Deana’s down the stairs, heading for the front door. Out onto the street and stopping dead. Timing is everything. If she’d left two minutes earlier, she’d be gone. Instead she’s standing three feet away from DI Fisher as he gets out of the passenger seat of an unmarked police car.
‘Well, Deana, this is a surprise,’ he’s saying with a knowing smile. Not two days ago she was telling him that Alex MacArthur and Des Collins were behind Kenny’s murder. Now she’s leaving the office of the man responsible. In Fisher’s eyes, she’s either been badly deceived or she’s a lying bitch. Fisher’s guessing the latter, but either way she might be useful. ‘Matheson,’ he’s saying to one of the plods getting out of a marked car, ‘find Miss Burke a seat in the back of your car and stay with her.’ Matheson’s groaning. He gets to sit with this cow while the rest of them get to go inside and arrest Peter Jamieson. Life just isn’t fair sometimes.
They’re into the building, moving up the stairs. One of the plods–Fisher doesn’t know his name–trips. Falling forward, scratching his hand. Other cops are laughing. Fisher’s going to let them. He’s in that good a mood. He knows where the office is, found that out ages ago. Wanted to know, just in case this day came. Ignoring the old boozers who are gawping at them. Marching through the snooker room and along the corridor.
‘Check these rooms,’ Fisher’s saying to anyone who happens to be walking behind him. He knows the office is the last door at the far end. Still sensible to check for people hiding in other rooms. He can hear doors opening behind him. A couple of calls of ‘Clear’. Walking to the office door, not slowing for an instant. Don’t let the other cops see your nerves. Arrests like this make your legend. Let history think you were nerveless.
Jamieson’s sitting behind his desk. Young’s sitting on the couch to the side of the room. They’re both looking at the door. Both standing up. They obviously saw the cars arrive; the office windows look down onto the street. They’ve been sitting here. Waiting patiently.
‘Detective Inspector Fisher,’ Jamieson’s saying, trying to take the initiative. ‘What can we do to help you? Anything at all–you name it.’ Said with a cheeky smile. Trying to write his own little legend. The guy who was as cool as ice when the cops turned up. The guy who knew he could beat any charge they threw at him. It’ll sound brilliant, but only if it turns out to be true.
‘You can join my colleagues and me at the station and have a little chat. You think you can both manage that?’
See how quickly the cheeky smile fades. Not because of the arrest, Jamieson knew that was coming. It’s because Fisher’s picked up Jamieson’s tone and has thrown it back in his face.
‘Am I being arrested?’ Jamieson’s asking.
‘Yes, you are,’ Fisher’s telling him, and going through the procedure. Enjoying it, sure, but that isn’t what counts. You can arrest anyone, any time; doesn’t mean you’re going to make the charge stick. The arrest means little. The conviction means everything. Fisher’s reeling off the list of names. Watching Jamieson closely as he does. Lewis Winter. Thomas Scott. Andrew McClure. Frank MacLeod. Richard Hardy. Kenneth McBride. William MacLean. No reaction to any of them. Jamieson standing there and watching Fisher. No expression this time. It’s serious now. Accusations of drug dealing and money-laundering thrown in for good measure. No reaction to those, either.
Jamieson’s mind is working at a swift pace. Working out what he can deny and what he can’t. Confident that he can beat every serious charge on the sheet. Confident, but only just. Not confident about what this is going to do for him. Everyone on the street will know he’s been taken in. They’ll know Fisher was correct with all those accusations. Even if Jamieson doesn’t get a long stretch, he’s now hanging on by his fingernails.
Fisher’s read the same list to Young. Young saying nothing, just glaring at the cops. He’s spotted Higgins, but he’ll say nothing. A good police contact is more valuable now than ever. Higgins is the last person Young or Jamieson will throw overboard. Both men cuffed. Now Fisher has the joy of walking them out through their own club in chains. Shame only the afternoon drinkers are in. Would be much better if it was night and the place was full. Still, those grizzly, whiskey-sodden losers will tell the story of the arrest to anyone who’ll listen. There’s nothing those sad bastards love more than telling a story about another’s misfortune. They’re moving down the stairs. Near-silence. Just the scuffing of shoes. Everyone focused, everyone careful. Out onto the street and putting them each into a car. Fisher sitting in the back with Jamieson. Jamieson won’t say a word, not until he’s been briefed by his lawyer. Doesn’t matter. Fisher just wants to savour the moment.
