by Bill Daly
There was a pause before Kay responded. ‘Does that mean you won’t be home for lunch?’
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘Oh, Charlie! It’s not for my sake – or for Sue’s. God knows, we’re used to it. But you did promise Jamie that you’d play football with him this afternoon.’
‘I know I did.’ Charlie let out a long, low sigh. ‘Explain to Jamie for me, love. Let him know I have to work this afternoon. Tell him I’ll give him a call this afternoon and sort out a time soon when we can have a game.’
Colin Renton was half-way through his second tonic water when the barman made eye contact with him, nodding in the direction of one of the booths facing the bar where two men, who looked to be in their early thirties, were about to sit down. Renton made his way across and slid onto the bench seat opposite them.
‘Good afternoon,’ Renton said.
‘Do we know you?’ the taller of two men asked.
‘I don’t think so Kevin – or is it Pete?’ Renton asked, showing his warrant card.
He eyed Renton quizzically. ‘I’m Kevin.’
‘I’ve got a couple of questions for you guys,’ Renton said, placing the photograph on the table in front of them. ‘Do you know who this is?’
Kevin picked up the photo and examined it carefully. ‘It looks like John Preston,’ he said, handing the photo to Pete.
‘It’s definitely John,’ Pete said as he studied the photograph. ‘What’s up? Is he in some kind of trouble?’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘On Friday afternoon – at work,’ Kevin said.
‘Is he a close friend?’ Renton asked.
‘More a work colleague than a friend,’ Kevin said.
‘We’re meeting him here today,’ Pete offered. ‘He should be here any time,’ he added, glancing at his watch.
‘John won’t be joining you today,’ Renton said.
‘Why not?’ Pete asked.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ Renton said quietly, ‘but I’m afraid John is dead.’
‘Dead!’ Kevin exclaimed. ‘What on earth happened?’
‘He was murdered – last night.’
‘Jesus wept!’ Pete mumbled.
‘I’m sorry I had to break it to you like that,’ Renton said, taking the photo from Pete’s limp fingers and slipping it back into his pocket ‘But there isn’t any easy way to communicate news like that.’ He took out his notebook and pen. ‘You said the guy’s name was John Preston?’
‘That’s right,’ Kevin nodded.
‘How well did you know him?’ Renton asked as he jotted down the name.
‘Not all that well.’ Kevin shrugged. ‘He joined our firm about a year ago – and he sometimes came here for a pint with us on Sundays.’
‘What kind of work did he do?’
‘He was a computer programmer,’ Kevin said. ‘Pete and I are systems analysts. We work for a consultancy firm that provides customised software solutions for various companies. We specialise in the retail business.’
‘Do you know where Preston worked before he joined your company?’
‘I don’t,’ Kevin said, looking at Pete, who shook his head.
‘He was a competent enough programmer,’ Pete said, ‘but I don’t recall him ever mentioning anything about his previous employment.’
‘Do you know where he lived?’
‘He said something about having a flat near the University,’ Kevin said, ‘but I don’t know the address.’
‘Was he in a relationship?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Pete said. ‘At least, he never said anything to me about having a partner.’
‘What’s the name of your firm?’ Renton asked.
‘Murdoch & Slater, Computer Consultants,’ Kevin said. ‘Our head office is in Bath Street.’
‘Who would be able to give me Preston’s address?’
‘There won’t be anyone in the office on a Sunday,’ Pete said. ‘But I can give you my manager’s home phone number,’ he added, taking out his mobile phone and paging through his contacts’ list. ‘His name’s George Slater.’
Renton wrote down the number as Pete read it out. ‘Thanks. I’ll need your names and addresses as well – and your phone numbers,’ Renton added.
Having noted down the information, Renton slid out of the bench seat.
When Kay Anderson answered the ring of her doorbell, Sue stepped across the threshold and wrapped her arms around her mother, giving her a big hug. ‘How are you, Mum?’
‘I’m fine – but I’m afraid your father’s gone and done it to us again,’ Kay whispered in Sue’s ear as Jamie bounded past them, bouncing his ball along the hall.
‘Don’t tell me he’s working?’
‘I’m afraid so. There was a murder in the West End last night and he’s just phoned to let me know that Niggle’s lumbered him with the SIO role.’
Sue pulled a face. ‘Jamie!’ she called out. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Grandad has to work this afternoon.’
Jamie stopped bouncing his ball and spun round. ‘But he promised to play football with me today.’
‘I know he did, love,’ Kay said, walking across and ruffling Jamie’s unkempt hair. ‘It couldn’t be helped. He really wanted to be here, but a man was killed last night and Grandad has to find out who did it. He’ll call you this afternoon,’ Kay added, ‘to sort out a time when he can have a game with you.’
Jamie screwed up his face as he bent down to pick up his ball. ‘I’m going outside.’
‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ Sue said as Jamie was trudging out of the back door into the garden. ‘I have reason to believe you’ve been keeping a secret from me.’
‘Really? Which one have you found out about?’ Kay asked with an enigmatic smile.
‘You mean there’s more than one?’
‘There might be,’ Kay teased.
