Black Mail (2012) (12 page)

The typing stopped abruptly, the businessman looking up and staring in their direction. ‘Steady on, old chap!’ The accent was Home Counties. ‘There’s no call for that kind of language.’

Simon whipped round in his chair. ‘Why don’t you mind your own fucking business!’

Flipping the lid of his laptop closed, the man tut-tutted and scrambled to his feet. Bustling past them with a sideways glare he made his way down the staircase, muttering under his breath.

‘I’d rather you didn’t go out of your way to attract attention to us, Simon,’ Laura hissed. She sipped at her gin. ‘The only way we’ll ever know for sure if Mike was involved,’ she said, ‘is if we find that video recording. If it’s somewhere in the house, then I suppose we’ll have to conclude that Mike was the blackmailer, though I still can’t get my head round that possibility. I suppose I could have his computer checked out,’ she added. ‘There must be some way to find out if that photo was sent to you from Mike’s PC – though I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about doing that. And I don’t think Mike knew how to do anything technical either. As far as I’m aware he only ever used his computer as a glorified typewriter. Bjorn would be able to find out for me, I suppose, but I can hardly ask him to check if there’s a photo on Mike’s computer of you and me screwing!’

‘It’s not worth busting a gut trying to find out,’ Simon said grimly. ‘If Liam Black’s still out there, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him soon enough.’ Getting to his feet he went over to the
bar to pay for their drinks.

Laura walked down the staircase and crossed to the reception desk. ‘My name’s Mrs Petrie,’ she announced to the receptionist. ‘My husband and I stayed here a couple of weeks ago.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’ve lost a contact lens. I’m not actually sure if it was here or somewhere else. Would it be possible for me to go up to the room to check if it’s still there?’

‘Which room would that be?’

‘301.’

Simon appeared by Laura’s side as the receptionist was keying into her terminal. ‘No problem. 301’s not occupied right now,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be very embarrassed if you do find it,’ she added with a smile as she handed across the key. ‘By rights it should’ve been in a vacuum cleaner ages ago.’

‘I know it’s a long shot.’ Laura returned the smile. ‘But since we’re here anyway I thought it would be worthwhile taking a look. I remember putting my contact lens carrying case down on the arm of a chair and the lens might’ve slipped down the side of the cushion.’

‘What on earth are you playing at?’ Simon asked tetchily as the lift doors closed behind them. ‘What’s all this crap about losing a contact lens?’

‘I want to have a look at the room,’ Laura said, leading the way along the corridor.

‘What, exactly, are we looking for?’ Simon asked as she turned the key in the lock.

‘I want to know where the camera was hidden.’

‘Why?’

‘I just want to know. That’s all.’

‘From the angle of the shot,’ Simon said, pointing towards the top of the wardrobe. ‘I reckon it must have been up there.’

Laura dragged across an upright chair and stood on it to peer at the top of the wardrobe. ‘There are scratch marks in the wood. They look newish. They could’ve been made by some kind of clamp.’

‘What the hell are you trying to prove?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, clambering down from the chair. ‘Do you think I should bring over a photo of Mike and ask the staff if they’ve seen him hanging around here?’

‘I think that showing the hotel staff a photo of someone who’s just been murdered would be a sure-fire way of drawing attention to yourself!’

As soon as she got back home Laura started working her way methodically through the house. Beginning with Mike’s study she checked all the bedrooms before searching through the rooms on the ground floor, but found nothing. Darkness was falling by the time she went out to the garage. Flicking on the low-wattage light bulb she found a step ladder and climbed up to check the high shelves. Hidden behind an old car battery she found a shoebox containing a stack of unboxed, unlabelled DVDs. Hurrying back to the house with the discs she switched on the TV in the lounge and loaded one into the player.

Her jaw fell slack when she saw the grainy image.

The black and white recording was of a middle-aged man having sexual intercourse with a young girl who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. The girl was offering no resistance. Her features were Asian and she was smiling vacantly in the direction of the camera, a hollow look in her glazed eyes. Her lips were forming words but there was no soundtrack. Ejecting the disc, Laura slipped another one into the slot and saw a teenage boy being buggered by a naked, scrawny man who looked old enough to be his grandfather.

