by Bill Daly
‘Stop it! For fuck’s sake!’ Ferrie screamed, blood spurting from his burst nose and splattering down the front of his dressing gown.
‘Like I said, you’re going to call Zoe and arrange to meet her at half-past twelve. You’ll tell her to come to a remote spot – think of somewhere she’ll know well. When you phone her, you’re going to say you’re in big trouble and that she has to come to see you – it’s a matter of life and death. Which, in your case,’ he added, flexing his fingers, ‘isn’t all that far from the truth. Where’s your phone?’ he demanded.
‘In the bedroom,’ Ferrie gulped, swallowing a mouthful of blood. ‘On the bedside table.’
The intruder went to the bedroom and returned with Ferrie’s mobile. ‘Have you thought of a remote place to meet her?’ Ferrie stared at him wide-eyed. ‘I asked you if you’ve thought of a good place to meet her?’ He raised the knuckle-dusters and held them poised, inches from Ferrie’s eyes. Ferrie nodded slowly. Flicking open the phone, he paged through the contacts’ list until he came to ‘Zoe.’
When he clicked onto the number, the phone switched directly to the messaging service. ‘Why is her phone switched off?’
‘She always turns it off while she’s at her work.’
Checking the phone, he saw the next entry on the list was ‘Zoe – Work.’
Having clicked onto that number, he held the phone close to Ferrie’s right ear as it rang out, the knuckle-dusters pressed hard against his left temple.
‘Is that you, Emma?’ Ferrie asked when he heard the familiar voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Ryan. Can I speak to Zoe?’
‘Not right now, Ryan. She’s in a meeting with Mr Tracy.’
‘When will she be out?’
‘She’s just gone in, so probably in about half an hour.’
‘She’s in a meeting,’ Ferrie mouthed to the intruder.
‘Leave a message for her to meet you,’ he whispered, grinding the knuckle-dusters into the side of Ferrie’s head.
‘Could you do me a favour, Emma,’ Ferrie said, swallowing blood.
‘Is there something wrong, Ryan? You sound funny.’
‘I’m fine. As soon as Zoe comes out of her meeting, tell her she has to come to the boathouse in Glasgow Green at half past twelve. She knows where it is. Tell her I’ll meet here there.’
‘Can I tell her why?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Emma! Would you just give her the bloody message!’
‘Okay, okay! No need to bite my head off!’
The assailant moved the knuckle-dusters down under Ferrie’s chin and used them to prise up his jaw. ‘Make sure she knows how important it is,’ he mouthed.
‘This is really important, Emma. I’m in a lot of trouble. Make sure Zoe gets this message as soon as she comes out of her meeting. Tell her she has to come to the boathouse.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell her, Ryan.’ Emma hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
The assailant terminated the call.
The office wall-clock flicked across to twelve o’clock. Zoe Taylor exchanged an anxious glance with Emma as she gazed in the direction of Keith Tracy’s open office door. Her lunch hour was from twelve-thirty to one-thirty and she knew Tracy would be furious if he caught her trying to slip out early.
Zoe was totally bemused by the cryptic message Ryan had left with Emma. It was completely out of character. She’d tried phoning the flat half a dozen times, but there was no reply, and he wasn’t answering his mobile. She’d agonised all morning about his call, unable to make any sense of it, unable to concentrate on her work. What sort of mess was he in this time?
Zoe had prepared her escape, sneaking her coat and umbrella into the toilets during the morning coffee break. Using both hands to drag her shoulder-length, black hair behind her ears, she winked at Emma as she stood up. Smoothing down her tight miniskirt, she picked up her handbag and strode confidently past Tracy’s office door, making no attempt to disguise the rat-a-tat of her steel-tipped stiletto heels as they clicked loudly on the tiled surface.
Hurrying into the toilets, she snatched up her coat and umbrella before sidling out the door and trotting down the wide, marble staircase. When she stepped outside the building she saw her bus trundling along West Regent Street. Although it was raining steadily, she didn’t stop to unfurl her umbrella as she ran towards the bus stop in short, titupping steps, moving as fast as her constricting skirt would allow, dodging around the puddles and pulling on her coat as she went.
