‘That important?’ Greig’s asking him, deliberately breaking his train of thought.
‘He wasn’t killed in the dark. Guy didn’t turn up with night-goggles on. The guy had to put the light on to see Winter. Then he put it off again on the way out. How did you find the witness?’
‘She was in shock,’ Greig’s saying. ‘Obviously. Terrified out of her wits, I’d say.’
‘Uh-huh. She didn’t say anything in those first few minutes – anything interesting?’
‘She hardly said anything at all. What she said was just gratitude that someone was there.’
How Fisher wished that Matheson were there by himself. He could talk properly then. He wouldn’t have to put up with Greig interrupting him all the time. Fisher would be able to take the young cop aside and get a real sense of the atmosphere in the house. Get a sense of Cope’s attitude. It might also be interesting to know how she and Greig interacted.
‘You know that nothing was found at the house,’ Fisher is saying.
‘Nothing like?’ Greig’s asking.
‘No drugs. Little money. Nothing of any great value in proving that Lewis Winter was a drug dealer. We all know he was. Did Zara Cope show any worry about hiding anything? Did she mention anything?’
‘Not a thing,’ Greig says.
Fisher’s thinking again. Apparently, Greig’s thinking to himself, Fisher can’t think and keep a conversation going at the same time. Has to stop and make a show of it.
‘How far away were you when you got the call for the shooting? How long did it take you to get to the house?’
‘Four, five minutes,’ Matheson says with a shrug.
If he could find some discrepancy. He knows Cope was on the phone to the operator the whole time. She was still talking to the operator when these two arrived at the house. But how long did she have before she called? That’s the crucial point. Surely one of the neighbours heard the gunshot. If just one of them could put a time on it.
Fisher thanks them for coming up, lets them go on their way. Greig isn’t sure what the hell it was all for – the detective didn’t gain anything from it. Sometimes you can just tell the way a case is going to go. Unless Fisher can find some sort of dead-cert evidence that points to Winter being in a feud with someone, this is already going nowhere. To Greig’s trained instincts, it has the distinct whiff of an investigation that’s decomposing faster than the victim. No evidence found at the scene that can ID the culprits. No eyewitness who can ID the culprit. No evidence to say why the murder took place. All that exists so far is conjecture about Winter being a dealer. He was a dealer, but knowing why someone might want to kill him doesn’t tell you who did it. It’s not impossible that Fisher might catch the people who did it, but it’s already looking less than fifty-fifty.
It’s not his concern. The killers, the victim – they’re for Fisher to entertain himself with. This case seems to hold little importance, as far as Greig can see. Falling into conjecture of his own, he works it all out. Lewis Winter has got hold of Zara Cope. He wants to keep hold of her. Who wouldn’t? He starts living the high life to keep her happy, throwing money around. Maybe he borrows cash. Maybe he takes on a lot of gear from his supplier, on the promise of future sales. Maybe the sales don’t come, the supplier doesn’t want his gear back, he just wants money. Winter doesn’t pay, so he gets a bullet. Or maybe he was fighting so hard to make more money for Zara that he strayed onto patches where he wasn’t welcome. Typical dealer death.
Greig’s interest is in Cope. She’s still at the station. Due to leave in the afternoon. Been interviewed, told every tale she has to tell. Seems to be dealing with the whole thing pretty well. Not obvious yet what she’s going to do with her life. Seems like she was pretty tied up in Winter. Bad move. The guy was a walking disaster zone; girl that smart should have noticed. Now she’s got nowhere to run. The cop looking after her has already put it around that the girl has nowhere to go. Going to dip into her meagre savings to pay for somewhere. Won’t go back to the house. Meagre savings. He finds that hard to believe. She must have something.