50
They’ve all been in their cells for a couple of hours. They’ve all spoken to their lawyers. Fisher’s been waiting impatiently, but he’ll stretch his patience a little further. Tempting to get into an interview room with Peter Jamieson first, because he’s the biggest fish. But that’s not always the most profitable approach. Go for the little guys first. See what you can get them to cough up about the big guy. Get every possible piece of ammunition you can gather before you take on the big fellow. Fisher and DC Davies are going into the interview room. Shug and his lawyer, sitting at the table, ready. He’s a good lawyer, this one. Fisher doesn’t like him. The higher up the scumbag chain you go, the better the lawyers. Inevitable–greed follows money. Davies will do as he’s told, which is nothing. Sit there and keep his trap shut, let Fisher ask the questions.
Fisher’s informing Shug that the tape recorder and camera are being switched on. Now he’s introducing himself and Davies, naming the lawyer and Shug. Shug knows the drill. Deliver something useful and his wife walks. No charges against her. Deliver something sparkling, and he might just do himself a few favours. The lawyer knows it, too. He’ll have advised accordingly.
‘You know why you’re here,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘Is there anything you’d like to say?’
A nod from the lawyer, and Shug’s leaning forward. ‘I know I’ve made a few mistakes in my life, but I’ve never killed anyone, or asked for anyone to be killed,’ he’s saying. Disappointing that he’s denying the whole Davidson thing, but hardly a surprise. Means Fisher’s going to have to build a case. ‘But I have done silly things. Not of my own accord. I was guided… pushed into it by Alex MacArthur.’
Jackpot! Hard to suppress a smile. ‘Go on,’ Fisher’s saying.
Shug’s pausing. Weighing his words carefully. ‘I have a chain of garages. We handle a lot of vehicles, obviously. We help to move some around. MacArthur thought he saw a chance to profit from that. He got in touch with us, through his right-hand man, Don Park. I admit that I was blinded by the money I could make, but I was also afraid. Everyone knows the price of crossing Alex MacArthur. I had to do as I was told.’ Saying it all with contrition. Knowing that the only person who’ll contradict him is MacArthur, and he’s even less believable than Shug. Fizzy won’t.
‘You’re willing to stand up in court and say that MacArthur pushed the deal between you and him?’ Fisher’s asking.
‘Yes. That’s the truth. I’ll tell the truth.’
Lashing out against the old lag he thinks was responsible for his downfall. Fisher knows different. Well, slightly different. Shug’s right that MacArthur screwed him over, but he thinks he has a friend in Jamieson. He thinks wrong. Calum spilled the beans that should open Shug’s mouth on Jamieson.
‘Tell me about your relationship with Peter Jamieson,’ Fisher’s saying.
Shug’s pausing. Shrugging slightly. ‘I know who you mean. He’s a businessman. We’ve been negotiating an agreement on investment. All legal. I know people have said Jamieson isn’t entirely above board, but, I don’t know, he seems decent enough. A straightforward guy.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Fisher’s saying. Sitting back in his chair. Comfortable in every way. ‘You say that, but that’s not the information I have. The information I have says that Peter Jamieson and Alex MacArthur had an agreement i
n place some time ago to set you up. The two of them got together. Plotted against you. Came up with the idea of making you look guilty in the disappearance of Richard Hardy. MacArthur leaves you high and dry and gets your business. Jamieson gets rid of a rival.’
Shug’s saying nothing. Staring at the top of the table. Trying to look expressionless, ends up looking pained.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Shug’s saying now. Standard response from people who just got bad news in this room.