As the bus drew up at the stop ahead she put on a final spurt and jumped on board, her lank hair plastered against her flushed cheeks. She was gasping for breath. ‘The bottom of Stockwell Street,’ she panted, scrabbling in her purse for change.
Dropping the correct money into the slot, she took her ticket and flopped down on the seat nearest to the door as the bus pulled away from the stop.
Charlie Anderson checked his watch as he climbed the flight of stairs at the far end of the corridor and on the stroke of twelve thirty he rapped on Superintendent Nigel Hamilton’s half-open door and walked in. Hamilton had his back to him, working at his terminal. Charlie sat down on the leather chair facing the desk while Hamilton continued typing without acknowledging Charlie’s presence. When he’d finished what he was doing, Hamilton transmitted his email and spun round in his swivel chair.
Charlie was only half listening as Hamilton droned on in his habitual, irritatingly slow manner about the importance of getting this murder solved as quickly as possible for the credibility of the Glasgow Division. Charlie knew only too well that Hamilton’s primary concern was for his own reputation, the statistics of murder convictions in the division having deteriorated significantly since he’d been at the helm. Charlie thoroughly disliked his boss’ humourless smile, his round, blotchy face, his thin, permanently-pursed lips and his sing-song delivery. Whenever Hamilton discussed a subject he seemed to be detached from the conversation, leaving Charlie with the impression that there was always a hidden agenda.
Charlie was gazing out of the window, intrigued by the intricate pattern the drizzle was making on the outside of the pane, when he was alerted by the sudden change in Hamilton’s tone.
‘Well, Anderson?’ the squeaky voice piped up. ‘Do you or don’t you?’
Charlie had no idea what he was referring to. Pulling himself up straight in his chair, he tugged his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew into it noisily. ‘I’m not sure,’ he mumbled, wiping his nose.
‘What kind of an answer is that, man? Do you, or do you not, have any idea who could have sent you that sick package? Who could be bearing a grudge against you?’
‘I think, “Who could be bearing a grudge against Irene McGowan?” would be a more relevant question,’ Charlie suggested, refolding his handkerchief neatly and slipping it back into his pocket. ‘By my way of thinking, being strangled and having your hand chopped off rates higher up the scale of grudges than being on the receiving end of an amputated limb.’
‘I can do without the homespun philosophy,’ Hamilton snapped. ‘Start compiling a dossier straight away. Everyone who might have a score to settle with you. Anyone who’s sadistic and warped enough to commit this type of crime. We’re dealing with a right weirdo here and once sick bastards like him start killing, they’ve got an annoying habit of doing it again. I want this chancer nailed before he gets into his stride.’
‘Do I gather you want me to take charge of the murder investigation?’ There was resignation in Charlie’s voice.
‘I most certainly do! There has to be some connection between you and this gypsy woman. You need to find out what that is.’
‘I’ll have to pull a team together.’ Charlie stopped to consider. ‘O’Sullivan can be made available, but apart from that we’re really stretched.’
‘Use Stuart.’
Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Who’s Stuart?’
‘Malcolm Stuart. He’s a graduate
high-flier who’s been seconded to us from the Met for six months to get hands-on experience. He arrived this morning. He’s been with the Merseyside Division for the past six months. He told me he’d spent most of his time in Liverpool pushing paper and he’s hoping for front line activity during his time with us. This is an ideal opportunity to see what he’s made of. Get him involved.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Charlie protested. ‘It would be better if I work with guys who know the territory. This is going to be a difficult enough nut to crack without having to wet-nurse a trainee.’
‘I don’t like having to repeat myself, Anderson,’ Hamilton snapped. ‘I told you to use Stuart,’ he said, waving his hand in front of his face as if dismissing an irritating child. ‘The press are going to have a field day with this when they find out the victim’s severed hand was sent to CID headquarters. I’m going to have to deal with their questions, so I need to be kept up to speed with all developments.’
