the page, men on dinghies, men wearing balaclavas and night goggles, men dark and unknown, armed to the teeth, men getting on and off boats and paddling canoes.
There was a group shot of six guys, all menacing in their anonymity and their machine guns, strapped up with pocket after pocket of kit, looking like they were ready to retake the Falklands. Another showed eight men in a dinghy on high seas, every one of them except the one at the helm had machine guns or pistols pointed at some poor fucker who had no chance. Another had four men launching themselves into the sea from the back of what looked like a transport carrier. It was accompanied by some info. ‘The Special Boat Service is one of the Royal Marines’ two Special Forces units, the other being the Mountain and rctic Warfare Cadre. SBS Marines are proficient at demolitions, parachuting, and various weaponry and specialize in intelligence, observation, reconnaissance and sabotage. The SBS motto is “Not By Strength, By Guile”.’
But three of the images, three of them were different, and they had leapt out at him right away.
Set on a black background, it was a silver-gray dagger with a scroll either side of the handle and two thick blue waves behind the blade. The insignia of the SBS. He downloaded the picture, bringing it up full size then switching between that and the image he’d created from the bruise marks. Insignia, bruise mark, insignia, bruise mark, insignia, bruise mark. Identical.
Back to the search engine. He typed in ‘weapons used by the SBS’ and up it came. A long list of deadly weapons.
‘The Diemaco C8 carbine, the HK MP5 Sub Machine Gun, the HK53 Assault Carbine, the G3 Sniper/Assault Rifle, the Sig Sauer P226 Pistol, the FN Minimi Para Light Machine Gun, the GPMG Machine Gun, the L115A3 Sniper Rifle . . .’
His heart stopped then thudded against his chest. He read on for reasons that were beyond him, as if doubting the evidence of his own eyes. ‘The HKP11 Underwater Pistol, the Flashbang Stun Grenade.’
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