Cutting Edge

by Bill Daly

  ‘What about my money?’

  ‘You’ll get paid on delivery.’

  ‘I usually get half up front,’ Johnston complained, gulping down a slug of whisky.

  ‘Do you want this job or don’t you?’

  ‘I was just saying. I usually get half up front.’

  ‘Don’t quibble,’ Salman snapped. ‘You’re getting paid more for this assignment than you could earn in a year as a mercenary – even working for the Israelis.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the Jew boys,’ Johnston grunted. ‘Burma and Sierra Leone pay better than that lot. I’m telling you, I made more as a squaddie during the Gulf War than in two years slogging my guts out defending their Golan Heights.’

  Salman picked at his front teeth with a manicured fingernail. ‘You fought in the Gulf?’

  ‘I’ve got the syndrome to prove it.’ There was a glint in Johnston’s eye. ‘I might even have run into some of your pals along the way.’

  Salman raised his eyebrows. ‘Do not deviate from your instructions, or the schedule, for any reason whatsoever,’ he stated, getting to his feet. ‘We will have no further contact until you have completed your assignment.’ Striding from the apartment, he pulled the door closed behind him.

  Salman’s footsteps were still ringing out on the stone staircase as Johnston slumped down on the settee to rip open the envelope. He tipped the contents out onto the cushion beside him. Rail tickets, ferry tickets and a single sheet of paper. His shaky fingers unfolded the note and his eye caught the heading at the top of the page: Consignment To Be Collected In Mull, printed in bold type.

  ‘Where the fuck’s Mull?’ he muttered.

  He read the instructions.

  Take the 11h30 train tomorrow morning from Euston to Glasgow Central. From there, go to Queen Street Station and catch the 18h21 train to Oban. Take the 22h30 ferry from Oban to Craignure on the island of Mull and from there walk north on the coast road in the direction of Salen. After two miles you will come across a dirt track heading inland, signposted for Drumairgh Cottage. Follow this track for half a mile until you come to an isolated barn. Wait inside the barn until someone comes to give you a package, which you will then bring back to London, retracing the same route. When you get back, remain in your apartment until we make contact. For the journey, wear the anorak you’ll find in the parcel. When you have memorised these instructions, destroy this note.

  Johnston picked up the syringe lying on his coffee table and primed the plunger. Holding his breath, he clenched his left fist and selected a vein in his forearm. Having injected a fix, he stretched out on the settee and breathed in and out deeply, wallowing in the comforting sensation of the heroin being absorbed into his bloodstream. When he closed his eyes, his mind filled with confused, kaleidoscopic images.

  Charlie Anderson was sitting in his office, in conversation with Tony O’Sullivan, when his intercom buzzed. He flicked across the switch.

  ‘Renton here, sir. There’s a guy called Harry Brady at reception. He insists that he has to speak to you. He says it’s urgent, but he won’t tell me what it’s about – and he won’t talk to anyone else.’

  ‘Okay, Colin, I know him. Wheel him along to an interview room. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

  ‘Who’s Brady?’ O’Sullivan asked as Charlie disconnected.

  ‘He has a hardware shop in Woodlands Road. I used to play golf with his father – in the good old days, when I could still manage to grip a club,’ Charlie said, pulling himself stiffly to his feet and flexing his arthritic fingers.

  ‘Do you need me for anything else today, sir?’

  Charlie raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A hot date, is it?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing! I was thinking of going down to Saltcoats to see my folks.’

  ‘On you go. There’s nothing more we can do here tonight.’

  When Charlie walked down the stairs and into the interview room, he saw DC Colin Renton sitting beside the door. Renton was in his late fifties, a colleague of Charlie’s since their time together in the uniformed division in Paisley. On Charlie’s instigation, he had transferred to the CID late in his career. Acknowledging Renton’s presence with a wave, Charlie went across to the desk in the middle of the room where Harry Brady, a slight man in his forties, was sitting on an upright chair. Charlie took the seat on the opposite side of the desk.

