Black Mail (2012)

by Daly, Bill

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, sir. I’m pretty sure all the cleaners know by now.’ Porter left the office with a smirk on his face.

  ‘How much longer am I going to have to put up with this snash?’

  ‘I’m thinking of including the incident in my “things not to do” section in the next graduate trainees’ seminar. An excellent case study – you could be immortalised.’ O’Sullivan let out a snort. ‘Should you be here?’ Charlie asked. ‘Are you not still signed off?’

  ‘The doc said I could go back to work as soon as I felt up to it. But if I’m going to have to suffer this crap I think I might have a relapse.’

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get the coffees in and I’ll fill you in on what’s been happening. By the way, we got a breakthrough. A student has come forward to tell us she saw a Jag with LAM in the licence plate – which matches Ramsay’s car registration – parked in Kelvin Way at eight o’clock on the morning of the murder. And the icing on the cake is that Mrs Ramsay is prepared to testify that her hubby was out of the house at the time of the murder.’

  Charlie was briefing O’Sullivan when Donald Porter arrived back in the office carrying an armful of photographs. He spread them out in two rows on the desk.

  ‘That lot,’ he said, indicating the top row, ‘are downloads from paedophile internet sites. Disgusting – but we’ve seen most of them before. These,’ he said, pointing to the bottom row, ‘seem to be the same guy screwing several different women.’

  ‘This is our friend, Simon Ramsay,’ Tony said, picking up one of the prints and examining it.

  ‘He seems to be a fan of home movies,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you recognise any of the women?’

  O’Sullivan studied each photo in turn. ‘This one’s Laura Harrison,’ he said, holding up a print. ‘I don’t know any of the others. He seems to be the type who likes to watch himself perform,’ Tony added drily.

  ‘And this particularly nauseating specimen,’ Porter said, dangling a print from his fingertips at arm’s length, ‘was attached to an email sent to him on the fifteenth of December by someone calling himself Liam Black. The email was a barely coded blackmail threat.’

  Charlie took the photo and examined it. ‘This explains a lot,’ he said. ‘This is the photo the blackmailer sent to Ramsay, but he knew if he showed this to Laura Harrison there was no way she’d get involved. So he printed off a different photo from his collection – one of Laura and him in bed together – knowing there was nothing she wouldn’t do to avoid her husband seeing it – even to the extent of hiring a hit man to kill the blackmailer.’

  ‘What a charming guy!’ Tony said.

  ‘What age do you reckon that lassie is?’ Charlie asked, shaking his head in disgust as he handed the print across.’

  ‘At a guess, about eleven or twelve,’ Tony said. ‘She looks Asian.’

  ‘Check with the airlines, travel agents, the passport office etc. Find out if Ramsay’s been to Asia anytime in the past few years and, if so, when it was and who he went with. Anything else for us, Donald?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I did a scan to see if there were any more deleted emails from Liam Black on Ramsay’s computer. I found one – sent yesterday. I’ve printed it out for you. This time the blackmail threat was spelled out in no uncertain terms. I’ve done a trace on the source of both these emails via the service provider,’ Porter added. ‘The first one was straightforward enough. It was sent from the computer that was brought across from the Harrison’s house. However, the second email sent yesterday was routed through Serbia and Georgia and the trail fizzles out somewhere in Latvia. Whoever sent that one certainly didn’t want it to be traced.’

  ‘What about Harrison’s computer? Did you find anything incriminating on it?’

  ‘No, but that’s a different kettle of fish. It looks like a lot of stuff has been deleted recently, but by someone who knew what he was doing. He didn’t just suppress the file allocation table, he overwrote the data on the hard disk several times with a random binary series of zeroes and ones. I’ll have another go at it, but I’m not optimistic about being able to re-create any of the files.’

  ‘Issue a warrant for Ramsay’s arrest, Tony,’ Charlie said, ‘and tell them to let me know as soon as he’s apprehended. I want to spoil his Christmas personally. Christ, is that the time?’ he said, glancing at his watch and getting quickly to his feet. ‘I’d better get my arse in gear. There’s something I have to do this afternoon and it’s more than my life’s worth to be late home tonight. Kay and I are taking Sue and Jamie to the panto.’

