by Bill Daly
‘There’s a rank outside the hospital. I can pick up a cab.’
The paramedics carried the stretcher down the tenement staircase with Tony following close behind. As the stretcher was being loaded into the ambulance, Tony pulled out his phone and clicked onto Charlie’s mobile number. ‘We found a bloke in Zoe Taylor’s apartment, sir,’ Tony said when Charlie answered. ‘I assume it’s Ryan Ferrie. He was gagged and tied to a chair. He’s in a bad way.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘It looks like he was assaulted in his own kitchen.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘No, but there was a faint pulse. We called an ambulance and I’m on my way across to the Southern General with the paramedics right now.’
‘Let me know how you get on.’
Malcolm Stuart drove back to Roxburgh Street and found a place to park not far from his flat. There was no knowing, he thought to himself as he got out of the car, when he would next get a night off. No point in wasting the opportunity.
Wandering down to the bottom of Byres Road, he went into the The Three Judges, on the corner of Dumbarton Road. There were only a handful of early-evening customers.
‘What are you for?’ the barman asked.
‘A pint of lager.’
‘Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,’ the barman said, eyeing him up and down as he started to pull the pint.
‘It’s the first time I’ve been in,’ Malcolm said.
‘Doesn’t sound like you come from around these parts.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not a problem, pal.’ The barman shrugged. ‘I was only asking.’
‘As it happens, I’m from Sussex.’
‘Sussex?’ The barman raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a long way to come for a pint.’ He slid the brimming glass across the bar. ‘What brings you here?’
‘What brings me to Glasgow? Or what brings me to The Three Judges?’ Malcolm asked, placing a ten pound note on the bar.
The barman picked up the note and ostentatiously held it up to the light to study the watermark. ‘Take the questions in whatever order you like.’
‘A bit of business – and a hell of a thirst,’ Malcolm said, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a long pull.
At half-past six Tony O’Sullivan was onto his third cup of watery coffee as he sat on a chair in the corridor outside the ward in the Southern General. He fiddled with his phone, trying to work out if it would be better to cancel his dinner date with Sue now, or leave it a bit longer in case he managed to get away in time. Probably best to give her a call and explain the situation, he decided. As he was scrolling through his contacts, he saw the doctor who had admitted Ryan Ferrie coming along the corridor. Tony got to his feet. ‘What’s the situation?’ he asked.
‘He’s conscious and he seems all right mentally,’ the doctor said, referring to his clipboard. ‘But his nose is broken and his mouth’s very badly lacerated.’
‘Would it be possible for me to speak to him?’
‘You can speak to him, but he won’t be able to speak to you. His mouth’s bandaged up. We’ve left a slit to assist his breathing, but he can’t talk.’
‘I’m afraid I have bad news for him.’
The doctor’s brow furrowed. ‘What kind of bad news?
‘You heard about a girl’s body being recovered from the Clyde yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was his girlfriend.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘Do you think I should break the news to him now?’ Tony asked.
‘That’s your call, officer. I just patch them up. I’m not a psychologist.’ He paused. ‘But if you do decide he has to be told now, he’s in the second bed on the left.’
Tony found Ryan Ferrie propped up in bed with two pillows jammed behind his back. He pulled the visitor’s chair from beneath the bed and sat down. Ferrie half-turned round to make eye contact.
‘Ryan Ferrie?’ Tony asked, producing his warrant card and showing it to him. Ferrie nodded his head slowly. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened to you.’ Ferrie shook his head as he gingerly fingered his bandaged mouth. ‘Are you able to type?’ Tony asked. Ferrie looked puzzled as Tony produced his cell phone and clicked onto text messaging. ‘I ask the questions – you type the answers – okay?’ Ferrie nodded his understanding and took the phone.
‘When were you assaulted?’ Tony asked.
“tue morning – 8 o’clock,” he typed.
‘Do you know who attacked you?’
“no – guy rang bell – barged-in – thing over face – bala?”
‘A balaclava?’
Ferrie nodded. “knocked me out – tied me to a chair.”
‘Can you describe him?’
“over 6 feet – well built.”
‘What age?’
“never saw face.”
‘What about his voice. Did he have an accent?’
“normal Glasgow – like you and me.”
Tony forbore to mention that he’d never heard Ferrie’s accent. ‘Do you know why he attacked you?’
“wanted me to set up mtg for him with zoe – my girl friend.”
‘Did you?’
“said he’d kill me if not – phoned zoe’s office with msg for her – meet me in boathouse at glasgow green half past twelve – told me to say that then gagged me – laid into me.”
Ferrie pointed to the phone. “my questions, now” he typed.
Tony nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
“did zoe meet him?”
‘She did.’ Tony made eye contact, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
“what happened?” Ferrie typed feverishly. “what did he do to zoe?” He thrust the phone in front of Tony’s face and stared at him, wide-eyed. The colour flared in his face. His cheeks bulged.
‘I’m very sorry to tell you this. I’m afraid Zoe’s dead.’
Ferrie tugged at the bandages around his mouth and tried to speak, small, incoherent, gurgling sounds emanating from his throat. The phone slipped from his fingers onto the bed and his head slumped back onto the pillow.