  ‘What can I do for you, Harry?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Charlie.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘It has to be on your own,’ he said, glancing nervously in Renton’s direction.

  ‘Okay, Colin. You can leave us.’

  Brady waited until Renton had gone out of the room and closed the door behind him. ‘Do you know Terry McKay?’

  ‘I ought to. I sent him down for ten years.’

  ‘I want him sent down for another ten.’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  Brady hesitated. ‘I’ve been paying him protection money, Charlie. Two hundred and fifty quid a week.’

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. ‘How long has that been going on?’

  ‘Best part of five years – ever since he got out of Barlinnie. It’s not just me. He’s putting the squeeze on half the shopkeepers in Woodlands Road. You remember the chemist’s that went up in flames last month? Where Jim McHugh and his wife died in the upstairs flat?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘McKay and his sidekick, Alec Hunter, started that fire.’

  ‘We suspected it was started deliberately, but there wasn’t any proof.’

  ‘It was arson and it was McKay – you can take my word for that.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’ Harry bit into his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘Why did you decide to come to me now?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I’m at my wits’ end. Business is terrible. I’m hardly able to make ends meet as it is, without having to stump up two hundred and fifty quid a week for the likes of McKay. I can’t go on like that.’

  ‘Before we could prosecute him, Harry, we’d need proof – and we’d need witnesses. Would you be prepared to take the stand and testify?’ Brady nodded nervously. ‘We’ll need more than that to secure a conviction. If it comes down to your word against his, he’ll walk. Do you know who else he’s putting the squeeze on?’

  ‘McKay and Hunter do their round on Tuesday afternoons. One day last month, after they’d been to my place, I followed them along Woodlands Road and I made a note of all the shops they went into.’

  ‘In order to secure a conviction, we’d need at least one of those guys to take the stand and testify.’

  ‘None of them will do it. I’ve tried talking to all of them. I did my level best to convince them that, if we all stick together, we could have McKay and Hunter put away. But they just clam up. They’re scared shitless. Most of them won’t even admit to having a problem with McKay. They claim not to know what I’m talking about. They’re terrified because of Jack Williams.’

  ‘What happened there?’

  ‘Jack has the grocer’s shop along the street from me. A couple of years back he decided he’d had enough of their demands, so he went to the local nick and filed a complaint. The cops pulled McKay and Hunter in for questioning and, while they were being interviewed, one of McKay’s pals went round to Jack’s place and slashed his face. Nice timing, eh? McKay and Hunter had the perfect alibi because Jack was cut up when they were being interviewed by the polis. The slasher warned Jack his wife would be next in line for the razor treatment, so he withdrew his complaint.’

  ‘Is there any chance Williams could be persuaded to file a complaint against them again, if I put in place protection for him and his family?’

  ‘I don’t know, Charlie. He might go along with it if he was a hundred per cent sure they’d be put away. I’ll sound him out, if you like?’

  ‘Do that. If you and Williams are both willing to take the stand, I’ll ask the Procurator Fiscal if he’d be
prepared to prosecute on that basis. Once you’ve spoken to Williams, give me a bell and let me know what the score is. That number will get you straight through to me,’ Charlie said, taking a card from the breast pocket of his jacket and handing it across.

  ‘Okay, Charlie,’ Brady said, getting to his feet.

  ‘And don’t worry, Harry,’ Charlie said, standing up. ‘If Williams won’t play ball, we’ll find some other way to deal with them.’

  Light rain was falling when Charlie drove up the ramp out of Pitt Street’s underground car park. Flicking his windscreen wipers on to an intermittent wipe, he turned into West George Street, then made his way down the hill to Waterloo Street to join the Clydeside Expressway. The early-evening commuter traffic was heavy when he joined the M8 and progress was slow all the way to the Renfrew exit. Taking the slip road, he drove towards the town centre, then turned left in front of the town hall into Hairst Street. He spotted a vacant parking bay outside Auld’s the bakers and pulled into it. Turning his jacket collar up to protect his neck from the drizzle, he hurried the short distance to James Davidson’s. When he went inside he saw Bert Pollock leaning against the bar, chatting to the barman. The pub was quiet, the only other customers being two men playing darts and four students sitting at a corner table, arguing heatedly about football.