The rain had turned into a soaking mizzle by the time Zoe Taylor alighted from the bus and hurried along Clyde Street towards Glasgow Green. She knew the boathouse well, she and Ryan having often sneaked in there after an evening in the pub during the early days of their relationship. She glanced at her watch as she hurried into the park and saw she was already ten minutes late. Putting up her umbrella, she gathered up her coat and started to trot across the wet grass towards the isolated building on the north bank of the river. Suddenly, one of her stiletto heels skidded on a concealed stone and her legs went from under her, sending her crashing full-length on her back. She pulled herself up into a sitting position on the sodden turf and slipped off her shoe to massage her throbbing ankle, trying to feel if anything was broken. Struggling to her feet, she hobbled the last twenty yards to the boathouse with her shoe in her hand.
A typed notice, pinned to the door, announced that clubhouse would be closed on Tuesday 21st June for essential repairs. Zoe saw that the door was ajar. Puzzled, she pushed it open and limped inside.
‘Ryan? Are you there?’ Her hoarse whisper came echoing back from the low ceiling of the windowless room. She blinked several times to try to adjust her eyes to the gloom, the murky light coming in over her shoulder throwing elongated shadows of the fibre glass boats and the stacked oars onto the far wall. ‘Ryan?’ she repeated anxiously. ‘Where the hell are you?’
There was a grating squeal behind her, the door screeching on its hinges as it was slammed shut. Zoe spun round, momentarily dazzled as the neon lights exploded into life. A pair of gloved hands shot forward and locked themselves in a vice-like grip around her throat, the strong thumbs driving into her windpipe and throttling the breath from her body.
Zoe’s shoe fell from her grasp. She dropped her umbrella and handbag and clawed at the hands, trying desperately to prise away the choking fingers, but she was powerless to stop the muscular arms lifting her clean off her feet. Her cheeks turned scarlet and her bulging eyes stared helplessly at the wrap-round, mirrored sunglasses of her attacker. She could see the reflection of her face in the impenetrable, steel-blue, plastic strip, her tongue jutting grotesquely from the corner of her gaping mouth. She could make out that he was wearing a baseball cap, on backwards, but her blurred vision couldn’t focus on his features.
Zoe dangled like a rag doll at the end of his fully extended arms, her legs flailing, her painted fingernails splintering as she clawed frantically at the unyielding leather gloves encircling her throat. The remorseless pressure from his thumbs was increasing all the time. Her eyes stood out on stalks and her swollen tongue filled her mouth. In less than a minute she had blacked out.
The assailant lowered Zoe’s body to the ground. He dropped down onto his knees and slipped off a glove to check the pulse on the side of her neck, confirming she was still alive. Tugging his glove back on, he pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head.
After a few moments, he saw Zoe’s long, false eyelashes start to flutter erratically, like the wings of a startled butterfly. Small, gurgling noises emanated from the back of her throat as her lungs struggled for oxygen. He watched her eyelids jerk open.
‘Hello, Zoe,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘The repair cost fifty quid.’
He leered down at her panic, as a wave of recognition pulsed through her brain.
He blew her an exaggerated air kiss and their eyes were locked together when, with one sharp twist, he snapped her spinal cord. Zoe’s eyes remained wide and staring and her throat issued a single low gurgle as the air whooshed down her nostrils from her collapsing lungs.
Getting to his feet, he produced a slim hacksaw blade from his jacket pocket.
CHAPTER 2
A watery sunshine was filtering through the clouds when Terry McKay and Alec Hunter came out of the fish and chip shop in Woodlands Road just before one o’clock. Both men were over six feet tall, but the similarity ended there. McKay was wearing a dark suit, a cream shirt and a silk tie. His cancer was in remission, but the chemotherapy had taken its toll. His skin was sallow and drawn, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed, his hair thin and grey. His jacket, which had been made to measure less than a year ago, hung loosely from his shrunken shoulders.
Alec Hunter ate his fish supper with his fingers as he walked alongside McKay. Less than half McKay’s age, he was thick-set, with spiky, black stubble covering his head. He was wearing faded blue jeans and his tight-fitting, black T-shirt was stretched taut by his muscular upper body.
