Black Mail (2012) (11 page)

‘When he was in his twenties he signed up for the army – probably hoping to get in a bit of practice at legalised killing. As luck would have it he was posted to Northern Ireland and the reason he made such a splash in the papers was that he’d only been there a few weeks before he was mutilated by an IRA bomb. His regiment was under strict orders not to frequent the local pubs, but taking orders wasn’t one of McAteer’s strong points. He went for a pint with some of his mates when they were off duty and he ended up with his face lacerated beyond recognition.’

‘Dramatic irony at its best,’ Renton nodded.

‘If McAteer had a chip on his shoulder when he went to Northern Ireland,’ Charlie said, ‘he came back with a fish supper.’

‘Remember what happened to Harry Robertson?’ Renton said.

‘That’s going back a bit,’ Charlie said, scratching his head. ‘He was related to McAteer, wasn’t he?’

‘His uncle.’

‘Must’ve been twenty years ago,’ Charlie said, ‘but you never forget a murder as gruesome as that. Robertson’s body was pulled from the Clyde. His hands were tied behind his back and there were several bullets in his skull. He had two six-inch nails protruding from his eye sockets and the skin had been stripped from his buttocks with something like an open-blade razor.’

‘The pathologist reckoned that Robertson’s eyes and backside had been mutilated while he was still alive.’ Renton shivered at the memory. ‘No one was ever charged with the murder but the story is that Robertson had taunted McAteer in the pub earlier that evening, referring to him as “arse-features”.’

‘Nothing about McAteer would surprise me,’ Charlie said. ‘He had a glass eye for a while but he lost it in a street brawl and never bothered replacing it. Apparently he thought the empty eye socket added to his hard man image. I doubt if he’s been out of jail for more than six months at a stretch throughout his entire adult life.’

‘According to one of my snitches,’ Renton said, ‘McAteer phoned Shuggie Morrison’s café, looking for Gerry Fraser, the morning Fraser got worked over.’

‘Which would go a long way towards explaining Fraser’s reluctance to talk,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘I don’t suppose your snitch would be prepared to testify to that?’

‘I’ll ask him!’ Renton smirked.

‘Put the word out that we’re looking for McAteer,’ Charlie said. ‘I want him picked up as soon as possible. I want to be there to gauge his reaction when he finds out his boss has been murdered.’

‘Did McAteer have any connection with Harrison before he went inside?’ O’Sullivan asked.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Charlie, ‘but if Harrison was in the market for a hard man, they don’t come any harder.’

Tony raised an eyebrow. ‘A hard man, perhaps, but not what you’d call any great shakes as a bodyguard?’

‘What can you tell me about Mike Harrison’s movements last night?’ Charlie asked. Ronnie McGavigan walked over to his
well-stocked cocktail cabinet and poured a stiff measure of Lagavulin into a crystal tumbler. ‘Would you care for a snifter, Inspector?’

‘A bit early in the day for me, thanks all the same.’

‘How about a soft drink? Orange juice? Mineral water?’

‘Nothing, thanks.’

McGavigan tipped a splash of Highland Spring water into his whisky and came back to the settee where Charlie was seated, notebook and pen in hand. McGavigan was small and slimly built – in his early sixties, Charlie estimated. Charlie studied his profile as he tilted his head back to pour whisky down his throat. His hairline was showing signs of receding and his crinkly brown hair was slicked straight back from his high forehead. Small tufts of nasal hair protruded from his pinched nostrils. His lips were thin and his chin was weak.

‘Last I saw of Mike was when we packed in playing poker last night.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘About two o’clock in the morning. He was in a good mood because he’d picked up a few quid. Mike was nothing if not predictable. When he was winning he was the life and soul of the party, but when he was on a losing streak he could be a right miserable old fart. Sorry about that …’ McGavigan broke off and downed another mouthful of whisky. ‘Didn’t mean to, you know, speak ill of the dead and all that …’ His voice tailed off.

‘That’s all right. I’d rather hear it the way it was.’

‘Mike stayed over. He nearly always did after a poker session. But last night he told me he’d be heading off early in the morning so not to bother with breakfast.’

‘Did he usually leave early when he stayed over?’

