Black Mail (2012) (5 page)

‘Forgotten?’ Kay muttered under her breath. ‘That would be a first.’ She switched her bedside light back on. ‘Charlie Anderson!’ She had to shout to make herself heard above the noise of the running tap. ‘I hope you’re not matchmaking?’

‘She could do a lot worse,’ was interspersed with the sounds of coughing and spitting.

‘The
last
thing this family needs is another copper!’

‘I’ve invited him round for dinner, for God’s sake,’ he spluttered, wiping his mouth on a hand towel as he came back into the bedroom. ‘I suppose he might bring a bottle of wine or a bunch of flowers, but I’m not expecting him to turn up with an engagement ring!’

‘You are impossible!’ Switching off her light Kay rolled onto her side to face the wall.

‘It’s time we were making a move, Bjorn,’ Helen said, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s after one o’clock.’

‘Got to rush home and count all your money, I suppose?’ Mike Harrison slurred his words as he sat slumped on the settee.

‘I’d rather you didn’t go on about that,’ Bjorn said.

‘Oh you would, would you?’ Mike reached for the Armagnac bottle and topped up his glass. ‘It’s okay for you, poncing around in your flash pad with money coming out your ears. You don’t give a bugger that some of us are struggling to get by.’

‘Back off, Mike,’ Laura said. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘I’m fucking-well not drunk!’ Mike yelled, slamming the Armagnac bottle back down on the coffee table. ‘That smug, self-satisfied Swedish prick gets on my tits. Who the hell does he think he is, lording it over us and boasting about what a smart arse he is?’ Mike glared at Bjorn. ‘How about spreading some of the largesse around in the family, Bjorn? That way, I might not need to have a chat with the police.’

‘Give it rest, Mike,’ Simon said. ‘You’re hardly in a position to threaten anyone with going to the police.’

‘Listen to Mr holier-than-thou,’ Mike sneered. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’ve never tried your hand at a bit of insider dealing?’

‘At least I’ve never been responsible for putting anyone in hospital.’

‘What are you driving at?’

‘You know fine well what I’m driving at. You’ve never earned an honest penny in your life.’

‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Mike said, struggling to get to his feet. He started peeling off his jacket. ‘Come outside and say that!’

‘Grow up, all of you!’ Jude screamed. ‘This is supposed to be a fucking party!’

Gerry Fraser was chilled to the marrow and his feet were killing him as he hobbled down the Broomielaw in the direction of Glasgow Green. He’d been wandering around the city centre all night, too frightened to go back to his flat. It wasn’t yet daylight as he trudged the length of Clyde Street, yanking up his jacket collar and bending low into the stinging wind whipping off the river. The only consolation was that it had stopped snowing. When he turned into the Saltmarket he managed to get some shelter from the buildings as he headed towards Glasgow Cross. As he approached the Gallowgate he looked at his watch and quickened his pace. He knew Shuggie opened up at six.

Fraser had a stream of unanswered questions churning in his head. He’d tried phoning Johnny Devlin several times during the night but there had been no reply – neither from his flat nor his mobile. Why not? Had the cops locked him up for the night? If so, why Devlin and not him? Were they trying to keep them apart? Trying to prevent them getting their act together?

The blackboard in the steamed-up window of Shuggie’s café advertised an all-day breakfast at £5.99: sausage, bacon, egg, black pudding, tomato, fried potato scone and baked beans, with tea or coffee and toast. Three regulars were already installed,
sitting side by side on a wooden bench with their backs to the door, their fingerless mittens wrapped around steaming mugs of milky tea. All the heads turned round when Fraser walked in. He nodded a curt greeting.

‘The usual, Gerry?’ The question had come from the squat figure perched on a high stool behind the counter.

‘Bung on double sausage an’ an extra egg, Shuggie. I’m starvin’. I didny get anythin’ to eat last night.’

Shuggie Morrison wiped his hands on his grubby apron and rammed his shirt sleeves above the elbows, revealing thick, tattooed forearms. He got the fry-up going, regularly flipping the sausages and bacon, then took two eggs from the fridge and juggled with them expertly before cracking them into a smoking pan.

