It’s turning into a curiously nervous conversation. Each man seems to be trying to hide much from the other. They both know it.
‘Do you know much about the case?’ Shug is asking him. ‘I’d like as much detail as I can get.’
Greig’s nodding, playing along. Still unsure what Shug’s motives are. ‘I know Winter and his girl were out clubbing. They came home. Winter was pissed out of his skull. She dumps him upstairs, goes back down. Two guys kick the door in. They don’t say anything, they’re well covered up. One goes upstairs and shoots him. He was passed out, they say. Wouldn’t have seen it coming. Certainly didn’t put up a fight.’
The last question. The one that matters most. ‘So, do they have any idea who might have done it? Do they know what it was about?’
Greig’s shrugging his shoulders. A little petulance in response to what feels like a stupid question. ‘Drugs, obviously. Winter was a dealer. Sooner or later he was going to upset the wrong person. That’s how it goes in that business. You’re always playing with fire. We’re not aware of any other reason that someone might want him dead.’ He’s pausing. ‘Are you?’
Shug’s shaking his head. ‘No, no. I suppose that’s what it probably was.’
Greig’s making his way back down the path to his car. Not concerned with looking at the cars in the driveway any more. Concerned with the man who owns them. Why the hell is Shug Francis interested in the death of Lewis Winter? It shouldn’t matter. Out of his sphere. Not his problem. But he’s making it his problem. You start asking questions about a dead guy, and people start to think you’re somehow involved. Shug knows that, Greig’s thinking as he gets into his car. He knows that by asking questions he’s getting involved in something serious. Something that goes beyond his comfort zone. Greig’s driving along the street and a worrying thought is settling in his mind. Shug is involved. Somehow he’s involved in the death of a dealer. Either he had him killed, or Winter was killed because of him.
33
Who do you go to? You can’t do it all by yourself. You have two bags of drugs that are worth some money, but you must get rid of them. You have to find a buyer quickly, before someone catches you out. The money you put in a bank. You set up a new account. You don’t hold onto it, though, that’s the worst-case scenario. You can’t be found with unexplainable money. So you need help. You need someone else to go to the bank and set up the account for you. You need someone else to take the drugs off your hands. The police won’t be far away. They’ll stay close for some time. They’ll want to speak to you regularly, every time they turn up a new piece of evidence.
Sitting in a strange flat. Looking at a bleak future. Picking out the people who could help. Zara knows people. She hasn’t spent so long hanging around these men without knowing who matters. She could go to someone near the top of the tree. A big mover. They could give her protection, but what does she have to offer them? Herself? No, she’s not offering, and she’s realistic enough to know it wouldn’t be enough. They’re not going to risk getting involved in a murder case just for her. The drugs aren’t worth enough for them. The information about Lewis and his contacts that she could give them wouldn’t be worth enough. It has to be someone more easily impressed.
There are many of them. The industry is full of the impressionable, the deluded and the easily led. It’s never hard to find someone willing to take a risk. A pretty girl, the chance of making some money – there are plenty of men who would be suckered by that. Stewart? No, has to be someone inside the business. He took the drugs and cash, but that was then. He needed to get out of the house to protect himself. Selfish. She was standing naked in front of him. Easily led. He’s a last resort. It would be easy if it were him. An innocent mind. A blank canvas. Perhaps. Just perhaps.
Someone in the business. Someone who would know how to handle this. Two people spring to mind. Two people she knows would help. Each sends a shiver through her, but for different reasons. One is Marty Jones. A pimp. A loan shark. A scumbag of the very lowest order. He’s sniffed around her a couple of times in the past. He’d have no problem handling the cash and the drugs. He’s well connected. Does a lot of work for Peter Jamieson. The prospect of working with him is sickening. She knows what he would want in exchange. Maybe worse than that. Maybe worse than just sleeping with him. He sends a lot of women into the world of prostitution. High-class parties for rich arseholes. Good women. Women who had no intention of falling into so dark a world. No, the price would be much too high.