Tony waited until he was outside the hospital before calling Charlie.
‘Ferrie’s life’s not in danger, but he’s been given a real working over.’
‘Did you tell him what happened to his girlfriend?’
‘Not in any detail, but I did let him know she was dead. I thought he ought to know.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘Do you need me back in the office tonight, sir?’
‘No, that’s enough shit for one day. Working twenty-four hour shifts isn’t going to get us anywhere. Is Stuart still with you?’
‘No, I sent him home earlier.’
‘We’ll pick up the threads in the morning when we’re all fresh – and when we might have some more information about the murder on the train to work on. We’ll meet in my office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll give Stuart a call and let him know the arrangements,’ Charlie said.
When Malcolm Stuart’s mobile rang out unanswered, Charlie left a message, telling him to be in his office at eight o’clock the following morning.
Tony got into the taxi at the head of the rank outside the hospital and gave the driver his address. Checking his watch, he saw it was just after seven o’clock. Just about enough time to get dinner organised, he thought.
‘Is this what’s you call mood music?’ Sue asked, having to raise her voice to make herself heard above the Proclaimers belting out “I would walk five hundred miles.” Slipping her jacket from her shoulders, she handed it across.
‘Sorry about that!’ Tony said, hanging her jacket on the coat stand in the hall. ‘The lounge is down there,’ he said, pointing. Following Sue into the room, he crossed to the CD player and tweaked down the volume.
Sue produced a bottle of Sancerre and a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape from her carrier bag. ‘I didn’t
know if you’d prefer white or red.’
‘I’m more than happy with either – but I thought you didn’t drink?’
‘I don’t. But that doesn’t mean other people shouldn’t.’
‘Let me stick the white wine in the fridge.’
When Tony came back from the kitchen he found Sue standing by the window, gazing down on the street.
‘Tomato juice with Angostura bitters, if my memory serves me correctly?’ he said, handing her a glass.
‘Ten out of ten – I’m impressed. What are you drinking?’
‘G and T,’ he said, holding up his glass and chinking it against hers.
‘Cheers!’ Sue walked across the room and flopped down on the settee. She put her tomato juice down on a coaster on the coffee table. ‘Tony, you mentioned on the phone that things are hectic at work these days.’
‘There is a lot going on.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but is my father all right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He looked really haggard last night – grey complexion and huge bags under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.’
‘He’s working hard – and he’s under a lot of pressure.’
‘What kind of pressure?’
Tony hesitated. ‘Did your father talk about his work last night?’
‘Apart from the fact that he was very busy – no.’
‘Look, Sue – this is something you need to discuss with him.’
‘Sorry!’ Sue held up both arms in a gesture of surrender. ‘I didn’t mean to drag you into family problems. Forget I even mentioned it.’
Tony sat down on the settee beside her. ‘Tell me about Brussels. How did you get on over there?’
‘It was all a bit frenetic, especially for the first couple of weeks. I hadn’t fully realised what I had let myself in for. Compared with Dennistoun, the teaching side of it was a doddle. They have no idea what discipline problems are over there. But while Linda was in hospital, I was living in her flat and, in addition to my job, I had to shuttle her three kids – and Jamie – back and forth to school every day, as well as taking them to the hospital to visit their mum every evening – to say nothing of feeding, dressing and entertaining them. I was in a permanent state of exhaustion. It’s difficult enough taking care of one kid, but four of them was an absolute nightmare. I don’t know how large families cope.’
‘It sounds like you could do with getting back to teaching in Dennistoun for a rest.’
‘Things calmed down when Linda got out of hospital, even though she was still on crutches for quite some time.’
‘How did Jamie settle in?’
‘Oh, he was fine. He made a lot of new friends – and his French is coming on really well, considering he’s only being doing it for three months. But I could tell he was getting homesick. For the past month his sole topic of conversation has been Partick Thistle’s prospects for next season.’
‘I didn’t know he was a Thistle fan.’
‘His grandfather’s got him indoctrinated.’
A timer went off in the kitchen and Tony scrambled to his feet. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘I’m famished. My only worry is that my father will call you out before we get to the main course.’
‘No way! My mobile’s switched off – and I won’t be answering the land line tonight.’
Sam Taylor changed down to second gear as he swung his lorry round to edge through the narrow gates of the depot. Somehow, the last few miles always seemed to be the worst, the traffic crossing the Kingston Bridge being particularly heavy this evening, and the incessant drizzle for the past two hours hadn’t helped. He pulled up alongside an empty loading bay, then gave two toots on the horn as he reversed slowly until the rear of his vehicle was within touching distance of the ramp. He turned off his windscreen wipers and switched off the radio before cutting the engine and climbing down from the cab, yawning and stretching his stiff back.
A frown formed on his forehead when he looked across the yard. He was expecting Joe to be here to help him unload, but there were two people walking towards him, one of them wearing a police uniform. As they got closer, he saw it was a policewoman, then he suddenly realised the person alongside her was his wife.
Sam broke into a half-run as he stumbled across the yard towards them. ‘What is it, Helen?’ he called out. ‘What’s wrong?’