  ‘What’s on?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Pantomime isn’t at all my cup of tea. I could well do without spending the evening surrounded by a bunch of screaming kids, but such are the joys of a family Christmas,’ Charlie said, pulling on his coat. ‘What are you up to tonight?’

  ‘Tony hesitated before answering. ‘Not a lot’. He gave a shrug. ‘I think I might take a wander down the pub.’

  ‘Lucky so-and-so!’

  *

  Charlie Anderson parked outside Parkhead police station and walked up to the reception desk. The duty sergeant recognised him.

  ‘I suppose you’re here to see our high-profile prisoner, sir?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘I’d like a word with him.’

  ‘Tommy!’ he called out. ‘Inspector Anderson’s here. He wants to see McAteer.’

  The uniformed officer opened up the cell and ushered Charlie inside, locking the door behind him. Billy McAteer was lying on his back on the low bed, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

  Charlie stood in the doorway. ‘You’re going down for a long stretch this time, McAteer.’ McAteer twisted his neck to see who it was, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up straight. ‘Laura Harrison’s confessed to hiring you to bump off her old man,’ Charlie said, ‘and we can link the murder weapon to the gun used to kill your uncle, Harry Robertson, twenty years ago. We also have a police witness who saw you assaulting Mrs Harrison after she paid you off.’

  McAteer stared unblinkingly. ‘I suppose I might as well plead guilty then,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Out of consideration for the taxpayer?’

  McAteer snorted. ‘I canny be arsed goin’ through all that palaver in court – especially when the result’s a done deal. Anyway, I want to be back in the Bar-L in time for the Hogmanay party. I haven’t missed one of them in years.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty more to look forward to. Tell me something,’ Charlie said, ‘was Laura Harrison acting on her own?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Was it her idea to have her husband bumped off, or was there someone else in it with her?’

  McAteer showed his yellow teeth in a cold smile. ‘Even if I happen to know the answer, what makes you think I’d tell you?’

  ‘It might stand in your favour if you were to cooperate.’

  ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘Don’t you want to help Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘Why should I give a monkey’s about what happens to her?’

  ‘Her uncle’s the grand master of the Falkirk lodge. I thought you might want to help out one of your own?’

  McAteer chortled. ‘If you’d telt me he was the governor of Barlinnie I might’ve been interested.’

  ‘The guy we suspect of putting Mrs Harrison up to it has the nasty habit of interfering with kids.’

  McAteer studied Charlie suspiciously. ‘An’ you wouldny be sayin’ that just to get me to cooperate?’

  Charlie held McAteer’s one-eyed stare and slowly shook his head. ‘Not my style.’

  McAteer sucked hard on his teeth and got to his feet, stretching his back. ‘She did say something about a friend of hers bein’ blackmailed.’

  ‘Did she mention a name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if the friend was male or female?’

  McAteer paused. ‘It was a bloke who brought the briefcase to Kelv
ingrove Park.’

  ‘Briefcase?’

  ‘When we set Harrison up, a guy came to the park with a briefcase that was supposed to contain the pay-off money.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘I didny see him. I was underneath the bridge.’

  ‘How do you know it was a bloke?’

  ‘I heard him wheezin’ an’ coughin’ – sounded like he was a heavy smoker.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Charlie turned round and rapped twice on the cell door.

  As Charlie was walking out, McAteer called out after him. ‘If you do manage to nick this punter, be sure to send him to the Bar-L. I’ll have a nice wee welcomin’ committee waitin’ for him.’

  Charlie’s mobile rang as he was hurrying back to his car. Pulling the phone from his coat pocket he cursed when he saw the call was from DS Hamilton. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

  ‘Where are you?’ Hamilton demanded.

  ‘Over in Parkhead. I’ve just been to see McAteer.’

  ‘Get across to the City Chambers as quickly as you can.’

  ‘What’s the panic?’

