Pitch Black lab-5

by Alex Gray

  ‘Mr Clark was frantic,’ the DC continued. ‘He was hoping to field you for this Saturday’s game.’

  ‘Against Dunfermline? Against the Pars?’ Donnie sat up, a new light in his eyes.

  ‘Aye.’ Cameron nodded. ‘It’s an important fixture. How fit d’you think you are?’

  Donnie looked down at himself, a sudden doubt casting a cloud over his features. He’d walked for miles these past few days but hadn’t eaten a hell of a lot, misery having robbed his appetite.

  ‘If I had a decent meal …’ the young man began.

  ‘You think you could make it?’

  ‘Is he no mad at me?’ Donnie asked, looking doubtful once more.

  ‘Why should he be mad at you?’ Cameron countered, wondering at the reply he was going to get.

  ‘Left them in the lurch, didn’t I? As bad as Jason White getting banged up for being in that fight.’

  The Lewisman said nothing, hoping that Donnie would fill the silence for them.

  The footballer gave a huge sigh. ‘I suppose it was stupid,’ he began, ‘but I couldn’t think what else to do. You see-’ He broke off nervously, eyeing Jo Grant with a wariness that suddenly made Cameron wish he did not have a female officer there at his side.

  ‘I had a problem with my girlfriend,’ Donnie dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Alison Renton?’ the DC asked, with an encouraging smile.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve met her. We went to see if she could help find you,’ Cameron said simply.

  ‘So do you know …?’ He left the rest of the question hanging in the air.

  ‘Please speak up for the tape,’ Jo Grant’s voice suddenly broke in.

  Donnie gave a start, then nodded. ‘Do you know that Alison is expecting our baby?’

  ‘We do. She’s been in to see us. I don’t think she’ll be sorry that you’ve been found safe and well,’ he added.

  Donnie frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’ Then his expression changed to one of horror. ‘You didn’t think anything had happened to me, did you?’

  There was another silence this time broken by DI Grant. ‘There has been the little matter of murder, you know,’ she began conversationally, though there was no hiding the sarcasm in her tone. ‘Remember that, do you, Mr Douglas? The two Kelvin players and the senior referee?’

  Donnie Douglas blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘You never thought I’d been killed, surely? I mean …’ His face changed colour again as he realised that was exactly what people had been thinking.

  ‘Wait till you read the back issues of the Gazette.’ Jo Grant smirked at him as if she were enjoying his discomfiture. ‘And of course there was that television appeal, wasn’t there, DC Cameron?’ she said, turning towards him as if for confirmation.

  ‘My God, I didn’t mean to cause all that trouble. Really I didn’t.’ Donnie Douglas looked truly appalled.

  ‘Well,’ the DI straightened up and began smiling properly at him, ‘maybe you can help us with our inquiries to make up for that.’

  Niall Cameron looked across at his colleague with admiration. She’d handled that one brilliantly. Now Donnie Douglas was eating out of their hands, a mixture of relief and embarrassment making him only too willing to tell them anything they wanted to know.

  It was after four o’clock by the time they shook hands again, the footballer more relaxed with the two officers, even smiling as he was escorted from the interview room. Niall Cameron walked out into the public area with him, knowing the footballer was in for a surprise. There, sat in the foyer, was Alison Renton. As they approached, her face lit up and then all Cameron saw was the two of them clasped in an embrace. Turning away to sign him out, the DC missed the expression on Alison Renton’s face but he could not mistake the proprietorial tone in her voice. ‘Don’t you ever do anything like that again. D’ye hear me?’

  ‘Douglas is back.’ Ron Clark stood at the door of the chairman’s office, arms folded.

  ‘Good God!’ Kennedy appeared startled, then he gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Aye, tail between his legs but he’s okay. I can put him on Saturday’s team sheet.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Woman trouble,’ Clark said shortly. ‘Nothing to do with what’s been going on here.’

  Pat Kennedy’s jaw dropped and for once Ron Clark had the advantage of seeing the Kelvin chairman speechless.

