Pitch Black lab-5

by Alex Gray

  Janis looked hard at the photograph. The dark hair was slicked back in an old-fashioned style so she supposed it had been taken some years ago, but these narrow eyes grinning at her looked full of fun. Fun? No, she decided, more like mischief. With a sigh, she put down the newspaper. Had Jimmy Greer made mischief or merely enjoyed it? Janis bit her lip. She had given him a description of Nicko’s body, whispered over the telephone. And she knew, contrary to what she had told DCI Lorimer, that the journalist was perfectly aware just what the murder weapon had been.

  The news reports all suggested that the journalist had been gunned down, execution-style, for his inside knowledge of the Kelvin Killings, as they were calling them. Janis shivered. Greer had promised the footballer’s widow a chance to tell her side of the story once she was out on bail. But that had never happened. And now he was dead.

  Janis felt a trickle as the first tear coursed down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily, knowing that she was not weeping for the passing of a man she had never met but for herself, yet still the tears kept coming.

  CHAPTER 39

  ‘Oh, it’s great to see you!’ Maggie’s lip trembled and she dashed away a tear as she looked down at Rosie.

  ‘It’s great to see you too,’ Rosie Fergusson replied.

  Maggie opened her mouth to exclaim at the weak, wee voice that spoke these words, then thought better of it. Rosie had been through a hell of a lot and although she was out of any danger she was still a sick woman.

  ‘Oh, Rosie,’ she said instead then bent down and planted a sudden kiss upon her friend’s brow. ‘There now, kissed it all better,’ she declared.

  Rosie smiled at her. Maggie Lorimer would have made a brilliant mother. Some things just weren’t fair.

  In the hours that had passed since she had woken up, Rosie had been told different versions of what had actually happened to her. She’d had the dispassionate one from the consultant, doctor-to-doctor, about her condition and its prognosis. Thankfully there was no long-term damage but she would be off work for up to three months recovering from the delicate surgery that had saved her life. In her present weakened state, Rosie was pretty sanguine about that, but she knew it would become harder to stay at home as she regained her strength. Solly could postpone his return to work until the end of September and the flat was in easy walking distance from the University, anyway. She wouldn’t be lonely, but she might be bored. Solly’s own version of events began with a police visit to the flat and went on to give only short descriptions of how she had appeared, punctuated with frequent repetitions of how terrified he had been at the thought of losing her. Bit by bit, Rosie had pieced all the events together so that she was now aware of how the crash had happened and what the physical consequences had been thereafter.

  ‘How’s the football case getting on? That husband of yours got anyone in the frame yet?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘He said I wasn’t to talk to you about it. Said you needed to think of nicer things.’

  ‘Aye?’ Rosie said drily. ‘Like pink fluffy bunnies? Come off it, Mags, I never was a pink-fluffy-bunny type of girl!’

  Both women laughed aloud, then Maggie’s face changed as Rosie began to cough.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she gasped, ‘just a bit fragile in the old thoracic department. Don’t worry,’ she said, seeing her friend look down at her anxiously. ‘Now, if you want me to shut up and not cough, you’d better do all the talking. Starting with a résumé of the case,’ she added, a glint in her eye.

  Maggie Lorimer knew when she was beaten, so she leaned forward and began to tell the pathologist everything that had happened at Kelvin Park since the afternoon of Rosie’s accident.

  The DCI’s wife had been a lot more forthcoming than Solly, who had point-blank refused to discuss the murder case with his fiancée. The fact that Rosie had conducted the post-mortems of Faulkner, Cartwright and White made absolutely no difference to Solly. She could sigh all she liked, he told her, there were better things to talk about. He’d been so sweet, even bringing her some wedding magazines to look at. They still planned a Christmastime wedding and by then, Rosie knew, she’d be back to her old self. So it had fallen to Maggie Lorimer to fill her in on the latest murder and the deceased’s part in the affair. Rosie’s eyes had widened as she learned about Greer’s death. Another shooting? She wondered who had done the man’s post-mortem and what type of bullet had been removed from his skull.