30
It’s the middle of the afternoon. It feels like she’s been in that police station for days. They’ve told her all the right things. You can go back to the house tomorrow. Don’t want to. You can rest assured that we don’t think there’s any threat to you. Never thought there was. If there’s anything we can do for you, please come and see us. I won’t. If you remember anything – no matter how insignificant – that you think can help, get in touch. I definitely won’t. If anyone contacts you regarding the murder of your partner and tells you anything that might be of any interest to us, let us know. Wow, you people really don’t know how this world works, do you? She didn’t say these things to them, of course. She nodded along. She was polite. She was the pretty little victim. The tragic case with nowhere to go.
There was a grain of truth in that. She feels tragic. She has nowhere to turn. How can you get this far through life, twenty-eight years, with good looks and a decent brain, and still have nobody to turn to? It doesn’t make sense to her. It should be easier than this. Fine, deal with it. No moping around. No feeling sorry for yourself. You still have to make sure that you get out the other end of this with as much of a cushion as possible.
First step in that is going and seeing Stewart, and getting what she gave him. She’s not in the mood to deal with him. She can picture him pawing at her already, but she doesn’t have a choice.
The address she knows by heart. If he’s lied to her and their paths ever cross again, then she won’t be responsible. By God, she isn’t in the mood to be pissed around by some self-adoring little dweeb, just out of nappies. She walks away from the police station for twenty minutes. There’s an instinctive paranoia. It’s fed into you by the industry she’s lived within for nearly a decade. You get used to thinking of the police as the enemy. You get used to thinking of an enemy as someone sneaky and underhand. Zara can’t shake the feeling that the police might be watching her. Someone following in the middle distance, just close enough to see where she goes and who she talks to. Not impossible. It’s obvious that Fisher doesn’t like or trust her. But she can see nobody out of place behind her.
She’s calling a taxi. What are the odds that it’s the same driver? Slim. It isn’t; this guy’s much younger. She gives him the street that Stewart gave her. The guy drives. He makes idle chit-chat. She wishes he would shut up; she’s trying to listen to what’s being said on the radio. It’s a local radio station. There’s a news report. She can’t hear what they’re saying. It doesn’t sound like there’s anything about the shooting. It’s maybe a little soon. Tomorrow, probably. If Fisher decides to go to the media. Maybe he’ll keep it all under wraps. Some sort of evidence that he wants to use.
The city rolls past her as she sits in the back of the taxi, thinking about it all. She wants them to catch the people who did this. In her heart, she wants them to pay for what they’ve done. Okay, Lewis wasn’t perfect. No angel. Their relationship was hardly perfect, either. It was theirs, though, and nobody else has the right to take it away from them like that. Not perfect, but could have been for life. Now, in the blink of an eye, it’s all gone. The future has gone. They had no right. But her head tells her that she doesn’t want them to be caught. If they’re caught, then you’ll never be able to put all this behind you and get on with your life. They’ll tell about Stewart. She’ll fall into the hole she’s dug for herself. Head rules heart. Stay professional, you murderers, and stay free.
The taxi pulls up in a street she doesn’t recognize. Respectable. Old houses, pre-war. Large. Probably all split into flats. An area full of the aspiring. The first step on a property ladder that will lead to something much grander. Good for them. She’s walking along the street, looking at numbers on gates. She finds the right one. Well-maintained front garden. At the front door there’s a buzzer with four buttons. Four names. She knows she’s looking for Flat C. It has the names Macint
osh and Shields on it. Which one is Stewart? She presses the buzzer.
He sounds almost breathless through the intercom. Tells her he’ll be right down. Through the glass in the door she sees a figure bounding along the corridor to the door. He opens it. He’s grinning. Then he stifles the grin, realizing that it’s not appropriate for the situation.
‘Come in. Come up. It’s so good to see you. How are you?’
Stewart sounds so enthusiastic, no matter how hard he tries to sound sympathetic. He’s been living on his nerves. Sitting at home all day, waiting for the buzzer. Will it be the cops or Zara? Please be Zara. It is. She looks dowdier than she did. No make-up. Plain clothes. Still beautiful. The intoxication of the moment guarantees that, anyway.
