Referendum (5 page)

“You know what I want?”

“Yes.”

“Help me out, the man is cancer.”

“Sorry, you’re going to need to be specific.”

“Donald.”

“Donald is cancer? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the unfounded allegations you’ve pursued in the past?”

“I prefer ‘unproven’”

“I’m sure you do, but it smacks of a witch hunt.”

“He got lucky, and people like you are protecting him.”

“Graeme Donald was good to me, and you don’t have my best interests at heart. This is nothing more than a story to you. Now I’m sorry to break it to you but my life is more important than your career. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Davidson stood up; Sandy could see that his face had gone red under the mask, his skin looked sore.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Sandy dug into his kit bag and fished out a business card. He offered it to Davidson but he didn’t look at it. Sandy threw it down on the coffee table, “I’ll leave it anyway, just in case.”

“Ever the optimist.”

Back in the car Sandy was disappointed. He hadn’t really got anything he could use. He had installed a button camera on his blazer which had been recording the conversation. It was technically entrapment but he needed a lead. He had hoped to get more information off the record but there was nothing much he could use. Davidson was in complete denial that there was anything untoward about his boss.
Maybe they’ve been working together?
The camera had uploaded the file to his laptop, which he was checking from the driver’s seat. He had great footage of the man in the mask; he just needed some dirt on the Chief Constable. It would come; it was just a matter of time.

He switched on the engine when an incoming call triggered the car’s hands-free kit.

Unknown caller

He pressed the green handset button, “Sandy Stirrit here, who’s this?”

“We haven’t met before but I understand you’re doing some digging into Graeme Donald’s past.”

Sandy was immediately on his guard. He’d told no-one he was coming to Davidson’s place. He scanned the street to see if he was being watched. He didn’t speak.

“Are you still there?”

It was an Irish accent, sounded like Belfast or somewhere from the North, someone that knew Donald maybe?

“Who is this?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend; someone that knows what you’re looking for, someone that can give you the scoop of the year.”

“Can we meet?”

“I’ll be in touch. Not today, but soon. I’ve got a lot I need to get off my chest.”

11

They knocked. They waited. No-one answered. Chris Guthrie had his doubts.

“Is this definitely the right address?”

“Yes,” Arbogast was annoyed he’d even been asked, “134a Corsock Street.”

“Not looking too promising then.”

“She’s in.”

“Bring your X-ray specs did you?”

“Didn’t need to, I saw the curtain move upstairs.”

They both knew that wasn’t a good sign. Although the autopsy results hadn’t come back yet the assumption was suicide. Technically speaking this wasn’t a case for Major Crime, but resources were stretched. The fact the family didn’t want to speak to them suggested there might be more to the death than it first appeared. Arbogast sighed and wished for an easy life.

Lorna panicked, “It’s the Police. The security guard at the supermarket must have filed a complaint,” She’d assumed that when Gary had gone to ground he’d have had the good sense to keep the incident to himself. “The bastard shopped us.”

Leona looked worried, “What happened back there? You haven’t told me.”

“I did what I had to do to get away – but if they’ve reported us then they must have evidence.”

“But you said the cameras couldn’t see us between the pillars.”

Lorna was pacing the bedroom, trying to think of a way out, but there was nothing to be done.
They’d been caught. Shit, shit, shit.
Looking round she caught the look on her daughter’s face for the first time. She was terrified.

“Don’t worry pet, this will be OK. We didn’t take anything. They won’t have anything on us.”

Leona held back the curtain, she was hoping the men might have gone away, but they were still there – the taller of the two looked up. Leona stepped back quickly.

“I think they saw me.”

“Get back from the window.”

Outside, Arbogast crouched down and lifted the metal flap on the letter box.

“Mrs McMahon, if you’re in there, and I saw you upstairs so let’s assume you are, I would ask that you come down and speak to us. It’s about your husband.”

“He says it’s about dad, maybe we’ll be OK?”