  Rosie closed her eyes. Maggie’s visit had been good but now she was tired. Thinking made her head hurt and she welcomed the sensation of sleepiness that overwhelmed her.

  ‘Well, we know who it was now,’ Lorimer exclaimed, waving the sheet of prints in the air. ‘Jimmy Greer was at Kelvin Park and had somehow gained access into the grounds. His prints match up with those found on the dummy, so I think we can conclude our erstwhile reporter had set up the entire thing himself.’

  ‘As a hoax?’ someone asked.

  ‘As a way to sell newspapers, more like,’ Alistair Wilson responded drily. ‘What’s his editor saying?’

  ‘Claims to know nothing about it. Surprise, surprise.’

  ‘Somebody must have let him into the grounds.’

  ‘And to the boot room. Wasn’t it supposed to be kept locked?’

  ‘Maybe it was the ghost.’

  Lorimer held up his hand again to silence the suggestions that were beginning to fly around the room. ‘We’ll stick to facts, if you don’t mind. Now, I know it’s a bit late in the day, but do I have any volunteers to interview Jim Christie and Albert Little? They are the only ones we know of that have keys to the boot room. Oh, and somebody better see the apprentice who found the dummy.’

  Several hands went up. Lorimer calculated the amount of legwork that had been done on this case already. Niall Cameron deserved to benefit from this. He had a good chance of making Detective Sergeant, Lorimer reckoned, and he wanted to encourage him.

  ‘Right — Grant, you and Weir see the young lad, Wilson and Cameron can find out Christie’s and Little’s home addresses and see them. I’ll expect a full report by the morning.’

  They’d drawn a blank at Albert Little’s flat but Jim Christie, the kitman, answered the door of his terraced cottage to the two CID officers. Christie was a small man of about fifty, his tonsure of white hair around a shining bald pate making him seem more like a priest than a man who looked after football kit. His benign smile added to this impression as DS Wilson made the introductions.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he said, opening the door wide. ‘Mary, we’ve got visitors,’ he called out to someone behind him. A small middle-aged woman appeared by his side, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

  ‘This is my wife, Mary,’ Christie said. ‘Mary, these gentlemen are from the police. Investigating the murders,’ he added in a studied stage whisper as though his wife were not quite up to speed with the latest events. She darted a nervous look at her husband then gestured the police officers through to the back of the house. ‘It’s cooler in the dining room,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Christie left them to find seats around the table.

  ‘Mr Christie, we just wanted to clear up the matter of the dummy in the boot room,’ DS Wilson began. ‘We have reason to believe that somebody let Jimmy Greer into Kelvin’s grounds that day and that he gained access to the boot room.’

  ‘The journalist who was killed?’ Christie’s mild manner changed to one of affront.

  ‘Yes. You see, we know he had been inside the boot room.’

  ‘Oh, heavens! Then maybe it was all my fault!’ The kitman looked aghast. ‘You see, I let Mr Greer into the boot room when he was researching his story.’

  ‘When exactly was this?’ Wilson asked.

  Christie chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘It might have been the day before young Willie found that thing,’ he said. ‘There were journalists all over the place, every day. Most of them never got past the main door,’ he added
with a nod to show what his opinion had been of the crowd of reporters.

  ‘But Jimmy Greer did,’ DC Cameron suggested quietly.

  Christie nodded again. ‘He had permission from the gaffer. He was doing a feature on the Ronnie Rankin story.’

  ‘The ghost in the boot room?’ Wilson asked with a laugh. ‘You don’t believe in all that tosh, do you?’

  Jim Christie’s face grew solemn as he shook his head. ‘Don’t ever mock the shade of Ronnie Rankin, Mr Wilson.’ Then he turned to Niall Cameron who had been staring intently at the kitman. ‘I’ve seen him several times over the years. I didn’t doubt that one of the young boys had seen him recently. And I’ll tell you this,’ he added, wagging an admonitory finger at them both, ‘that latest incident was a pure insult to his memory. If that journalist desecrated the boot room then I’m not surprised at what happened to him.’