It was all she could do to avoid being physically ill as she switched from disc to disc. All the recordings were the same basic format – adults sexually abusing submissive Asian children. Laura forced herself to fast-forward through every DVD in the box, searching in vain for the recording of her and Simon in the Hilton.

By the time she’d skimmed through them all her hands were shaking and her head was reeling. She went to the kitchen to pour herself a stiff gin, then picked up the phone and dialled Ronnie McGavigan’s number.

‘Have you heard the news, Ronnie?’

‘Dreadful business, Laura. I had a visit from the police this morning. I was going to call you later this evening.’

‘Could you possibly come round straight away? I need to talk to you urgently. It’s very important.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Was Mike a paedophile?’ Laura asked, handing Ronnie McGavigan a tumbler of malt whisky.

He paused with the glass half-way to his mouth. ‘What sort of a question is that?’

‘I found a box of discs in the garage – they were all films of children being molested.’

‘Oh, those?’

‘You know about them?’

McGavigan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Stuff like that goes on all the time, Laura. Especially in places like Thailand.’

‘I wasn’t born yesterday, Ronnie.’ She sat down on the sofa beside him. ‘But how on earth was Mike involved?’

McGavigan cast his eyes down, nursing his drink in both hands. ‘You and Mike went on a cruise to Malaysia last summer, didn’t you?’

Laura nodded slowly. ‘We went with my sister and her husband.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘And your ship docked in Bangkok?’

‘That’s right. Jude and I didn’t get off the boat. We’d both picked up a stomach bug in Singapore and I didn’t risk leaving my cabin for three days. Mike and Simon went ashore, I think. I remember Mike saying something about wanting to sample the local beer.’

‘Mike told me all about it when he got back. He and Simon went on a pub crawl but they had a barney about something trivial and Simon stormed off in high dudgeon. Mike had a few more beers as he wandered round the city centre and he stumbled across a brothel offering sex with children.

‘I don’t know if you know anything about how the underage sex business is organised in Thailand, Laura? It’s run by
so-called
aunties
– women who act as pimps for the kids. They agree with the clients what services the children will provide and they negotiate the price. The kids get paid peanuts – they’re usually spaced out on opium – and the aunties pocket the money. For a few quid extra the aunties will record the sex session for the punter so he can have a disc to take home with him as a souvenir.’

‘That’s just so sick!’ Laura said, getting to her feet and walking towards the French windows, shaking her head in disgust.

‘Mike ended up having a drunken chat with one of these aunties and when she realised he wasn’t interested in screwing kids she told him that the aunties often made extra copies of the DVDs without the client’s knowledge. She offered to sell him a batch of these and he ended up negotiating to buy a job lot and arranging to have them shipped back to Glasgow. The internet used to be the main vehicle for transmitting that kind of material but the cops have made so many successful busts in the past few years that a lot of paedophiles have reverted to using DVDs.

‘The consignment arrived a few weeks after Mike got back. He showed me some of them. Not to put too fine a point on it, they were pathetic. Most of the time is taken up with some saddo or other struggling to get it up, then maybe two or three minutes of action. However, Mike was convinced there was a market for the stuff. He had the idea of editing the discs down to the “highlights”, as he called it, and selling them as
Asian Babes
IV
or some such crap. I don’t know how far he got with it. He offered to cut me in if I would help him with the distribution but I didn’t want to know.’

‘Why would he get involved with this kind of filth?’ Laura snapped, snatching up a disc and hurling it across the lounge.

There was a pause. ‘Did Mike ever discuss his finances with you?’

‘No more that he had to. You can be sure of that! He told me the bookie’s business was going through a rough patch. And I know he was worried about how nasty the Inland Revenue might turn.’

