by Bill Daly
‘What happened?’
‘One of my regulars, a bloke called Jack Mulgrew, got nailed tonight – literally.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of the customers went downstairs to the bog and he found Mulgrew pinned to the door of one of the cubicles. A rusty, six-inch nail had been hammered through the palm of his hand.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ O’Sullivan said, wincing.
‘There were certain similarities,’ the landlord agreed. ‘I’ll give you that.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I do? I fetched a hammer from my flat upstairs and I thumped the point of the nail back through the door from the other side. It was one hell of a carry on, let me tell you. Mulgrew had passed out, but he came round when I started hammering on the nail and he started squealing like a stuck pig.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘My brother took him across to A&E.’
‘What state was he in?’
‘His life’s probably not in danger, but I don’t think he’ll be playing tennis for a while.’
‘Does he know who attacked him?’
‘He told me it was two complete strangers.’
‘Does he know why they picked on him?’
‘I asked him that. He said he’d no idea.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’
The landlord hesitated. ‘One of Jim Colvin’s goons was in the pub earlier on this evening – about seven o’clock. He was asking around if anyone knew where he could find Mulgrew.’
‘Jim Colvin? Is he still running his pay-day lending racket?’ O’Sullivan asked.
‘No one around here has got a job, pal. We call it dole-day lending.’
‘Does Mulgrew borrow from Colvin?’
‘Aye. And when one of Colvin’s heavies is asking about somebody’s whereabouts,’ he added, ‘it’s a pound to a pinch of shit that the guy’s going to get a doing. Everyone knows the goon works for Colvin, so when word gets out that Mulgrew’s been claimed, Colvin’s clients all know who was responsible. That way, none of them get any smart-arsed ideas about not paying up on time.’
‘You don’t normally involve the police in your domestics,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘Why this time?’
‘Colvin’s interest rates stink,’ the landlord said, ‘They make Wonga look like a charitable institution. His guys have been leaning on Mulgrew for the past couple of weeks. In fact, they’ve been putting the screws on quite a few of my regulars recently – and that scares them off from coming into the pub – which isn’t good for business. It’s about time your lot sorted Colvin out.’
‘If you’d be prepared to take the stand and testify against him, that would be a big help.’
The barman chortled. ‘Aye, right!’
The rain had slackened off and the motorway traffic was light as Charlie Anderson was driving home. Leaving the motorway at the exit for Renfrew, he drove a short distance along Paisley Road before turning left into Wright Street, a wide avenue of nineteen-fifties, semi-detached houses. Pulling up in the driveway alongside his pebble-dashed house, he got out of the car. He turned his key in the front door as quietly as he could, then used the downstairs toilet before tip-toeing up the staircase without switching on the light. Changing into his pyjamas in the dark, he slipped under the duvet.
‘What time is it?’ Kay’s sleepy voice asked.
‘It’s just after one o’clock.’
‘Was it a murder?
‘It looks like it.’
‘Did you manage to delegate everything?’
Charlie hesitated. ‘I’ll tell you all about it in the morning, love.’
Rolling over onto his side, Charlie closed his eyes. It was another two hours before he managed to drop off to sleep.
CHAPTER 5
Sunday 4 September
Sitting at his kitchen table, Tony O’Sullivan poured himself a second cup of coffee. Having added a splash of milk, he stirred in two lumps of sugar before picking up his mobile phone and clicking onto Sue’s number.
‘I hope I didn’t wake you up?’ he said when she took the call.
‘Not at all. I’m just out of the shower,’ Sue said, towelling her long hair vigorously as she spoke. ‘What are you up to?’
‘I’m about to go into the office. I was hoping for a quiet day, but I got a text from Colin Renton a couple of minutes ago to let me know there was a murder in the West End last night. It appears that I’m in charge of proceedings until your father gets in.’
‘Dad’s not working this weekend.’
‘He is now. Renton told me he got called out last night.’
‘You don’t say? Mum will be pleased.’
‘Talking of your Mum, I’ve been keeping this a secret from you for the past couple of weeks, but I think I’d better tell you now before you go and organise something else for next weekend.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I’ve made plans for your birthday.’
‘What plans?’
‘I’ve got us tickets.’
‘What for?’ Sue asked excitedly.
‘Guess.’
‘I’ve no idea what’s on next weekend, apart from The Sound of Music sing-along at the Kings. If it’s for that, I’ll kill you!’
‘Think further afield.’
‘Edinburgh?’
‘Further than that.’
‘Stop teasing me! Where?’
‘London.’
‘London?’
‘I’ve got us tickets for the Radiohead gig on Saturday night. Best seats in the place. The flights are booked and the hotel’s confirmed. We fly down on Friday evening and come back on Sunday afternoon.’
‘That’s fantastic! I hope Mum will be able to look after Jamie.’
‘She will. It’s all arranged.’
‘You mean – my mother’s in on this?’
‘I had to tell her to make sure it wouldn’t be a problem for her to take care of Jamie while we were away.’
‘How long has she known about this?’
‘I’m not sure – about a couple of weeks, I think.’
‘The sly old so-and-so. She never breathed a word about it to me.’
‘She was sworn to secrecy.’
