by Bill Daly
‘In which case, let’s start with the forensic report,’ Charlie said. ‘The floor’s yours, Eddie.’
‘DNA checks on the items collected by the SOC team in the immediate vicinity of the murder didn’t throw up any matches with the central data base,’ McLaughlin began. ‘And the strands of fibre that were found adhering to the victim’s neck are from a popular brand of clothes line.’
‘What kind of strength would have been required to commit the murder?’ Charlie asked.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ McLaughlin stated. ‘The victim’s blood alcohol level was one point eight – more than twice the legal limit for driving, so he was probably a bit drunk. And it looks as if it was a surprise attack from behind, in which case anyone of average strength would’ve been capable of doing it.’
‘Do you have anything else for us, Eddie?’ Charlie asked.
‘We didn’t find a match on the database for any of the fingerprints we found in the victim’s flat,’ McLaughlin said. ‘And apart from the child pornography and the e-mails on his iPad, which you know about, that’s about it.’
‘Okay, Eddie. Thanks,’ Charlie said. ‘What do you have for us, Tony?’
Tony recounted Andy and Gavin Carter’s version of what had happened in The Jacobite Arms. ‘I didn’t believe a word of it,’ Tony concluded. ‘It’s a fair bet that Andy Carter nailed Mulgrew’s hand to the bog door, but I’d bet my pension that Gavin wasn’t there when that happened.’
‘If Gavin wasn’t in The Jacobite Arms, where was he?’ Charlie queried. ‘Lesley Adams told us that Gavin had told her he was in Edinburgh with one of his mates. Was he lying to her? Or could that be the truth?’
‘If he was in Edinburgh with one of his mates, that would rule him out of being involved in Preston’s murder,’ Tony said, ‘so why wouldn’t he tell us the truth? Why would he invent a cock and bull story about being in the Jaco with his uncle?’
‘That’s a good question,’ Charlie said. ‘Did you get Gavin’s phone number?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me have it. I want to have a go at him. On his own, without his uncle, or anyone else, present.’
Tony referred to his folder and copied the number onto a post-it, which he handed to Charlie. Having stuck the post-it inside his notebook, Charlie got to his feet stiffly.
‘It’s time for some blue sky thinking now, boys,’ he said. ‘We’ll start by compiling a list of all possible suspects.’ He nodded to Tom Freer to start writing on the flip chart. ‘Let’s have the names of anyone you can think of who could have had a reason to murder Preston – no matter how improbable – and state what you think their motivation might have been.’
As Freer held his marker pen poised, the suggestions came thick and fast.
‘Terry and Andy Carter,’ Tony offered. ‘Even though they both appear to have alibis, at Murdoch’s trial they threatened him with retribution if they ever managed to get their hands on him.’
‘We have to include Gavin Carter on the list,’ Freer suggested as he was writing the names on the chart. ‘There’s nothing he’d have liked better than getting revenge on Murdoch for what he did to his wee brother.’
‘How about Mrs Carter and her new man, Mitch Weir?’ Renton asked.
Charlie nodded to Freer to add those names.
‘Malcolm Steel, the ex-boyfriend?’ Charlie suggested. ‘A disillusioned man who felt badly let down by Murdoch. He has to be a possibility.’
‘Don’t forget Lesley Adams,’ Tony said. ‘A social worker who saw an innocent boy take his own life because of what Murdoch had done to him.’
‘You can add Martin Gilligan to the list,’ Charlie said. ‘An irate father who knew that Murdoch had been grooming – and perhaps seducing – his son.’
‘What about Ronnie Gilligan himself?’ Renton suggested. ‘If, as Eddie said, no great strength was required to commit the murder, Ronnie could have wanted to get his revenge on the man who caused him to be removed from his school.’
‘Fair point,’ Charlie said. ‘Add his name to the list. And to make things even more complicated,’ he added, ‘the editor at the Record received a letter from the Avenging Angel.’
Renton let out a groan.
’Who or what is he?’ Freer asked.
‘He’s a nutter who gets his kicks from contacting the papers and telling them that he carried out a murder,’ Renton explained. ‘He claims that Almighty God has given him a mission to rid the city of vermin.’