  Bert was bemoaning the latest tax increase on cigarettes when his flow was interrupted by the sound of the pub door being pushed open.

  ‘Not too bad, I suppose,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I was just about to give you up. When I heard on the news that there’d been a murder in Port Glasgow yesterday, I wasn’t sure if you’d manage to get away.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Charlie said, turning down his jacket collar.

  ‘Glad you managed to make it, you old bugger,’ Bert said. ‘Would that be a hauf an’ a hauf-pint, by any chance?’

  ‘Good guess.’

  ‘Two haufs and two hauf-pints of heavy, Tommy,’ Bert said, taking a twenty pound note from his wallet and placing it on the bar. ‘Okay if we sit over by the door?’

  ‘If you can find room.’

  Having poured the drinks, Tommy carried them across to the table where Charlie and Bert had installed themselves. He handed Bert his change.

  ‘How’s life treating you?’ Charlie asked, picking up his beer and taking a sip.

  ‘Business isn’t great. I was saying to Tommy just before you got here that the latest tax increase on cigarettes has dented sales badly – and now there’s talk about us having to keep the fags out of sight of the customers! What with that and newspaper sales being right down, it looks like I’ll have to rely on selling sweeties to school kids in order to scrape a living.’

  ‘You can put me down for a couple of packets of strong mints.’

  ‘If I’d have known that, I’d have bought you a large one.’ Bert picked up his whisky glass and chinked it against Charlie’s.

  Charlie raised his glass to eye level. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Things going any better with Niggle these days?’ Bert asked.

  ‘What a poser!’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Yesterday was a case in point. The great and the good of Glasgow’s media circus turned up for the weekly press conference and Niggle subjects them to a twenty minute monologue on the new procedures he’s planning to introduce to improve crime reporting – which in essence boils down to: “take care of the stats and let the facts take care of themselves”. And I had to sit through it all. After he’d succeeded in boring the arse off everyone, he opened the session up for questions and he was having a bit of back chat with a reporter from the Record when Fran Gibbons piped up.’

  ‘The bit of stuff who fronts Newsnight?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend you to refer to her like that in her presence.’

  ‘My brother calls her the Drinking Man’s tottie.’

  ‘Good to know political correctness is alive and well and living in Renfrew.’ Charlie grinned. ‘Anyway, Gibbons slips the knife in and more or less accuses Niggle of fiddling the sats. You should have seen his podgy kisser. It turned scarlet. He looked like a beetroot with a bad case of acne.’

  ‘I can see why you can’t stand him.’

  ‘I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.’ Charlie threw back his whisky. ‘I can’t wait to pack it all in.’

  ‘How much longer do you have?’

  ‘Still the best part of a year. But at least I’ll be on my bike before the big reorganisation takes place. That has the potential to be a complete shambles.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The current plan is to move the Glasgow CID headquarters from Pitt Street to a new building in the east end, in South Dalmarnock, but that’s all up in the air because they’re now talking about reorganising all the divisions into one unified Scottish police authority. The plan still needs parliamentary approval, but if it goes ahead there will be a lot fewer senior positions in the force in a couple of years’ time – and that’ll mean a real dogfight over who gets what.’

  ‘You’re well out of that,’ Bert said, draining his beer.

  ‘I’m sorry now I didn’t take early retirement last year when it was on offer, but that’s water under the bridge. Kay told me at the time I should jump ship, but, of course, I didn’t listen to her.’

  ‘How is Kay?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. But that’s because Sue and Jamie are coming back from Brussels tomorrow.’

