How To Kill Friends And Implicate People

by Jay Stringer

  The next building over was the hotel I’d noticed the day before.

  It had stuck in my mind straight away when I was looking for my pickup. Had there been something about it? I took a few steps closer, and then it hit me. The reception had a window that faced out onto the street.

  Had I seen someone in the window?

  Or maybe seen something that suggested there was somebody there?

  I walked over to the window and looked back in the direction of where the attack had happened. The angle was tight. I doubted anyone inside would have had a direct line of sight, unless they pressed up against the glass. They would have seen people coming and going, though. Including me.

  I pushed in through the door and smiled at the short man behind the desk. He looked friendly and round. Maybe the faintest whiff of ex-cop, but not enough for me to be sure. There are a lot of different types of authority figures in Glasgow. Some smell completely of being polis, but anyone from a Mason down to a schoolteacher gives off signs in a city that doesn’t trust someone in authority unless they support the right football team.

  ‘Hiya,’ I said.

  ‘Hulloo.’ His accent had a lilt of one of the northern islands. Lewis, maybe. ‘How can I help?’

  I wanted to gauge his personality before I went for the real information. Some people need to be lied to or tricked, spun a sob story. I preferred to smile and tell the truth, and it usually worked in this city. People liked to tell stories. If he was ex-cop, he wouldn’t give anything up. If he wasn’t, he’d be as happy to gossip over a police case as anyone else.

  ‘Are you the owner?’ I said. I smiled along with it, made the question good natured rather than confrontational. To seal the deal I followed with, ‘Because it’s a nice place.’

  He grinned. ‘Great, isn’t it? No. I just work here. During the summer, you know.’

  ‘Oh? Lazy the rest of the year?’

  ‘I wish. I work in the café at the university, but they’ve started closing it down over the summer. Cuts an’ that.’

  Bingo. Perfect. He wasn’t a cop. He worked in a job that got messed around by people higher up the ladder. That was ideal. He’d want to feel like he was part of something.

  I leaned on the desk in front of him. ‘I’m a PI,’ I said.

  His eyes widened. ‘Aye? That’s amazing. I’ve never met one of those.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fun,’ I said. ‘Car chases. Scandals.’ I leaned in a little closer and lowered my voice. ‘And I get all the cool gossip.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Actually, I’m looking into the attack that happened out there yesterday.’

  His face fell. Real emotion. This guy would be a terrible poker player. ‘That was so sad,’ he said. ‘I heard the lassie died.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘No. Not really. I told the cops the same, like. I saw some lassie on a pushbike a few minutes earlier, and I saw the cops, but I didn’t see anything else. Didn’t hear nothing, either. Real shame.’ His voice dropped lower. ‘Real shame.’

  ‘This lass on the bike, what did she look like?’

  He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t really see her face, she had a helmet on. She was dressed a bit like you, but she whizzed by quick on the bike, so I didn’t get that much of a look.’

  My helmet was hanging off my messenger bag. It was down below the line of the desk, so he couldn’t see it.

  ‘Okay.’ I handed him one of my business cards. ‘Anything comes up, give me a call?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘’Course.’

  I turned and left, swinging my bag round as I moved, to keep the helmet out of sight from where he sat.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ALEX

  12:00

  Alex had been staring at the brochures for at least twenty minutes when his office door opened again. He looked up, ready to snap something at Emma, but Joe Pepper was framed in the doorway. He was holding a takeaway coffee cup in one hand, and a bagel wrapped in a napkin in the other.

  ‘Hey, Joe, come on in.’

  Alex didn’t know if his greeting had sounded genuine. He bloody hoped so.

  ‘I know I’m here early,’ he said. ‘But I wanted a word before the meeting.’

  ‘Sure, have a seat. You’re sorted for coffee?’

  Joe held up the cup in answer and nodded. Alex was glad of that, because he made terrible coffee and Emma was away on lunch. She always saved his arse on things like that.

  Joe sat down and took a bite out of the bagel. He looked around the room and made Alex wait, chewing on his food and nodding to himself about something. As he swallowed, he fixed his eyes on Alex and did that thing where he cocked his head slightly to the side and smiled.

  ‘That was good work you did on the Mitchell thing.’

  The Mitchell thing. Alex had noticed irregularities in a number of accounts. None of the main political parties used MHW, but Alex still saw pretty much everything they did financially, because enough of their members were on his books with other companies and fronts.

  Marxist Martin Mitchell had been siphoning money from the party. Some of it had been easy to miss. A few grand here, a couple hundred there, moved through registered charities and then into payments to himself for services rendered. Well, they all did that, so Alex didn’t think much of it. There was something else. Something bigger. Alex had found a trail. Some money was transferred from a tanning salon, which worked with MHW, into an events planning company, also with MHW, and then into a political party who didn’t have any ties to Alex’s firm. The political party was small, a group of local campaigners who had been active during the referendum a couple of years back. To the outside world, it looked like the events company were simply making donations to a cause they supported.