‘This is the fourth murder he’s claimed responsibility for in the past eight years,’ Charlie interjected. ‘The first three letters could have been sent by a trouble-maker, but we have to take this one seriously. It was time-stamped in the main sorting office in Springburn at twenty-past ten on Sunday morning. The identity of the victim wasn’t public knowledge at the time the letter was posted. The previous claims by the Avenging Angel received a lot of publicity in the press, so it’s a fair bet that our killer knew about them. If so, he may well be jumping on the AA bandwagon in order to deflect attention from himself.
‘Put the Avenging Angel down on the list, Tom. Though, if a random vigilante is responsible for Preston’s murder,’ he added, ‘I don’t rate our chances very highly of tracking him down.’
‘Anyone else for the list?’ Freer asked, looking round the room, marker pen poised.
‘How about Judge Ramsay?’ Tony suggested.
‘What!’ Charlie exclaimed.
‘Why not?’ Tony insisted. ‘It’s the judge’s last case – his reputation’s on the line – and he sees a man he knows to be guilty walk free? Stranger things have happened.’
‘You can not be serious!’ Charlie spluttered, exhaling noisily.
‘It’s blue sky thinking time, sir,’ Tony said with a grin. ‘Everyone we can possibly think of – no matter how improbable No line of enquiry is excluded. The judge knew Murdoch was planning to change his name and if anyone was in a position to find out what he’d changed it to, he was.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Charlie conceded grudgingly. ‘But if word ever gets out that I allowed James Ramsay’s name to be included in a list of murder suspects, I’ll have whoever’s responsible for breakfast.
‘Any more names for the list?’ Charlie asked. Everyone shook their heads. ‘In that case, what we need now is an action plan. We’ll interview everybody on the list and find out what they were up to at half-past ten last Saturday night – then we’ll check out if what they tell us holds water. Let’s divvy up the work.
‘Colin, you’ve got contacts in the procurator fiscal’s office,’ Charlie said. ‘Have a word with your mates and find out why they decided to put Murdoch on trial. If it was just Tommy Carter’s word against his, they wouldn’t have rated their chances very highly of securing a conviction, so they might have had something else on Murdoch. Try to find out if that was the case.
‘Tony,’ Charlie continued, ‘a couple of things for you to follow up on. Do you know where Jim Colvin hangs out?’
‘My snitch told me that he runs his operations out of an office on the south side, above the Black Seven snooker hall,’ Tony said.
‘Go across there and have a word with him. Bounce Andy Carter’s version of events in The Jacobite Arms off him – see how he reacts. Try to find out if there’s any truth in Andy’s claim that he’s been encroaching on Colvin’s patch. Frankly, I very much doubt it,’ Charlie added, ‘otherwise Carter’s voice would be several octaves higher by now.
‘When you’ve done that,’ Charlie said, ‘we need to establish at what time Mulgrew was actually attacked in the pub. Everyone concerned seems awfully keen to let us know the assault took place at ten-thirty. There must be a reason for that. Check what time our switchboard received the call from the landlord reporting the attack – and find out what time Mulgrew was admitted to A&E. Have another word with the landlord to see if he can cast any more light on the situation.
‘Tom,’ Charlie said, turning to Freer. ‘I’m told that Mrs C. an
d her new man live in Paisley. Find out their address and go across there this afternoon. See if they can account for their movements on Saturday evening. We also need to establish what Jack Mulgrew’s role is in all of this. Why is he claiming that Gavin Carter was involved in the assault if he wasn’t? He’s almost certainly being leaned on. And why is he so keen to tell us the attack took place at ten-thirty? I’ll take care of that myself.’
‘How about the guys in Terry Carter’s poker school?’ Renton asked. ‘Should we check out Terry’s alibi for Saturday night?’
‘It’s worth a shot, Colin,’ Charlie said. ‘Though Terry was pretty relaxed about it when he told us he was in a poker school, so his alibi’s probably kosher. But it wouldn’t do any harm to have a word with the guys who were at his place on Saturday night. I’ve got their phone numbers. Find out where they live and speak to each of them individually to see if their versions of events match up. Find out if Terry went out of the flat at any point in the evening – perhaps on the pretext of going to get more food or booze? If so, could he have been away long enough to commit the murder, and then come back and re-join the poker school?’
