The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy)

by Mackay, Malcolm

  Forget all that. The priority is getting rid of the guns. Take them to the shed. Better they get found there than in your own flat. He drives to the house. Time is on his side. The beauty of Glasgow being a small city – you never have far to go. He stops down the street from the runner’s house. He has his own gun in his pocket. George’s has been in the glove box since they got into the car. Calum is taking it out, putting it into his other pocket. He can feel the surprising weight of them. He only uses guns for the job, doesn’t like them otherwise. Doesn’t like handling them or having them around. Can never get used to them. Never mind. He’s getting out of the car.

  He’s across the street. Opening the side gate. Making sure it doesn’t creak. Surely the runner is professional enough to oil the gate that his clients have to use. Surely a man of his experience wouldn’t make such a rookie mistake. Silence. Along the back path to the shed. There’s no sign of life in the runner’s house. No sign of life on the street. No lights on. A little moonlight creeps through the clouds. Calum looks at his watch. It’s now getting towards two o’clock in the morning. Things have moved quickly and smoothly. He’ll be home by half past. Faster than he expected. He feels for the panel and pulls it open. There’s a small gap behind, before you feel the inside panel that the runner’s added to make the shed look untouched from the inside as well as out. Calum places the guns carefully inside and slips the panel back into place. It wedges in.

  Now Calum’s back in the car and heading for his brother’s garage. If CCTV picks him up, then it will look odd, him returning a car to the garage in the middle of the night. Too bad. Nothing illegal about odd. Nothing wrong with driving at night. William will have parked Calum’s car out on the street, in the parking bay in front of the garage. He’ll have made as sure as possible that there’s a space nearby. Calum will park the borrowed car in that space, slip the keys into the visor and get into his own car. Again the keys will be in the visor. Then he’ll go home.

  He pulls onto the street where the garage is. A quiet street, gloomy. Used to be full of businesses, full of life. Not any more. The garage, a warehouse and an army-surplus store. There are two people walking along the street. Damn! Can’t be seen changing cars. Who the hell is out and about in this part of town at this time of night? They actually look like a respectable couple as he drives past. Calum reaches the end of the street and goes round the block. By the time he gets back, the couple are gone. He’s pulling up in a parking spot along the street. He slips the keys into the visor and gets out. Glances round – nobody there. He walks along the street and casually opens the door of his car. He’s starting the car up and he’s driving home.

  It all seems too easy. Calum suffers from a natural cynicism. When things go smoothly, he expects something to pop up suddenly and trip him up. There’s no way it should have been that easy. The job he does should never be that easy. And yet, it often is. The majority of jobs he does are simple, effective, quick and trouble-free. Things don’t go wrong. There are no nasty little surprises lurking. There can be. It does happen. But the jobs where things go wrong are a minority, and quite a small one. They’re life-threatening, but rare. As Calum is pulling up outside his own flat, in his own car, he’s thinking that the job shouldn’t be this easy. He doesn’t deserve such an easy time.

  22

  First she memorizes the address Stewart gave her, then rips it into tiny pieces and burns it in an ashtray. If he’s lying about the address, then she’s lost all that she gave him. No, he’s not that smart. Then she calls the police. She has to work herself up, get herself frantic for the phone call. The neighbours might already have called, and it’s because of that fear that she has to call too. She doesn’t want to have to explain why someone else has called, but she hasn’t bothered. Don’t waste time. Don’t leave a gap that needs to be explained between the neighbours’ call and yours. She’s picked up the phone and taken it into the living room, pulling on some clothes while it rings. The woman answers, asks what service Zara requires. Now Zara’s turning it on. Acting. It’s not that she’s not upset, not traumatized. She is, but she feels she needs to show it.

