The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) (24 page)

Sitting with his leg up. A cripple. This industry isn’t an equal-opportunities sort of a place. No room for elderly cripples. They only get in the way.

‘You know that Peter’s told me to take a few weeks in his villa in Spain when I’m able to get up and about,’ Frank’s saying now. Time to move the conversation along
towards a friendly conclusion. The message has been given. Calum knows what he has to do. He’s a smart boy. Frank’s always respected him.

‘I didn’t know that. That’ll be nice – a bit of sun on your back for a wee while.’

‘Aye, air-sickness, sunburn, poofy drinks and a hairy wee lassie to keep me company, then back to work. I’m lookin’ forward to it.’

Back at the flat, Calum is riddled with paranoia again. There’s nothing more to do. Get a weapon? No, never. Don’t go down that road. Don’t ask for trouble. You don’t
know there’s anything to be afraid of yet. You know what’s happening right now. Frank is calling up John Young and passing on the information about the Davidson phone call. He and
Jamieson will better understand what the threat is. They might sort things out. Have a sit-down and talk with whoever is behind this. Get them to call off the dogs. We already killed one of your
guys, don’t make us kill a whole lot more, that sort of conversation. It works, sometimes.

This could be the start of a war. The start of something big. Frank had that far-away look in his eyes, the sort that implies something impressive is on the horizon. The old guys like this sort
of thing. It’s all they have left to live for. Not good if you want to live for a lot longer. Could be nothing. Could be a little flare-up between people testing each other out. Even if it is
war, it may not have an awful lot to do with you. You’ve fired the first shot, now you stand back. Jamieson is smart enough not to overwork one of his better options. So you might have little
to do. The threat right now is from Davidson. The next move for Jamieson and Young may be to get rid of Davidson. High-profile move. Comes with more risk than Winter. A well-connected man. Not well
respected. Certainly not liked. Could be a good way of slapping down whoever’s standing up to them, though.

A dim light in the corner of the room. Curtains drawn. Keeping the volume of the TV down. He tries to play a game on the PS3, but his nerves won’t let him. Too much pausing every time he
hears a distant sound. No way to play. Beginning to hate himself. He’s never been on the receiving end like this, but he’s dealt with threats before. You’ve been in the business
long enough to handle this better. You know you’ve done what you can. You know there’s little else to do but go about your business as you normally would. Get rid of the clothing you
used to hit Winter. Get some money back from your runner. Keep your head down. Play it straight.

The club’s loud, but there aren’t many people there. A few stragglers going in and out, but they look like they emerged from the rough end of hell even before they
went in. Only the dregs are clubbing tonight. Matheson and Higgins are standing in the foyer, asking everyone who comes in whether they recognize the man in the photo. It’s boring work.
It’s unpleasant work. There are a lot of unpleasant people around. A surprising number who see the police as their enemy. Matheson’s never been able to understand that attitude. One
drunken halfwit even spat on Higgins’ copy of the photo, in protest at being asked to help. Matheson threatened to arrest him, Higgins was more forgiving. Should have arrested him.

Higgins seems like a decent enough fellow. Matheson’s heard a few people speaking well of him. Even Greig had good things to say about him. Plus, Fisher hand-picked him for this job. If he
can impress those two opposites, then he’s worth knowing. Didn’t expect him to be this quiet. You hear about a copper doing good work, you expect him to have a mouth. You expect him to
be pushy and determined – that’s how most stand out. Not this one. He’s keeping it quiet and polite at all times. Greig once told Matheson that Higgins came from a family on the
other side. Bunch of crooks, apparently. Petty stuff, but still, not good people. You wouldn’t think so to meet the boy. He seems like good people.

‘Excuse me, sir, could you have a look at this photograph and tell me if you recognize the man in it?’ Standard question. The standard response is infuriating. People stop and stare
at the picture. They make it look as though they’re really concentrating, because they want to make a good impression on the man in uniform. They stare at it, and slowly begin to shake their
head. ‘No, officer, no – don’t know him.’ You say thank you, and you let them get on. It’s a nonsense. If you know the person, then you know him when you look at the
picture; you don’t have to spend thirty seconds trying to look intense in order to work it out.

The manager’s been out into the foyer twice in the last hour. He wants rid of them. They’re scaring away the customers. It won’t do to have a couple of uniformed officers
welcoming his regulars into the building, even if it is a slow night.

