Black Mail (2012) (18 page)

‘Did he always go to the same betting shop on Fridays?’

‘He tended to base himself in Bishopbriggs but I can’t be sure if he was there last Friday. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.’

‘That’s okay. I’ll have a word with the Bishopbriggs staff. Perhaps one of them might be able to cast some light on the matter.’ Tony put away his notebook and slipped his pen into his pocket. ‘By the way,’ he added casually as he was turning to leave, ‘we’re still trying to track down the yobs who tried to snatch your handbag. There’s been a spate of that sort of thing recently. Could you give me a description of them? Age, height, clothes, make of bike? Anything at all might be useful.’

Laura shook her head. ‘It all happened so quickly.’

‘Did you report the assault at the time?’

‘Didn’t seem much point. I hadn’t actually lost anything and I couldn’t even begin to identify them.’

‘The chief constable will be pleased.’ Laura looked puzzled. ‘If you’d reported the incident you would have added another unsolved crime to his statistics.’ Tony smiled at Laura but his smile wasn’t returned. ‘Were there any witnesses?’ he asked.

‘The cinema had just come out and there were a lot of people milling around. I suppose someone might have seen what happened but I was so upset at having been punched in the face that I just wanted to get into a taxi and get away from there as quickly as possible.’

‘Outside which cinema did this happen?’

‘I can never remember the name.’ She twisted her fingers into her hair. ‘The multiplex near the top of Renfield Street.’

‘The UGC?’ Tony suggested. ‘In Renfrew Street?’

‘I think that’s what it’s called.’

‘What film did you see?’

Laura hesitated. ‘An American cop thing. Can’t remember the name of it. Not at all my type of movie but Mike was a big fan.’

They both turned round when a white Rolls-Royce came into the driveway and pulled up behind O’Sullivan’s car. Jim Cuthbertson stepped out. Short, thick set with improbably black, short-cropped hair, he was wearing a sports jacket and a pair of light brown trousers. A mat of grey chest hair protruded from his open-necked shirt.

‘Will there be anything else, Sergeant?’ Laura asked.

‘Not for now.’

Cuthbertson strode towards them. ‘Good morning, Laura.’ His voice boomed out.

‘This is a police officer, Dad,’ she said, nodding towards Tony. ‘He’s investigating Mike’s murder.’

Cuthbertson took Tony’s proffered hand. ‘Terrible business, officer.’ Tony felt the tentative, probing thumb of the Masonic handshake as Cuthbertson’s fingers slid across his palm.

‘Detective Sergeant O’Sullivan, Mr Cuthbertson.’ Tony delivered his name in a lilting, Irish accent. Cuthbertson’s groping fingers froze, then withdrew to give a limp handshake, fingertips only.

‘Do you have any idea who murdered Mike, Sergeant?’

‘Nothing much to go on yet, I’m afraid.’ Tony turned to Laura. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Harrison. I’ll be in touch.’

‘My car’s not blocking you?’ Cuthbertson looked back over his shoulder.

‘No problem, sir.’

Jim Cuthbertson followed his daughter into the lounge. ‘Won’t you tell me what this is all about?’ Avoiding eye contact, Laura stared at the wall. Cuthbertson pulled a thick brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket and weighed it in his hand. ‘You know, there may be a better solution.’

‘There isn’t, Dad,’ she said quietly, struggling to hold back her tears.

He handed her the envelope. ‘Are you sure this is going to solve your problem?’

Laura threw her arms around her father’s neck and sobbed into his jacket collar.

As Billy McAteer parked his Volvo in Maryhill Road, opposite Cluny Park, an unmarked police car pulled up fifty yards further down the road.

‘It would be better if I tailed him, sir,’ Tom Freer said. ‘There’s no chance of him recognising me.’

‘Okay, but no matter what happens, don’t confront him,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘The guy’s a complete psycho. Don’t hesitate to radio for backup if you think you might need it.’