  She’s sitting on the couch, crying into the phone. She’s clothed now. There are lies to tell, and they aren’t going to be easy. The emergency worker on the phone is talking to her, twittering on. Being sympathetic. Trying to get information. She’s trying to calm Zara, and Zara is playing along with that. But she’s thinking. All the time the woman’s talking, she’s thinking about what she can and can’t say. How far out of it can she keep Stewart? She can’t deny that he was at the house, no matter what she told him. The taxi driver saw them. They’ll look for the taxi driver, to ask him if he saw anyone in the area when he dropped them off. Admit that he was here. Helped her get Lewis to the front door, then left.

  Don’t admit that he came into the house. Tell them she got Lewis upstairs herself. Tell them she’s come back down and poured herself a glass of whiskey when someone kicks the door in. One keeps her downstairs at gunpoint, the other goes upstairs. She hears the gunshot. Then they leave. She sits on the couch for a couple of minutes. Shock. Then she calls the police. It’s a good story. It seems good enough. Convincing. She knows it’s not that simple, though. She’s heard so many people say that you can never think straight when you’re under pressure and your heart is racing. She knows this is one such situation.

  There’s a knock on the front door. She hears it being pushed open, footsteps in the hallway. A voice, talking low to someone else.

  ‘Someone’s here,’ Zara says frantically into the phone. She’s making it sound like she’s scared that the killer has come back. Making herself sound like the terrified victim. She knows it’s the police. She knows it, but she doesn’t say so until they appear in the doorway. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, a tone of exhausted relief. ‘It’s the police. Thank God.’ The woman on the other end of the phone says something, but Zara isn’t listening any more. She hangs up the phone.

  One cop she doesn’t recognize. Young, self-confident, a little smug-looking. The other she does. The other is Paul Greig. A lot of people know Paul Greig. A lot more people know stories about him. Everyone knows that he’s bent. She’s met him a couple of times, but not in the last three or four years. He’s always recognizable. Wiry, short figure. Black hair, always a little too long for him. A pinched face, mean-looking. And that scar. Running three inches down his left cheek, a bold red. Nobody knows where it came from, everyone knows him by it. It makes him look dangerous. It makes him look like a criminal in a cop’s uniform. Something many people have accused him of being.

  As soon as they make eye contact, she knows that he recognizes her. They met when she was with Nate. Nobody has a good word to say about the scarred cop, despite him helping many of them. He helped them for money; he cared nothing for their goodwill. Nate was always guarded about his comments regarding people in the business, so she didn’t hear a lot about Greig. Knew he was bent, though. Knew he had done something to help Nate, at least once. Maybe she can play on that in some way. Maybe he can help to make sure that she isn’t put under any pressure by the cops.

  They know that Lewis is a dealer. Was a dealer. They’ll want her to help them. Name names. Tell them where his money is. Tell them where his stash is. Tell them who his supplier is. Tell them who his peddlers are. Some of these things she genuinely doesn’t know. Some of them she does, and doesn’t want to share. You never want to be the person who grasses dangerous people up. Doesn’t matter that you’re a woman. Doesn’t matter that you’re under pressure from the police after your partner has been killed. What matters is betrayal. Betrayal brings revenge. It has to. People must be seen to fight back. So you make sure the police don’t ask you any awkward questions. That’s where Greig could help.

  Zara is moving forward and pushing herself against Greig. He’s taking a step back, unwilling to be the sympathetic one. His young partner is better suited to that role.

  ‘Oh, thank God you�
��re here,’ she’s saying to him, not backing off. ‘I was so scared. They went upstairs. I heard a gunshot. Oh God, I think Lewis is dead.’ She bursts out crying again and leans into Greig. He’s putting a hand on her shoulder now.

  ‘Okay, you’re okay,’ he’s saying, a little roughly. ‘We’re here now, it’s just us.’ He’s turning and looking at the younger cop. ‘Go upstairs – be careful.’ The young cop nods and goes out into the corridor.

  As soon as he hears the young cop’s first step on the stairs, Greig is pushing her away and looking her in the eye. There’s a cynical look, assessing her.

  ‘You’re Zara, right?’

  ‘Yes, Zara Cope,’ she’s saying, still looking tearful. She isn’t going to lie to him; she needs to persuade him to care a damn about her.

