Single End

by Denzil Meyrick

  Amanda Burns beamed a toothy smile at him as she opened the door. ‘Jim, what a lovely surprise! How are you – and Liz? You’ll be looking for my husband, I take it.’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ replied Daley. ‘Sorry to just drop by like this. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your husband for a moment or two.’

  ‘Be my guest. He’ll be in his potting shed, as usual. His new hobby. Something had to replace the police, goodness knows.’

  She invited Daley to follow her out to the garden. ‘You’ll find him just down there. See the trees? You can’t miss it. He’s even got a little stove in there now.’

  Daley thanked Mrs Burns and made his way down the garden. Sure enough, under a large copper beech tree, already losing its leaves to autumn, sat a sizeable shed, not the tiny construction ‘potting shed’ had conjured up in his mind. A little chimney belched out smoke, and, through a window, Daley could see movement from within.

  The door swung open and the thin, stooped figure of Ian Burns appeared. A smile spread across his face as he caught sight of his young protégé. ‘Jim Daley, how are you, son?’

  ‘I’m fine, sir. And yourself?’

  Burns chatted away as he showed Daley into the shed. Two old leather chairs huddled around a small pot-bellied stove, within which crackled some logs. Between the chairs, on an old crate, sat a half-read newspaper and a leather-bound Roberts radio, emitting the low tones of a Brahms piece. A green tin ashtray bearing the name of a brewery held a pile of cigarette ends that revealed Burns’s penchant for smoking – heavily.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, guiding Daley to one of the chairs. ‘If you were wondering what retirement was all about, well, this is it.’

  Daley looked around the shed. Though there were plant pots, unopened bags of fertiliser and various gardening tools, everything looked new and in pristine condition.

  ‘She thinks I’ve caught the gardening bug,’ said Burns, following Daley’s eye line. ‘The truth is, it’s just an excuse to get out of the house. Buggered if I know what I’m going to tell her when there are no nice flowers or lettuces come the summer. But, never mind. Just can’t stand feeling as though I’m underfoot all the time. In nearly forty years of marriage, I never realised how much time she spent bloody hoovering.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Daley, anxious to get to the point, ‘I need some help. Brian and I both do.’

  ‘Anything to do with tomorrow’s Reporter, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, it is. How did you—’

  ‘Still got some friends who keep me up to speed, Jim. And drop the “sir”. That was then, this is now . . . My name’s Ian. So, looks like Brian’s got himself into more bother. I’m buggered if I know why, but the boy’s got a real talent for it.’

  Daley went on to explain the situation, withholding nothing from Burns, a man whom he had great respect, even fondness, for.

  Burns sat back and lit a cigarette, belatedly offering Daley one, which he accepted.

  ‘Tommy Dines. Now there’s a man with ambition, Jim. Talented investigator, mind you, but ambition is his master, not detection.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir? Ian, sorry.’

  ‘I mean that I suspected that Tommy Dines had been sailing close to the wind for a long time. It’s one thing using criminals as sources, but there’s a fine line. I think, in an effort to reach the heights, your man Dines has acquired some pretty dodgy pals – the kind of friends it’s hard to say no to.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering. Do you think there’s a connection between Provan’s death and the trouble Brian’s in? It’s a bit of a coincidence, and—’

  ‘If I were a cynic, I’d say that Dines has got himself in too deep with Machie and his crew. Who better to take the fall than poor, hapless Brian, if the hunt is on for a bent cop? It would certainly cover Dines’s back. There’s clearly some kind of flux within Machie’s organisation, and flux is dangerous, as Provan discovered to his cost. I taught you not to believe in coincidences, Jim, but it all seems rather neat. What’s Sanderson saying to it all?’

  ‘As far as he’s concerned, Brian’s public enemy number one.’

  ‘Ridiculous. How that man ever got into the CID is a mystery. He’d make a lazy cop in the Court Branch blush.’

  ‘I don’t know what I can do to help Brian. It looks like he’s going to take the fall for Dines.’