Fraser sat on the wooden bench by the window from where he could see along the road in both directions. While waiting for his breakfast his red-rimmed eyes flicked constantly up and down the street, deserted apart from the first stirrings of the city’s cardboard kingdom in the shop doorways. When Shuggie brought across a heaped plate and a mug of black coffee Fraser sprayed the food liberally with salt and thin brown sauce from a plastic bottle before diving in. He kept one eye on the street while he munched.

The phone behind the counter rang. ‘Aye, as a matter of fact he is,’ Fraser heard Shuggie say. This was followed by a pause. ‘About ten minutes ago.’ Shuggie had lowered his voice and Fraser strained to follow the conversation. Another pause. ‘Fine. I’ll let him know.’

Shuggie came out from behind the counter and sat down on the bench next to Fraser. ‘That was Billy McAteer on the blower,’ he said quietly.

Fraser’s jaw froze in mid-chew. ‘What was he wantin’?’

Shuggie craned across to whisper in his ear. ‘He wanted to know if you were here.’

Fraser gulped down his food. ‘What did you tell him?’

Shuggie shrugged. ‘I don’t mess about wi’ the likes of McAteer, Gerry.’

‘Did he say anythin’ else?’

‘He told me to tell you to wait for him here. He’ll be over in five minutes.’

Fraser stuffed a slice of toast into his mouth and washed it down a slurp of coffee. He scrambled to his feet. ‘How much?’ he demanded, pointing at his plate.

‘Six seventy-five, wi’ the extras.’ Shuggie placed a restraining hand on Fraser’s arm. ‘You’d be better off waitin’ for him, Gerry,’ he whispered forcibly. ‘You’ll only make things worse for yourself if you try to do a runner.’

Fraser pushed Shuggie’s hand aside and dropped seven pounds onto the plastic tablecloth. As he bustled towards the door Shuggie’s voice was ringing in his ears. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to say to McAteer?’

Fraser trotted along the Gallowgate, glancing over his shoulder every time he heard an engine, hoping it would be a bus. He was breathing hard by the time he reached St Mungo’s Academy, and he clung to the iron railings beside the football field as he struggled to get his breath back. He cursed aloud when he saw a bus approaching. ‘Too fuckin’ late, you useless bastard!’ Cutting across the road he headed up Whitevale Street, past the
bricked-up
swimming baths, his wheezing lungs on fire. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed before ducking into his close. ‘Grab a few things an’ head up to Oban,’
he panted to himself as he plodded up the worn stone steps. ‘Lie low at Andy’s place till the heat dies down.’

When he reached the second-floor landing he leaned with his back against the door of his flat as he scrabbled in his coat pocket for his keys, then he suddenly stumbled backwards as the door swung open on its hinges. He stared in terror as his eyes were drawn to the jemmied lock.

‘Is that you, Gerry?’ He recognised the voice floating out from the kitchen. ‘Come on in. I made myself at home. Hope that was all right?’

Fraser heard the slow, rhythmic ring of footsteps coming up the staircase behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck started to crawl and when he spun round he found himself confronted with Billy McAteer’s deformed features.

‘You’re awfy predictable, Fraser.’ McAteer’s scarred face was leering at him. ‘If I’d left a message for you to go home straight away I bet you’d have stayed on at Shuggie’s place.’ Fraser’s eyes darted all around, desperately looking for any way to escape, but before he could make a move McAteer dropped the holdall he was carrying and lunged forward, his fists locking around Fraser’s throat and lifting him clean off his feet. He was held dangling at arms’ length as his face turned blue, his feet flailing. ‘The boss wants a wee word with you.’ McAteer laughed in his face. ‘Lucky for you that he needs you to be able to talk, otherwise I’d be squeezin’ a lot harder than this.’ McAteer smiled as he drove his powerful thumbs into Fraser’s windpipe, causing him to black out.

Gerry Fraser blinked slowly as he regained consciousness. He recognised his own living room but when he tried to move he
found he was bound hand and foot to an upright wooden chair. When he raised his head and blinked again, Billy McAteer’s profile came into focus, lying stretched out on the settee in the middle of the room, reading a newspaper and picking his nose. As Fraser stared at the recumbent figure through petrified eyes, he felt his bowels slacken involuntarily.

