by Bill Daly
‘Did you not get in touch with your cousin to find out what was going on when you realised the police were involved?’ Charlie asked.
‘I tried calling Malcolm as soon as you left. I wanted to know what the hell he was playing at. But all I got was a message telling me his mobile number was no longer in service.’
‘A complete mystery,’ Tony mused. ‘Where was Tony O’Sullivan last Thursday morning? That appeared to be your Key Question. However, rather than take the word of a trusted colleague, you decided to condemn him out of hand on a mere shred of circumstantial evidence.’ Tony was enjoying himself on the drive back to Glasgow.
‘If you spend half your time shagging barmaids,’ Charlie growled, ‘what else can you expect?’
‘Another totally unjustified assertion, based on no evidence. How was it Doctor Orr described the killer?’ Tony said. ‘Intelligent and self-confident, if I remember correctly. Easy to see how you made the mistake.’
‘Sod off!’
‘So it was Stuart who phoned me last Thursday and sent me off on the wild goose chase to Kilmarnock.’
‘That figures,’ Charlie said. ‘He wanted to make it look like you had made up an excuse to avoid going to St Vincent Street post office in case someone might recognise you – and he also tried to sow a seed in my mind that you could have been responsible for the murder on the train. For that to be even remotely credible, he had to make sure you didn’t have an alibi for the critical period of between twelve and one o’clock on Thursday. What time did you say you got the call?’
‘Just after nine o’clock.’
Charlie nodded. ‘His timing was spot on. If you allow a couple of hours for you to drive to Kilmarnock and back, including enough time to sort things out at the hospital, that would mean you could’ve been back in Glasgow in time to get on board the twelve o’clock train and take out Johnston – and still be able to turn up for our two o’clock meeting.’
‘I must say, he does a good Glasgow accent,’ Tony said. ‘I thought he was Scottish when he phoned me, and so did Ryan Ferrie when he broke into his flat and duffed him up.’
‘Not surprising he can do the accent,’ Charlie said, ‘considering his family come from Ayrshire.’
‘As a matter of fact, he does a good impersonation of you, sir.’ Tony added, grinning.
‘Does he really?’ Charlie grunted. ‘I must ask him to do it for me sometime.’
Charlie pulled up at the bottom of his driveway and switched off the ignition, smiling when he saw Kay’s car parked by the side of the house. He hurried up the drive and turned his key in the lock.
‘Anybody home?’ he called out.
‘I’m in here.’
When Charlie went into the lounge he found Kay sitting on the settee with Blakey curled up in her lap. ‘He’s been complaining vociferously that he hasn’t been getting his share of t.l.c. lately,’ Kay said, stroking gently at the purring cat’s head.
‘Him and me both,’ Charlie said, stripping off his jacket.
Kay lifted Blakey from her lap and put him down gently on the cushion beside her. She got to her feet and stood on tiptoe to give Charlie a kiss and a cuddle. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she said.
‘Can we start with a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Kay said, ‘while you make your peace with Blakey.’
CHAPTER 20
Thursday 30 June
Scotland’s Major Crime and Terrorism Investigation Unit was established in the wake of the unsuccessful attempt to bomb Glasgow Airport in 2007 and, round about the same time, the Scottish Terrorism Detention Centre was set up in a fortified police station in Govan, opposite Bellahouston Park.
In a ground floor interrogation room in the centre of the building, where no natural light could penetrate, Malcolm Stuart sat propped on the edge of an upright chair in front of a rectangular steel desk that was bolted to the floor. Stuart’s right wrist was handcuffed to a rail running along the side of the desk.
The police officer, sitting against the wall of the claustrophobic room, got to his feet when he heard the door being unlocked.
Mitch Kenicer, a squat figure with a bull-like neck and a completely shaven head, acknowledged the officer as he walked in. John Farrell, tall and loose limbed, with a thin face and sharp features, did likewise. Both men were wearing dark suits and open-necked, white shirts.