He takes her upstairs. He shows her into a sparse but clean flat. Nice, but obviously little lived in. Occupied by two people with better things to do than stay at home. Lucky them.
‘My flatmate’s not here. Just the two of us,’ he’s saying nervously. Maybe that sounds like a come-on – say something else. ‘We can talk freely.’
She’s sitting down at the little kitchen table. He’s sitting opposite.
‘Okay,’ she’s nodding. ‘That’s good. Did you get back okay last night, no trouble?’
Bless her. She’s been worrying about him. ‘Yeah, fine, no bother at all,’ he says, aiming for nonchalance. Better not tell her that he was thrilled by the whole thing. Now’s not the time.
She looks nervous. She’s trying not to look fed up, but he can see it in her. What do you say? So many firsts. First time he’s been in this situation. First time he’s felt this way about a woman. But then, how much of that is real, how much is the thrill? Most of it’s the thrill. She’s pretty, but he’s aware enough to know that it’s not her that he’s falling in love with.
‘So, what do we do now?’ he’s asking. He’s aiming for sympathetic. He’s aiming for conspiratorial. He’s aiming to keep them together.
‘Did you manage to keep what I gave you?’ she’s asking. Down to business.
While he’s disappeared off into another room, Zara’s taking the opportunity to have a look round. Maybe Stewart’s earning reasonable money. Maybe he’s not such a bad option. It’s a boyish flat. The flat of young men who live like young men. Still, potential. Maybe nothing long-term, but useful for a little while. No. Don’t settle for clinging to short-term measures. Don’t fall into any port in a storm. You have to do better. The only way to get a better life is to aim for something better. He’s coming out of the bedroom with the wads of cash and bags of drugs in his hands. He seems to think she’s going to take them as they are.
‘Do you have something I can put them in?’ she’s asking, not bothering to hide her incredulity.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Is it a good thing or a bad thing that he doesn’t know what he’s doing? Good that he’s not likely to try to cut in on business, get involved. Bad that he might not realize the gravity of his situation. She decides she’s going to spell it out. He’s coming back in with a shoebox and a plastic bag. He begins packing it all into the shoebox for her, and she starts to speak.
‘Stewart, you do understand how serious all this is?’
He pauses and looks at her. ‘I heard your partner being shot dead. I don’t suppose it gets more serious than that. I ran away from the scene of a murder with drugs and cash. That’s serious.’
‘Good. It’s important that you realize that this isn’t something to make light of, joke about with your friends. This is the sort of thing that you don’t talk about at all. You need to understand what the consequences will be if you do run off at the mouth.’
He pauses as he’s putting the lid on the shoebox. That sounded a little bit threatening. Is she threatening him to keep his mouth shut? He’s looking at her quizzically. She looks back, maybe guessing what he’s thinking.
‘I’m thinking of you, Stewart,’ she’s saying to him. ‘Me too, I admit, but you have to be very careful now. If the police find out that you were ever there, they will lock you up. You could easily get a couple of years for what you did. I don’t want that. I don’t want to think of you suffering because you wanted to help me.’ There are little tears forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘I feel like I’ve lost so much. I just want to protect the good things that are left.’
He’s getting up and rushing to her, throwing his arms around her as she breaks down. He’s hugging her, telling her all sorts of comforting things that matter little. It sounded so impressive. It sounded like she was throwing herself at him. Like this was going to be a long-running thing. That would be good. He realizes that he does want to be with her. Not just because she’s pretty, but because of the life they could live together. The thrills. More nights like last night. Sex, guns and going on the run. That’s exciting.
That sounded a little stronger than she intended. She’s laying it on too thick. She needs to keep him happy for a while, to make sure he doesn’t make life difficult, but she shouldn’t lead him in directions that she has no intention of going in herself. This isn’t going to be a relationship. In an ideal world, this will be the last they see of each other. That’ll be tough to pull off. He seems a little too interested to just let it go. She’s going to have to be gentle with him. Be careful. Always good advice.