McAteer scrambled to his feet when he saw Fraser stir. ‘He’s comin’ round, boss!’ he called out. Fraser’s eyes swivelled towards the living room door when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the kitchen.

‘You were supposed to deliver the money last night, Fraser,’ Mike Harrison snarled. ‘Billy waited for you in The Three Judges until closing time. Why didn’t you show up?’

‘We got nicked in Argyle Street, Mr Harrison,’ he whimpered.

‘Don’t give me that crap! Where’s my money?’ Harrison towered over the cringing figure, his fist hovering inches from Fraser’s jaw.

‘I huvny got it, Mr Harrison!’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Harrison backed off, wafting his hand underneath his nose. ‘What a fucking pong! Have you been shitting your breeks, you dirty wee midden?’ Producing a set of knuckle-dusters from his jacket pocket, Harrison slipped them over his fist. ‘I’m warning you. This is your one and only chance. What have you done with my money?’

‘I huvny got it,’ Fraser wailed. ‘I’m tellin’ you the God’s honest truth, Mr Harrison! Devlin and me got nicked in Argyle Street. The cops hung on to the collection box.’

Harrison slammed the knuckle-dusters into Fraser’s nose, stepping back quickly to avoid the jet of blood that spurted from the gaping wound. ‘You don’t expect me to swallow that load of
crap!’ he yelled in his face. ‘Where have you stashed my money, you snivelling wee bastard?’

‘I huvny got it! Honest!’

Harrison lashed out again, splitting open both of Fraser’s lips. ‘Where’s Devlin?’

‘I don’t know,’ he whimpered.

‘You and Devlin are in this together, aren’t you?’ Harrison growled. ‘You’re trying to play me for a mug.’

‘No!’

Harrison stood over Fraser with the knuckle-dusters poised. ‘Billy phoned me at midnight to tell me you’d done a no-show. He had to interrupt me at a dinner party. I didn’t get to my pit until after two o’clock and I’ve got a very sore heid – and I don’t take kindly to having to get up at five in the morning to go chasing after a miserable wee nyaff like you! So, I’m warning you, Fraser. This is your last fucking chance.’ Placing the
knuckle-dusters
under Fraser’s chin, Harrison used them to lever up his head. ‘Either you tell me right now where my money is or one thing’s for sure – your heid’s goany be an awful lot sorer than mine.’

‘I’m tellin’ you the God’s honest truth, Mr Harrison.’ Fraser spluttered, choking on the blood swilling around in his mouth. ‘The cops hung on to the money.’

On Harrison’s curt signal, McAteer took a faded yellow duster from his holdall and stuffed it into Fraser’s bloodied mouth. Tugging off his jacket, McAteer rolled his shirt sleeves above the elbow, then wrapped Fraser’s ponytail tightly around his fist. His whole body tensed as he strained to lift man and chair into the air. The veins on the side of Fraser’s neck turned purple and his eyes bulged in their sockets as he swung back and forth, inches
off the ground, trying desperately to take in oxygen through his blood-caked nostrils. Rummaging in McAteer’s holdall, Harrison produced a large pair of scissors which he used to cut through Fraser’s hair at the point where his ponytail joined his scalp, snipping away until only a few strands of hair remained. McAteer’s biceps bulged and the tattoo of the Red Hand of Ulster on the back of his fist started throbbing. His whole body was quivering with the effort of supporting Fraser’s weight. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

‘You can do it, Billy!’ Harrison shouted in encouragement, nudging his knee into Fraser’s dangling body and causing him to spin round slowly. ‘Hang in there! He’s going to go any minute!’

There was a manic sparkle of triumph in McAteer’s eye as the last remaining strands of Fraser’s hair tore out by the roots and his body crashed to the floor, the wooden chair splintering on impact.

‘You know the score.’ Harrison spat on the moaning figure. ‘You’re responsible!’ he shouted, launching a swinging boot and catching Fraser full in the testicles. ‘Make sure he’s not holding out on us, Billy.’

As Harrison turned and strode from the room, McAteer pulled a pair of pliers from his holdall.