‘Let’s start with the Radiohead concert next weekend.’
‘Oh, that! Tony had to let me in on it to make sure I’d be able to look after Jamie while you were away.’
‘And can you?’
‘I think I might just manage.’
‘Thanks a million,’ Sue said, planting a kiss on her mother’s forehead
‘How are you and Tony getting on?’ Kay asked.
‘It’s going well.’ Sue’s cheeks reddened. ‘And he gets on great with Jamie. The two of them talk about football for hours on end.’
‘That’s good.’
‘One thing I really like about him, Mum,’ Sue added, ‘is that he knows how to make me laugh.’
‘That’s very important in a relationship, Sue.’
When Colin Renton arrived back in Pitt Street he found Tony O’Sullivan sitting with Charlie in his office.
‘Any joy at Cottiers, Colin?’ Charlie asked as Renton walked in.
Renton referred to his notebook as he recounted his conversation with Kevin and Pete. ‘They told me that Preston had a flat somewhere near the university, but they didn’t know the address. They gave me the phone number of one of the partners in the firm where he worked.’ Renton handed the slip of paper with the number on it to Charlie. ‘His name’s George Slater.’
When Charlie dialled the number, Susan Slater answered the call. Charlie introduced himself and asked if he could speak to her husband.
‘George is outside, washing the car, Inspector. Hold on and I’ll get him for you.’
‘This is DCI Anderson, Glasgow CID, Mr Slater,’ Charlie said when Slater came to the phone. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday afternoon, sir, but I need some information.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I believe your firm has an employee called John Preston?’
‘That is correct.’
‘I need his address.’
Slater hesitated. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Inspector, but I can’t give out personal details over the phone, especially to someone I don’t know. I’v
e no reason to doubt for one minute that you are who you say you are,’ he added quickly, ‘but I would need confirmation.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Besides, I don’t keep personnel data at home. I would have to go into the office to get the information. Is it urgent, or is it something that could wait till the morning?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. I need to have Mr Preston’s address as soon as possible.’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘There was a murder in the West End last night,’ Charlie said. ‘We have reason to believe that the victim might have been John Preston.’
‘Good grief!’
‘How long will it take you to get to your office?’ Charlie asked.
‘If I leave straight away, depending on the traffic, I could be there in twenty minutes. Our office is in Bath Street – in the block between West Campbell Street and Blythswood Street.’
‘I’ll meet you there,’ Charlie said.
‘I’ll be driving a blue Audi.’
Charlie Anderson found a place to park in Blythswood Square. As he got out of his car he looked all around, his mind going back to his days in uniform when this part of the city had been his patch.
A lot had changed over the years, Charlie reflected. Twenty-five years ago, the square had been one of the most popular hangouts in the city for prostitutes. The girls had always grumbled when Charlie moved them on, telling him that they got a much better class of punter in the city centre. All that had changed when Glasgow was awarded the status of European City of Culture for nineteen ninety. A red-light district in the middle of town wasn’t in keeping with the image the city fathers wanted to portray, so a purge had been initiated. The police had been instructed to clamp down hard on prostitution in and around the square. Any girls found soliciting had to be arrested, not just moved on. This had done nothing to reduce the overall level of prostitution in the city. All it had achieved was to force the girls to ply their trade in areas that were much more dangerous for them, such as the housing schemes in Castlemilk, Drumchapel and Easterhouse. The statistics said it all. City centre prostitution was reduced by forty percent while prostitution in the suburbs went up by a lot more than that – and violent assaults on working girls in the housing estates went up by over fifty percent. Charlie recalled that the city council had considered the purge to be a major success. As he made his way down the hill towards Bath Street, he shook his head.
Standing by the kerb, Charlie waved in acknowledgement when he saw the approaching blue Audi slow down. The car pulled up alongside him and George Slater stepped out, a small, dapper, moustachioed man with a ruddy complexion. Charlie showed him his warrant card, then produced a photo from his inside jacket pocket and handed it across.
Slater tugged his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on to examine the photograph. ‘That’s John Preston all right,’ he said, handing back the photo before turning round and leading the way to the entrance to his office block, a few yards further along the street. Climbing the stairs to the second floor, he unlocked the heavy, wooden door and ushered Charlie in ahead of him.
Charlie took the chair opposite Slater’s desk in the cramped office.
‘From memory, John had a flat in Oakfield Avenue,’ Slater said as he crossed to his filing cabinet. He riffled through the files in the top drawer and pulled out a manila folder before sitting down behind his desk. Thumbing through the folder, he ran his index finger down one of the pages. ‘Here we are,’ he said, squinting at Charlie over the top of his spectacles. ‘Oakfield Avenue, as I thought,’ he said, noting down the address on a slip of paper. ‘It’s a rented flat, I believe,’ he added.
‘Do you have his phone number?’ Charlie asked.
Slater referred again to the file. ‘Just his mobile,’ he said, writing the number down under the address and handing the slip of paper to Charlie. ‘There’s no mention in the file of him having a land line.’
‘How long had Preston been working here?’ Charlie asked.
‘About a year.’