  ‘Santa Claus walked into the building half an hour ago and whipped a sawn-off shotgun out of his sack. He’s taken a councillor and three admin staff hostage and he’s holding them in a ground-floor office. A negotiating team have established phone contact with him. He wants a statement transmitted live on Reporting Scotland tonight. He asked for you by name and he insists that you’re the only person with whom he’ll discuss terms for releasing the hostages. We’ve nothing more than that to go on.’

  ‘Tell them I’m on my way.’ Charlie broke into a wheezing trot as he headed towards his car. ‘What it is to be popular,’ he sighed as he fumbled with his phone to call home.

  ‘Hi, Tom!’ Tony O’Sullivan exclaimed as he walked through the doors of Òran Mór. ‘Fancy bumping into you here.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Tom Freer said, half getting to his feet.

  ‘Off duty, Tom – it’s Tony.’

  ‘Sure … Tony. This is Mel,’ he said, indicating the attractive brunette sitting by his side. Tony took her hand in a firm grip.

  ‘This wouldn’t happen to be the Tony who sent Tom home rolling drunk on Sunday night, by any chance?’ Mel said.

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ Tony grimaced and held up a hand by way of apology. ‘I see you managed to find this place quickly enough, Tom.’

  ‘Colin Renton told me it was one of the best pubs in the west end.’

  ‘It is. And it’s my local to boot. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Tony asked, pointing to the half-full glasses on the table in front of them.

  ‘It must be my round,’ Tom said.

  ‘Plenty of time for that. What are you drinking?’ he insisted.

  ‘I’m on Stella,’ Tom said.

  ‘How about you, Mel?’

  ‘A half of the same, please.’

  Tony fought his way through to the crowded bar and returned with their drinks balanced on a tray. As he sat down on the available stool he felt in his jacket pocket and produced his mobile. ‘I hereby declare Christmas to be officially started,’ he announced, ostentatiously switching off his phone and dropping it back into his pocket.

  ‘How long do you have off?’ Mel asked.

  ‘Just Christmas Day and Boxing Day – then back to the grind on Monday,’ Tony said, raising his pint to eye level. ‘Cheers!’

  *

  Keith Glancey arrived early at Ralston Golf Club for Jim Cuthbertson’s sixty-fifth birthday dinner. Being in charge of organising the event, Glancey had booked the private function suite. A large round table had been installed in the centre of the room to accommodate ten couples and Glancey had arranged for a Michelin-starred chef and his team to take over the kitchen for the evening.

  Jim Cuthbertson and his wife, Pamela, came into the room while Glancey was referring to his seating plan and putting out the place setting cards.

  ‘Make sure you don’t put Sheila next to Malcolm,’ Cuthbertson called across. ‘They’re having an affair.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Just kidding.’

  Glancey shook his head and smiled as he walked round the table to take Cuthbertson’s proffered hand in a firm Masonic shake. ‘You had me going there, Jim.’ Glancey hesitated. ‘If you’d rather we postponed the dinner, Jim, everyone would understand. Given what’s happening with Laura,’ he muttered, fiddling with his bow tie.

  Cuthbertson gazed at the immaculately set table. ‘Not after all the trouble you’ve gone to, Keith. Anyway, it’s not as if cancelling the dinner would do Laura any good. And I can just imagine the look on Malcolm’s face if you told him he had to find somewhere else to eat on Christmas Eve at five minutes’ notice.’

  When Cuthbertson saw Nigel Hamilton and his wife arrive he went across to greet them. ‘Glad you could make it, Nigel,’ he said, taking his outstretched hand.

  ‘Terrible business,’ Hamilton said quietly.

  Cuthbertson nodded. ‘Not made any easier by the pig-headed attitude of your Inspector Anderson. He seems hell bent on letting Ramsay walk away from everything and leaving Laura to carry the can.’

  Hamilton frowned and nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with him, Jim.’

  Cuthbertson’s mobile rang. Having checked who was calling, he made his excuses and went out into the hall.

  ‘I’ve found Ramsay’s car, boss. It’s in the underground car park at the office.’

  ‘Any sign of the cops snooping around?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see.’