The relief Lorna felt at that moment was immense. She hadn’t realised it but she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled, feeling dizzy, certain that her worst fears hadn’t been realised. They’d got away with it after all.
Now what’s Horace been up to? He’s going to get a piece of my mind if he’s been arrested.
She took her daughter’s hand and led her down the stairs.

“Let’s see what they want.”

The detectives stepped back and waited. There was a murmur of voices from inside, then footsteps down the stairs. Finally the door opened.

“Mrs McMahon?”

“Yes, sorry to keep you waiting. Just some family stuff I needed to speak to my daughter about.”

Arbogast nodded. He didn’t want to pry. He just wanted to deliver the message then leave. He always seemed to end up getting these death knock jobs.

“Can we come in Mrs McMahon? I need to speak to you in private.”

Lorna sensed something wasn’t right. Her momentary relief had been replaced by a feeling of freefall. She sensed something bad was coming and that it might be close to home.

“Is Horace in trouble?”

“No, it’s not that.” Arbogast and Guthrie followed the McMahons into the living room. There wasn’t much furniture. A tatty three-seater settee and a couple of folding chairs stacked against the far wall. He noticed there wasn’t a TV; there wasn’t much of anything in the room. Lorna brought the occasional chairs over and offered them up. Arbogast insisted Lorna sit down first.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” There was urgency about Lorna’s voice. She sat wringing her hands, her legs had been pulled in tight around the curve of the chair; she was hunched up as if waiting for impact.

“There’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid that your husband has been found dead.” Lorna was shaking her head; this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Arbogast realised that the girl, Leona had grasped the situation first – she put her arm round her mother and was saying it would be OK. Arbogast had seen it before. It was denial. The girl was coping the only way she knew how, by helping her mum, but the shock was coming for her too. It could be a few months off yet but when it came she’d know all about it. Arbogast felt tired. Too many times down this road. Chris Guthrie sat and said nothing. That was his role. To nod and give non-verbal support – that was what the training said anyway; whatever that meant.

“Dead,” It was the one word Lorna wanted to run from, “What do you mean?”

“It looks like he’d been sleeping rough. His body was found under a bridge in Glasgow Green early this morning.

“But how can you be sure?”

“We identified him from his records. Believe me Mrs McMahon I know this is a difficult time.”

“But how can this...”

Leona stepped in to help her mother out, “We haven’t seen him for three days. We’ve been worried.”

“Had this been reported?”

“What? Eh no, he did that sometimes.”

“So it wasn’t unusual for him to go missing?”

Lorna was coming round a little, needed more in the way of facts, “What happened to him?”

“We don’t know. He was injured. An autopsy will be carried out in due course. We’ll know for sure in the next couple of days.”

“Was he killed?”

“We don’t know.”

“You think he did it to himself? No way,” Lorna was angry. Horace wouldn’t do that. He knew they needed him. If they didn’t come through this as a team how could they survive? “Horace was no quitter. And I know your face. You were involved in that terror case. I saw your face on the TV. Why would a murder cop be looking into this if it was a suspected suicide?”

“Mrs McMahon.” Chris Guthrie had broken character, Arbogast had taken on too much and the conversation was in danger of getting away from him, “We don’t know right now. The force is busy with the Games preparations. We all need to help where we can. We need to ask if there was any reason your husband would have come into harm’s way?”

There was silence. The McMahon’s had always been confident they could solve any problem, beat all comers, but in the last few minutes that certainty had been crushed. They knew what had happened. They knew there was nothing they could do to change it. They knew that they had brought the problem down on themselves.

12

Back in 2013

Ron Semple saw himself as a business man; everyone else thought he was a bit of a prick. If anyone asked he’d tell them he worked in finance, which was true, up to a point. Ron Semple was a loan shark and right now business was good. The Government was doing its bit, and with every fresh benefit cut more people were turning to him for extra help. If Government policy wanted people to do more with less, who was he to argue?