  ‘Who’s upstairs?’ he’s asking her now.

  ‘Lewis. Lewis Winter, my partner.’

  He’s nodding his head. He knows who Winter is. He knows what Winter does for a living. He knows what’s probably happened here.

  ‘You used to be with Nate Colgan, didn’t you?’ he’s asking her now.

  Double-edged sword. Maybe he likes Nate. Maybe he owes Nate. Or maybe he hates Nate. Maybe he’d love to do something that would upset him.

  ‘Yes,’ she’s saying, not sure of the consequences. He’s nodding his head in answer.

  The younger cop is already coming down the stairs, talking into the little radio hanging from the front of his jacket. Zara hears mention of a body, but she can’t pick up what else he’s saying. He stops in the corridor, and Greig is turning to join him. They want to talk without Zara hearing. Private conversation. Police matters. She stands in the living room. She’s wearing the clothes she wore to the club; she knows she looks curiously out of place. It’s a middle-class suburban house. It’s a murder scene. She doesn’t belong at either. She feels like she doesn’t belong at either. Seems like she doesn’t have a choice. Get herself out of this situation, and then think about what to do next. Life can’t go on like this. Seems to be a downward spiral.

  Greig comes back into the living room, telling her to sit on the couch. The young cop has gone out the front door, disappearing into the night. Greig sits beside her.

  ‘My colleague has gone to look around the house,’ he’s saying to her. ‘We need to make sure that there’s no further threat, and he’s going to look for any immediate clues. We want to get on their trail as soon as we can, catch them before they can dispose of evidence and whatnot. But then you know how these things work, don’t you, Zara?’

  It’s a very knowing question. She’s looking at him. He has a little smile on his face, like he’s enjoying this. Enjoying the power he has. He sickens her. She’s shrugging her shoulders.

  Greig scoffs a little. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘You see, Zara, I know about you. I know about Winter, what he does. Did. I know that life’s about to get pretty rough for you. I can help you. I can protect you from the worst of it. I’m sure you and me can come up with some way to help each other.’

  He’s looking her in the eye, still smiling. She’s trying to work out what he’s referring to. He’s a crook. Not a surprise that he would want to take advantage of this for money. But is it just money? Didn’t sound like it from his tone. She doesn’t know of him using his position for sex, although he wouldn’t be the first.

  ‘What do you want?’ she’s asking him. You have to make sacrifices.

  He’s leaning back a little now. In control. This is his forte. ‘I know what your partner did for a living. I find it hard to believe that he doesn’t have money tucked away somewhere. Maybe in a bank account. You know what’s going to happen to that money now? We’re going to take it. Proceeds of Crime Act. Do you work, Zara? Do you have any money of your own tucked away?’

  ‘No,’ she’s saying, ‘I don’t.’ Just the money Stewart has. She’s not going to tell him about that. If she can get the money Winter has in the bank as well, it’ll be a bonus. There won’t be fortunes; he never seemed to have more than just enough. Still, something is better than nothing. Greig can be bought with a share of the proceeds, which is a relief.

  ‘And there’s the house,’ Greig is saying. ‘If he’s left it to you, you can sell it, keep the proceeds. Unless my bosses decide to confiscate it. Then you get nothing.’

  She hadn’t even thought of the house. Winter had a mortgage, but he hadn’t paid a lot of it. He was always complaining about the cost, seemed to be struggling to meet it. Still, anything that can be gained from this. It seems wrong to be thinking about this. Wrong to be discussing this so soon. There is no other time. Now or never. It isn’t that she doesn’t care about Lewis. It hurts her that he’s dead. She won’t pretend that she had been in love with him. It had been something else. Comforting. Not perfect, but good. She hadn’t been a perfect partner. She had cheated on him often. She had probably led him into trouble. She doesn’t feel guilty – that was the relationship, and he knew it. He went into it with his eyes open. She had given him some happiness, and she regrets that she couldn’t give him more.