‘Not at all,’ McGavigan said, shaking his head. ‘I often had to drag him out of bed after ten o’clock.’

‘Can you think of any reason why he would have gone to Kelvingrove Park this morning?’

‘I can’t think of any reason why he would go near Kelvingrove Park – not this or any other morning. Mike’s not – he
wasn’t
– what you’d call the outdoor type.’

‘Did he say why he was leaving early this morning?’

‘Not specifically. He dropped a few hints that he was going to make some easy money, but when I pressed him about it he clammed up. When I got up this morning at the back of eight his car had gone.’ Finishing off his whisky, McGavigan crossed to the cocktail cabinet for a refill. ‘Are you sure I couldn’t tempt you?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Who else was in the poker school last night?’ he asked.

‘The usual crowd,’ McGavigan said, flopping back down on the settee. He put his glass down on a coaster on the coffee table and started counting off on his fingers. ‘Besides me and Mike there was John McGill, Willie Grant and Don Higney – they’re all regulars – and we try to get someone to stand in for Bill McLelland – usually Jim Amos. Jim was here last night. By the way, your lot haven’t done us any favours by taking Bill out of circulation.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Charlie said, jotting down the names.

‘So you should be. It’s a real bummer not having Bill in the school. More money than sense – and he couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper bag.’

‘If he’d been using his own money instead of the Royal Bank of Scotland’s he might’ve been a bit more careful.’

McGavigan guffawed. ‘Could you not see your way to letting him out for a few hours every other Friday?’

‘I’ll have a word with the first minister.’

McGavigan started to laugh again, quickly choking it off with an embarrassed cough as he gazed down into his whisky.

‘Did any of these other guys stay over?’ Charlie asked, jabbing his pencil at the names in his notebook.

‘Apart from Jim Amos, none of them can get an overnight pass.’ He pressed his thumb down hard on the coffee table to reinforce the point. ‘And Jim stays within staggering distance so he always goes home.’

‘What was your relationship with Mike Harrison?’

‘What do you mean –
relationship
?’

‘Was it just social or were you business associates?’

‘We did a bit of business together, but it was mainly social. We were golf partners – we’ve both been members at Haggs Castle for as long as I can remember – and the poker school’s been going for God knows how many years.’

‘Did Harrison have any enemies?’

‘He upset a few people in his time. Who hasn’t?’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘If you’re asking if I know anyone who might’ve had a reason for seeing the back of him …’ McGavigan took a swig of whisky. ‘The answer is no.’

Billy McAteer drove through Dumbarton and headed north on the road towards Tarbet, negotiating the tight bends on the west bank of Loch Lomond. Shortly after passing the village of Luss he turned off the road and drove for half a mile up a bumpy, snow-covered track until he came to a copse of tall conifers.

He parked his Volvo in a clearing beside a circle of empty caravans, then got out of the car, opened the boot and lifted out a sheet of heavy-duty waterproof tarpaulin which he spread out on the snow. Pulling on his gloves he took the rifle barrel from his holdall and carefully wiped it clean with a dry duster before placing it on the tarpaulin. He repeated the procedure with the butt, the stock, the silencer and the telescopic sights. Having placed the two boxes of ammunition on top of the gun parts he rolled the tarpaulin into a tight parcel which he bound with rope. Taking a long-handled shovel from the car boot he slung the tarpaulin over his shoulder and marched into the copse. When he came to a patch of recently turned earth between two poplars he buried the tarpaulin in the same spot where it had lain undisturbed for more than twenty years.

Laura Harrison steeled herself as the white sheet was eased back to expose what was left of her husband’s head. She’d been warned what to expect. A cloth had been placed over the right side of his face and only his left cheek, one eye, and part of his forehead were visible. His bushy eyebrow was unmistakeable, as was the shrivelled brown mole at his temple. Clasping her hands to her mouth Laura gave a quick nod of the head. The sheet was immediately replaced.

As soon as the formalities had been completed Laura hurried out of the building towards her car. Flinging her handbag onto the passenger seat she fired the ignition. As she drove off she groped in her bag for her phone and when she pulled up at a red traffic light she clicked on the number for Simon Ramsay’s mobile.

‘Simon?’

‘Laura! Thank God! I’ve been worried sick. Did everything go to plan?’