Harry Brady was opening up for business after lunch when McKay and Hunter arrived outside his hardware store. Hunter followed McKay into the shop and closed the door behind him.
When he saw who it was, Brady backed away towards the counter. ‘I haven’t got it…’ he stammered.
McKay shook his head. ‘You know I don’t like excuses, Brady.’
‘I didn’t take two hundred and fifty quid all last week.’ Brady’s anxious gaze flicked from McKay to Hunter, then back again. ‘I can’t pay you.’
Hunter scrunched his fish supper paper into a ball and drop-kicked it across the floor. Licking the vinegar from his fingertips, he produced a cosh from his hip pocket and fondled it lovingly. Fixing his stare on Brady, he started slapping the cosh rhythmically against the open palm of his left hand.
‘You’re not thinking straight,’ McKay said, tugging his asthma inhaler from the inside pocket of his jacket and putting it to his mouth. Depressing the plunger, he breathed in deeply. ‘You know you can’t afford not to have insurance,’ he wheezed. ‘Jim McHugh thought he could do without insurance – and look what happened.’
‘For Christ’s sake, McKay! I’m telling you. I don’t have the money.’
‘This is false economy, Brady. Without insurance, you can lose two hundred and fifty quid’s worth of stock,’ McKay said, grabbing at the top of a glass-fronted display cabinet on the counter and sending it crashing to the ground. ‘Just like that!’ The cabinet splintered on impact, shards of broken glass skittering across the tiled floor.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? I can’t fucking-well pay!’
‘You’re beginning to sound boringly like McHugh.’ On McKay’s nod, Hunter took a step forward and jerked his cosh up violently between Brady’s legs, causing him to crumple to the floor, whimpering with pain. ‘Don’t ever use the word ‘can’t’ in my presence,’ McKay said. ‘You know how much it upsets me.’
Brady let out a low moan as he rolled around the floor, clutching at his groin with both hands.
Picking up the Stanley knife that was lying at his feet, McKay gripped it between thumb and forefinger and held it dangling over the writhing figure. ‘But because I happen to be in a good mood, and because you’ve been a regular payer over the years, I’m going to give you one more chance. We’ll be back on Saturday – and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll have the two hundred and fifty quid you owe me for last week – and the same for this week.’
Releasing the knife, McKay burst out laughing as the tip of bl
ade sliced into the top of Brady’s right leg, the knife quivering in his thigh. Dust particles were dancing in the shaft of afternoon sunlight angling through the half-open window and reflecting rainbow patterns onto the far wall from the pile of grease-stained plates stacked high in the sink. Pete Johnston trudged across the room to close the ill-fitting sash window, this doing little to muffle the incessant drone of traffic filtering up from Kilburn High Road. He rummaged through the unwashed dishes in the sink until he came across a tumbler. Giving it a cursory wipe on his shirt sleeve, he reached for the whisky bottle on the draining board and poured himself a generous measure.
Stockily built, Johnston’s erstwhile taut stomach muscles had prematurely turned to fat. His complexion was grey and his cheeks were sunken. Broken, purple veins lined his bulbous nose and his chin carried several days’ stubble.
As he turned on the cold tap to add a splash of water to his drink, he heard a loud knock on his apartment door. Checking his watch, he padded over in his stocking soles to answer it.
‘You were expecting me?’ Hassan Salman asked as he stepped across the threshold. Johnston nodded. Tall and slim-faced, Salman was wearing a white, linen suit and a blue, open-necked shirt. His flared nostrils twitched when they were assailed by the dank smell of the apartment. He crossed to the settee and flicked at the cushion with his fingertips before propping himself on the edge of the seat.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Johnston asked, holding up his glass.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Johnston shrugged.
Salman placed the bulky brown-paper parcel he was carrying on the coffee table, then produced a sealed envelope from his inside jacket pocket. ‘There is an anorak and a torch in the parcel – your instructions and tickets are in this envelope.’