‘We’ll be here all evening if we don’t get anything,’ Matheson took great delight in telling him. He nodded miserably and left them to it, presumably praying that someone
would give them some information that they could rush back to the station with. They went in to see him when they first arrived. On Fisher’s orders, they told him they were going to spend the
evening at his club. They warned him about respecting his opening hours, and not to stay open late. They also warned him about his security cameras at the front of the club. He needs one to cover
the whole pavement out there. Fisher had said the manager was a prick, wanted the fear put into him, but he seemed relieved more than anything. He had obviously thought he was in for more legal
trouble than that.

‘Excuse me, sir, can you have a wee look at this photograph?’ Matheson’s asking a young man. There’s two young men and two young women. The women look a little ragged to
Matheson. The young men are obviously not of discriminating taste when it comes to temporary relationships. ‘Do any of you recognize this man?’ They stop and look at it. The women give
it a glance and shake their heads; at least they’re not messing around. The two men pause a little longer. Always the men. Who are they trying to impress?

‘Is that . . . Aye, it is. That’s Stewart what’s-his-name. Christ, what’s his surname? He’s Tom’s flatmate. You know the guy,’ he’s saying to his
mate.

Turns out his mate, tipsy though he may be, does know. ‘Macintosh, that’s his surname. Like the jacket. Aye. Shares digs with Tom Shields. Tom works with Harry. D’ya know
Harry?’ he’s asking Matheson.

‘No, but do you know where they live?’ He wants to hurry them along; it sounded disturbingly like the conversation was heading for a Tom, Dick and Harry joke.

‘Oh God, I dunno the address. I got Tom’s number on ma phone, though. Ya wan’ it?’ The man seems to be getting drunker as the conversation goes on. He’s losing the
will to hide his pre-clubbing drinking.

They have a name, they have a mobile number (albeit for the wrong person), and at the station they’ll get an address. In the car on the way back Higgins puts in a call to Fisher, giving
him the details. Before they get back Fisher will know what history this Macintosh character has. There’s a good mood between the two of them. They were given a job – an irritating,
uninspiring one – and they delivered. It may seem like very little, just getting the job right, but they both want to impress Fisher. He’s the sort of detective who can get you moved up
the ladder. The sort who can bring you in on more cases that count.

Upstairs at the station. Fisher is walking around in circles, looking irritated. He sees them come in.

‘Good, you’re back, let’s go. I’ve got the address. Come on, both of you.’ He’s marching past them. Often it would be two detectives who went, but Fisher has
monopolized the investigation and he calls the shots. He works with whoever is most useful to him, and if that’s not a fellow detective, then that’s just too bad. That’s why you
want to impress him.

‘Doesn’t have a history, but you never know,’ Fisher’s saying from the back seat of the car as they speed through the streets. ‘He may be our killer, and he may
still have the weapon. Let’s move fast and hard. We’ll see if we can’t catch him by surprise. I think Mr Macintosh is going to have a few interesting things to say to us.’
You can hear the excitement in his voice. Loving it.

At the front door of the building. A buzzer. The front door locked. Damn! Fisher finds Macintosh’s name on the list and presses the buzzer for the correct flat. Pray it’s the
flatmate. Better chance of him playing straight.

‘Come up,’ the crackly voice says. That’s it. That easy. He’s obviously expecting someone else. He’s obviously in for a surprise. The buzzer goes. Fisher pulls the
door open; Matheson and Higgins follow him in. A well-lit staircase up to the first floor. A well-maintained building. This is not a grotty little flat. This is home to the middle class. It
doesn’t feel right to Fisher. This isn’t a gangster’s flat.

A hitman doesn’t live with his buddy in a comfy area. Not unless the buddy is in the business too, and he wouldn’t have let them in without checking, if he was. Could be a couple, of
course, but that sort of thing is still kept largely hidden in the criminal world. Not a liberal-minded bunch. Happens, though. They just keep it quiet. So Macintosh probably ain’t a hitman;
doesn’t mean he’s not a killer. Up the stairs and round the corner. Two doors, one on either side of the corridor. Two front doors. Fisher is walking over to the correct one when
it’s pulled open. A young man stands looking down at a mobile phone. ‘You took your time. Col was already phoning and he . . . ’ The young man stops the moment he sees the
cops.