‘We’ll handle this now,’ Kenicer said. ‘Wait outside.’ The police officer left the room and pulled the door closed behind him.
The spent matchstick between Farrell’s thin lips stopped twirling as he whispered something in Kenicer’s ear, then both men strode across the room and sat down on the opposite side of the desk from Stuart.
Kenicer fixed Stuart with a stare. ‘Where is the anthrax?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The fuck you don’t. Where is the anthrax you took from Pete Johnston?’
‘I took a guy’s attaché case. I’ve no idea what was in it.’
Kenicer exhaled noisily. ‘Okay, let’s start again. What did you do with the case you took from Pete Johnston?’
Stuart hesitated. ‘I don’t have to say anything without my lawyer present.’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Then I’ll wait till he gets here.’
‘This is off the record. That thing isn’t on,’ Kenicer said, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the wall-mounted camera positioned high in the corner of the room, ‘and the recording equipment isn’t switched on, so cut the crap and answer the question.’
‘I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything until my lawyer gets here.’
‘Don’t come the smart arse with me.’ Kenicer slammed his fist down on the desk. ‘I don’t give a fuck about your rights. As a matter of fact, you don’t have any. I want to know what your mates are planning to do with the anthrax.’
‘With a bit of luck, they’ll send it to you in a Christmas card.’
Kenicer leaned across the desk. ‘Listen to me very carefully, you miserable little piece of shit. I don’t give a fuck about what happens to you. You’re going down for life, whether you answer my questions or not. But I need to know what your pals are going to do with the anthrax – and I need to know now.’
‘Why don’t you go and fuck yourself?’
‘That’s not very polite,’ Farrell interjected, the matchstick flicking rapidly from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Do you know where your sister is right now?’ Stuart frowned. ‘She’s on holiday in Mexico,’ Farrell continued. ‘And she’s due to fly home at the weekend. Oh, dear! She’s going to be stopped at customs on the way out of the country – and they’re going to find several thousand pounds’ worth of heroin hidden in the lining of her suitcase. That is not good news.’
Kenicer leaned back in his chair and clasped both hands behind his neck. ‘Which one of them do you reckon will get out of jail first, John?’ he asked.
‘It’ll probably be his sister, sir, but it’ll be a close call.’
‘At least you have the relative comfort of a British jail to look forward to,’ Kenicer said, swinging his legs up onto the desk, ‘whereas your sister will be facing the prospect of spending half her life rotting away in some unspeakably grotty Mexican hell hole.’
‘I hear that good-looking British birds are very popular over there,’ Farrell offered, ‘both with their fellow prisoners and the jailers. It won’t matter much whether she’s lezzie or straight, she’ll never be short of a shag.’
Stuart gripped the side of the desk with his free hand, so hard that his knuckles turned white. ‘You can’t get away with that.’ His eyes were blazing. ‘I’m going to tell my lawyer what you threatened to do and if anything like that happens to my sister, he’ll be able to prove she was framed.’
Kenicer dropped his feet to the floor with a thud. ‘If you tell your lawyer that, of course it won’t happen.’ Kenicer smirked and spread both his arms
wide. ‘But in that case, something else will. What do you reckon, John? Will some deranged bastard throw acid in his sister’s face when she gets back to Brighton? Maybe a nutter will break into her apartment and beat her up and rape her? Or do you think she might be so distraught about her brother being arrested for murder that she’ll top herself by jumping off the end of Brighton Pier?’ Stuart’s hand went limp and all the colour drained from his face. ‘We’re not playing games, Stuart,’ Kenicer snapped. ‘Either you cooperate with us or your sister will suffer the consequences. And once we’ve dealt with her, your mother will be the next one on our list.’
Stuart licked hard at his dry lips. ‘I’ve no idea what they’re planning to do with it,’ he said in a hushed tone.