He used to work from home but things had picked up so he’d rented an office on Duke Street; nothing fancy, used to be a Chinese takeaway and it still looked like one. All he’d done was strip out the counter and put in a desk. It was all he needed to look legit; most of his time was spent on the road, although more people were starting to come to him.

The alarm on the door rang. He’d been out the back making tea but the front of the shop was on camera. He scanned the monitor.
Too early for my meeting, so who have we got this time?
It was a man; not much to look at.
Probably a punter. Let’s hook the fucker in for the long haul.

He breezed through to his desk still wiping wet hands on a tea towel, “Hello there, how can I help you today?”
Make him feel big, important. It won’t last for long so enjoy it while you can.

“I’m looking for Ron Semple.”

Ron was well known, and he wasn’t buying the green around the gills routine.
I wonder how much this one’s going to ask for. “
At your service, but you have me at a disadvantage.”

The man took his hands from his pockets. He was wearing threadbare jeans and a David Bowie t-shirt, obviously more interested in comfort than style. The jeans were stained, another no-hoper.

“I’m sorry, my name’s Horace McMahon, live up Haghill way.”

“A man should never apologise for his name or his neighbourhood, we welcome all through these doors.”

Horace was feeling a bit out of his depth. He hadn’t been in work for a long time, his benefits had been cut and Lorna was out of work. He’d heard this guy was reasonable as long as you paid him back on time. There was some work coming up at the Games Village soon and if it came off he’d be quids-in; fingers crossed this would tide the family over.

“Are you lending just now?”

“My friend, Semple’s temple is never closed. How much do you need?” Ron sensed he might be onto a winner, someone that thought they’d be in for the short term; maybe he thought there was a windfall just around the corner.

“I don’t need much, just a bridging loan really to see me through to payday with my new job – I’m labouring down at Dalmarnock.”

“I see. The Commonwealth Games houses – I hear it’s looking good down there. I could offer you £100 no problem at all.”

“I’m just a bit nervous about the interest rates—“

“No need Mr McMahon. If you were to take all year you’d be looking at a lot but a man such as yourself about to take a new job needn’t worry about those kinds of details. Pay me back in the space of a month and we’re only talking about the small matter of £40 give or take a few pence.”

“Sounds OK.” Horace was more relaxed now. He’d heard the rates were astronomical but forty quid was nothing, he just needed to land the job. He’d find out about that later today.
It’s in the bag.

Reaching over the table he extended his hand, “Mr Semple, you have yourself a deal.” When the two men shook on it, Horace couldn’t be sure if he had detected a smile.

Later that day, Horace met with his contact, an old pal he’d worked with on building projects going back more than ten years. George Callaghan had promised him work, said there were all sorts of gigs going at the Games Village, and months of work up for grabs. But the foreman wasn’t a friend.  In fact he’d heard about Horace from the velodrome project, heard that he’d been drunk and fallen down a well marked exit. He didn’t need that kind of guy on site, regardless of his experience.

So Horace didn’t get the job and he didn’t repay the bill. He spent his £100 on food for the family and some clothes for Leona. He’d bought Leona some lipstick too, told her not to tell her mum, just a wee treat. But he knew he had to repay the debt but didn’t know how. He scrounged the odd tenner here and there but it didn’t make a dent. After a month he owed £140, then £200 the following month. But the interest rate was extortionate and 6000% soon adds up. After 12 months Horace McMahon owed more than £6000 and with no hope of paying it back, his fortunes weren’t going to improve anytime soon. The last time he visited Ron Semple he’d been told the debt had been sold, that he’d been given ample opportunity to pay it back. The debt now belonged to a collector. He was told he would need to get serious about finding the cash. Horace had cried, broken down in the office, pleaded for another chance. But Ron Semple wasn’t interested. Horace was told to expect a visit soon and thanked for his business. Ron had made his money and Horace had made the biggest mistake of his life.