‘I’m amazed that Dad managed to keep it quiet.’
‘He doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘Jamie and I are going across to their place for lunch today. I’ll give Mum into a row for keeping it a secret from me. But it’s just as well you told me today,’ Sue added. ‘I was thinking about organising a girls’ night out on Saturday.’
‘If you’d rather do that, I could always ask Kylie, the barmaid in Òran Mór, if she’d like to come with me to London. I happen to know she’s a big Radiohead fan.’
‘Just you watch it! Any more cracks like that and you’ll get more than your head in your hands to play with.’
‘I think I get the message.’
‘Just as well.’
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘I’ve got school tomorrow, so I’m just going to slob out in front of the telly.’
‘Could you handle a bit of company?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘If the aforementioned company happened to turn up with a chicken dansak carry-out from Balbir’s, there’s every chance I might let him in.’
‘How about if he brought onion bhajis and naan bread as well?’
‘That would probably swing it.’
‘What time would you like to eat?’
‘Give me time to get Jamie settled down. How about eight o’clock?’
‘Eight o’clock it is.’
Charlie Anderson washed down a slice of buttered toast with a slurp of lukewarm tea as he scanned the front page of the Sunday Post, the lead story being about an unidentified body having been found in Lawrence Street at ten-thirty the previous evening. Draining his cup, he got to his feet.
‘I just need to go into the office for a couple of hours to make sure everything’s organised, love. I’ll be back in time for lunch.’
‘Jamie’s bringing his boots and his ball across and he’s expecting you to play football with him this afternoon. Don’t disappoint him, Charlie.’
‘I won’t.’ Bending down, Charlie gave Kay a peck on the cheek before lifting his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugging it on. ‘What time are we expecting them?’ he asked as he picked up his car keys from the kitchen table.
‘Sue said they’d be here between half-past twelve and one o’clock.’
‘I’ll make sure I’m back by then.’
As Charlie was navigating the steep slope down to Pitt Street’s underground car park, he noticed Superintendent Nigel Hamilton’s silver Mercedes was parked in its usual bay.
‘That’s all I need this morning,’ he muttered to himself as he twisted stiffly round in his seat to reverse into a tight parking space. Switching off the ignition and pulling on the hand brake, he got out of his car.
When Charlie climbed the stairs to the second floor he saw Tony O’Sullivan standing by the vending machines, waiting for his coffee cup to fill.
‘Can I get you one of these, sir?’ O’Sullivan asked, lifting his plastic cup from the tray and holding it aloft as Charlie approached.
‘Thanks.’
O’Sullivan took the appropriate coins from his pocket and dropped them into the slot, punching the button for black coffee with extra sugar.
‘Lillian McArthur told me you were called out last night,’ Charlie said as he was waiting for his coffee to dribble out. ‘She said it was something to do with an assault in a pub in the Calton. What was that all about?’
‘Someone literally nailed one of the regulars, a guy called Jack Mulgrew, to a bog door in The Jacobite Arms.’
‘Ouch! Do we have any idea who was responsible?’
‘When I spoke to the landlord, Jim Colvin’s name cropped up in the conversation,’ O’Sullivan said, lifting Charlie’s cup from the tray and handing it to him.
‘Now there’s a surprise!’ Charlie said, blowing hard on the hot liquid before taking a sip.
‘Apparently one of Colvin’s heavies was in the pub earlier on in the evening, asking around if anyone knew where he could find Mulgrew,’ O’Sullivan said.
‘Is Colvin still loan-sharking?’
‘So it would appear.’
‘It’s not like the good citizens of the Calton to involve us in their squabbles,’ Charlie said.
‘That’s what I thought, but apparently Colvin’s guys have been scaring the customers away from coming into the pub – and that’s not good for the landlord’s business.’
‘Don’t tell me that capitalism has spread its tentacles into the inner sanctum of the Calton?’ Charlie said with a shake of the head. ‘Jimmy Maxton will be turning in his grave.’
‘According to the landlord, Mulgrew was made an example of because he’d got behind with his payments, in order to make sure that the rest of Colvin’s clientele don’t get any smart-arsed ideas about not paying up on time.’
‘Has Colvin been picked up?’
‘Not yet – but we’ve got the word out that we’re looking for him.’
‘Are you up to speed with what happened in Lawrence Street last night?’ Charlie asked.
O’Sullivan nodded. ‘Renton filled me in. Which reminds me, sir. Niggle got here half an hour ago. He told me to let you know that he wants to see you as soon as you get in.’
‘Well he’ll just have to wait until I’ve had my fix of caffeine,’ Charlie said, swallowing a mouthful of hot coffee. ‘Find Renton and join me in my office.’
Charlie rocked back in his swivel chair when Renton and O’Sullivan walked in. They took the chairs facing his desk.
‘Any joy with identifying the victim, Colin?’ Charlie asked.
‘Not so far, sir,’ Renton said. ‘There’s no one on the mispers list who remotely fits his description.’
‘Did the SOC team come up with anything useful?’