Helen Taylor stopped in her tracks and waited for him. ‘It’s Zoe,’ she said in barely a whisper.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead, Sam. She’s been murdered.’ Tears were flowing down Helen’s cheeks. ‘I couldn’t tell you on the phone.’ She was choking on her sobs. ‘I just couldn’t.’
Sam enveloped his wife in his arms and held her close, silent tears threading down from both his eyes.
The policewoman opened her mouth as if to speak, then turned round and walked slowly back in the direction of the office, leaving them to find whatever comfort they could in their mutual grief.
Sue held her stomach as she flopped down on the settee. ‘I couldn’t manage another bite. I didn’t realise you could actually cook. That meal was fantastic.’
‘I’m full of surprises.’
‘Your spaghetti carbonara was to die for.’
‘Not literally, I hope?’
Sue smiled. ‘Where did you learn to do stuff like that?’
‘From my mother. Somewhere in the dim and distant past she has Italian blood in her veins. I enjoy cooking, even though I get by most of the time on ready-made meals and take-aways. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for one.’
‘Did you really make that tiramisu?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re not joshing me? It wasn’t from M&S?’
‘How could you?’ Tony affected a pained expression as he sat down beside her. ‘It’s dead easy,’ he said, putting his wine glass and the half-full bottle of Chateauneaf du Pape down on the coffee table. ‘You break sponge fingers into martini glasses and pour cooled espresso over them, then you mix mascarpone cheese, honey and Marsala in a bowl, add a beaten egg white and dollop the mixture over the sponge fingers. Stick them in the fridge for a few hours and dust them with cocoa powder before serving – et voilà!’
‘My God – I’m never, ever going to cook for you!’
‘I’m led to believe you do a mean chilli con carne.’
‘I’m in the same boat as you where cooking’s concerned. I make sure Jamie gets his five a day, but I’m not motivated to prepare anything fancy for myself. I used to enjoy messing about in the kitchen before Paul …’ Sue’s voice tailed off.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, taking a tissue from her handbag and using it to wipe away the tear forming at the corner of her eye. ‘It’s the futility of it… Such a totally unnecessary loss of life,’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘Why was the other guy driving in that state? Why did Paul have to be on that particular stretch of road, at that particular time?’
Tony reached across and took her hand. ‘It can’t be easy for you having to bring Jamie up on your own.’
‘Hey,’ Sue said, pulling back her shoulders and sitting up straight. ‘I didn’t come here tonight for a counselling session. I came to enjoy myself.’
‘How are you doing on that score?’
‘So far,’ she said, squeezing his fingers, ‘so good.’
‘Are you sure I couldn’t tempt you?’ Tony said, holding up the wine bottle.
‘No thanks,’ Sue said, dragging her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear.
Tony put the bottle back down on the coffee table. ‘What time do you have to be back for the sitter?’
Sue shrugged. ‘No time in particular. Jamie’s on a sleepover.’
‘A sleepover?’ Tony nodded slowly. ‘That sounds like a really nice idea,’ he said, draining his wine glass.
‘Remind me, what w
as that song you were singing along to when I arrived?’ Sue asked.
‘When you arrived? I think it must have been The Proclaimers.’
Sue snapped her fingers. ‘Oh yes, I’ve got it.’ Looking Tony straight in the eye, she started to sing softly: ‘“When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you”.’
Malcolm Stuart’s pub crawl had taken him half the length of Byres Road, via The Aragon, Tennent’s and Jinty McGinty’s. It was after ten o’clock by the time he got to The Curlers, where he switched from pints of lager to rum and coke. The bar was crowded and noisy and the heat was making him feel queasy. He finished his drink quickly and went outside, breathing in the cool air deeply. He felt decidedly unsteady on his feet as crossed Byres Road at the pedestrian crossing and headed along Roxburgh Street towards his flat. Whistling an off-key version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, he climbed the tenement staircase. He stood on his doormat, still whistling softly as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his door keys. When he stretched out a hand to steady himself against the door he found himself stumbling forward as the door swung open on its hinges. He rocked back on his heels to try to regain his balance, the tune dying on his lips. He seemed to sober up instantly as a surge of adrenaline pulsed through his body. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Slipping his keys back into his pocket, he crossed the threshold silently. By the light shafting over his shoulder from the outside landing, he could see his CD player lying on the hall carpet, alongside a cardboard box crammed full of his compact discs. His ears strained to detect any sound.
Slipping off his shoes, he moved on tiptoe towards the lounge. He eased open the door and as soon as he took a step inside he was thumped violently from behind, between the shoulder blades. Staggering across the room, he tumbled head over heels over the back of the settee.
He quickly recovered his wind and scrambled to his feet, the sound of footsteps racing down the staircase ringing in his ears. He vaulted the settee and gave chase but by the time he got down to ground level there was no one in sight. He stood in the tenement entrance, hands on knees, panting for breath, as he gazed up and down the deserted street. Turning round, he plodded back up the stairs in his stocking soles. When he examined his front door he saw the lock had been forced with a jemmy.