‘You know,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘You thought you had a deal with Jamieson. You thought MacArthur was the one who played you. Well, he did, but Jamieson was playing you, too. They both set you up. They wanted you to go down for a long stretch. Tried to set you up on the Hardy and McBride killings. But it was Jamieson who carried those out. MacArthur knew about it, sure, but he didn’t do it. Jamieson’s been playing you for rather a long time. Now, I’ll ask you again to tell me about your relationship with Peter Jamieson.’
More staring at the table. Pained turning to angry. That’s good. The first thing anger attacks is common sense. ‘One of the guys who was working for me,’ Shug’s saying, and pausing. Has to maintain his lie. Make MacArthur seem largely responsible. ‘There was a guy called Lewis Winter. I think he was a drug dealer. Not my kind of guy. But MacArthur’s kind. Jamieson had Winter killed for stepping on his toes. There was another guy. Replaced Winter, I guess. Tommy Scott. Jamieson killed him, too. You say Jamieson killed Richard Hardy. You might be right, I don’t know. I know I had nothing to do with it. I liked Richard. A good man.’
Fisher’s letting the conversation rest for a few seconds. Shug might be angry, but he’s still careful. Trying to avoid anything that implicates himself. Trying to implicate MacArthur instead, and obviously lying to do so. MacArthur wasn’t involved with Lewis Winter. That was all about Shug and Jamieson–Calum made that clear. MacArthur’s a late arrival to this party. Shug being too careful to be useful. But he’s provided ammo.
One last question for now. ‘Tell me about your relationship with PC Paul Greig,’ Fisher’s saying. Shug looking up sharply. Davies is stirring in his seat. First time in years he’s shown any signs of life in an interview.
Shug’s scoffing. ‘Relationship! Yeah. He’s another one. Another crook and a liar. Everyone knows that bastard’s bent. Everyone. Even you do, I bet. Course you do, it’s why you’re asking. He screwed me over.’ The lawyer touching his arm, but it’s making no difference. ‘Was supposed to be a friend. Was supposed to be helping me out. Help keep me out of trouble. What a laugh! He was never a friend of mine. He was a friend of Don Park, I can tell you that. You ask Park about him. I bet he has a few stories to tell.’
‘But Greig took money from you in exchange for help? For information?’
‘Didn’t get a lot of help from him,’ Shug’s saying with a bitter laugh. ‘Was supposed to, but didn’t. Information, though. Yeah, some of that. You bet he took money.’
Fisher’s out into the corridor. There’ll be much longer interviews with Shug to come. The details, rather than the overview he’s getting now. Won’t be hard to nail him on a number of charges. One victory in the bag, and it feels good. DCI Reid is coming out of interview room two. He has John Young in there. The senior officer sticking his nose in, now that the work’s done. Fine, whatever. Everyone knows who made this happen. At least Reid has the grace to leave Peter Jamieson for Fisher.
‘Anything?’ Fisher’s asking.
‘Nothing,’ Reid’s saying with a shake of the head. ‘Clammed up. A lot of “No comments”. Won’t get anything from him, either. Too sharp. Too much of a professional at this. Told him we know they must have falsified phone records to set up Francis and Collins. Nothing. We’ve got someone contacting the phone companies. That should give us someone else to aim at. You?’
‘Francis is singing,’ Fisher’s saying with a smile. ‘There’s more to get out of him on Jamieson, but he’s so busy trying to make himself look innocent it’s hard to get much that’s honest.’ Pausing in silence as a uniformed officer walks past. Fisher wants to keep all this between himself and Reid, for now. ‘He’s talking about other things, though. MacArthur.’
Reid’s eyes are lighting up. There have been moments in the last few months when he’s wondered about Fisher. Always thought he was a good cop, but when a man stops delivering, you have to worry. He’s delivered Shug Francis. That’ll be a conviction. He might deliver Peter Jamieson. That would be a huge victory. Throw in Alex MacArthur, and you have the sort of once-in-a-generation score that’s long spoken about.
‘He’ll go in the box?’ Reid’s asking. Meaning the witness box, rather than a coffin, which might be more apt.
‘Says he will. Might change his mind, but we have him on camera talking about MacArthur. Talking about the deal they had. We can put MacArthur before a jury with what we have from Shug. If we can get anything more from Young or Jamieson…’ he’s saying, and trailing off wistfully. That’s wishful thinking, but it’s been a day of wishes coming true.