The other option is scarcely more appealing. Nate. Nate Colgan. The father of her child. The man with whom she spent years of her life. A man she loved, to a point. A man she feared in the extreme. He never hit her. Not once. He just hit everyone else instead. A cold man of terrifying brutality. He seemed emotionally dead so much of the time they were together. Just glimmers that there was a human heart in there. A practical man. He gets things done. That’s why so many people hire him. But they’re all afraid of him too. That’s why he never lasts anywhere. Why no relationship he’s ever had has lasted. He fears himself. He never said it, he would never be that open, but she saw it in him. He fears what he might do, and what he might do to someone he loves.
It has to be Nate. She knows that he’ll help. He won’t ask for anything in return. She’s given him a daughter he loves and visits every weekend. That buys her the help she needs. She’s asked nothing of him until now.
Getting the shoebox. Out of the flat. Along the road to the bus stop at the corner. Taking the bus to the east end. Funny how people drift apart. For so long she had been afraid of splitting with Nate. Afraid of his reaction. But he had known it was time. He accepted it. She had thought he would try to keep in touch, try to win her back. But no, that hadn’t happened, either. He had let her go. Almost as if he didn’t much care any more.
Now she’s going to him for help. As she walks up the path to the door of his terraced house, in an ugly part of the city, she’s wondering if he’ll even want to help. Surely. They have a connection. She’s looking at her watch. Nearly ten o’clock at night. It’s dark. There’s the familiar noise of kids shouting in the distance. He might not be at home. There’s no doorbell that she can see, so she knocks. She waits. Nervous. Wishing she’d made more effort with her appearance. Would that matter? It’s not as though she has anything he hasn’t seen before. What if he has a girlfriend? She has no idea. He might have a woman in there with him. She knocks on the door again. This is feeling like a bad idea. The idea of manipulating Stewart to help suddenly appeals more. A harmless character. A decent human being. He likes her. He revelled in the occasion. He could be persuaded. A light comes on. The door opens.
Nate’s standing there, looking back at her. That stern face. Handsome, but never inviting. His expression doesn’t change when he sees that it’s her. Is he happy to see her? Who could guess from that look in his eye? Just looking at her, as if he’s judging her.
‘Hi, Nate, it’s me, Zara.’ She says it with a giggle. That’s nerves, not flirting. He’s not susceptible to flirts, and she knows it.
He nods his head. ‘You’d better come in,’ he says and steps aside. It’s funny, he looks the same as ever, but he sounds older. He’ll be thirty-five now. He always had the blunt, dark and slightly lined look of a man in his early forties. A man of the world. A man who knows things worth knowing. His voice is a little gruffer now. More strained.
Into the house. Into the living room. Zara stops. Toys on the floor. A doll’s house with little animals in it. A little stable with plastic horses. She looks back at Nate as he follows her into the room.
‘I’ve just put her to bed,’ he’s saying without concern. It all seems easy to him, but it scares Zara. Would her daughter even recognize her? She doesn’t want to find out. ‘I’ve got her for the weekend. Your parents are on holiday. Lake District. Back on Monday.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Zara’s saying hurriedly, letting him know that she’s not here to see the child.
He’s a very intelligent man. Reads books in his spare time. She always thought him an intellectual. Speaks very well for a man of his background too. All that adds to the sense of intimidation that he provides. He nods to a chair, an instruction to sit. He does the same.
‘I heard about Winter,’ he’s saying. He’s keeping his voice down, doesn’t want his little girl woken for no good reason.
‘Word travels fast round here,’ she’s saying with a sigh.
‘It does.’ He says nothing else. He’s putting all the pressure on her. He has an idea of why she might be here, but he doesn’t see why he should make it easy for her. Let her explain things. Let her do the hard work.