‘Who are “they”?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t have time for this crap!’ Kenicer yelled.
‘I don’t know any names,’ Stuart protested. ‘There’s a cell system. I only have one contact – and all I know is his codename.’
‘Which is?’
‘Galway Bay.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Nothing. I’ve never met him.’
‘How does he give you your instructions?’
‘He phoned me a couple of couple of weeks ago and told me there was a mission pending which would require someone to be assigned to the Glasgow CID. I volunteered for it.’
‘What was the mission?’
‘I was sent a letter that included a photograph of a middle-aged man. I was told to wait by the ticket barrier of the twelve o’clock train from Glasgow Central to London on the twenty third of June and look out for him. I was told he’d be wearing a red anorak and carrying an attaché case. When I saw him, I was to follow him onto the train. The letter I got included a typed note, purportedly from someone called Hassam Salman, which I was to give to the guy when we were ten minutes out of Glasgow. The note said that I had the keys for the handcuffs attached to his wrist – and it told him to follow me to the toilets and transfer the case to me. When he came to the toilets, I was to kill him, saw off his hand and take the case that was handcuffed to his wrist.’
‘What were you told to do with his hand?’
‘There was nothing about that in the instructions. Taking it was my idea.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to scare the shit out of Anderson.’
‘What did you do with the attaché case?’
‘My instructions were to get off the train at Motherwell and get into a black Ford Focus that would be waiting for me outside the station. I was to put the case under the passenger’s seat and the driver would drop me off at my flat. I’ve no idea what happened to the case after that.’
‘What’s the procedure if you need to get in touch with Galway Bay?’
‘He contacts me. I don’t have any way of getting in touch with him.’
‘Bullshit! You must have some way of contacting your handler in an emergency.’ Kenicer stared long and hard at Stuart as Farrell started whistling a slow, off-key rendition of Down Mexico Way.
Stuart swallowed hard. ‘If I tell you how I contact him,’ he stammered, ‘will you guarantee to leave my sister out of this?’
‘You’re not in any position to negotiate,’ Kenicer said. ‘But what I will guarantee is that, if you don’t tell me how to contact him, your sister will be well and truly fucked. Both metaphorically – and physically.’
Stuart again licked hard at his lips. ‘I’ve got a mobile number I can use in an emergency.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ve got to promise to lay off my sister.’
‘Stop wasting my time, Stuart. Give me the fucking number,’ Kenicer demanded, pulling a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. Stuart recited the number and Kenicer jotted it down. ‘This had better be kosher, for your sister’s sake.’
‘It is.’
‘We’ll be able to trace this cell phone,’ Kenicer stated, tapping the page in his notebook with his pen, ‘but if you fuck things up by trying to contact Galway Bay and warning him off, don’t expect to see your sister again.’
‘One more thing,’ Farrell said as they were getting to their feet, ‘If you want your sister kept out of this, you’d better cooperate fully with Hamilton on the murder enquiries. You’re going down for life whatever happens, so plead guilty to everything he throws at you. The last thing we need is the case going to a trial, and awkward questions about Counter Terrorism Command involvement being asked. That could open up a very unwelcome can of worms.’
Kenicer and Farrell walked across to the door and rapped on it. ‘We might need to talk to him again later,’ Kenicer said to the police officer when he opened up, ‘but for now, you can tell Hamilton he’s all his.’
The fishing vessel was ploughing its way through the heavy waters of the North Atlantic, under the influence of a strong westerly wind. Roman Bespalov was at the wheel when Dimitri Ryleev came up from below to tell him there was a call for him from Mitch Kenicer. Bespalov handed control over to Ryleev and went down the spiral staircase to his cabin to take the call.
‘What can I do for you?’ Bespalov asked. The radio signal was strong.
‘Have you sent the Fermanagh Freedom Fighters the combination for the briefcase?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You must not send it to them.’
‘“Must not?” Did you just say “must not”? Surely what you mean is – you would prefer me not to send it to them? And if I agree to that – you would like to give me something in return.’