  ‘So, what do you have to say?’ Greig is asking her, looking at her with a fierce expression on his face. He can see that she hasn’t been listening to him. He’s annoyed that she would allow herself to be distracted at a time like this. She’s been around the business long enough to know better than that.

  ‘If you can help me to make that happen, then I can make sure that you get your share,’ she’s saying to him. Her tone is annoyed. He has no right to be superior with her.

  ‘Okay then,’ he’s saying. He sounds angry now. Regretting that he made the offer. He thought she knew better. Thought she was someone with the brain to be useful. Greig is standing up, looking out the window. ‘Did Winter have anything in the house? Drugs? Cash? Anything that might incriminate you?’

  ‘No,’ she’s saying, ‘he never kept anything in the house. He was more careful than that.’

  ‘Good,’ Greig tells her. ‘Means you don’t have to try and get anything out. Now then, I can make sure that you’re not put in a tight spot. I’ll try to make sure you don’t get asked any awkward questions about your role in Winter’s work. Depends who gets the investigation. I can see to it that you don’t lose all the money he had. Keep you on the straight and narrow. I won’t be questioning you – it’ll be a detective. Don’t worry about it, though. I’ll catch up with you when the time is right. You and me can spend some time together. So, tell me what happened tonight.’

  23

  Stewart turns to kiss her one last time, but she’s already closing the door. She’s right, of course; he has to be faster about this. It feels as though an eternity has passed since the gunshot. Since the neighbours heard and called the police. As he tiptoes carefully through the back garden, he has the presence of mind to turn and look at the neighbouring houses. No lights on. No sign of movement. That has to be a good thing. He’s reached the back fence. A tall wooden structure, maybe six feet high. He’s so aware of what’s in his pockets. As he pulls himself up and over the top, he worries that something might fall out. He might leave a clue behind. He might get himself into trouble. He might let Zara down.

  He’s in a dark garden. Hard to get your bearings, especially when you don’t know the area. Trust Zara. She said to go left in the neighbouring garden. Go left and you come out on the next street. Trust her. He’s going left, tiptoeing through the garden. Don’t wake anyone up. Look at your situation, for Christ’s sake. You’re walking through a stranger’s garden, with drugs and money bulging your pockets, having just left the scene of a murder. Okay, don’t think about it. That’s not a healthy thing to look at. Just makes you more nervous. He makes it through the garden and out a side gate. Onto the street. Well lit. Quiet.

  Now he’s a young man, well dressed, in a deserted suburban street. Stewart knows he must look conspicuous. He feels incredibly conspicuous. He’s walking along the street, wondering what he ought to do. Doe
s he get a taxi? There are none around, and he’s not sure where to tell them to pick him up. Does he want a taxi driver to pick him up so close to the scene of a murder? Not really. His heart may be racing, but he’s thinking clearly. He’s excited. He’s enjoying it. By God, he’s enjoying it. Stewart chuckles to himself. He can’t believe it, but this is fun.

  There are no sirens. There are no police rushing to arrest him. He walks for what seems like an age, for what feels like miles, before he begins to gather a sense of familiarity. There are buildings that he’s seen before. He looks at his watch and then looks away. He has no idea what time he left the house, no idea how long it’s been since the shooting. Safe to call a taxi? He knows he’s nowhere near home. Home is a flat in the west of the city, shared with a friend. They’ve been pals since college. Both studied design. Both had wanted to get into the videogame industry when they started. His friend Tom, being much more gifted than Stewart, managed to get the job he wanted. Stewart, on the other hand, was stuck working in advertising. He only left college a year ago and hasn’t given up hope.

  There’s a little bench built into a wall at the side of the street. Presumably for pensioners during the day, although why they would be there he can’t fathom. It’s an area of warehouses and business parks, bustling with work during the day. This is a Friday night, into Saturday morning, and there are only a few cars passing by. Stewart sits on the bench and finds a taxi-firm number in the phonebook of his mobile. He calls it, tells them where to pick him up and waits. Every car passing could be a police car. Every noise could be someone coming to get you. It’s thrilling. He smiles to himself as the taxi pulls up at the side of the road.