Freer got out of the car and fell in behind McAteer as he headed towards the roundabout at the end of Maryhill Road. Crossing from there into Canniesburn Road, Freer watched him stride up a gravel drive and ring the front door bell. Laura Harrison answered and ushered him inside.

Laura led the way to the lounge. ‘Glad to see you’ve come to your senses,’ McAteer said, opening the envelope he’d been handed. He pulled out the thick wad of notes and started thumbing through it.

‘There’s no need to count it.’ Laura stood by the lounge door with her arms folded. ‘It’s all there.’

‘It’s better that I check it now.’ He grinned at her coldly. ‘You wouldn’t want me havin’ to come back because you were a few quid short, would you?’

‘Count it quickly, if you must,’ she fumed. ‘Then get out of here.’

McAteer stopped counting and stuffed the money back into the envelope. Slipping the envelope into his pocket, he moved towards Laura. ‘I was hoping there might be somethin’ else in it for me.’

‘Get out of here at once!’ She pointed towards the front door.

Gripping both her arms, McAteer twisted them behind her back and pulled her body towards him. ‘How about a wee bonus for your business partner?’ He pressed his deformed mouth against her lips and tried to force his tongue into her mouth. Laura struggled to twist her head away and lashed out with her foot, the point of her toecap catching McAteer full on the shin bone. He cursed as he released his grip.

‘Get out of here right now!’ she screamed.

McAteer rubbed hard at his bruised shin, then rushed at Laura and grappled her to the ground, one hand groping for her breast, the other tugging at her skirt.

‘Let go of me!’ she yelled.

‘Mike told me you liked playin’ the field,’ he said, breathing heavily as he knelt astride her body. Grabbing both her wrists, he pinned them to the floor above her head and held them there with one hand. ‘That was why he had to slap you about, wasn’t it?’ He leered at her as he cuffed her violently back and forward across the face. Reaching under her skirt, he grabbed at her pants and started tugging them down. Laura screamed as loudly as she could. Suddenly the front doorbell rang. McAteer clamped his hand tightly over her mouth. ‘Not a peep out of you,’ he hissed, ‘or you’ll go the same way as your auld man.’ The bell jangled again.

Whipping his knife from his jacket pocket he flicked open the blade and pressed the tip against her temple. Slowly, he dragged the razor-sharp point down the side of her face, the blade coming to rest flat against her throat. ‘The slightest noise,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘an’ I’ll finish you off right now.’ Drops of blood, seeping from the yawning wound in her cheek, were dripping onto the carpet. Laura felt her head start to spin. When the doorbell rang again McAteer scrambled to his feet. Looking round the room he flung open the French windows and sprinted outside, vaulting the low, stone wall at the bottom of the garden. Laura staggered to her feet, her hand clasped to the side of her face to try to stem the flow of blood. She lurched along the hallway leaving a trail of blood splattered on the carpet. When she threw the front door open there was no one there.

When Freer saw McAteer’s Volvo start to pull away from the kerb he raced the last twenty yards to the waiting car. Seeing him coming, O’Sullivan flung open the passenger door and fired the engine. As soon as Freer had scrambled inside he set off in pursuit.

‘What happened back there?’ O’Sullivan demanded.

‘He went into a house in Canniesburn Road,’ Freer panted, ‘which I assume was Laura Harrison’s place. He rang the bell and a woman let him in. I made my way round to the back of the house and saw them together in the lounge, through the French windows. She gave him an envelope and he started counting what seemed to be a lot of money. Then he had a go at her.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘He flung himself at her and wrestled her to the ground. I could hear her screaming through the closed windows. It looked as if he was about to rape her. You said not to confront him but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing so I raced round to the front of the house and kept ringing the doorbell. I heard the French windows being thrown open and when I looked round the side of the house I saw McAteer clambering over the garden wall. I followed him back here.’