Niggle was on the phone when Charlie arrived to brief him. Superintendent Nigel Hamilton had acquired his nickname when he was a detective sergeant and it had stuck with him throughout his career. As far as Charlie was concerned, he embodied the worst possible combination – an inferiority complex along with a rank that allowed him to throw his weight around. Charlie had long since concluded that nothing he did would ever please Hamilton, with his round, unsmiling face, his sallow complexion and his narrowly-spaced eyes. Niggle had the irritating habit of continually sucking on his teeth, causing his thin lips to be permanently pursed and contributing to his pedantic manner of speaking – a slow delivery that made Charlie want to finish his sentences for him.

‘What was the result of last night’s operation, Anderson?’ Hamilton demanded as he replaced the receiver.

‘The tip-off was good. We arrested a couple of small-time dealers in Argyle Street and we confiscated their money but we didn’t lay our hands on any drugs.’

‘The object of the exercise was to find the source of the supply. Did you manage to achieve that?’

‘We gave the dealers a grilling but they’re not talking.’

‘So that’s a “no”?’

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. ‘If that’s the way you want to look at it.’

‘What I want to look at is results!’

Charlie bit into his bottom lip. ‘I’ll keep you posted, sir.’ Spitting out the last word, he strode out of the office.

Simon Ramsay drove down the steep ramps beneath his
city-centre
office block until he reached the lowest level, where there were only a few vehicles parked. Manoeuvring his Jaguar head-on to the concrete wall he switched off the engine, his eyes glued to the digital clock. He drew hard on his umpteenth cigarette of the morning as he peered through the gloom at the luminous display, swallowing hard as it flicked over to ten o’clock. Snapping open his briefcase he fumbled for his mobile phone and gripped it tightly in his fist as he shivered in the unnerving silence, his gaze continually flitting between the clock and the phone.

It was a further twenty minutes and two more cigarettes before he felt the phone start to vibrate in his palm. On the first trill of the bell he depressed the button to make the connection.

‘You got my message?’ The voice sounded mechanical, as if disembodied.

‘Who the hell is this?’

‘If you got my email, you know who it is – Liam Black.’

‘How the fuck did you get your hands on that photograph?’

There was a low chuckle. ‘That’s hardly relevant. As I said in my note, that was just a sample. I’ve got the full, two-hour, uncensored video.’

The phone was twitching in Simon’s trembling fingers. ‘What do you want?’

‘That’s more like it. I’m not an unreasonable man,’ the deep, metallic voice intoned. ‘I’ll settle for fifty grand.’

‘You’re off your fucking head!’ He screamed into the mouthpiece. ‘I can’t lay my hands on that kind of money!’

‘Come on now! Flash pad in Park Terrace, top of the range Jag, round the world cruises, winter skiing in St Moritz.’ He chuckled coldly. ‘It might take a wee effort,
Simon
.’ His name was dragged out. ‘But it’ll be well worth it.’

‘Don’t you fucking-well “Simon” me!’

Black’s tone changed abruptly. ‘You’re not calling the shots around here. What do you think your wife’ll call you if she sees that photo? It sure as hell won’t be “Simon”. Probably “Pervert”. That suits you right down to the ground. I can see it now – “Pervert Ramsay” – splashed across the front page of the Sunday papers.’

Simon stubbed his cigarette into the already overflowing ashtray and lit up again immediately. ‘Nobody would publish it,’ he croaked.

‘That particular photograph? Probably not. A bit on the crude side for a family newspaper, don’t you think? But the tabloids would fall over themselves to get their hands on the story. How much do think I’d get for an exclusive? ‘Son-in-law of leading Glasgow stockbroker caught in flagrante’. I reckon that would be worth fifty grand of anybody’s money. So you see, I’m not being unreasonable,
Simon
– just asking the market rate.’

‘I need time … I need time to think,’ he blurted out, grabbing a tissue from the packet in his briefcase and using it to dab away the perspiration from his brow.

‘It’s a bit late in the day for that, Pervert. The time to do your thinking was before you dropped your breeks. Now’s the
time to focus on how you’re going to raise the cash. I want it in used notes – fives, tens and twenties, nothing bigger. You’ve got forty-eight hours to get the money together. I’ll call you at the same time tomorrow and give you instructions for handing it over.’