‘The e-mails on Preston’s iPad tell us he was in contact with Ronnie Gilligan shortly before he was murdered,’ McLaughlin said. ‘Shouldn’t we be questioning him?’
‘I’m going to see Ronnie and his father tomorrow,’ Charlie said. ‘But don’t jump to conclusions, Eddie. All the e-mails actually tell us is that Preston was in contact with someone – who might have been Ronnie Gilligan – or it could have been somebody purporting to be Ronnie. I’ll dig into that when I talk to the boy – and I’ll also question him and his father about their movements on Saturday night.
‘Tom, you go and see Malcolm Steel and find out where he was and what he was doing at the time of the murder. I’ll talk to Lesley Adams myself. Is there anyone else on the list?’ Charlie asked.
‘The Avenging Angel,’ Freer said.
Charlie shook his head. ‘We’ll pursue that possibility, if and when we draw a blank elsewhere. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to start trying to track him down,’ Charlie added, running his fingers over his bald skull. ‘I know there are vigilantes out there who think not proven equates to guilty,’ he said, ‘and who would have no compunction about evening up the score with the likes of Preston if an opportunity happened to present itself, but I’m not convinced that’s what we’re dealing with here.’
‘Why not?’ Tony asked.
‘Think about the mobile phone situation. Preston makes three calls to the same number within the hour before he is killed. The murderer takes Preston’s phone, then both the phones disappear from the network at the same time. As far as I’m concerned, that makes it a racing certainty that the killer is someone Preston knew.’
‘Good point,’ Tony nodded.
‘Is that everyone?’ Charlie asked.
‘Apart from Judge Ramsay,’ Tony said. ‘Would you like me to check out his alibi?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Tony,’ Charlie growled.
CHAPTER 19
Tony O’Sullivan pulled up in a parking bay a few yards from the Black Seven snooker hall. Getting out of his car, he walked up to the bouncer who was leaning against the open door.
‘I don’t think I know you, pal,’ the bouncer said, eyeing O’Sullivan up and down.
‘It’s the first time I’ve been here.’’
‘Have you booked a table?’ he asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
‘I’m here to talk to Jim Colvin.’
The bouncer moved across to block the entrance. ‘Is Jim expecting you?’
Pulling out his warrant card, O’Sullivan held it face up in the palm of his hand.
The bouncer kept his gaze fixed on O’Sullivan as he slid his mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket. He clicked onto a number. ‘There’s a guy at the front door, boss. He says he wants to talk to you.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I don’t know – but he’s got one of those nasty, shiny badges.’
‘What’s his name?’
The bouncer peered at the warrant card. ‘DS Tony O’Sullivan.’
Colvin hesitated for a moment. ‘Let him come up.’
Disconnecting the call, the bouncer slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘Straight across the room to the stairs at the far end,’ he said, pointing. ‘Jim’s office is on the first floor.’
Blinking to accustom his eyes to the gloom, O’Sullivan walked the length of the low-ceilinged room, between two rows of snooker tables – all of them in darkness except for one table in the middle of the room where a youth was huddled over his cue, carefully lining up a shot.
As he was passing the table, O’Sullivan heard a sharp clack as the cue ball ricocheted off a red, followed by a muttered curse.
Climbing the stairs, O’Sullivan came to an open office door. Jim Colvin was seated behind the wide desk.
‘On your own this afternoon?’ O’Sullivan queried, looking all around as he walked in. ‘Is your business partner not with you? Perhaps he’s busy, checking the futures market for the best deal in rusty nails?’
‘What the hell do you want, O’Sullivan?’ Colvin snapped.
‘I spoke to your pal, Andy Pandy Carter, this morning – along with his nephew.’ Colvin’s eyes narrowed. ‘They told me they’d nailed Jack Mulgrew’s hand to the bog door in The Jacobite Arms last Saturday.’ Colvin stared in stony silence at O’Sullivan. ‘Carter claimed that Mulgrew had borrowed money from him,’ O’Sullivan continued, ‘and he told me he’d nailed him to the door because he’d got behind with his payments.’
‘What does any of that have to do with me?’