‘They found your car, by the way,’ Reid’s saying. ‘Dumped in a car park not that far from where you spoke to MacLean. They found his gun in the glove box; they don’t think it’s been used.’
Fisher’s nodding. Relief. Calum MacLean didn’t go looking for people to shoot with that gun. Had it just so that he could get away from the cop he confessed his sins to. All premeditated. It wasn’t emotion that drove that boy to Fisher, it was pragmatism. He wanted out of the city. Couldn’t get out from under Jamieson. Now Jamieson’s in the station, his organization is up in the air and MacLean can run.
‘We’re looking for the boy,’ Reid’s saying, ‘but no luck so far.’
Fisher’s nodding. ‘I doubt he’s even in the city any more. He’s too smart not to take his chance. There’s a bunch of other people to round up,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘We’ll need to move fast. The rats will run when they hear Jamieson’s in.’
DCI Reid’s about to answer when another detective comes along the corridor. It’s that fat guy. Fisher’s trying to remember his name. Nope, still nothing.
‘DC Baird, how can I help?’ Reid’s asking. That’s what separates Fisher from the top of the pile: remembering people’s names.
‘We just got a call from the phone company, sir. We had them watch out for William MacLean’s mobile. He used it to call a taxi, went east. Switched it off. Then on again a couple of minutes ago. It was just switched on for a few seconds, then switched off. It was just on long enough to pick up the signal, then off.’
Both senior cops are looking at him with frowns. Failure to give the important information first. ‘Where?’ Reid’s demanding to know.
‘East end, sir. Take them a little longer to be precise.’
Reid’s looking at Fisher. Fisher’s staring at the ceiling. East–it hits him. The sort of thing the cheeky bastard would do. ‘Send a couple of cars to his brother’s garage,’ Fisher’s saying quickly. Reid’s nodding. Baird’s running off down the corridor.
‘Looks like we might have MacLean. If we can get MacArthur and Jamieson locked up, too,’ Reid’s saying, ‘God, what a boost that would be.’
It’ll be hard to get convictions that put them both away for long, Fisher knows that. Might not matter. Even without a conviction, they could end the career of an old man like MacArthur. You make a man that age look weak and vulnerable and he doesn’t have time to recover. Jamieson will be more difficult to destroy without a long stretch. But still possible.
‘There is one other thing, sir,’ Fisher’s saying, even remembering his ‘sirs’, such is his mood. ‘Shug Francis is also accusing PC Paul Greig of taking money from him in exchange for favours. Information, it mostly seems to be. But offering other help, too. He’s accused Greig of being a friend of Donald Park, one of MacArthur’s right-hand men.’
Now Reid doesn’t look so happy. He doesn’t want this. An allegation of corruption to take the shine off an otherw
ise perfect day. It’ll make the force look bad. ‘That’s a damn shame. Are we sure that it’s not just mud-slinging?’
‘I’m sure,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘I’ve suspected for a while. I even followed Greig to Shug’s house on Friday morning. He’s been helping them, sir. Helping them all.’
‘Shit!’ Reid’s muttering. They all had suspicions, but Greig’s always been so useful. You don’t throw away useful unless you really have to. ‘He called me, hour and a half ago,’ Reid’s saying quietly. ‘I put him off. Didn’t have time, not with all this. He must have wanted to get his excuses in first.’ A loud sigh. ‘There are people who won’t like this,’ Reid’s saying ominously.
‘I don’t like it, sir,’ Fisher’s saying, and almost sounding genuine. ‘Doesn’t stop it being true.’
‘Fine. Well. So long as it’s isolated to Greig.’
Fisher’s pausing. Nodding, with a little bit of a shrug. He can’t commit to that. Reid’s frowning. Fisher can’t stop thinking about what Calum said. Young found out about Kenny talking from a contact in the station. Who knew? Reid. Davies. Higgins. Can’t think of anyone else. Not Greig. ‘I think it might be worth looking a little deeper, that’s all,’ Fisher’s saying.
The Sudden Arrival of Violence Page 26