by Zach Abrams
“What was that all about?” Alex quizzed, but before he had a chance to answer, Andrew cut in chanting, “Craig's got a girlfriend,” in a loud voice.
“Shaddup!” he screamed back, pushing his brother's head under the surface, but unable to stop laughing at the same time.
Alex managed to separate them and Craig was more forthcoming with his explanation.
“Tina and Alana are in my year at school. They were just telling me that a whole crowd are getting together tomorrow afternoon in East Kilbride at the ice rink. They've asked me if I'd like to go along. “
Seeing Alex's face fall, Craig remembered his Dad had made other plans.
“That's okay. I can drop you there after lunch and pick you up again at five to take you home.”
“I'm sorry, Dad. Would you really not mind?”
“No, it's okay. It'll give me a chance to have some quality time with your brother.”
“Aw shucks!” Andrew cut in.
It dawned on Alex that Craig was not a small child any more. He was growing up, a teenager already, complete with the raging hormones associated with that age. He knew better than to try to interfere with his plans.
It occurred to Alex that hormones, sex and lust were such a powerful influence. It was the main factor behind Stevenson's blackmail opportunities and as a result was probably the cause of his death. Often, statistics are quoted about the levels of crime that are alcohol related, but when Alex thought more about it, a hell of a lot of crimes were sex related. It wasn't just the rapes and sexual attacks, there were the acts of indecency, and of course blackmail, but there was also the fights and other actions resulting out of envy or greed or revenge, not to mention the more tenuous links affecting thefts and motoring offences. If only he wasn't so busy trying to solve the crimes, Alex would have loved to do the research and prepare a dissertation on the subject, maybe even try for a doctorate.
Back out in the car, Alex enquired further, “About tomorrow, will you need your skates or are you just meeting at the food court?”
“Oh shit! I never asked. Oh, sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to say that.”
Although discouraging the boys from swearing, Alex thought this wasn't the time to take issue.
“What can I do? I don't want to miss out if the others are going on the ice, but I'll look a right dork if I arrive with skates and nobody else does.”
“Why not phone the girls and ask?”
“I don't have their numbers, and besides, I don't want to look an idiot.”
“I'm sure you could get their numbers easily enough if you wanted to, but you said a whole group was going. You could try calling someone else.”
“No, Dad, please. I don't want to. How about I take my skates with me but leave them in the car? Then if you'd just wait for me for a bit, I'd go in and see what was happening and come back out if I needed them and if I didn't I could phone you to let you know you could go.”
Alex thought the arrangement ridiculous, but all he said was, “You'd better call your Mum to tell her we'll be dropping in to collect them.”
From the swimming baths they detoured to collect the skates and set off for lunch. Alex had made a twelve o'clock booking at La Brava, a stylish Italian bistro-restaurant-delicatessen in Netherlee, a couple of miles from the Clarkston house on the road towards Glasgow. It was one of the boys' favourites. Alex loved it too and he had patronised it regularly before his marriage split. The only thing he disliked was the difficulty getting parked on or near the busy main road. However, today being Saturday, he easily managed to find a space in the teachers' car park of the adjacent primary school.
As Alex and the boys came through the front door, their senses were assaulted by the pungent aroma of cheeses, salami, olives and fresh bread. Running nearly the full length of the room, a cold counter was filled with enticing delicacies. Behind were shelves filled with continental breads and to the side a separate smaller chilled cabinet with several shelves containing wonderful looking cakes and desserts. The main area was set out with metal framed tables and chairs and the back wall had a large hatchway giving clear visibility into the kitchen.
Rico, one of the owners, came across to personally welcome them back.
“Alex, it's been a while. How are you? What have you been up to?”
“Can't complain,” he replied, “at least no one ever wants to hear when I do. It's good to be back. The boys love coming in here and they're ravenous because we've just been for a swim. We don't have a lot of time either 'cause we've got tickets for Ibrox this afternoon. It's a three o'clock kick off.”
“Not a problem, I'll get the menus over to you right away. Who's Rangers playing?”
“Dundee United today.”
“That's not likely to be much of a challenge the way Rangers have been playing recently.”
“I hope not, but we'll see.”
“You want a 'Peroni' as usual?”
“Better not, I'm driving.”
Craig's order was Panini with salad, Andrew's was Gnocchi Bolognese and Alex couldn't resist a Spaghetti Carbonara. They all wolfed down their food accompanied by Ferrarelle mineral water. To follow, the boys each asked for their favourite Scottish Tablet Ice Cream while Alex ordered an espresso.
Just as he was about to lift the cup, Alex felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I was just walking past the window and I thought I recognised you. I don't often see you in these parts, not these days.”
The figure standing over Alex looked much older than him. He was slightly less than six foot tall, muscular shoulders but with quite a stocky build. His heavy round face had a pale complexion with bloodshot eyes and puffy jowls. The little hair he had was grey and wispy and surrounded a bald pate. His most prominent feature was a thin red line running from the front of his ear across his pudgy cheek and down to his chin. This had been incurred when he'd been slashed in the course of a carrying out an arrest early in his career. He'd required emergency treatment and had lost almost a month of service, returning with an unmistakeable visage and an award for bravery.
