The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) (25 page)

The door opens. A lawyer comes in. Bearded fellow, mid-forties. He looks angry already. Fisher, sitting across the desk from Stewart, turns and looks at him. The lawyer can’t see it, but
Fisher rolls his eyes. Not impressed with the new arrival. The bearded man walks over and sits next to Stewart.

‘I’d like a few minutes alone with my client, please,’ he says to Fisher. There’s history there. Not happy history. Fisher is sighing and getting up from the desk.
‘And I do hope you haven’t mistreated him already. I know how enthusiastic you can get.’

Fisher scoffs as he reaches the door. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve treated the precious little lamb with the utmost respect.’

Just Stewart and the lawyer now. ‘First of all, my name’s Norman Barnes. Second of all, you would appear to be wrapped up in a whole lot of trouble. They have you on suspicion of
being involved in the murder of Lewis Winter. Now, I want you to be completely honest with me. If we’re going to get you out of here, then we need to know how to fight this.’

Stewart’s nodding. Involved in a murder. That could be a life sentence. The thrill is dead, it’s funeral-brief. Time to be honest. Time to minimize the damage.

‘I wasn’t involved in the murder. Not really. I was there, though.’

He’s thinking about Zara as he talks to the lawyer. Where is she right now? Does she think she’s safe? He’s letting her down by talking to the police. He’s betraying her.
He knows how it works on TV and in the movies. The man comes up with some clever story that protects the beautiful girl from the police. He ends up going to jail instead of her. Jail. No.
She’s beautiful, and thrilling, but she’s not worth jail. Nobody is worth that. Surely she’ll understand that a relationship as fledgling as theirs can’t justify a jail
term. He might go to jail anyway. But he has to be honest.

It takes a few minutes, but he tells Barnes everything. The lawyer writes copious notes in shorthand as Stewart talks. He sits with one hand to his mouth, the other writing, looking at the paper
all the time. Stewart reaches the end of the story.

‘Okay. Stewart, have you any police record?’

‘No, none. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. This was a complete accident.’

‘Good. You see, a judge is going to hear that and he’s going to wonder about you. Does he need to punish you, or does he need to put you on the straight and narrow. You see, if you
have a record, he’ll believe there’s something darker behind this. If you don’t, then he might believe that you’ve been naive. He won’t send you to jail, ruin your
life, over this.’

Send you to jail. Ruin your life. It could happen. It’s all in the hands of others.

‘I think the best thing you can possibly do,’ Barnes is saying, ‘is tell DI Fisher everything you just told me. Tell him the whole truth. What you did was a crime. You fled
from a murder scene. You handled class-A drugs and possibly drug money, although they’ll have to prove that’s what it was. You withheld information about a murder. They’re all
serious. Even a generous judge might feel obliged to put you behind bars for a few months. Your best bet is to give them everything you have. You get a positive report from the police, and the
judge will look favourably on you. That’s as much as you can hope for right now.’

He wants to cry. Barnes has left the room to make a phone call. A DC has come in to sit opposite him. Fisher has gone upstairs to get some paperwork. Fisher took great delight in telling him
that the two uniformed officers were already going back to his flat to look for any evidence. They would be ripping the place apart. Fight back the tears. Barnes has warned him. Fisher is a bully.
He’ll try to intimidate you. He’ll try to browbeat you into confessing to things that didn’t even happen. Don’t let him. Tell him only what you told me. Tell him only what
you know to be true. If he asks you anything you’re uncomfortable about, then you say nothing. If you pause, I’ll step in. The lawyer is good. Comforting. But Stewart still wants to
cry.

Fisher comes in and sits next to the DC. Doesn’t say anything. He’s just sitting there, looking across the table. The boy looks emotionally wrecked. He looks ready to spill his guts.
Still, got to watch out for the lies. He has no record. His back-story is convincing. College-educated, working for a respectable company. If you can call advertising respectable. The hairy-faced
lawyer comes back in, ready to be a nuisance as usual. Always looking to pick a fight. Always keen to make himself the centre of attention. So many of these lawyers are media whores these days.
They’re a bloody embarrassment.

‘Okay, Mr Macintosh, shall we begin?’ Fisher says, not bothering to wait for a response before switching on the tape recorder.