‘Quick thinking, Tom.’ The traffic was comparatively light and O’Sullivan had no difficulty keeping the Volvo in sight as it
turned right at Anniesland Cross and headed out Great Western Road towards Drumchapel. ‘So, Mrs H. was paying McAteer off, was she? That can only mean one thing – she hired him to bump off her old man.’ O’Sullivan pulled up, several cars behind the Volvo, at a set of traffic lights.

‘And it would appear that he fancied his chances of taking advantage of the situation,’ Freer said. ‘Mrs Harrison is hardly in a position to report a rape. Looks like she might’ve bitten off a lot more than she can chew.’

‘Radio in,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘Let them know we’re tailing McAteer. Give them his licence number and a description of the vehicle in case we lose him.’

McAteer drove through Drumchapel and headed north towards Balloch, O’Sullivan staying as far back as he could without letting the Volvo out of his sight. When he saw McAteer indicate left just beyond the village of Luss, O’Sullivan pulled over at the side of the road.

‘Are we not going to follow him?’ Freer asked.

‘I know that track. It doesn’t lead anywhere. I don’t know what he’s up to but we might as well wait for him here. He has to come back down the same way.’ O’Sullivan slipped the car into first gear and drove slowly past the turn off, then kept going for another hundred yards until he spotted a gap in the trees. Reversing off the road, he cut the engine.

Charlie was about to call Simon Ramsay when his phone rang.

‘Turnbull here, Anderson. Drop whatever you’re doing and come to my office straight away.’

Charlie replaced the receiver. He got to his feet and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. It was the first time he’d ever
been summoned by the chief constable. When he got to Bill Turnbull’s office he was ushered straight in by his secretary, who closed the door behind him. Turnbull was sitting behind his wide desk, talking on the phone. Acknowledging Charlie’s presence with a wave, he indicated a chair. To Charlie’s surprise it appeared that the meeting was going to involve only the two of them.

When he’d finished his call Turnbull pressed his desk intercom. ‘No interruptions, Margaret.’ Boxing the edges of the papers in his hand, he slipped on his reading glasses and peered over the top of them. ‘I’ve had a call from the first minister. Bit of a tricky one here, Anderson.’ Turnbull’s reputation went before him. When he resorted to understatement it invariably meant trouble. ‘The conversation we are about to have is in the strictest confidence. We have received information about a planned bomb attack at Celtic Park tonight.’

Charlie inched forward onto the edge of his chair, his mouth tight. ‘You mean – during the match?’

Turnbull nodded. ‘An Ulster loyalist splinter group is going for a high-profile spectacular.’

Charlie felt the palms of his hands turn clammy. ‘How good is the information?’

‘Rock solid. The anti-terrorist boys have infiltrated a loyalist paramilitary organisation in Derry and their man managed to get a message out yesterday. Jack Craig, an explosives expert, crossed on the ferry from Larne to Stranraer last night carrying seven kilos of Semtex. He caught a train to Glasgow where he was met by a driver. Unfortunately, the unit assigned to tail them lost them in the city-centre traffic.’

Charlie held his breath as Turnbull adjusted his spectacles and referred to the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘From the information
we’ve received it appears that the paramilitaries have an insider in Celtic Park. Special Branch have reason to believe he’s a contract security guard but they haven’t been able to pinpoint his identity. The plan is that Craig will turn up at Parkhead tonight with the Semtex. He’s got a rendezvous with his contact inside the ground at six o’clock and he’s going to plant the bomb in a cistern in one of the toilets underneath the main stand.’

‘Jesus wept!’

‘My first instinct was to contact the Parkhead management,’ Turnbull continued, ‘and instruct them to replace all the security guards who are scheduled to be on duty tonight. However, the first minister has told me that is not an option.’

‘Why not?’

‘Any action that shows that we’re on to them would result in the elimination of the anti-terrorist squad’s agent. It’s taken him four years to get accepted and the powers that be think he’s been told more than he needs to know about tonight’s operation as a test. If Special Branch intercept Craig, the Loyalists will realise there’s been a leak at their end and the agent would be compromised. That’s where we come in. Special Branch have asked the first minister for our support in fronting the operation. The idea is that we can justify a police presence at the ground by saying we have reason to believe drug dealers are going to be operating at Parkhead tonight.’