Kenicer hesitated. ‘How much?’
‘I like to deal in round numbers. Let’s say – another ten percent.’
Kenicer cursed under his breath. ‘If I go along with that,’ he said, ‘will you guarantee not to send the Irish the combination for the case?’
‘If the money is in my Swiss account within the next twenty four hours, I’ll give you an unequivocal guarantee that the FFF will never be able to use the anthrax. You have my word on that. The word of an officer – and a bastard.’ Bespalov laughed as he broke the connection.
There were four chairs lined up behind the one-way mirror that looked down on the detention centre interview room where Malcolm Stuart was handcuffed to the table. He was deep in whispered conversation with Tom McPherson when Nigel Hamilton walked through the door. Charlie settled on the chair at the end of the row behind the mirror, Tony O’Sullivan by his side. Stuart broke off from speaking to McPherson when he saw Hamilton come in. He looked at Hamilton warily as he crossed the room and sat down on a chair on the opposite side of the desk.
‘My client was subjected to interrogation before I arrived, Superintendent,’ McPherson stated. ‘The Supreme Court ruling in Crown versus Cadder in 2009 specifically states that the right of a prisoner to have a lawyer present at all times while being questioned applies also in Scotland. May I therefore remind you that anything my client may have said before I arrived is not admissible in evidence.’
‘Do you want to file a complaint, Stuart?’ Hamilton asked, loosening his tie knot. Stuart gave a surly shake of the head. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘let’s get on with it.’ Hamilton switched on the wall-mounted camera and activated the audio recording system. He slid the microphone to the middle of the desk. ‘This is the recording of an interview with Malcolm Stuart by Superintendent Nigel Hamilton on Thursday, 30 June, commencing at –’ He broke off to check his watch. ‘Commencing at nine fifteen a.m. Also present is Tom McPherson, Malcolm Stuart’s lawyer.’
Hamilton took a sheet of paper from his briefcase and smoothed it out on the desk in front of him. ‘Malcolm Stuart, you have been formally charged with the murders of Irene McGowan, Zoe Taylor and Pete Johnston, and you will also be charged with the murder of Terry McKay. How do you intend to plead?’
Stuart exchanged a quick glance with McPherson. ‘Guilty,’ he mumbled.
‘To all four murders?’ Stuart nodded his head.
Hamilton referred to the questions on his sheet of paper. ‘Is Campbell your real name?’
‘My name is Malcolm Stuart. It would have been Campbell – if Anderson hadn’t murdered my father.’
‘DCI Anderson was instrumental in convicting your father of terrorist-related activities. He had nothing to do with his death.’
Stuart’s gaze was steely. ‘You have no idea how much I hate that bastard.’
Hamilton held his stare. ‘On the morning of 23 June, the day you murdered Pete Johnson, did you phone DS O’Sullivan and send him to Crosshouse Hospital in Kilmarnock on a wild goose chase?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘So he wouldn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder.’
‘Was it your intention to implicate him?’
‘He calls himself a Fenian!’ Stuart spat out the words. ‘He’s a traitor!’
‘Consider yourself well and truly put in your place,’ Charlie said, as an aside to Tony.
Charlie’s attention was grabbed by Hamilton’s next question. ‘Did you send a letter to DCI Anderson’s daughter, threatening her son?’ Charlie moved onto the edge of his chair.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you subsequently phone his daughter and try to frighten her?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you obtain her address and her phone number?’
There was a smirk on Stuart’s face. ‘From Anderson himself.’
‘What the hell is he talking about?’ Charlie’s fists bunched.
‘Explain what you mean.’
‘The first time I went to see Anderson, he left me alone in his office while he went for a leak – something about a problem with his prostate. He’d left his jacket over the back of his chair, so I took the opportunity to go through his pockets. I came across his address book and I used my phone to photograph all the pages.’