‘When we bumped into each other in The Ettrick on Sunday, you told me Carter was your business partner. You told me you and him don’t have any secrets. So I was wondering if you would be able to corroborate his story? Can you confirm that Carter does loan sharking in the Calton – and that, along with his nephew, he assaulted Jack Mulgrew in The Jacobite Arms last Saturday?’
‘I don’t know what your game is, O’Sullivan,’ Colvin said, ‘but whatever it is, I’m not playing.’
‘I’m trying to establish if, when Carter nailed Mulgrew to the bog door, he was acting off his own bat – on your territory – or if he was taking his instructions from you?’
The colour rose in Colvin’s cheeks. ‘Stop wasting my time, O’Sullivan.’
‘If you could just answer the question, I’ll be on my way.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘It’s a pity you’re adopting that attitude,’ O’Sullivan said, turning to leave. ‘I was hoping we might have a game of snooker. It’s a long time since I played.’
‘Why don’t you go and play with yourself?’ Colvin sneered. ‘I hear you’re good at that.’
Tom Freer’s sat nav directed him to Mitch Weir’s block of flats near the bottom of Well Street in Paisley.
He checked the flat number and the name on the door before ringing the bell of the ground floor apartment. Alice Carter came to the door.
Freer introduced himself, showing his warrant card.
‘What do you want?’ Alice asked suspiciously.
‘Is Mr Weir here?’ Freer asked.
‘Mitch!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘The polis are here. They want to talk to you.’
‘I’d like to speak to both of you,’ Freer said.
Mitch Weir pinged his red braces over his shoulders as he appeared by Alice’s side. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
‘We’re investigating the circumstances leading to the death of John Preston,’ Freer said. ‘The man you knew as John Murdoch.’
‘So what?’ Weir said.
‘Are you aware that he was murdered?’ Freer asked.
‘We read about it in the papers,’ Alice said.
‘His murder had nothing to do with us,’ Weir interjected. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking?’
‘That’s not w
hat I’m thinking, Mr Weir,’ Freer said. ‘I’m merely collecting information. Can you tell me where both of you were on Saturday the third of September at half-past ten in the evening?’
‘Didn’t I tell you the cops would come sniffing round before long, Alice?’ Weir said. He turned to Freer. ‘I’m surprised it took you this long.’
‘Would you please tell me where you were?’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ Weir said with an expansive grin. ‘We were at my boy’s wedding in Carlisle. How many witnesses do you reckon we have, Alice?’
‘Oh, about a hundred and fifty,’ Alice said.
‘About a hundred and fifty,’ Weir repeated. ‘The reception was in the Crown and Mitre,’ he added. ‘It’s a real classy hotel in the centre of town. Would you like to see the wedding photos?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Do you have any more questions?’ Weir asked.
‘Not for now.’
The door was shut in Tom Freer’s face.
Tony O’Sullivan got to The Jacobite Arms shortly after four o’clock. There were only half a dozen customers in the pub; two youths playing darts at the far end of the bar and four men sitting at a table by the window, playing dominoes.
The landlord recognised Tony as he walked towards the bar. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said, glancing up at the clock above the gantry. ‘It’s seven hours before we close. You’ve got plenty of time to sink a few.’
O’Sullivan took out his notebook. ‘At what time did Jack Mulgrew get assaulted downstairs last Saturday?’ he asked.
The landlord checked to make sure none of the customers were within earshot. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said quietly.
‘What time? Tony repeated quietly.
‘Sometime the back of ten o’clock.’
‘Can you be more precise?’
‘Not really,’ he said with a shrug.
‘The phone call you made to the police was received at ten thirty-eight. How much earlier than that did you find Mulgrew?’
‘Maybe ten minutes? Something like that. Like I told you on the phone, one of my customers came running up the stairs, shouting out that a bloke was nailed to the door of one of the cubicles in the bog. I ran down to find out what was going on. When I saw the state Mulgrew was in, I fetched a hammer from my flat upstairs and knocked the nail back through. Then I phoned my brother and got him to come across and take Mulgrew to A&E. It was only after that I called your lot. If you tell me I made the phone call at ten thirty-eight, Mulgrew must’ve got nailed round about half-past ten.’