  ‘His girlfriend’s in the family way. But there was more to it than that. Anyway, can we just forget it and get on with the business of me running this football team?’ Clark nodded sourly at his boss, hardly noticing the expression of surprise and admiration he received in return.

  Ron Clark took the steps two at a time. He would give the boys a real talking to before Donnie’s return, he thought, DCI Lorimer’s words of wisdom still ringing in his ears. Donnie and Alison’s relationship was none of their business. Giving the boy their utmost support was of far greater importance both for Donnie’s peace of mind and for the greater good of Kelvin FC.

  As Clark headed towards the gymnasium he considered the forthcoming league match against Dunfermline. He had two more days to pull off this victory. And suddenly he was confident that he could.

  CHAPTER 38

  It was the kind of morning you just die for, thought Jimmy Greer, opening the curtains onto a vista of cloudless blue skies over the Glasgow rooftops. He’d not taken any of his annual leave yet, and wasn’t sorry. Not only had he been able to make capital out of the fracas surrounding Kelvin FC but he’d spent it in a city basking in brilliant sunshine. As he looked at the tenement flats across the street from his own he could see windows pushed wide open to let in the fresh morning air. The journalist gave his own window frame a shove and leaned out, breathing deeply. Life had been pretty good to him these past few weeks and if he didn’t have this nonsense from Strathclyde Police hanging over him things would be just perfect. Jimmy reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Soon he was replacing the quality of fresh air in his lungs with something he reckoned was even more satisfying. Yes, life was no too bad, he told himself again.

  Jimmy’s perfect moment was interrupted by the telephone’s strident ring.

  ‘Greer,’ he said, taking the fag from his lips. His face stiffened as he recognised the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Oh, aye, what do you want, then?’ He moved across the room, cordless phone against his ear, then back towards the window to flick out his cigarette ash. Biting his lip, Greer listened to his caller. Anybody seeing the journalist would have noted the seriousness creep into his expression followed by a certain anxiety.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ he said eventually. ‘You know I’ll be in deep shit if you’re wrong.’ Greer turned away from the window, nodding to himself as he heard the caller’s reply. ‘When?’ Greer asked shortly, then ‘Where?’, followed by a belligerent ‘Why there?’ His face twisted into a grimace of displeasure then, looking at his watch, he said, ‘Aye, in about an hour, then. Okay. See you.’ Switching the phone off, Greer examined the end of his cigarette thoughtfully before taking one last draw and then tossing it out of the window. The butt described an arc, its glowing tip like the cone of a rocket, before coming to earth on the pavement below.

  *

  Woodlands Road on that particular morning was full of people going about their particular business. Had he been interested, the journalist would have been able to say that this little part of Glasgow had a distinctly Eastern flavour, especially given the pungent scents of spices drifting out of the Asian grocery shops. But Greer seemed oblivious to the delights of the street and its colourful fruit and vegetable stalls spilling on to the pavements. Head down, he walked purposefully towards the pub where he had agreed to a rendezvous.

  Just before he reached its door, a sudden loud crack from across the street made him look up. But when he tried to see where the noise had come from, Greer fo
und himself blinded by a flash of sunlight so strong that he put his hand up to shield his eyes.

  In that moment the world stopped turning on its axis. For, instead of being able to peer up at the scrubby copse of trees across the busy road, Jimmy Greer felt a pain in his head that blinded him to everything.

  He was aware of his legs giving way and voices around him shouting, but the last thing he ever noticed was the feel of the warm pavement under the palm of his outstretched hand, before the blackness overwhelmed him.

  ‘Jimmy Greer’s been shot.’ DS Wilson burst into Lorimer’s office with the news.

  ‘Good grief! Is he hurt?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Alistair Wilson replied tersely. ‘Someone took a shot at him outside the Uisge Beatha on Woodlands Road.

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘We’ve got a couple of officers over there now taking statements. A crime scene’s been set up and the SOCOs are doing their best under quite difficult circumstances, as you can imagine.’

  ‘My God!’ Lorimer sat back heavily. ‘In broad daylight! I can’t believe it.’