She’s usually so confident. Even when she’s not, she’s usually so good at faking it. She’s looking at Nate and wondering why she can’t manage to fake it now. She used to be able to, even with him. So what’s changed? It’s because he doesn’t care. When they each cared about the other, she could control him. Not any more. Time has taken him outside her reach.
‘I’m in a wee bit of a corner,’ she’s saying. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to the house and the money Lewis had. I won’t get it soon, if I get it at all. I have some things,’ she’s saying, and she pats the large handbag on her knees. ‘Some cash. Some . . . merchandise. I need help with it. I need help from someone I can trust. Otherwise I have nothing to live on.’
He’s sitting and listening to her, but he’s not reacting. There’s no change in his expression. Nothing. It’s as if he wants to make her suffer. Does he even know how to behave properly with people any more? So much time spent intimidating.
‘You want me to set up an account, sell the drugs, put the money in the account.’ Not a question, a statement of fact.
‘Yes. I need your help with this.’
‘You have no one else who can help you?’
‘No,’ she says in a whisper. She knows he’s not asking in order to humiliate her. He’s asking her because he’d rather she turned to someone else.
Zara sits and waits for him to say something. She thinks Nate wants her to go somewhere else because he doesn’t care about her. She’s wrong. Very wrong. He wants her to go somewhere else because he does care about her. He still loves her. He assumes that he always will. But she’s bad news. Not for him; he can handle her and, indeed, far worse demons than her. But she’s bad for Rebecca, their daughter. His first responsibility is to her. If Zara comes back into his life, then she comes back into Becca’s as well. He doesn’t want that. He wants better for his little girl. But he can’t just leave Zara to the wolves. There are so many people in this business who could take advantage of her, if he doesn’t help.
‘What have you got?’ he’s asking her, leaning forward to see.
Zara takes the shoebox out of her bag and opens it. Two wads of cash, two plastic bags. Coke and methamphetamines. She places them on the coffee table.
He’s looking, and nodding his head. ‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll set up an account on Monday morning. Get the money safe, as quick as possible. The rest will take longer. I’ll find someone safe to sell it through. You won’t get full value, not for a one-off provision. You’ll do all right out of it, though.’
She’s nodding enthusiastically. ‘I get that, but anything would help. Right now I’ve got next to nothing, so . . . ’ She trails off in a shrugging embarrassment.
There’s a moment of silence. As far as Nate is concerned, this meeting is over.
‘When will I?’ she says, pointing to the coffee table.
He shrugs. ‘Say, a week Monday. Come round then and I’ll let you know how it’s gone. You might want to leave the money in the account for a couple of months, until you can be sure the cops aren’t watching you. Aren’t watching the account, either.’
‘I don’t think they are watching me. I’m a witness. I’m not a suspect.’
Nate looks at her. There’s a little hint of disgust in his expression, but only a hint. ‘You’re the girlfriend of a dead drug dealer. They will be watching you. You know things they want to know, and they’ll keep watching you until they know they can’t get anything from you.’
He’s showing her to the door, giving every impression of a man fed up of her company. When he closes the door behind her, she finds herself out in the front garden, unsure of how she feels. She’s glad to have his help, but his warning rings in her ears. The police will be watching you. The spectre of DI Fisher looms somewhere in the city, and she has a horrible feeling that she’s not going to be able to shake him off. Nate knows these things. As Nate closes the door he pauses. Zara, back in his life. Help her, and then let her go. She’s so entirely selfish; once she’s been helped, she’ll be gone again. Keep her away from Becca.
34
Phoning round taxi firms, finding out who was working the club on Friday night. It feels like plod’s work. It’s being in the office that does it. Fisher hates being in there. Some detectives love it. Some hide away in the office, scared of going out among the people. Clinging on by their fingernails. Desperately hoping to survive until retirement and pension. How they made it this far, he cannot fathom.
First couple of calls draw a blank. Third call, and success. Yes, they had a couple of people working that area. Yes, they regularly do. Yes, they can give him the numbers of the two drivers who might have carried those passengers.