‘We can’t talk on the phone. Where are you?’

‘At home.’

‘I have to see you. Meet me in the Terrace Bar in the Hilton.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as you can get there.’

Laura pulled off Great Western Road into Grosvenor Terrace, but then had to crawl the length of the terrace and across the Huntly Road intersection before she found a parking place. It was difficult keeping her balance as she made her way back along the unsalted, rutted pavement. The pavement sloped down quite sharply and she gripped the wrought iron hand railing, her flesh stinging as her fingers stuck to the frozen metal. She rubbed the palms of her hands together briskly to try to get some feeling back into her fingers as she approached the Hilton Hotel, a long, three-storey, Victorian terraced building. The white sandstone had recently been cleaned but it was already taking on a grimy aspect from the incessant traffic fumes drifting across from Great Western Road. The steps up to the hotel had been cleared of snow. Laura hurried up the stairs and through the main entrance.

Barely-audible piped music was playing in the open-plan Terrace Bar which ran the length of the hotel. The lounge was empty apart from a middle-aged man in a dark blue business suit who was sitting at a table at the far end of the room, next to the bar. He glanced up from the laptop balanced on his knees when he saw Laura arrive, then huddled down again, peering at his screen. There was an untouched half pint of lager on the table in front of him. Laura sat down on a straight-backed armchair in
the alcove near the entrance. When the waitress came across she ordered a gin and tonic.

Ten minutes later Simon Ramsay entered the building through the basement level and climbed to the top of the staircase. Spotting Laura, he waved in acknowledgment and hurried across.

‘What happened?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper, glancing down the bar as he took the seat opposite.

‘Mike was in Kelvingrove Park this morning,’ she said quietly. Simon stared at her in disbelief. ‘It was Mike who was killed,’ she mouthed.

Simon tugged his top shirt button loose. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘The police came round to the house this morning,’ Laura said, stretching forward and tipping the remains of the tonic into her gin. ‘They told me Mike’s body had been discovered in Kelvingrove Park, down by the river, near the footbridge. He’d been shot several times,’ she said in a whisper.

‘Jesus wept!’

‘I had to go to the mortuary to identify his body.’ A shiver ran the length of her spine. ‘It was the most gruesome thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. What was left of his face was barely recognisable.’ Picking up her glass in a trembling hand, she took a long sip.

‘You mean – it was Mike who was blackmailing me?’ Simon asked incredulously.

‘I’ve been going over and over that in my head all morning, but I can’t make any sense of it. Mike couldn’t have been the blackmailer, Simon. If he’d seen that photo of us together he’d have killed me. He’d have killed both of us.’

‘Maybe he was planning to kill us – after he got his hands on
the money?’

Laura shook her head firmly. ‘He wasn’t that good an actor. I’m telling you, if Mike had seen that photograph there is no way in this world he could have behaved civilly towards me. No way he could’ve laughed and joked his way through your dinner party last Wednesday.’ She broke off as the waitress approached to take Simon’s order. He asked for a Peroni.

‘Then what in the name of God was he doing in Kelvingrove Park?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.’

‘Have you spoken to … to you know who?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Does he know –’ Simon glanced over his shoulder towards the businessman who was engrossed in typing something into his computer. He turned back to face Laura and mouthed the words. ‘Does McAteer know who he killed?’

‘I don’t know if he recognised Mike. Maybe not. The police have issued a press release saying that a body’s been found in Kelvingrove Park, but they haven’t given out any details about the victim.’ The waitress brought Simon’s beer on a tray, placing it on the low table in front of him. Laura waited until she was out of earshot. ‘The only thing I can think of is that perhaps Mike was acting as a pick-up for someone else. Is it conceivable that the person who was blackmailing you paid Mike to collect the ransom money without him knowing what it was all about?’

Simon frowned. ‘Doesn’t sound like Mike’s style – acting as a messenger boy.’

‘It isn’t,’ Laura said. ‘But he was really strapped for cash. If someone had offered to make it worth his while he might have
agreed to do it.’

‘If that’s the case, it means we still have the blackmailer to contend with!’ Simon downed half his drink in one swallow. His ‘Fucking hell!’ rang out down the lounge.