  Burns drew on his cigarette and exhaled sharply, blowing three neat smoke rings, one after the other. ‘Let me talk to some people. I know you told Brian to keep his head down, but it would be better if he reports back to Stewart Street. I’ll have managed to have a word in a few ears by then.’

  ‘Thank you, Ian. It’s really appreciated.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet, Jim. I haven’t done anything, but fingers crossed, eh? And remember, the way things turn out in this job, more often than not, is a fair distance from the point you were aiming for – pragmatism is the word. It’s the most frustrating, disappointing word in the English language. But, as a cop, it’s the one word that will encapsulate your career like no other. Take it from one who knows,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘Aye, see you do. In the meantime, get a hold of Brian and get him back to the ranch. He’s in for an uncomfortable few hours, but hopefully the outcome will be favourable.’

  As Daley drove away from Burns’s house, he felt a glimmer of hope. He’d never known Burns promise something he didn’t think he’d have a chance of achieving. He knew his old boss would do his utmost to help Brian. Burns still had influence, favours were owed to him, and because of this – and years of friendship with many still in the upper echelons of the job – he could still make things happen.

  He reflected on Burns’s lifestyle. There he was, whiling away the hours listening to the radio and doing the crossword, staying out of his wife’s way, while men like Sanderson tried to do his job. What a waste, Daley thought.

  As he gunned the car along the country roads, he tried to picture himself in forty-odd years’ time. Was a shed in the garden all retirement had to offer?

  The high-rise flats of Glasgow’s skyline were soon visible, and he pulled in beside a phone box. He had the number of Scott’s friend lodged in his memory. He dialled.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  Scott was in the back of Machie’s limousine, squashed between the gangland boss’s two heavies. Gerry Dowie was driving, but of Frank MacDougall there was no sign. They’d been on a tour of the city, with Dowie ducking into various businesses and then returning with thick envelopes. Now, they were on the motorway.

  ‘We’re off tae see a friend o’ mine. We call him the Professor,’ replied Machie.

  ‘How so?

  ‘Cos he’s fucking clever!’ replied Machie, changing his tone and making Scott jump. ‘See you and Frankie had a good wee night out, last night, eh?’

  ‘Aye, great,’ said Scott, regret obvious in his voice.

  They were heading into the city centre. A poster proclaiming Tears for Fears’ imminent concert flashed past.

  ‘I like that mob. Good sounds, man,’ said Machie, then went on to hum their latest hit maniacally.

  They crossed the Clyde and turned right, into what had been the Glasgow Garden Festival site the year before. Despite promises that this place would be transformed into affordable housing – a new start for the city – it was already beginning to take on a neglected look. The firm who had bought acres of land beside the Clyde had hit financial trouble. Glasgow’s less optimistic citizens saw the end of yet another false dawn, in this city that had once been second only to London in the British Empire.

  The Jaguar crunched onto an area of rough land where an old warehouse, a remnant from the days of Glasgow’s pre-eminence as a port, stood stark and black against the trees and gardens that had formed the festival setting.

  At a nod from his boss, Dowie sounded the horn – three short blasts – and in a few moments the large
double doors began to swing open.

  It was dark inside, save for a patch of light at the far end of the warehouse. They drove towards it, past loops of white steel lying like stricken serpents on the concrete floor.

  ‘Know what they are, Brian?’ asked Machie.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘That’s what’s left of the Coca-Cola Rollercoaster. Mind you had tae queue tae get on? No’ looking so exciting now, eh?’

  ‘Right. So, what’s it doing here?’

  ‘I’m just waiting tae find a buyer. I don’t sell many soft drinks, but I shift a mountain o’ coke. Ironic, eh, boys?’ He laughed heartily at his own joke, joined by the two men sitting on either side of Scott.

  The car pulled up in front of a small office, no doubt once occupied by the overseer or Excise Officer when the building was used for its original function. A man in dark clothing was leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.

  Everyone followed Machie out of the vehicle.

  ‘This is my good friend, the Professor,’ announced Machie, patting the smaller man on the shoulder. He was probably in his mid-thirties, had a bulbous nose and a pockmarked face. His red hair was receding, and he’d grown it long so he could pull it back in a ponytail. He smiled at Scott, his eyes large and bulging.