Half eight in the evening. Neither driver is apparently working tonight. Fisher calls the first. Gets a grumpy reception. Would rather be doing this face-to-face, but he needs to find the right person first. Fellow says no, he doesn’t remember picking up a young couple and an older man. Goes off on a rant about a fat woman being sick in the back of his car, and a young couple behaving like animals. Feral scum, he’s saying, and then something about not having any shame. The police need to do something about it. Fisher hangs up. His patience with people who aren’t useful only goes so far. He rings the second man. Better reception. More polite.
‘I’m looking for the driver that picked up a young couple and an older man from the front door of Heavenly at about twelve forty-five.’
There’s a pause, the cogs are turning. ‘Yeah, I think I remember that. Yeah, I think that was my pickup. The older guy was out on his feet, the other two weren’t so bad.’
‘I’m glad I’ve caught up with you. When can you come into the station to have a word with me about them? You see, they were involved in a crime not long after you dropped them off, so I’d like to chat about them. It shouldn’t take long.’
Another pause. People are always reluctant to get involved, even when they’ve done nothing wrong and they know they can help. ‘I suppose tomorrow. Any time after four tomorrow.’
Fisher arranges it. That’s for tomorrow. What about tonight? Find the cop who was looking after Cope and kick her right up the arse. He was sure Cope had suggested that she wasn’t going to go back to the house. She had left the station and gone off the radar. The useless plod had said that Cope was planning to go back to the house in the next few days. Bollocks! Now he has to find Cope. Time to put her under a little pressure. Catch her while she’s still feeling the nerves of the incident. She’s a liar. It’s just a question of what she’s lying about. No progress on an ID for the younger man, either. People looking into that. Find out if he’s in the industry. Find out if he’s a potential killer.
A stroke of luck. Putting out calls to a few contacts working in hotels didn’t throw up anything, but the first call to a rental agent hits the target. Magnificent. Cope’s taken a little flat in the west end. Nice place, cash up front. So she’s got a little bit of money from somewhere after all. Easy to find her. Get out of the station. A chance to get some almost-fresh air. Out into the city, onto the street, where police work should be done. He’s falling into an idealistic mood as he gets into his car and pulls away from the station. Found the taxi d
river. Found Zara Cope. Two little strokes of luck, just need a third to get the young man. And Zara can provide us with that.
After a fashion, he finds the flat. Hidden away, built-up area. Nice little street, though. Small flat, but respectable enough to command a respectable price. He’s knocking on the door. Nothing. He rings the doorbell, waits thirty seconds. Still nothing. So he’s knocking on the door again. There’s no sound coming from the flat, no sign that there’s anyone at home. The poor little wretch, with no money and no one to turn to, suddenly has money and places to go. Don’t jump to conclusions. That’s reckless. That’s what gets good coppers into trouble. No assumptions.
She made it sound like she would struggle to find help, but she still has family and presumably some friends. There was one friend at the house before they went to the club. So someone could easily help her out with cash. Her parents are alive and looking after her kid. There’s the father of the kid. Nate Colgan. Apparently they’re not in touch any more. Shame. Fisher would love to be able to take Colgan on with something concrete. Get that evil bastard behind bars, where he belongs. One day. For now, it’s time to set a little test for Miss Cope.
Knocking on the neighbour’s front door. Wait thirty seconds. The door opens. A suspicious old woman looks out. Excellent, just what he was hoping for. Some gossipy old biddy who’ll make a big deal out of everything.
‘Excuse me, dear, my name is DI Fisher, Strathclyde Police. I’m looking for the young woman who’s just moved in next door. Do you know if she’s in?’
‘I don’t. I don’t. Is she in trouble?’ she’s asking, and her eyes are getting a little wider. A bit of scandal. A lovely bit of juicy scandal to tell the world about.
‘Not necessarily, no. But can you do me a favour? When you see her, let her know that I was round.’
‘I will,’ the old lady’s saying as Fisher is turning away and going back down the stairs.
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Page 16