He goes through the formalities. He introduces himself and DC Davies, introduces the suspect and his lawyer. He tells Macintosh that, as well as the tape recorder, they will now be switching on
the camera in the corner to record the interview.

‘My client would be happy to tell you everything that happened on Friday night,’ Barnes says, before Fisher can even get a question in. Fisher looks at him and glares. That
forest-faced prick is enjoying undercutting the detective. Fine. Have it your way.

‘Would he really. Well, Mr Macintosh, why don’t you press ahead and tell us what you can.’

Stewart is pausing. Not for dramatic effect, just a last-ditch effort to think of a version of events that doesn’t incriminate Zara. Or at least doesn’t incriminate her any more than
is necessary to keep himself out of jail.

‘I was at Heavenly, the nightclub. I saw a girl I liked. I went over and started dancing with her.’

‘This was Zara Cope?’

‘Yes, Zara. She was dancing with an old guy; I didn’t think he was her partner. He went away; we kept dancing. Then she invited me back to hers. I was happy to go.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Fisher is saying.

Stewart’s sweating and shivering at the same time. Struggling to maintain control.

‘We went back to the house.’

‘Hold up,’ Fisher says. ‘I want more detail than that. Tell me about the journey back. Tell me about Cope and Winter and what happened in the taxi.’

Stewart blushes. ‘The old guy, Winter, he was struggling. He’d been drinking. A lot. We got him out to the taxi. We were all in the back. I was in the middle. Zara was next to me on
one side. Winter was on the other. The atmosphere was pretty bad. I guess he drank a lot. I don’t . . . I don’t think he treated her well. I thought maybe she wasn’t – you
know – interested in me any more. But then she . . . she touched me.’

‘She touched you?’

‘Yes. She . . . well . . . She touched me. She massaged . . . me.’

Fisher isn’t saying anything now. His expression is perfectly blank. He’s letting Stewart swing in the breeze; suffer through every detail of the story.

‘So I knew that she was still interested. The taxi reached their house. We got out. I helped Winter up the path. Zara opened the door. We got him upstairs, into the bedroom. It was . . .
unpleasant. Winter was saying stuff, but I couldn’t understand what it was. He was aggressive. I don’t think he gave her any sort of life. He wet himself. And he took a swing at me. We
dumped him on the bed, and we went downstairs.’

Don’t let things get out of sequence, Fisher is thinking. Ask about the arrival. ‘When you pulled up at the house in the taxi, did you notice anyone else around?’

‘No, there was nobody there. At least, I didn’t see anyone.’

This is no killer. This Macintosh is a horrible disappointment, but he might still deliver something.

‘Then what?’ Fisher’s asking.

‘We went downstairs. Zara had a whiskey. She was stressed. I think she was under a lot of pressure with him.’

‘And then?’

‘She . . . uh . . . took her clothes off. She helped me take mine off. We started . . . making love . . . on the couch.’

That would relieve the stress, Fisher is thinking.

Stewart can feel that he’s blushing. He’ll be bright red; he’ll look like a silly little boy who’s been caught with his pants down.

‘Go on,’ Fisher says. He’s sitting there, expressionless. His colleague is writing a few things down, but not much. DC Davies mostly just looks bored.

‘We were . . . ’

‘Making love, yes, you can say it,’ Fisher tells him drily. He gets a dirty look from the lawyer, but who cares about him anyway?

‘I heard a big bang on the door. I didn’t know what it was. Then another one. There were two men in the room with us. It was terrifying.’

He knew Cope was lying to him. That’s what’s going through Fisher’s mind right now. If that silly little bitch had just been honest from the start, the investigation could be a
lot further forward.

‘They didn’t say anything. They just stood there. One of them pointed a gun at us.’

‘What did they look like?’ Fisher interrupts him. The boy wants to tell a general story. Fisher needs details.

‘They were dressed all in black. They were – I don’t know – average. I don’t know. They were all in black. They had balaclavas on. They were pointing a gun at me.
That’s why I panicked.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I tried to run for the door. I didn’t even have my clothes on.’ He can feel his skin burn. ‘I just ran. One of them hit me. It hurt. I fell over a chair. I was lying on
the floor. I think he must have hit me with the gun. I still have the lump on my head. I . . . I stayed on the floor. I was so scared. Then I heard the bang. Then I heard the front door close. That
was it.’