She’s pulling herself away from him now.
‘I’d better go. I have a lot to do.’
‘Oh. Where . . . uh . . . where are you staying?’
‘I’m going to rent somewhere for a few weeks, then take it from there,’ she says, before she has a chance to realize that a lie might be the better approach.
‘Well, you could stay here,’ he’s saying, brightening as he speaks. ‘I’d love to have you here. It would be a great place for you.’ He doesn’t believe that, but he wants her to stay.
She’s already shaking her head. ‘No, it’s not a good idea for us to be seen together so soon. People might ask questions.’
Her instincts are better than his, he must concede that. She’s thinking more clearly, not rushing into things. She’s considering the consequences. She’s getting up and heading for the door. He’s walking behind her, trying to think of something to say that will make an impression. It doesn’t feel like he’s handled this meeting especially well. Say something.
‘I want to help you,’ he’s saying, not knowing where he’s going to go next. ‘I like you a lot. I want to protect you. I want to be there for you.’
She stops and looks up at him. ‘That’s sweet,’ she says and reaches up to kiss him briefly on the mouth. Then she’s out the door.
31
The Heavenly nightclub. Do they have a sense of irony when they name these places? Maybe they realize that their clientele are all pissed when they turn up, so they can’t judge their surroundings. It’ll be dark inside at night anyway – that hides the multitude of heavenly sins. Fisher walks along the edge of the dance floor to the bar. Someone’s cleaning behind it. He hasn’t seen anyone else since he came in. Noticed the CCTV cameras on the outside, though. Good start.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the manager,’ he says brusquely. The stout woman behind the bar looks at him and then points towards a door across the dance floor.
Who does she think he is? She didn’t even ask. Maybe she recognized that he’s a cop. He hates that. Some people pretend they can spot a cop a mile off. He doesn’t believe it. Never has. The cleaner has probably been told not to ask questions of those who come looking for the manager. Never mind. Across the floor and through the door, into a dingy corridor. It doesn’t seem like a building that’s had a great deal of money spent on its upkeep. That’s a concern. First thing to suffer when money is tight is often security. Maybe those cameras don’t even work.
He’s walking down the corridor slowly, inspecting everything, when someone emerges from a room ahead. The man stops and looks at him. Surprised, obviously. Not happy to see someone in the private area of his club.
&n
bsp; ‘Can I help you?’ the man’s asking. Trying to sound hard. Trying to sound like he’s not in the business of helping people. Fisher encounters this a lot.
‘I hope so. Detective Inspector Fisher, Strathclyde Police. I’m looking for the manager.’
‘You found him.’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
The man knows Fisher isn’t here to arrest him; he wouldn’t be by himself if he were.
‘Aye,’ the podgy little man nods, ‘this way.’
Do I know who the manager of Heavenly is? Fisher’s thinking to himself. No. Should I? Maybe. He looks like someone with something to hide. Balding, short in the arse, chubby, mid-thirties at the most. Many people in his business have connections they shouldn’t. A lot of others fear the police because they don’t want their place getting that sort of reputation. Might be nothing.
‘What’s your name?’ Fisher asks him.
‘Adam Jones.’
No bells are ringing. Fair enough. Off the hook. For now.
Into a little office. Small and cramped. Whitewashed walls, a single small window high up on the wall. It feels like someone converted a toilet. Not a sign of a luxurious establishment. He’s been in the offices of club managers before. He can’t remember one like this.
‘Last night a man named Lewis Winter was shot dead in his house. He was here at the club before he went home,’ Fisher says.
‘Okay,’ the man nods needlessly. Trying to show off how casual and relaxed he is. Trying badly.
‘I want to have a look at your CCTV. The killer may have been here too. We’ll want copies of everything you have from last night. Everything.’
The manager leads him along the corridor to another room, the security room. There are two tiny monitors on a rickety table, and a chair in front of it. That’s the extent of the security room.
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Page 14