  ‘What were they doing over there?’

  ‘Sue’s best friend, Linda, is out there teaching. She broke her hip skiing in February, and she had no family to help her with her kids, so Sue took leave of absence for the spring term and got a job out there, teaching part-time, in the International School.’

  ‘How did Jamie cope with that?’

  ‘He took it in his stride, as you do when you’re seven. It was all a big adventure for him. And he seems to have picked up a fair bit of French, which can’t be bad.’ Charlie finished his beer. ‘Same again?’ he asked, pointing at their empty glasses.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Charlie carried the glasses over to the bar and ordered another round. ‘So you heard about the murder?’ he said as he came back to the table and sat down.

  ‘It was on the news. Are you involved?’

  Charlie lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘A lot more than I’d like to be.’

  ‘How come?’

  Charlie kept his voice down. ‘Did they mention on the news that the victim’s hand had been chopped off?’

  ‘Aye. Weird that.’

  Charlie broke off as the barman brought across their drinks on a tray. ‘Thanks, Tommy.’ He waited until Tommy was out of earshot before continuing. ‘What’s even weirder is that the hand was sent to me.’

  Bert froze with his beer glass halfway to his lips. ‘What!’

  ‘It was posted from St Vincent Street post office yesterday morning. Sent to CID headquarters in Pitt Street, addressed to me personally.’

  Bert sucked in his breath. ‘That must’ve pleased Niggle no end.’

  ‘He was chuffed to buggery – as you might imagine.’

  ‘What kind of weirdo would murder a harmless old woman? And why chop off her hand and send it to you?’

  ‘Believe you me,’ Charlie said, his fingers travelling over his bald skull. ‘Those questions have been uppermost in my mind all day.’ Picking up his whisky, he downed it in one.

  *

  Tony O’Sullivan pulled up outside the terraced row of council houses on the outskirts of Saltcoats. Getting out of his car, he walked up the overgrown path to number twenty-eight and rang the doorbell. His mother came to answer it.

  ‘What a lovely surprise!’ Dympna said, blessing herself quickly before standing on tiptoe to give Tony a big hug. ‘Come on in, son.’

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been down for a while, Mum,’ Tony said as he stepped across the threshold. ‘I’ve been working a lot of overtime recently.’

  ‘
Will you be able to stay over?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s just a flying visit. There’s a lot going on and I have to get back to Glasgow tonight.’

  ‘I understand. Can I get you something to eat?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘Go on through and see your Dad while I put on the kettle. He’s in the front room with his head buried in the paper, as usual. I don’t know what he finds to read in it,’ she added with a smile.

  Tony walked along the narrow corridor under the intense scrutiny of St Anthony of Padua, staring down on him from the elevated shelf.

  Rory O’Sullivan folded the Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald and got to his feet when he heard Tony’s voice. ‘Good to see you, son,’ he said as Tony came into the lounge.

  Religious statues covered every available surface in the cramped living room, while framed photographs of Celtic’s heroes over the years adorned the walls. In pride of place, above the mantelpiece, hung an autographed photograph of Jimmy Johnstone in full flight, nutmegging the Rangers’ full back.

  ‘You’re looking well, Dad,’ Tony said, sitting down on an armchair.

  ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ Rory said, smoothing back his thinning, red hair as he settled back down on the settee. ‘How are things in Glasgow?’

  ‘Hell of a busy. We had another murder yesterday.’

  ‘Who was it this time?’ Rory asked.

  ‘An old gypsy woman.’

  ‘The world’s going to hell in a handcart,’ Rory said with a quick shake of the head. ‘Are you involved in the case?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Still working for that old curmudgeon, Anderson?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘At least it’s better having him in charge, rather than one of the other lot.’

  ‘That’s true. Talking of the other lot, Matt Buller got promoted to DI last week.’

  Rory snorted. ‘I told you when you joined the Glasgow Division things like that would happen. Why don’t you put in for a transfer?’