He’s standing still, looking like he’s never seen a policeman before in his life. He looks scared, which is good.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Fisher. You are?’

‘Erm . . . Tom. I’m Tom. Tom Shields. Is there something the matter?’

‘Could be, Mr Shields. We’re looking for your flatmate, Mr Macintosh. Is he home?’

‘No, he just went out. Just to get money, though. We’re just going out for a few drinks. Just . . . What’s going on?’ Now he’s really scared. It’s not idle
speculation any more; he knows there is something wrong.

‘You might be able to help us, Mr Shields. You can answer a few questions.’

They’re sitting in the flat. Fisher opposite Shields at the kitchen table. Matheson and Higgins are standing nearby, waiting for orders. They don’t have a warrant to search, just to
arrest. They’ll have a search warrant within thirty minutes. Then they’ll turn the place upside down.

‘Friday night. Were you in Mr Macintosh’s company?’

‘Erm . . . Friday night, no. We went our own way. I had a date. Nice girl. He went clubbing, I think. I don’t know.’

‘He did. Did you hear what time he got home?’

‘No. I had a . . . late night. Well, early morning. You know. I wasn’t here when he got home.’

If this wet drip is in the criminal business, then the criminal business is going to hell in a handcart. Life would be very easy if they were all as pathetic as this guy. Terrified. Eager to
please. Ready to tell whatever truth is necessary.

‘Has Mr Macintosh told you anything of what happened on Friday night?’

‘No,’ Tom’s saying, ‘he hasn’t. Not at all.’ Then a pause. ‘Did something happen?’

‘Has Mr Macintosh been behaving any differently since Friday night? Have you noticed anything?’ Fisher’s asking in a way that makes it clear that Tom has no right to ask
questions of his own.

‘No, not that I’ve noticed. I haven’t seen him that much, but . . . I don’t think so.’

Then the buzzer goes again. Shields is looking at the intercom, panic-stricken.

‘Let him in,’ Fisher is saying, ‘don’t say anything.’

Shields walks across to the intercom and presses the buzzer. He doesn’t say anything. Just one flatmate opening the door for the other. No big deal. He’s walking back across and
sitting at the table. He looks on the verge of tears. He has no idea what his friend has got himself involved in, but if it involves a detective and two uniformed officers then it must be bad. Was
there something he could have said to protect his friend? Is there anything he’s already said that’s likely to get his friend into further trouble?

Too late. A key in the door. Stewart pushing it open. Talking as he pulls the key from the lock. ‘Stupid old woman in front of me, don’t think she even knew how to use a cash
machine. Why do they have cards if they . . . ’ He stops when he sees the uniforms.

‘Stewart Macintosh?’ Fisher asks. He’s getting up from the table, while Matheson and Higgins move in behind Stewart to ensure that he can’t make a run for it.

‘Yes,’ he says in response. In that one word, there’s acceptance. Like he knew this was coming. It’s almost as if he was expecting it.

The detective arrests Stewart. He’s not just looking for a witness; he’s arresting him as a suspect. This isn’t just to ask a few questions. Jesus! – he just used the
word ‘murder’. They want to talk to Stewart in connection with a murder. They’re arresting him over a murder.

‘Stewart . . . ’ Tom says, and then pauses. The cops are opening the front door, ready to take him out. ‘What’s going on?’

Stewart looks back at him. There’s a broken look in his eyes. He’s got mixed up in something that’s overwhelmed him. He looks heartbreakingly guilty. He says nothing.

‘Is there anyone I should get in touch with?’ Tom’s asking.

Stewart pauses. ‘No.’

It’s dark. The room seems to be spinning. Fear in everything. Underscoring it all, the death of the thrill. It had all seemed so wild. Otherworldly. Now it’s
intruded into reality and his stomach is lurching. He can hear it making little noises. Didn’t happen instantly – it’s taken the car journey to the station and being booked in to
realize what happens next. Throwing your life away. Shocking everyone who knows you. The reality has become inescapable, and the reality is no fun at all. The little part of Stewart that enjoyed
this has shut its mouth and gone to lie down in a dark corner. Sitting in the interview room, waiting for a lawyer to arrive, Fisher’s been treating him like a killer. It scares him. He
doesn’t want to go to jail. He doesn’t want the consequences of the thrill. Living like a villain is fun. Being treated like one is not.