‘How much detail do we have of their plans?’ Charlie asked.

‘They’re going to plant the bomb around six o’clock and trigger the explosion to go off during the match. I’ve talked it through with the first minister and we’ve concluded that the only avenue open to us is to let Craig plant his device and allow him to leave the stadium unmolested before we neutralise the bomb.’

Charlie shook his head in exasperation. ‘Does the first minister realise how many lives he’s putting at risk?’

Turnbull glared over the top of his spectacles. ‘What sort of a damn fool question is that?’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that – my brother’s going to be at that match.’

Turnbull paused. ‘So is my son.’

Charlie’s mind was racing. ‘Can we at least arrange for someone to monitor the toilets so we know where the device has been planted?’

Turnbull shook his head. ‘We can’t run the risk of doing anything that might spook them. The best we can do is have someone in the vicinity of the toilets who’ll be able to recognise Craig and tip us the wink when he and his crony have left the area.’

‘Do we have anyone who knows what Craig looks like?’

‘No, but we’ve got some good mug shots of him, taken on the ferry last night.’ Turnbull slid a sheaf of photographs across the desk. ‘I want you to take charge of the operation at Parkhead. You’ll need someone with you to act as a lookout for Craig – someone you can trust to keep his mouth shut.’

Charlie thought quickly. ‘I’ll take Renton.’

Turnbull nodded. ‘I’ve arranged with the army to provide a bomb disposal expert and a sniffer dog,’ he continued. ‘You’ll have the support of a dozen officers but you won’t make a move until you’re sure that Craig and his accomplice have left the area – which should be around six-thirty. We need a rationale to justify our presence to the Parkhead management so the official line is that we’ve reason to suspect drug dealing is going to take place in the toilets and we need to cordon off the area. However,
no one apart from you, Renton and the bomb disposal expert will know the true nature of the operation. The back-up officers will be told it’s a drugs bust.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I would love to be confident that there’s not an officer on this force who would leak information to the loyalist paramilitaries – but I’m not prepared to bet an agent’s life on it.’

‘What if something goes wrong? What if we don’t find the bomb?’ Charlie adjusted his tie knot nervously.

‘You’ll have half an hour to find the device and defuse it. If, for whatever reason, you haven’t succeeded in neutralising it by seven o’clock we’ll announce over the public address system that there’s been a bomb warning and that the stadium has to be evacuated. An hour should be sufficient time for that. We know the device won’t be triggered to go off before eight o’clock. However, if we have to resort to that course of action I wouldn’t give a monkey’s for the agent’s chances,’ Turnbull said grimly.

‘What about the houses around the ground, sir? What’s the range of seven kilos of Semtex?’

‘Not my field. Discuss that with the bomb disposal expert. If we have to clear the stadium it’ll be his decision as to whether or not we need to evacuate the surrounding area. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. One more thing,’ Turnbull said, referring to his briefing papers. ‘Special Branch are keen to identify the rogue security guard, so ask the Parkhead management to let us know if any of their staff go AWOL during the match. Take my mobile number,’ he said, jotting it down and handing across the slip of paper. ‘You’re reporting directly to me on this, Anderson. You can call me at any time.’

Darkness fell quickly, shrouding Loch Lomond in a shadowy mist. ‘Are you sure that isn’t a through road?’ Freer asked, peering at his watch through the gloom as he huddled into his jacket.

‘Of course I’m sure!’ Freer caught the tetchiness in O’Sullivan’s voice.

‘We’ve been here almost an hour,’ Freer said. ‘How much longer are we going to wait for him?’

‘What the hell can he be playing at?’ O’Sullivan rubbed the palms of his hands together to try to get his circulation moving. ‘Come on,’ he said, flinging open the driver’s door. ‘We’ll go in on foot and find up what he’s up to. It’s half a mile at most to the far end of the track and anything’s better than sitting here freezing to death.’