‘You’re crazy! I’m telling you I can’t lay my hands on that kind of money!’

‘Forty-eight hours, Pervert.’ The staccato words reverberated in his ear. ‘If you don’t come up with the cash by Saturday morning the story will break in the Sunday papers. It’s up to you. By the way, that’s a nasty-looking big plook you’ve got on your bum. If I were you I’d get that seen to.’ The connection was broken.

Simon threw the phone into his briefcase and rammed his cigarette into the ashtray. He started coughing uncontrollably. His whole body was shaking. All the colour had drained from his face and his forehead felt as if it was burning. Firing the ignition, he hammered the gear lever into reverse to pull out of the parking bay, then slalomed up the ramps to street level, tyres squealing. He sped across the city centre as far as Charing Cross but when he reached the bottom of Lynedoch Street he had to slow to a crawl to negotiate the treacherous conditions as he climbed towards Park Terrace. Pulling up outside his house he grabbed his briefcase and took the stone steps two at a time.

Jude was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and flicking through
The Herald
, when she heard the front door being thrown open. She hurried out to the hall. ‘What on earth are you doing home at this time?’

‘I forgot to print off a report I need for a meeting this afternoon,’ Simon said as he head towards the staircase.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘A bit hungover, that’s all.’

‘Do you have time for a coffee?’

‘No. Can’t stop.’ Dropping his briefcase onto the chair in the hall he loped up the stairs. He closed his study door, turned the key in the lock and switched on his computer. Paging quickly through his files until he found the photo he was looking for he hit the print key. He studied the image carefully, then folded the sheet of paper twice and slipped it into the zip-up section at the back of his wallet before reaching for the phone and tapping in a number.

It was answered on the second ring. ‘Hello, Laura Harrison speaking.’

‘Laura, it’s me.’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his hand covering the mouthpiece.

There was a stunned silence. ‘Oh, it’s you, Alison. For a minute there I didn’t recognise your voice. Shame you couldn’t make it to Jude’s last night. You missed a good evening.’

‘Shit! Is Mike there?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I have to see you!’

‘When do they reckon the snow will clear?’

‘I have to see you straight away. It’s an emergency. Meet me in Rogano’s in half an hour.’ He hung up without waiting for her response.

‘I’m glad you’re able to get out and about now.’ Laura spoke to the dialling tone. ‘Give me a call the next time you’re in town and we’ll meet up for lunch. Give Norman my love. Bye.’ She replaced the receiver slowly.

Simon unlocked the study door and crept down the staircase, taking care to avoid the squeaky step. Opening the front door as quietly as he could he stepped outside and tugged the door shut behind him. When Jude heard the tell-tale click of the Yale lock she went out to the hall. ‘In one of our more sociable moods, I see,’ she muttered in the general direction of the front door. As she turned back towards the kitchen her eye caught the briefcase lying on the chair. Snatching it up she wrenched the front door open, just in time to see Simon accelerating away from the kerb. She stood on tiptoe and waved the briefcase in the air and she kept on waving until the Jaguar had turned the corner into Park Gate. With a shake of the head she went back to the kitchen and dropped the case on the table. She picked up the phone and dialled Simon’s mobile number, spinning around with a start when she heard the ring tone coming from inside the briefcase.

‘Brilliant!’ She cut the connection and dialled his office number.

‘I’d like to leave a message for Simon Ramsay, please.’

‘I’m sorry, he won’t be in the office today.’

‘Really? Are you sure about that?’

‘He’s taken a few days off. Can anyone else help?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Do you still want to leave a message?’

‘No message,’ Jude said, replacing the receiver.

Laura Harrison slid onto the bench seat in the booth opposite Simon. Rogano’s was still quiet, the staff preparing for the imminent lunchtime rush.

‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked, nodding towards the half-full whisky tumbler clenched in his fist.

‘I don’t want anything to drink,’ she fumed. ‘What I want is a bloody explanation! And it had better be good. I’ve told you a hundred times
never
to call me at home.’