“Hello, Bill. I'm looking after the lads this weekend. We've been swimming and then we're off to the footie.”
“Don't let me disturb you,” Bill replied. “I just saw you there and thought I ought to say hi.”
“That's okay, come and join us for a coffee. I hardly ever see you now you've made it to the command corridor.”
William Forbes had recently been promoted to become an Assistant Chief Constable. He and Alex had joined the force and undergone their training at the Tulliallan Police Training College at the same time. They'd both been recognised as high flyers and neither of them had disappointed expectations. They had stayed close friends for years and attended each other's weddings. William's life had been struck by tragedy. Fourteen years ago, around the same time as Craig was born, William's daughter, at only three months old was diagnosed with a rare cancer and only survived two more weeks. He and his wife couldn't come to terms with the loss. They each looked for reasons to blame themselves and then to blame each other. He had continued smoking during the first months of the pregnancy and she had taken anti-nausea medication. They dreamt up other causes when they looked hard enough. Of course there was no link, but they were looking for excuses to be able to attach blame. Within the space of a few weeks they transformed from being a loving inseparable couple into two individuals who couldn't talk and hated even being in the same room together. Their medical advisors, their families and their friends all tried to console them, immersing them in platitudes, telling them there was nothing they could have done, it wasn't their fault, time was a great healer and they were still young and would be able to have other children. None of it helped, quite the contrary, and there was no likelihood of more children when they couldn't stand even looking at one another. William immersed himself in his work and his wife started drinking more and more in an attempt to escape reality. Exactly one year after the loss of his daughter, William's wife's car went out of
control on the M8 motorway between Glasgow and Edinburgh and collided with a concrete bridge. It was a clear night and no other vehicle was involved. Although suicide couldn't be ruled out, the fatal accident enquiry concluded it had been an accident. This of course didn't stop the gossipmongers, who claimed William's coldness after his daughter's death drove his wife to taking her own life. William was aware of the rumours, but he didn't care and couldn't see beyond the self-obsession of his own pain. If anything, he withdrew even further and unable to engage in any social interaction, he devoted himself totally to his work. He made rapid progress through the ranks. He had no religion, he didn't partake in sports and rarely socialised. His only known interest outside of the police was working to support cancer charities, particularly children's ones. He held executive office on the boards and committees of the ones he was most passionate about.
Forbes pulled up a chair and called across to order a cappuccino.
“I hear you're looking into the Stevenson case. Have you got any good leads yet?”
Alex was surprised that Bill was interested, as it was not his province and Bill was normally very focused. However, Alex realised this murder had all the makings of a high profile case which would be discussed by the top corridor. With Forbes himself being such a workaholic, he wondered if there was some implied criticism of his taking the weekend off. “It's still early days yet,” he replied, not wanting to say too much. “There's some interesting features being investigated and I've got Sandra McKinnon on the ground, and she's keeping me briefed. I've had this weekend planned for ages, but although I'm not in the office, I'm still keeping my finger on the pulse,” he added defensively.
“Yes, I've heard she's a good girl, she's got a lot of potential.”
Alex could see the boys were starting to look a bit bored. “Why don't you drop into my office on Monday and I can give you a full update,” he added indicating he didn't want to have this conversation in front of the lads.
“No, that's okay, none of my business anyway, just curious. You said you're off to the footie, what game?”
“I'm taking the boys over to Ibrox for the Dundee United game. They're both Rangers fans.”
“Och, you're wasting your time with the big teams. Money's spoiled the game and taken all the fun out of it. McCoist's done a great job as manager but I think the new board are trouble. I've had to mop up some of the mess left by one of Craig Whyte's earlier deals and I don't rate him at all well. No, you lads, if you want to go to a game worth watching, you should follow a smaller team. Something like Clyde. I've supported the 'Bully Wee' since I was a nipper and we may not have won any trophies but I've never been disappointed by their commitment. You ought to come with me sometime.”
“What's wrong, are you feeling lonely, being the only one on the terracing supporting them?”
“Right, you have a point but it's still better than being crammed into a stadium where the players don't give a damn about the game, only the money. Anyway, while I've caught you here, I just happen to have some raffle tickets. It's the autumn draw for the Scottish Junior Cancer Foundation and it is being drawn during the gala dinner we're holding tomorrow night. As I'm the Treasurer, I've got a seat at the top table, so I'll make sure you have a fair chance. It's a black tie affair and I'm just on my way to get my kilt out of mothballs. So, you're bound to want some tickets. First prize is a Ford Ka. Only a pound a ticket or five pounds a book.”
“Give me two books,” Alex replied slipping a tenner out of his wallet.
“What's going on here? I've warned you before about soliciting on my premises,” Rico asked, grinning, as he placed the frothy coffee in front of Bill.