Moving at a brisk pace, they followed the tyre tracks up the snow-covered, rutted path until they came to a clearing in which there were several caravans. McAteer’s Volvo was the only car in sight, parked in the middle of the clearing. There was a light shining from the windows of one of the caravans.

‘This is a summer resort,’ O’Sullivan said quietly. ‘No one in their right mind comes within a mile of this place in winter.’

‘What now?’ Freer asked.

O’Sullivan stopped to consider. ‘With what you witnessed at the Harrison’s place, we’ve got enough evidence to put McAteer away – and I don’t want to risk him slipping through our fingers. It’s a long walk back to the car to call out back-up – and I certainly don’t fancy freezing to death for another hour while we wait for them to arrive. How about we get McAteer to give us a lift back to our car en route to Pitt Street?’ he said with a grin. ‘Are you up for it?’

‘You’re calling the shots, sir.’

They moved silently across the camp site towards the caravan. ‘You wait here,’ O’Sullivan whispered. ‘I’ll go inside and bring him out.’ O’Sullivan tiptoed up the five iron steps, handcuffs at the ready. He turned the handle as quietly as he could, then put his shoulder to the door and barged inside, the caravan door rebounding on its hinges and slamming closed behind him. Billy McAteer was stretched out on a bench seat, dozing. O’Sullivan dropped on one knee and managed to cuff McAteer’s wrists in front of him before he fully realised what was happening. ‘You’re under arrest, McAteer. Don’t try anything stupid,’ O’Sullivan warned as McAteer struggled to get to his feet. ‘I’ve got armed back-up outside.’

McAteer glowered at him. ‘If it isn’t the Fenian cunt!’ He spat in O’Sullivan’s face.

O’Sullivan brought his knee up sharply, catching McAteer full in the groin and causing him to fold at the waist with an agonised grunt. ‘That’s for the pint of beer in Tennent’s.’ Pulling him up straight, he drew back his right arm and slammed his fist into McAteer’s solar plexus. ‘And that’s for the “Fenian cunt”.’ The caravan rocked on its wheels as McAteer toppled over. O’Sullivan grabbed him by the shoulders and tugged him to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’

The sound of the caravan toilet being flushed caused O’Sullivan to spin round and in the same instant McAteer let out a roar and flung his cuffed arms over O’Sullivan’s head and yanked his body towards him in a bear hug. Lifting O’Sullivan clean off his feet he crushed the breath from his lungs and held him suspended in mid-air for several seconds before hammering his body downwards and driving his kneecap into O’Sullivan’s coccyx.

As O’Sullivan lay moaning on the floor, McAteer pulled a flick knife from his jacket pocket and held the blade to O’Sullivan’s throat. ‘Undo the cuffs, Paddy,’ he commanded.

‘I didn’t bring the keys with me,’ O’Sullivan croaked.

McAteer stabbed the point of the blade into O’Sullivan’s throat, drawing blood. ‘The keys, you smart-arsed bastard, or it’s your jugular next.’

O’Sullivan reached slowly into his trouser pocket and produced the handcuff keys. McAteer thrust his hands forward, the tip of the blade still pressing into O’Sullivan’s throat. ‘Open them,’ he demanded. When O’Sullivan had unlocked both cuffs McAteer twisted him onto his face, yanked his arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs closed around his wrists. He shoved the keys into his pocket and dragged O’Sullivan to his feet, spinning him round to face him. There was a wild look of triumph in McAteer’s eye as he smashed his forehead into the bridge of O’Sullivan’s nose, the sharp, cracking sound ringing round the enclosed space. ‘That’s us quits, you fucking Papist bastard,’ he panted. O’Sullivan dropped to his knees, blood from his broken nose spurting down his jacket.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ A squat, dark-haired figure came striding out of the toilet, buckling his belt.