There’s a pause in the room. Silence. It all sounds plausible. It stacks up with what Cope told him. Okay, she left out a few details. The suspect is now a witness to the killing. But
there’s more. Now he has to explain why he wasn’t there when the police turned up.

‘So the killers have left the house. Then what happens, Mr Macintosh? Because, when my officers arrived at the scene, you were nowhere to be found.’

He looks to his lawyer, who nods. Time to tell the worst of it. ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he’s saying, almost whispering now. ‘I mean, you don’t, do you.
I’ve never been in that sort of situation before.’

Stewart puts his hands flat on the table and looks at his fingernails. Just try to get the picture of Zara out of your mind when you’re telling them all this.

‘It was Zara. She pulled herself together. She realized what was going to happen. The police were going to come to the house. She said that I needed to get out, or I’d get caught up
in the whole thing. I didn’t want that. My career. Everything. I didn’t . . . And she said there were things in the house that she needed to get rid of. She could go to jail if they
were found. They were the old guy’s – Winter’s – but she would be blamed. I just wanted to help her.’

Now we’re getting somewhere. Now we’re getting something we can throw at her for being so bloody deceitful. This is going to be good.

‘She went upstairs. I don’t know where to. I stayed down. I got my clothes on. She came back with these bags. I knew they were drugs. There were two wads of banknotes as well. I put
them in my pockets. She said they were her partner’s. She was so beautiful. She was desperate for help. I had the chance to do something to rescue her from the life he’d thrown her
into. The chance to stop her from being dragged down by him. I put them all in my pockets. We kissed. It was . . . She led me to the back door. I went through the garden and over the fence at the
bottom. I came out on some other street. Got a taxi back to the flat. Hid the stuff in a shoebox.’

Oh, this is very good. Possession with intent to supply. ‘So my men will find it all in your flat?’

‘No. She came to the flat yesterday afternoon. She took it away. I haven’t seen her since. I hope she’s not in trouble.’

Fisher can hardly suppress his smile. She’s in trouble all right, pal, she’s in big trouble. Probably the sort of big trouble that gets a little girl thrown in jail. That’s
what he’ll be pushing for, anyway. There’s a brief explanation of Cope’s visit to the flat, and that’s the end of the interest. Time to print up a charge sheet for Mr
Macintosh. He’s been useful, in a pathetic sort of a way. Silly little boys. The trouble they get themselves into, just for a free shot at a little whore like her.

Fisher’s upstairs, feeling confident about his investigation. He’ll get a conviction against both Macintosh and Cope, that’s for sure. The killer. Not Macintosh. Cope might be
involved. She’s looking more culpable. If she knows anything, then she’ll be compelled to speak.

He’s shouting across the room, telling anyone who’s listening to get in touch with Higgins and Matheson and tell them they won’t find a weapon. Tell them to keep looking for
any sign of drugs and money, though. Patting a hand on the table, trying to work out the next move. The comedown. You get progress, and then you hit a brick wall. Arresting Cope will be enjoyable,
but the stories suggest that she won’t know who the killers are. That means more digging around. It means we’re no closer to catching the ones that matter most.

In a small flat there are only so many places that a person’s going to hide illegal belongings. They worked the bedroom first, considering it the most obvious place to
check. They got word from the station to look for a shoebox. There were four of them on top of the wardrobe, all with shoes in them. They put them in bags, just in case. The bedroom yielded no
results. It was even less interesting than an average bedroom. Clearly the occupant just slept in the room and spent very little time there otherwise. No TV. No magazines of an interesting nature.
No condoms in the bedside cabinet. Nothing that suggested the occupant lived an interesting life.

Into the bathroom. More awkward hiding places here. Opening the cistern. Checking inside the shower head. Checking to see if there’s a false back on the cabinet above the sink. Nothing.
Another site of extreme boredom. Clearly these are young men who use their flat very little. A bed and a toilet, a place to eat occasionally. Into the flatmate’s bedroom. Condoms in the
bedside cabinet. Three unflattering photographs of a nude woman tucked away in the back of a drawer; the photos were obviously taken for Tom. A little snicker at the woman’s ill-judged
attempt at modelling, then carry on. Nothing.