  ‘It was busy enough over there. Surely someone will have seen something,’ Wilson said hopefully. ‘If it’s our man then he’s taking big risks killing someone in such a public place.’

  ‘But why Greer?’ Lorimer shook his head, still trying to take it in.

  ‘Maybe someone was trying to shut him up,’ Wilson suggested.

  ‘Aye, that would come as no surprise,’ the DCI countered, not trying to disguise the sarcasm in his tone. There would be plenty of folk with things to hide who would not mourn the journalist’s passing, though he was surprised to note that he did not number himself among them. Jimmy Greer may have been known as a scandal-mongering hack who delighted in the more salacious aspects of his stories, but Lorimer still felt a sense of outrage against anyone who had robbed another man of his life.

  ‘When will he be over at the mortuary?’ Lorimer asked suddenly.

  ‘Don’t know but I can find out. Why?’

  ‘Perhaps I might go over there myself,’ Lorimer told him. ‘They’ll need someone to ID the body, won’t they?’

  That night the Uisge Beatha would do a roaring trade, but now what few clientele remained had been lined up as witnesses to Greer’s murder. Those passers-by who had given information to the police officers had also been herded into the pub which was being used, meantime, as an incident room. Members of Lorimer’s team, their resources already stretched to breaking point, were busy taking statements from anyone who could offer the slightest bit of information.

  DC Niall Cameron had never set foot inside this particular hostelry and his eyes kept straying in the gloomy half-light to various objects around the room. From his position in one corner of the booth, Cameron could see heads of various moth-eaten animals (mainly stags) that were mounted on the walls, but one curious addition to this form of interior decoration drew his eye. High in the corner, diagonally across from where he sat, the bust of a well-known politician jutted out from the wall. Yes, there was no mistaking, it was Margaret Thatcher, but not as he had ever seen her. Some waggish sculptor had designed a caricature of the former prime minister as though she were hanging (literally) from a red rope around her neck. What could be seen of her frock was blue, matching the colour of her cheeks; this was meant not so much to show her political leanings but her last few breaths. The artist’s satirical humour showed through as much as his obvious political dislike of his subject, thought Cameron. He gave a shudder. It was eerie given that a man had been shot dead only a couple of strides from where that object was hanging.

  They had set themselves up in the three separate drinking booths that were conveniently located in the main bar, and statements were being taken from all who claimed to have either seen Jimmy Greer, heard the shots or caught a glimpse of his assailant escaping. Cameron sank back against the wooden-framed booth, waiting for the next witness. It was dark in here and so the lamps were lit despite the bright daylight outside. The deeply recessed double doors to the pub’s interior did not allow for much natural light. On the scarred table in front of him, a tallow candle had been pushed into a wax-spattered green glass bottle that had once held Tullibardine whisky. No doubt this and other candles scattered around the pub would be lit every night, there would certainly never be a shortage of bottles to contain them. Cameron had clocked the double row of whiskies shelved high above the main bar as he’d come in; Uisge Beatha, translated from the Gaelic as the water of life by some (or simply as whisky by others), certainly was an appropriate name for this particular establishment. It was strange seeing the name glowing there in neon green and suddenly Niall Cameron felt the tug of home in a way he had not done for a very long time.

  ‘Hello, please take a seat. I’m Detective Constable Cameron.’ The Lewisman was on his feet the moment the man appeared in front of him.

  ‘Donald McIntyre,’ the man replied, fitting his huge shape between the two carved wings that formed a chair within the booth.

  ‘Mr McIntyre, thank you for waiting so long. If you wouldn’t mind just writing your name, address and date of birth here.’ Cameron indicated the top of his hastily acquired A4 pad. ‘Thanks,’ he added, pulling the knot of his tie a little looser. It was hot in here and they had had to keep both sets of glass doors closed so their only source of air was supplied by that single fan whirring lazily from the ceiling.

  ‘Now,’ Cameron began, ‘what can you tell me about this incident?’

  Donald McIntyre looked back solemnly at the Detective Constable. He was a man, probably in his early forties, whose large physique owed more to his dedication at the Uisge Beatha’s bar than anything else. He had placed both hands flat upon the table as though in readiness for some serious business but Cameron found the gesture oddly distracting.