  ‘Ugly bastard, eh?’ remarked Machie, wiping the smile from the Professor’s face. ‘But he’s a useful guy tae have aboot, let me tell you.’

  ‘Why the Professor?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Oh, your man here was destined for big things. Studied medicine, was all set tae become a surgeon—’

  ‘Before I discovered Charlie,’ interrupted the Professor with a giggle, finishing Machie’s sentence for him.

  ‘Aye, and no’ Charlie MacBride that used tae stay in your street, either, Brian,’ assured Machie. ‘But the NHS’s loss was my gain. The Prof here has turned his hand to other aspects o’ medicine.’ He paused, then turned to Scott. ‘You were the man who discovered that thieving bastard Provan, am I right?’

  ‘Well, I was there, aye. What’s that got tae dae with anything?’ The tremor in Scott’s voice was obvious.

  ‘You see, there’s nothing I hate mair than somebody who’s stealing from me. Well, apart fae the bastards trying tae put me away in the big hoose, that is.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ muttered Scott.

  ‘Boys, get Brian a seat. He looks tired. Keeping bad company and stayin’ up too late, that’s your problem.’ He squeezed Scott’s cheeks, as an adult would with a child.

  From behind him, Scott could hear a squeaking noise, like badly oiled wheels turning. In the gloom, he could see Machie’s henchmen pushing something towards them on a trolley.

  ‘You know, I’ve always been o’ the opinion that everything you dae should mean something – you know, send a message,’ said Machie, leaning into Scott’s face. ‘You were oot last night wae your old neighbour, drinking and snorting, eh? Like old times, Scooty.’

  ‘Eh . . .’

  ‘Only, I know what you’re really up tae.’ Without warning, he grabbed Scott by the throat. ‘A wee birdy tells me you’re using that stupid bastard I trust as my right-hand man tae get information on me and my wee business. Know what I mean?’ His eyes flashed with hatred as his grip on Scott’s throat tightened. ‘Frankie boy runs the show now. I have the ideas, but he does the legwork. Suits me fine, normally, but he makes mistakes. Mistakes like you!’

  Scott, beginning to panic, saw Dowie disappearing into the darkness. ‘It’s no’ like that, big man.’

  Suddenly, Machie released his grip, letting Scott draw his breath with a harsh wheeze. ‘Anyway, nae point in me expending precious energy choking you. This is where the Prof comes in. Best thing is, me an’ the boys can get a bit o’ fun at the same time.’

  Scott stared ahead, stomach churning. He felt himself being grabbed by both arms. What looked like a dentist’s chair was sitting in front of him – a dentist’s chair with arm and leg restraints.

  ‘I wonder how long you’ll last, eh? How many cuts did it take before that bastard Provan was offed?’

  ‘Oh, nearly seventy,’ said the Professor.

  ‘See what I mean? That’s oor man’s expertise. He knows where tae cut you, just enough to gie you agony, but no’ enough tae kill you. No’ straight away, anyway.’

  ‘The loss of blood kills you in the end, but by that time you’ll be happy that it did,’ said the Professor, a sickly smile plastered across his unappealing face. He was pulling on a green rubber apron, of the type Scott recognised from the City Mortuary.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ yelled Scott. ‘You’ve got this all wrong!’ He tried to struggle, but strong arms were pushing him towards the chair.

  ‘Aye, I get it wrong regular, like,’ replied Machie with a sanguine nod. ‘But, see if I am? Well, you have my sincere apologies in advance, Brian.’ He looked around. ‘Hey, where’s big Gerry?’

  ‘Gone for a piss,’ said one of the men manhandling Scott.

  ‘Listen, JayMac, honestly, you don’t want tae dae this. I—’

  Without warning, Brian Scott’s world turned to black.

  9

  Daley arrived back at his desk in Stewart Street, surprised to find the CID office empty. The concern he felt for his colleague and friend drove off any questions as to where everyone was, though. He’d phoned Brian’s friend at the house where he’d been supposed to be lying low. While the man on the other end of the line told him that Scott had indeed phoned to tell him he was on his way, he hadn’t arrived.