  But Alex had access to the accounts of the companies sending the money to them. All of the payments were made to the party via Paypal, and they were going to a private bank account belonging to Martin Mitchell. So, not only were these hidden payments going directly to him, but any donation made to the group from the public would be slipping straight into his bank. And the Labour Party had been on the opposite side of the referendum to this party. Martin was donating money, significant sums, to a cause his party didn’t believe in, and then pocketing the proceeds.

  The most brazen thing was how blatantly he was doing it, almost like he felt he was invincible.

  That was a scandal just waiting to explode.

  Alex had thought long and hard about handing this information over to the press in exchange for a finder’s fee. Ultimately he’d done the right thing. He’d picked up the phone to Joe Pepper, and told him about a mess that needed to be fixed.

  ‘Good work,’ Joe said again. ‘I’ve managed to sort it. But, what I’m wondering, was there anyone else at it? Aside from Martin? Is there someone I need to speak to?’

  Alex played this one carefully. Like a hand of poker. Truth was, there were a lot of people at it. Pretty much everyone. On all sides. On his way to seeing what Marxist Martin was doing, he’d turned a blind eye to the many small fingers in the till along the way. If he started naming one person, he would need to name them all.

  But he didn’t think that was what Joe was asking. He wanted to know if anyone else was involved in the same scam as Martin, or one that could be equally explosive. It was almost as if he was fishing. Did he already have someone in mind?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alex said. ‘You have anyone in mind?’

  Joe took another bite of his bagel and chewed on it. He kept his eyes on Alex. He didn’t blink. ‘How about Dominic Porter? The Nationalist?’ Joe spoke in a pause between chewing. ‘I hear rumours he’s up to something.’

  Dominic Porter was one of the few names that never came up in Alex’s work. He wasn’t implicated in any paper trail, and wasn’t listed as a real or fake board member of any of the companies who worked with MHW. As far as Alex knew, he was the rarest of beasts: an honest politician.

  He was also
on the other side to Joe and Martin. The opposition party. Why was Joe fishing for info on Dominic? Was it insurance in case Martin’s dirt was ever made public, someone from the other side who could be smeared in retaliation?

  ‘Sorry Joe,’ Alex said. ‘I’ve got nothing on him.’

  Joe sighed. ‘Worth a shot,’ he said. Then, almost as an afterthought he got to the real reason for his visit. ‘So, the meeting with Asma later. We need everything to be smooth, okay? You confident?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Alex nodded, overly eager. ‘No worries. No surprises. It’s all ready to go.’

  Joe tilted his head again. ‘Aye. Well. I hope so. Can’t have anything big change before that.’

  Alex knew he shouldn’t care. He was close to being free and clear. Soon he’d be flying off into the sunset with Kara. He already had fifteen million, plus whatever Kara would pocket from their various life and health insurances – he didn’t need more money.

  But something was tickling him.

  Joe had wanted this conversation without Khan here. He’d wanted to ask about Dominic Porter, about Marxist Mitchell, and to check how the project was going. And he hadn’t wanted Khan to hear any of it.

  Joe had his own angle on this. He was up to something.

  If Alex could figure out what it was, maybe there would be another payday?

  Alex heard a buzzing phone. Joe put his hand up with his forefinger extended, both an apology and a Hang on a minute. He put the phone to his ear. ‘She’s where? Right now? Okay, thanks.’

  Joe killed the call and climbed to his feet.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ he said. The political smile slipped back into place. ‘Good talk. See you a little later, Alex.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  SAM

  12:32

  I walked round to the front of the shop with the painted windows overlooking the garage.

  I noticed the security guard clock me the minute I walked in. I’ve started to feel like I’m a superhero with a secret identity. By day, I’m a bike messenger, by night I’m Detective Woman. Each persona dresses differently, and it’s given me a chance to see how much women are judged on our clothes.

  If I walked in dressed in one of my blazers or business suits, nobody would bat an eye. But when I was dressed down, as I was now, in Vans, cargo shorts and a hoodie, I was an instant target.

  The windows I wanted to check out were on the next floor up. I paused at the foot of the escalator and pretended to be reading the directory while I scanned the space at the top of the magical moving staircase. That’s where the window was. It was going to be hard to take a look without standing out, now that the guard’s eyes were on me.

  I should have come as Detective Woman.

  I stepped onto the escalator and let it take me up, marvelling at the wonders of modern technology. Or moving slow enough to try and show the guard I wasn’t being suspicious. I’m not sure which was the most believable.

  At the top, I walked over to the window and looked down.

  The street was visible through the tinted glass, as was the garage. It took a little effort, though. I had the advantage of knowing what I was looking for, but would a casual passer-by have paused at the top of the escalator and strained to look down into the street, at just the right moment to witness anything? The sun was directly overhead, which threw a glare down onto the window. It wouldn’t have been quite so harsh when the attack took place, in late afternoon.

  As I watched, two suited men walked into Virginia Street and paused in front of the garage. I didn’t recognise them, but they had the look. Not just authority figures, but the real deal. These guys were definitely cops. One of them was inspecting the garage door, and the other was talking on his phone. They turned and looked up in my direction, which creeped me out for a second, but neither of them registered anything in their faces to suggest they could see me. I was hidden by the tint.