  ‘If his car’s there, he won’t be far away. You know the pubs he hangs out in. Get the guys to check them out and as soon as he’s spotted get Sam Davis down there straight away.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Simon Ramsay had driven to the lowest floor in the car park beneath his office block and had spent the night slumped in the driver’s seat, the little sleep he’d been able to snatch being disrupted by nightmares. He’d stayed huddled in the car until early afternoon before getting out and wandering around the city centre, moving from pub to pub, never staying in the same place for more than an hour.

  When he arrived at The Horseshoe just after six o’clock he found the place heaving with noisy office workers celebrating the start of the Christmas break. He elbowed his way through the crowd to order a Peroni, then threaded his way to the far end of the bar where it was quieter. Managing to find a bar stool, he perched on it as he sipped at his drink while staring round the room through unseeing eyes.

  He was on his second beer when he felt a tug on his jacket sleeve. ‘It is Simon Ramsay, isn’t it?’ Ramsay looked at him vacantly. ‘Sam Davis. You must remember me? University.’

  Ramsay gave a wan smile in recognition. Sam Davis, the science faculty’s supplier of everything from Ecstasy to cocaine. Their paths hadn’t crossed in years. ‘How are you doing, Sam?’

  ‘Fine. You’re looking a bit rough. Are you okay?’

  ‘Touch of flu, that’s all.’

  Leaning across, Davis whispered in Ramsay’s ear. ‘Fancy some of the old cough medicine?’

  Ramsay’s bloodshot eyes stared at him. ‘Are you still dealing?’

  ‘Now and then.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  Davis glanced in the direction of the toilets half-way down the bar. Ramsay followed his stare and gave a nod of comprehension. Taking a quick swallow of beer he put his glass down on the bar and followed Davis into the toilets.

  ‘You have to be hell of a careful,’ Davis said, checking the solitary cubicle to make sure it wasn’t occupied. ‘The cops are clamping down hard at this time of year. I reckon they must be on a Christmas bonus.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘Do you have any smack?’

  ‘I can do a lot better than that. How about a speedball?’

  ‘I’ve never tried one.’
r />   ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ Davis wedged his heel against the toilet door to prevent it being pushed open from the outside. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and produced a handkerchief which he unfolded to reveal a sheathed syringe. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he presented it to Ramsay. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing quite like this.’

  Ramsay hesitated. ‘How much?’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  ‘The going rate used to be a lot less than that.’

  ‘You’re talking years ago. Anyway, that was never for anything as good as this. Two hundred’s the rock-bottom price.’

  Ramsay fumbled for his wallet and counted out the contents. ‘I’ve only got a hundred and sixty.’

  Davis quickly withdrew his hand. ‘I said two hundred.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sam,’ Ramsay pleaded. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’ He held out the banknotes. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  Davis hesitated. ‘I suppose – since it’s Christmas.’ He snatched the money and handed across the syringe. ‘In there,’ he said, indicating the cubicle. ‘I’ll stand guard.’

  Having locked the door Ramsay took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, slapping his forearm hard to get the circulation moving. He slipped the belt from the waistband of his trousers and looped it round his arm, just below the elbow. He took the end of the belt in his teeth and tugged on it hard until the veins on his forearm stood proud. Selecting a vein he breathed in deeply and, holding his breath, lanced it with the needle. He squeezed his eyes closed and slowly depressed the plunger. His head arched back and his breath hissed out from between clenched teeth. ‘What a cracker!’ he moaned as he felt the immediate rush. ‘Right on the fucking button!’ He let the belt fall loose as he sucked in air.

  He heard a ringing in his ears and the sound of the piped music, filtering through from the bar, became distorted. He felt his tongue start to swell, filling his mouth, making it difficult to breathe. His vision was going in and out of focus. The cistern was receding rapidly, then accelerating towards him. His throat felt as if it had closed. He couldn’t take in any oxygen, neither through his mouth nor his nose. He tugged at his shirt collar as he fumbled to sit down on the toilet seat, his body pitching forward and his head slamming into the closed toilet door.