Simon reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet, his eyes darting round the room to make sure no one was observing them. Opening the zipped compartment he produced the sheet of paper which he unfolded and slid across the table.

Every vestige of colour seeped from Laura’s bruised face. The photograph had been taken looking down on the bed from above and most of her body was hidden by the naked torso lying on top of her. Her legs, bent at the knees, were splayed on either side of his buttocks and her arms were wrapped around his back, fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades. Her head was lolling on the pillow, her eyes shut, her tongue protruding slightly from parted lips. Simon’s face was buried in her neck, his hair falling forward and revealing the bald patch on the crown of his head.

‘Where in the name of God did this come from?’ she croaked.

‘A blackmailer,’ he mouthed.

‘Jesus wept!’ Laura grabbed the whisky tumbler from Simon’s hand and poured the contents straight down her throat. ‘How the hell did he manage to get hold of this?’ she spluttered.

‘God only knows!’ He spoke in a strangulated whisper. ‘It must’ve been taken in the Hilton. Where else?’

‘What can I get you?’ The smiling waitress had appeared from nowhere.

Laura quickly placed her handbag on top of the photograph. ‘Gin and tonic, please. Make it a large one.’

‘Ice and lemon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything else for you, sir?’

‘Same again. Glenmorangie. Large,’ he said, sliding his empty tumbler across the polished surface.

Laura waited until the waitress had moved out of earshot. ‘How did the blackmailer contact you?’

‘He sent me that photograph yesterday, attached to an email, then he phoned me this morning.’

‘So that’s why you were uptight last night?’ Simon nodded. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Not the easiest thing to slip it into the dinner conversation. Laura, he says …’ Simon was stammering over his words. ‘He says this is only a sample. He claims to have a two-hour video.’

Sliding the sheet of paper from underneath her handbag Laura crumpled it in both hands while staring unseeingly across the room.

‘I’ve had a good look at it,’ Simon said. ‘From the angle of the shot I reckon there must’ve been a camera concealed on top of the wardrobe in the hotel room. Someone must have found out about us – where we go and when – and set us up. He must have found some way to install a video camera pointed at the bed and leave it running.’

‘What does he want?’ Apart from the angry bruising around her eye Laura’s features were chalk white.

‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

‘Or else?’

‘He’s threatening to sell the story to the tabloids.’

Feeling her stomach starting to heave she dropped the crumpled sheet of paper onto the table and clasped both hands across her mouth to prevent herself from retching as she rocked back and forward on the bench seat. It was a full minute before she tentatively withdrew her hands. ‘We’ll have to –’ She broke
off as the waitress arrived with their drinks and placed them on the table in front of them.

‘Would you like to see the lunch menu?’

‘No!’ Simon snapped, waving her away.

‘We’ll have to pay him off,’ Laura whispered. ‘I don’t see that we have any other option.’ Her fingers drifted towards her bruised face. ‘You realise that if Mike ever sees that photograph we are both as good as dead?’ She spoke in a dispassionate tone. ‘You heard his cock and bull story last night about the yobs on the motorbike?’

‘What are you talking about?’

She continued to finger her bruised eye. ‘Mike did this.’

‘What!’

‘We were at a friend’s housewarming party on Monday night and he got it into his head that I was flirting with someone. I’d been chatting to a bloke for about ten minutes – having a bit of a giggle – nothing more. Mike was pissed out of his brains and when we got back to the car he started ranting and raving about me trying to get off with the guy. When I told him he was talking rubbish he punched me in the face.’

‘Jesus!’

‘He made me go along with the handbag snatch story to avoid embarrassing questions.’

‘Is this the first time he’s hit you?’

Laura paused while she poured tonic into her gin. ‘To borrow a well-worn cliché – the first time where it shows.’

Simon cupped his whisky glass in both hands. ‘Why don’t you walk out on him?’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Simon! Spare me the B-movie routine. I stay with Mike for exactly the same reason you hang in
there with Jude. I need someone to pay the bills. But I’m not exaggerating. If he ever gets wind of this …’ She broke off and tapped the crumpled paper lying on the table. ‘If he ever sees that photograph – he’ll have no compunction about killing both of us.’