  So it was possible that somebody could have been stood on this spot during the attack, but it didn’t feel likely to me. It would have been too much of a coincidence, and I’ve already mentioned I don’t believe in those.

  I turned to see the security guard was now on the escalator, rising up toward me. He was speaking into his radio.

  Oh come on.

  As he got within hearing range I said, ‘Hiya,’ and walked toward the back of the store, where the magical moving staircase moved in the opposite direction. He reached out and put his hand on my arm, pulling me back.

  I turned round and gave him my full ‘Excuse me?’

  Every woman on the floor knew that tone. They all turned to look. The guard let go and stepped back, awkwardly. ‘I, uh, are you looking for something?’ he said.

  ‘Well, not now I’m not.’

  I looked down at my arm, then at his hand. I was wearing my mask of full offence. I turned and stalked toward the back of the store, feeling quite proud of my performance.

  Back down on the ground floor, I walked to the exit and headed back out into the sunshine. I turned toward Virginia Street, and saw the two cops rounding the corner. One of them was thin and blond, with large sunglasses. The other had broad shoulders and a beard. Both suits were expensive, but the blond guy wore his like he’d had lessons, and the bearded guy wore a shirt and tie like he was preparing for a fight.

  ‘Pardon me,’ the blond guy said. He had clipped, East Coast accent. ‘We noticed you went into the hotel a few minutes ago?’

  My first reaction was another shot of, Oh, come on.

  I followed that up with wondering how they’d noticed me. I’d been alone in the street. Unless they’d been in one of the other buildings, watching to see who came snooping around.

  ‘ID, fellas?’

  They both reached for their warrant cards and flashed them. The blond said, ‘I’m DI Alan Dasho. This is DI Todd Robinson.’

  I nodded an acknowledgement.

  ‘And you are?’ Robinson said.

  Dasho was the one who approached his job by being patient and polite. Robinson was clearly the other guy.

  ‘Can I help you, detectives?’ I skipped past giving my name.

  ‘Why were you looking around a crime scene?’ Robinson said.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that it was,’ I said. Did they buy it? Probably not, but I’d learned that the trick was to keep talking. ‘I was interested in booking the hotel.’

  ‘The police tape back there was a clue,’ Robinson said.

  There was something off about this. First I find out an undercover cop is dead, then two detectives I’ve never met turn up at the scene right after me. My gut was telling me to hold back. I’d learned to trust it.

  ‘I’m sorry if we’re being rude.’ Dasho played nice. ‘See, a woman was killed there yesterday, and we’re still looking for witnesses to come forward. You match a description we’ve received.’ His eyes went down to the cycling helmet hanging from my bag. ‘Quite closely.’

  I smiled. ‘I always say, coincidence can be a cruel thing.’

  I needed to change my approach.

  They already had enough to question me further, and wisecracking was only going to make it more likely that they’d decide to act on it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. I hoped I looked suitably contrite. ‘I’m an investigator.’

  I fished another business card from my pocket and handed it to Dasho. He scanned it quickly, then passed it to Robinson.

  ‘I was fishing around to see if there’s a case there. Times are tight, you know?’

  ‘You’d need a client to have a case,’ Robinson said.

  ‘I’d need to find one first.’

  ‘Fucking ambulance chaser,’ Robinson said. He glared at me for a second before saying, ‘Clear off.’

  I nodded and headed back toward York Street.

  I’d come back and try again later, dressed as Detective Woman. I was more likely to slip by unnoticed and get more answers. I paused to look in a shop window and take a chance to see if the cops were following me. They w
ere both still standing where I’d left them. Robinson was talking into his phone, and Dasho was chatting with the security guard from the shop.

  I was outside the Radisson Hotel, only a block away from my bike, when my phone rang.

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Ireland?’

  The party never stops on Sam Ireland’s phone.

  ‘My name’s Joe Pepper. I think we should talk,’ he said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  FERGUS

  13:10

  Stan sends me the details on the pro bono job.

  The target’s name is Scott Christopher. He’s the manager of a bar on Bath Street: FuBar. I’ve been in there a few times; they do good burgers and pizza. He’s never put ‘sexual assault’ on the menu, because I suppose that would be considered something of a clue.

  As far as I can tell, The FuBar is usually full of off-duty coppers and lawyers. Other professional types. I don’t really understand how a cop bar works. I mean, surely the quickest way to guarantee a drugs bust is to have bartenders and cops in the same place?

  Scott Christopher lives in a ground-floor flat on Gardner Street, in the West End. I sit outside in the car until I see him leave. Skinny guy, his forearms are coated in tattoos and he wears a flannel shirt and a beanie. I watch as he turns the corner at the end of the street, and then give it a few extra beats. People can often turn back. If you’ve forgotten something, there tends to be a zone of a few hundred yards in which you’ll turn around. Up to around half a mile. If you’re past that point when you realise, you’ll say, Fuck it, I can get by without.

  Once I’m comfortable that he’s not coming back, I let myself into his building. It looks like an old tenement apartment that’s been divided into two. Where the central hallway to the older, much larger apartment would have been, there’s a wall running down the middle. And the rooms on either side have been converted, with a small toilet and shower installed in what was probably once a closet.