‘What can you tell me about his background?’
Slipping off his glasses, Slater stared fixedly at Charlie without offering a reply.
Charlie held his gaze. ‘I asked you, sir. What do you know about John Preston’s background?’
‘This is sensitive, Inspector.’ Slater’s fingers twitched back and forth across his mouth. Charlie could see the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Extremely sensitive – and highly confidential. I really need to talk to Henry.’
‘Who is Henry?’
‘Henry Murdoch. He’s my partner.’
‘Why do you need to talk to him?’
Slater hesitated. ‘John Preston is –’ He broke off and dabbed at the beads of perspiration on his brow with the back of his hand. ‘John Preston was – Henry’s son.’
CHAPTER 7
‘Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,’ Charlie said, leaning back in his chair. ‘What you’re telling me is that your partner, Henry Murdoch, is John Preston’s father?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How come they don’t share the same surname?’
‘Up until recently, they did. John Preston’s name used to be John Murdoch. Perhaps you remember the case, Inspector? The trial was in the High Court – about a year ago.’
‘John Murdoch?’ Charlie mused, rubbing reflectively at his chin. ‘That name rings a bell. Wait a minute – I’ve got it!’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘The case had something to do with child molesting, if I remember correctly?’
Slater nodded. ‘John was a school teacher at the time and he was accused of grooming and sexually assaulting one of his pupils – a boy called Tommy Carter.’
‘And if I’m not mistaken,’ Charlie offered, ‘the verdict was not proven?’
‘That is correct. And the day after the trial, Tommy Carter threw himself in front of a train. The story made a big splash in the newspapers at the time. Murdoch was subjected to a deluge of hate mail, as well as several threats to his life on the Internet. He gave up his teaching position, moved flat, and changed his name to John Preston. His father, Henry, my partner, asked me if I would be prepared to let John have a job in our firm so he could make a fresh start. Of course, I agreed. The poor guy had been acquitted, yet the press were hounding him – making his life a living hell by suggesting that he was in some way responsible for Tommy Carter taking his own life.’
‘Did anyone else in the firm know about Preston’s background?’
Slater shook his head. ‘Definitely not, Inspector. Only Henry and I knew anything about John’s situation.’ He paused. ‘Who’s going to break the news to Henry and Sarah?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I’ll take care of that, sir,’ Charlie said. ‘If you could let me have Mr Murdoch’s address?’
Slater opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a business card. ‘This has Henry’s home address and his phone number on it,’ he said, handing the card across.
‘Do you know if Mr Murdoch is likely to be at home this afternoon?’
‘I’m sure he will be. He very rarely goes anywhere at the weekends. His wife had a stroke last year, brought about by the stress of their son’s trial. She’s completely paralysed down one side of her body. She needs full-time nursing. Henry has someone who comes in to look after her during the week while he’s at work, but at the weekends he nearly always stays at home and takes care of her himself.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Charlie said. Tucking the business card into the breast pocket of his jacket, he heaved himself to his feet.
When he got back to his car, Charlie pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and clicked onto his home number.
‘It’s me,’ he said when Kay answered.
‘How are things?’
‘It looks like it could be a long day.’
‘Have you had anything to eat?’
‘Not yet. I’m not hungry, but I’ll try to grab a sand
wich.’
‘Make sure you do.’
‘How is Jamie?’
‘Disappointed, of course, but he’s putting a brave face on it.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
‘I’m really sorry about today,’ Charlie said when Jamie came to the phone. ‘I have to work this afternoon.’
‘Grandma told me that.’
‘How about I come across to your place tomorrow morning and we can have a game of football before you go to school?’
‘That would be great, Grandad!’ Jamie said excitedly.
‘What time can you be ready?’
‘I can get up at half-past seven. Which means we’ll be able to play for an hour.’
‘Great!’ Charlie grimaced. ‘Half-past seven it is.’
‘Thanks a million!’
‘Let me have a word with your Mum, son.’
‘I’m sorry about today, Sue,’ Charlie said when his daughter came to the phone.
‘Mum explained – it couldn’t he helped.’
‘I’ve arranged with Jamie to come across to your place at half-past seven tomorrow morning to have a game of football with him before he goes to school. I hope that’s all right?’
‘Of course it is. Thanks for doing that, Dad.’
Disconnecting, Charlie scanned his contacts’ list and clicked onto Colin Renton’s mobile number. ‘Are you in the office?’ he asked when Renton took the call.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve got John Preston’s address and his mobile number,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you have a pen and paper?’
‘Sure.’
Charlie read out the information. ‘Get Freer to check out the phone number. Tell him to find out who Preston’s service provider was and get hold of his phone records. When you’ve done that, wait for me at main reception. I’ll drive by in five minutes and pick you up.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To break the news to the victim’s parents. I’ll fill you in when I see you.’
*
Charlie drew up alongside the kerb outside the CID headquarters in Pitt Street and gave a quick toot on the horn. Having taken Henry Murdoch’s business card from his jacket pocket, he was punching the postcode in Giffnock into his sat nav when Renton came out of the main entrance and trotted down the steps.