  ‘Likely in some pub somewhere, if I know Brian,’ he’d offered unhelpfully.

  Daley knew just how mercurial Scott could be, but a little voice in his head – his instinct – told him things weren’t right. He paced the office, trying desperately to think of what to do next.

  He heard voices, then the door to the CID office opened. DC Paul Gemmill was at the head of a knot of detectives who were talking animatedly amongst themselves.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Jim? You’ve missed all the action.’

  ‘Sorry?’ replied Daley, his mind still on Scott’s predicament.

  ‘Your big mate Brian’s in major strife.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s not the first cop who hasn’t shown up for work after a session.’

  ‘A session? Are you kidding? He’s all over the papers. We’ve just seen advance copies of the Reporter. We were in getting a briefing from that DCI Dines, you know, from the Serious Crime Squad.’

  Daley was now fully engaged in the conversation. ‘What kind of briefing?’

  ‘Shit, you really don’t know, do you?’ Gemmill took a chair beside Daley. ‘Brian’s been at the madam – playing for the other side, apparently.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Daley, feeling his hackles rise. ‘Who’s come out with that shit?’

  ‘Dines himself. Apparently, information has been passed to Machie’s mob for ages. Stuff that could only come from a cop. Dines says Brian Scott’s the man.’

  ‘Come on, Paul. You know Brian as well as I do. Do you really think he’s on Machie’s payroll?’

  ‘You should see the paper. He’s snorting Charlie with Frank MacDougall. I’m sorry, Jim, but it’s looking pretty bad. Mind, he grew up with that team. He and Frank were best buddies when they were younger. They both lived in a single end, just a few streets away from Machie.’

  ‘I live along the road from the Celtic goalie, but do you see me standing between the sticks?’

  ‘DS Donald says he should never have been in the job in the first place. He’s in charge of arresting him. They’ve got a warrant.’

  Doubts began to edge into Daley’s mind. What if he was wrong? What if his friend really was crooked? He thought about the information on the sauna raids Scott had managed to extract from him – the story about Dines.

  Dines. He remembered Ian Burns’s expression when he’d mentioned the name. One thing was for sure, somebody wasn’t telling the tr
uth.

  ‘What else did Dines say?’

  ‘Told us about the death of Provan, Machie’s accountant. Poor bastard was tortured to death. Over sixty stab wounds all over his body. Someone with medical knowledge, they reckon. Kept him alive to torment him. Sick bastards! He had to rush off before he could finish the briefing. He looked pretty harassed, actually. Got an emergency call. No doubt off to deal with more of Brian’s handiwork.’

  Before Daley could reply, the phone on his desk rang. ‘DC Daley,’ he barked impatiently.

  ‘Jim, it’s someone asking for you . . . won’t give their name,’ said the cop on the front desk. ‘He’s on the line now. Sounds quite urgent.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  The phone went dead for a few seconds, then he could hear noise in the background, loud music.

  ‘Hello, this is DC Daley. Can I help you?’

  ‘Listen, and listen good,’ said the gruff Glaswegian voice. ‘Get yourselves tae the old tobacco warehouse doon at the Garden Festival site.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions, just dae what I say. If yous don’t – and I mean, right now – Brian Scott will be as dead as Provan, know what I mean?’

  The line went dead.

  He’d been tipped off, but why, and by whom? It didn’t matter. He had to act, and act quickly. Should he go to Sanderson and tell him about the call he’d just taken? He doubted that he’d be treated seriously, and even if he were, it would take Sanderson an age to do anything.

  Daley jumped out of his chair and ran across Stewart Street’s vestibule and into the control room. Two cops sat in front of a desk, wearing headphones, a screen with a map emblazoned across it in front of them in the subdued light.

  ‘Two-one-two, two-one-two, attend a code twenty-six at number ten Kennedy Path. A Mr Johnstone, the reporter at the locus, over,’ said Divisional Controller Sergeant Philip Mason in his calm voice. He waited for the reply then turned to Daley.

  ‘Code twenty-one, Sergeant. Officer in need of assistance. The tobacco warehouse down on the old Garden Festival site. Know it?’