  ‘I wis there when the man wis shot,’ McIntyre stated. ‘He fell right down, crashed his heid aff the pavement, so he did.’

  ‘Did you see him before he was shot?’

  ‘Aye. Ah wis jist coming alang the road when ah hear this bang then seen this flash.’

  Cameron frowned. None of the other witnesses had mentioned this before.

  ‘Could you describe it for me?’

  ‘It wis like someone shinin stuff intae yer eyes. Like when somethin’s reflected.’ He paused, looking distractedly around him as if for inspiration. ‘See when ye’re drivin an ye cannae see fur the sun comin’ aff the puddles?’

  Cameron nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well it wis like that. Jist wan great flash and then anither bang.’

  Cameron nodded again. They already had statements that two shots had rung out and the SOCOs were still trying to locate the missing bullet from the first shot that must have missed Jimmy Greer.

  ‘What direction did this flash come from?’

  ‘Ower there, right by the bowling green.’ McIntyre pointed to a spot in the wall as though he could actually see through it. ‘See where the railings end?’

  Cameron couldn’t, but he’d check it out later, so he just nodded encouragement again and let the man go on with his story.

  ‘There’s a wee lane that goes frae Woodlands Road up the hill. The flash came from there.’

  ‘And did you see anyone in the lane?’ Cameron asked, regarding McIntyre carefully.

  The big man looked even more solemn as he nodded his head. ‘Aye. There was a man. He wis running away.’

  ‘And did you see him carrying anything?’

  A grim sort of smile spread across Donald McIntyre’s face. ‘Aye, something long and thin and it wisnae a fishin rod. Know whit ah’m sayin?’

  Detective Constable Cameron knew exactly what he was saying and his heart beat that little bit faster as he pressed the witness for a description of the man who had killed Jimmy Greer.

  DCI Lorimer watched dispassionately as the mortuary attendant rolled out the remains of Jimmy Greer from the refrigerated wall of corpses. In death, the journalist appear
ed older than his forty-eight years. His wispy grey hair was matted with blood from the single gunshot wound to his forehead. Lorimer’s jaw tightened: that blackened hole, right in the centre of his brow, made it look typical of an execution killing. The man’s mouth was open, showing a set of stained and broken teeth. Had he been a stranger, Lorimer would have doubted anyone could have identified him from dental records: these discoloured teeth looked as though they’d never been seen by a dentist. Lorimer was used to seeing dead bodies and knew how a corpse’s features could collapse, but, staring at Greer, he saw an old wizened man, bits of skin sagging from his stubbled cheeks. The journalist had made life difficult for him at times but he felt no recrimination now, just a kind of pity for a life cut short.

  ‘Aye, that’s him,’ he told her, then he held his hand up. ‘See if you could do something for me?’ he began as she lifted a sheet to cover up the body.

  The girl looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Could you take a set of his fingerprints? He was meant to come in to have them taken, but … well, looks like he got distracted, doesn’t it?’

  The girl grinned back at him. They were used to graveyard humour here, it was part of the atmosphere, though all of them were well trained to treat the actual bodies with dignity and respect. ‘Sure. I’ll make up a set myself and have them sent over to you later today.’

  Lorimer’s last sight of Greer was that gaping maw and a pair of yellowing upturned toes. As he turned away he muttered to himself, ‘Who did this to you, eh, Jimmy?’ Unbidden, some words of Burns came to him: ‘Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the Devil!’ What devil had Jimmy Greer faced? And was it the same one that had already taken two men’s lives in this city?

  The papers were full of it. Every headline screamed the journalist’s untimely death and several of his rivals in the reporting fraternity had already composed an obituary, much of which had been written with creativity rather than an eye for the unvarnished truth. So the columns that Janis Faulkner was scanning told her of the man to whom she had spoken but had never seen. He appeared to have been a friendly sort of fellow and a more than adequate journalist. His early career even spoke of an award he had received for investigative work into a drugs ring.