‘I’ve got their initial report,’ Renton said, taking a sheet of paper from the folder he was carrying. ‘They bagged everything they found within a ten metre radius of the body,’ he said, referring to the report. ‘Which comprised two buckled lager cans, one lollipop stick, one fish-supper wrapping paper, three fag ends, a wad of chewing gum and a broken syringe.’
‘More or less everything you could possibly want for a good Saturday night out in Glasgow,’ Charlie said. ‘All that’s missing from making it a right belter is a used condom.’
‘DNA checks are being carried out on everything they found,’ Renton said. ‘So far, there haven’t been any matches with the national data base.’
Renton handed Charlie a photograph of the corpse.
‘Hard to tell how old he was from this,’ Charlie said. ‘Though the beard should help to make him recognisable to anyone who knew him.’
‘I’m getting the photo cropped to show only his face, ‘Renton said, ‘and photo-shopped to stick his tongue back into his mouth. I’ll take it across to Cottiers as soon as they open this morning and find out if the bar staff know anything about him.’
‘Tony,’ Charlie said, ‘get copies made of that photo and organise door-to-door enquiries in all the properties between Cottiers and where the body was found in Lawrence Street. While you’re organising that, I’ll go upstairs and try to keep Niggle off our backs.’ Charlie glanced at his watch and drained his coffee cup. ‘We’ll meet back here at twelve o’clock and take a checkpoint. I have to be out of here by quarter-past twelve at the very latest or my life won’t be worth living.’
‘Has the victim been identified?’ Superintendent Nigel Hamilton demanded.
Charlie Anderson was perched on the edge of a leather chair in DS Hamilton’s office. ‘Not yet.’
‘Who’s going to be taking charge of the investigation?’ Hamilton’s high-pitched, sing-song delivery grated on Charlie’s ears.
‘I’ll assign the SIO role to DI Munro,’ Charlie said. ‘He doesn’t have too much on his plate right now.’
Hamilton shook his head firmly. ‘I need Munro full time on the task force that’s looking into revamping the crime statistics,’ his squeaky voice intoned. ‘The Chief’s biting my arse to get the new reporting system up and running before the end of the year.’
‘In that case, I’ll give the SIO role to DI Cunningham.’
Hamilton drummed his fingertips rhythmically on his desk as he shook his head again. ‘Cunningham’s a good officer, but he hasn’t been with us long enough to get to know the local scene. Why don’t you handle it yourself?’
‘I’m up to my neck in trying to track down the source of the recent influx of crystal meth.’
‘Hand that investigation over to Cunningham – he’s got relevant experience of drug-related crime – and you take charge of the murder inquiry.’ Without waiting for Charlie’s reaction, Hamilton swivelled round in his chair to face his computer screen. ‘Keep me up to date with your progress,’ he said without turning round.
CHAPTER 6
Colin Renton was leaning with his back against the wall outside Cottiers when the doors of the pub were thrown open on the stroke of eleven o’clock.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ the barman asked, eying Renton up and down
‘I’m not desperate for a drink, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Renton said, fishing out his ID and showing it to him.
‘Sorry about that, officer,’ the barman said with a grin. ‘People queuing up outside before we open usually are. What can I do for you?’
‘Do you know this guy?’ Renton asked, handing him the photograph.
The barman narrowed his eyes as he studied the image. ‘I think so,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It looks like John.’
‘John who?’
The barman shrugged his shoulders. ‘I only know them by their first names.’
‘Who is
them?’
‘Two guys, Kevin and Pete, have been coming here for the past couple of years. Regular as clockwork, they walk through the door at half-past twelve every Sunday – and for the past few months this guy, John,’ he said tapping the photo, ‘has been joining them from time to time.’
‘Do you happen to know if John was here last night?’
‘I’ve no idea. I wasn’t working.’
‘Will any of the staff who were on last night be working this morning?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, handing back the photo.
‘Well, if you reckon Kevin and Pete will be here at half-past twelve,’ Renton said, glancing at his watch, ‘I might as well wait for them.’
The barman led the way up the four steps to the ground floor bar.
‘Do you have any CCTV cameras in here?’ Renton asked, looking all around.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘How about in the pub garden?’
‘There’s no CCTV outside either.’
‘That’s not what I wanted to hear.’
‘Sorry about that. Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?’ the barman asked.
‘Just a tonic water.’
‘Ice and lemon?’
‘Please.’
Charlie Anderson was sitting at his desk, ploughing his way through his backlog of paperwork, when the phone on his desk rang. He picked up.
‘Renton here, sir. I’m over in Cottiers.’
‘Did you get anything useful?’ Charlie asked.
Renton relayed the information the barman had given him.
‘In which case, you might as well wait there and have a word with John’s pals when they turn up at twelve-thirty,’ Charlie said. ‘When you’ve had a chance to talk to them, let me know what you find out.’
‘I thought you said you were heading off at twelve-fifteen at the latest, sir?’
‘That was the plan,’ Charlie grunted, ‘but it looks like I’ve drawn the short straw.’
Disconnecting the call, Charlie weighed the phone is his fist for a moment before tapping in his home number. ‘It’s me,’ he said when Kay answered.
‘Are you on your way, Charlie?’
Charlie hesitated. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, love. Niggle’s lumbered me with the SIO role.’