  Wilson and Cameron exchanged a glance. The kitman was absolutely serious.

  ‘And you helped Greer with his … research?’ Wilson said at last, struggling to keep any vestige of a smile from his face.

  Christie nodded. ‘I told him everything: all the stories going back over my time at Kelvin and the ones that have been handed down over the generations. I even told him he should write a book about it,’ he added, shaking his head as if at his own foolishness.

  ‘So, how was it your fault that Greer had access to the boot room at a later date, Mr Christie?’ Cameron asked,

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Christie said. ‘He must have found my spare key.’

  ‘Did you mention this missing key to any of the officers who came to take statements after the boot room had been found all messed up?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Aye, I did. But I didn’t think that the reporter might have taken it. No,’ he said, with a heavy sigh, ‘I didn’t think about him at all.’

  ‘Well, that clears up one mystery,’ Cameron declared as they drove off from the Christies’ home. ‘We know Jimmy Greer had easy access to the boot room. He was writing about Rankin’s ghost. So he said. And his prints were on that dummy so he must have staged this. But why?’

  ‘A stunt to sell more papers,’ Wilson spat out in disgust. ‘Greer was a number one chancer but I didn’t think he’d go as far as making a threat against Pat Kennedy.’

  ‘D’you think that was him too?’ Cameron asked. ‘Should we maybe be looking for traces of red paint back at Greer’s place to confirm that?’

  Alistair Wilson nodded. ‘Aye. Then we can wrap up one bit of this case.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Jimmy Greer had not kept the tidiest of flats. There had been no problem obtaining a warrant to search the place the following morning and now Cameron and Wilson were turning over piles of discarded newspapers and piles of books in an attempt to find what they were looking for. Greer’s car had already been searched and there was not a sign of any paint, red or otherwise.

  ‘Nothing,’ Wilson said at last. ‘Come on, I need some fresh air. The smell in here would choke a horse.’

  ‘Today’s Friday,’ Cameron said absently as the DS locked Greer’s door behind them. ‘One more day till Kelvin play Dunfermline.’

  ‘You’re going to the game, then?’

  ‘Depends if I’m on duty or not,’ Cameron told him with a wry grin. None of the team had been free to enjoy their weekends much recently.

  ‘Maybe I’ll go myself,’ Wilson nodded. ‘Should be a good game.’

  ‘We need a result!’ Ron Clark flung his hand in the air, desperate to communicate his enthusiasm to the players. He hadn’t given out a team list as yet but Donnie Douglas was back in among the senior squad and listening eagerly to the pre-training pep talk. Clark tried to catch the eye of every man as he looked at them in turn. Baz was grinning back at him, his cheeky face shining with anticipation. He’d be mad to leave the striker out: he had that knack of always being around the goalmouth to toe in a stray ball, a trait that endeared him to the Kelvin fans. Giannitrapani wasn’t even a consideration after his recent poor showing. Woods would take his place against the Pars tomorrow, Clark told himself, unless something disastrous happened at today’s training. As for his mid-fielders, well, now that Douglas was back he’d take a chance with him, Simon Gaffney was on good form and of course Andy Sweeney, their captain, would find a place on the team sheet.

  As Ron Clark gazed at the footballers he wondered how many of them would be here next season. The shock of these murders was enough to make any one of them think about a transfer. Today and tomorrow they might be anxious to be selected for the match against Dunfermline but next week? Next month? Individually footballers were a self-seeking lot, their agents having dinned it into them to look for the best deal, never mind what it might do to their existing club. He’d been around enough Scottish clubs to know that each and every one of them was busy chasing the elusive big money. Mid-season transfers could be a body-blow to a club like theirs as they struggled to regain a position in the Scottish Premier League.