“Guilty as charged. Don't worry, I won't drive away any of your good custom, just delinquents like this one.”
“That's okay, put me down for a couple of books as well.”
Chapter 7
Alex had only just turned the key in the ignition when his phone rang. From the 'Parrot' screen he could see it was Sandra calling. He switched off the car's engine so as to deactivate the hands free and instead lifted the phone's handset to answer. He turned on the radio for the boys to listen to. It was set to Radio Clyde and he noted it was part way through a play of one of his favourite songs, Hotel California by the Eagles, accompanied by the lyrics,
'You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave.' He slid out of the door to stand in the car park so he was better able to converse privately.
“What's been happening?”
“A fair bit of progress. First, Connor's team got into the safe. There was about five grand there in cash, all used notes. No meaningful prints. The money didn't tie into shop receipts, so it may have been ill-gotten gains from blackmail or just a cash float for making purchases, there's no telling. There was also a notebook, the sort used for keeping accounts. You know the sort, with cash columns? The only things written were symbols and letters, a code of some sort. There were also numbers. I suspect it's how Stevenson kept tabs on his victims and what and when they paid him. They're arranging to have it looked at to see if anyone can break the code. But most interestingly there was a gun, a Smith & Wesson revolver, and it had Stevenson's prints on it. It wasn't loaded but there was a box of cartridges and it wasn't full. They've run tests and it doesn't seem to have any history. It's not a common gun for this part of the world and it's a mystery where the cartridges were used. It could just be target practice, of course.
“Next, the door to door has been continued but hasn't yielded anything worthwhile. We've a list as long as your arm with people who've moaned or complained about Stevenson but no one who's seen or heard anything meaningful.
“Fitzpatrick's been brilliant on the CCTV. He's still working through it but he's already given us a list of twelve vehicles that have been spotted near both locations. The man's amazing. I don't know how he does it.
“We managed to borrow one of the brains from forensic accounting. Connor set it up for us, and he's been working through Stevenson's financial records. He's part of some new department and I've arranged to go to his office at four o'clock to go through anything he's come up with. When I spoke with him, he said he'd organised the research on other business interests and property. So I'm looking forward to seeing what he has.
“Now the bad news, we've been trying to find the working girls and boys from the photos. We've taken them round all the usual contacts but nobody's recognised any of them. They're not known on the normal circuits. We've checked the streets and the escort agencies too, but no leads on any of them. They could be new to the game or else they're from out of town. They're mostly young, but don't look underage. The folk we've spoken to said most of the new girls they come across are Asian or East European but from the photos that doesn't tie in with our lot.”
“Mmm, I'd have thought at least one of them would have been recognised.”
“Not so far. Anyway, a bit more luck with the punters. We've been able to pinpoint some of them already. It's nearly all top-level stuff. We've got a couple of bank managers, some senior business executives and, wait for it, a Sheriff.”
“What?”
“You heard right, I said a Sheriff. McSweeney, he serves regularly as a magistrate at Paisley court. You'll remember, he's the one the press went mad about a few months ago, not without good reason. It was because of his soft touch, accepting very iffy defence pleas. I'm planning to set up interviews but I've not arranged to see any of them yet. I thought you'd want in on that one.”
“You're right there. You've done well, very well. Is there anything else?”
“You bet and it's another strange one. One of the photos we'd been trying to trace thinking she was a working girl turns out to be one of the punters and not just any punter either, she's a local councillor. We should really have recognised her earlier but it was just so unexpected. It's Shirley McCann. She's married with two kids and she's only in her late twenties, but looks even younger. She's been recognised as one of the hi
gh flyers in the opposition, tipped for a Holyrood or a Westminster seat. I've been trying to pin down where she is so I can fix up an interview. I was planning to try and see her with Sanjay as I don't trust Donny not to put his foot in it, unless you want me to wait for you?”
Alex let out a low whistle. “You've certainly been busy. No, go ahead and fix it up at the first opportunity, and I think you're right to keep Donny clear of her. Donny and influential women are not a good mix”
“Just one more thing, remember the inconsistency in Findlay's story? We checked it out. He did make the emergency call from the shop phone but we checked he also made a call from his own mobile about a minute later, before anyone arrived. It was to a mobile number. We checked his records and he'd not called that number before, not within the last three months at least. But it had been called from the shop number quite a few times and it had also been called from Stevenson's home phone. Very curious. I've tried ringing the number but it's only ever rung out. I'm having it traced and I'm arranging to see Findlay again tomorrow. I'll put him under some pressure and see what I get.
“Oh, one last thing. When we checked the shop phone, there'd been a couple of calls to a different mobile on the morning of the murder. The last one was just after ten past one so, based on when Findlay said he left, it could be our murderer. I've tried to check it out. The phone number corresponds to a cheap pay as you go bought from Tesco. The purchaser details were bogus so it looks like a dead end, unless we find it on someone or the owner switches it on.”
“You've done amazingly well, keep up the good work and keep me informed.”