  ‘Okay, same time tomorrow. I’ll be reading out the team sheet, so don’t go looking for it pinned to the wall until just before the game.’

  ‘Is that in case you change your mind, boss?’ Baz Thomson asked, his eyes alight with devilment.

  ‘Aye, maybe so,’ Clark replied diffidently. He wasn’t going to be drawn on team selection at this stage, no matter how much his mind was already made up.

  Lorimer stared at the forwarded email in disbelief. ITS YOU NEXT KENNEDY, it said. The Kelvin chairman had done exactly as Strathclyde CID had instructed him to — sending on any scurrilous pieces of mail or any threats. Maybe they’d be able to close in on the sender this time. He looked at the email again and noted the time of receipt. Pat Kennedy had been sent this email at 6.30 a.m. So, anybody inside the club could have been up and about this Friday morning to send it, but it was more than likely that it had come from the same twenty-four-hour internet cafe as before.

  The DCI tapped out the code for technical support. Some clever dick might just be able to trace this. Then it would simply be a matter of seeing who had visited Cafe Source early this morning.

  ‘John? DCI Lorimer here. I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

  Patrick Kennedy sat staring at the computer screen, Ron Clark by his side.

  ‘You have told the police, I hope,’ Ron said.

  ‘Yes, of course I have. First thing I did,’ Kennedy snapped back at him.

  ‘What did they say?’

  The Kelvin chairman did not take his eyes off the words as he replied, ‘They’re taking it seriously this time.’

  Ron Clark stared at his boss for a long moment. The big man’s face was crumpled into a scowl but under that Clark sensed a change; Pat Kennedy was afraid, and Ron could tell that it was an emotion he wasn’t enjoying in the slightest.

  *

  It wasn’t lost on DI Jo Grant that the internet cafe was only fifty yards away from the Uisge Beatha pub. Whoever had written the two anonymous emails might easily stay within walking distance of both of these establishments. Parking round here was a nightmare. Woodlands Road itself had double yellow lines and the areas nearby were either for residents only or had already been taken. In the end she had to double back and find a meter near the Hogshead pub further down the road. Walking along the road she glanced across at the narrow lane running past the bowling green, right across from where the reporter had been gunned down. Lorimer had had the SOCOs scouring every last bit of the area, temporarily closing off the entire road whilst the white-suited figures searched methodically for any trace of the second bullet or of anything that the killer might have left behind.

  ‘DI Grant, Strathclyde Police,’ she said, holding up her warrant card for the young woman behind the counter to see.

  ‘Oh, yes, we got a call … come on round the back, will you?’ The girl looked quickly across at the customers sitting crouched over their computer screens before gesturing for the DI to follow her. It was clear she didn’t want
to leave the cafe unattended.

  ‘I’ve been here on my own since six o’clock,’ the girl explained. ‘There should have been another guy working by now but he hasn’t turned up yet.’ She frowned, darting glances through the open door as if afraid someone would abscond with the computers. ‘So it’s me you want to talk to, I suppose,’ she added. ‘Look, find a seat, sorry, the place is such a shambles but we just took delivery of more stock and I haven’t had time to put it away.’

  Jo Grant lifted a pile of A4 copy-paper from a seat and dumped it under the table. So long as she could sit down and get some sense out of this lassie she didn’t care what the back room looked like. ‘You’ve been here on your own all morning?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Oh, except for the customers,’ the girl replied.

  Grant breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We think you might be able to identify a customer who was using one of your machines here at about six-thirty this morning,’ the policewoman began.

  The girl’s face cleared suddenly. ‘Oh, that’s not a problem. There was only one fellow in then. Didn’t want coffee or anything to eat, just wanted to use the computer. That’s okay. Lots of them do that. We make enough on the food to pay rent on this place-’

  ‘This customer,’ Grant interrupted her. ‘Can you describe him to me?’

  The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘He was quite old,’ she began.

  The DI flashed her an appraising look: she was probably not even twenty herself. How old was quite old in this young woman’s estimation?