‘That’s not the half of it. Mike had serious financial problems.’ Laura gave McGavigan a puzzled look. ‘He’d been punting heavily for years and he was losing big time,’ McGavigan said, downing the rest of his drink. ‘I don’t know how often I told him to pack in the gambling but he wouldn’t listen. He always thought the next big bet would get him out of trouble, but he just kept digging himself in deeper and deeper. I’m sure that’s the only reason he got involved with this paedophile crap. He was hoping to make enough from flogging the DVDs to pay off his gambling debts.’ There was an awkward silence. ‘Do you want me to get rid of those?’ McGavigan waved his empty glass in the direction of the discs scattered on the carpet. ‘It’s not the sort of stuff you want to have lying around the house.’

‘I’d appreciate that, Ronnie. Let me top that up for you,’ Laura said, taking the empty tumbler from his grasp and crossing to the cocktail cabinet.

‘I could keep an eye on the bookies’ shops, if you like. There are always day-to-day problems that need sorting out.’

‘That would be very helpful.’

‘If there’s anything else I can do – funeral arrangements, anything like that – you know you just have to ask.’

‘Thanks, Ronnie, but I won’t be able to have the funeral for some time. The procurator fiscal told me there will have to be a
post-mortem and it will be at least a week before the body will be released.’

‘Of course. Whenever.’ McGavigan spoke quietly. ‘Do you have any idea what Mike was doing in Kelvingrove Park this morning?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to fill me in on that,’ Laura said, handing him his glass.

‘Not a bloody clue!’ He clinked the ice round in his drink. ‘Last night, Mike was bouncier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He told me he’d be leaving early in the morning, so not to do breakfast. Gave me the old nod nod, wink wink. Said he was going to meet someone on Saturday morning and make a killing.’ McGavigan sipped at his drink. ‘Sorry!’ He held his hand up in a gesture of apology. ‘Poor choice of expression.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

McGavigan shook his head.

The sleet had turned to steady rain when Colin Renton pulled up near the junction of University Avenue and Byres Road. ‘How do you want to handle it, Sarge?’

‘You wait here,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘I’ll bring him out. Always assuming your snitch has got it right.’

‘If Bert Tollin says he’s drinking in Tennent’s, then he’s drinking in Tennent’s. Do you want a bet?’

‘Sod off!’ O’Sullivan got out of the car and ran diagonally across the junction, dodging through the heavy traffic.

He scanned the pub from the doorway. There were only a handful of early evening customers: three pensioners, half pints of heavy on the table in front of them, their eyes fixed on a large screen where the rerun of an Italian football match was being
shown with the sound turned off; a teenage couple, sitting in an alcove, arguing heatedly; two tall men, propping up the bar.

As O’Sullivan approached the men he could see the reflection of McAteer’s scarred features in the mirror. He was leaning with one elbow on the counter, his back to the door.

‘Billy McAteer?’ O’Sullivan spoke quietly.

‘What’s your problem, pal?’ McAteer responded without turning round.

‘Detective Sergeant O’Sullivan, Glasgow CID.’ O’Sullivan cupped his warrant card in the palm of his hand and thrust it at arm’s length in front of McAteer’s face. ‘I’d like you to accompany me to police headquarters. Inspector Anderson wants a word with you.’

McAteer studied the badge, then without turning round he pushed O’Sullivan’s hand away and picked up his pint glass from the bar. Taking a sip, he resumed his conversation.

O’Sullivan tapped him on the shoulder. McAteer twitched his arm away and spun round quickly, flicking at his shoulder with his fingertips as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant. ‘Gauny no’ do that, pal,’ he snarled. ‘I didny pay good money for this jumper for you to wipe your manky paws on it.’

‘You heard me, McAteer.’ O’Sullivan spoke quietly but forcibly. ‘Either you come outside with me right now or I’m taking you out.’

‘It’s
Mr
McAteer to you,’ he spat, thrusting his face to within inches of O’Sullivan’s. The exchange had attracted no attention from the bar staff or the other customers.

McAteer took a step backwards and eyed O’Sullivan up and down. ‘An’ Anderson has the cheek to send a Papist to pick me up. You are a Papist, aren’t you, sonny?’ he sneered. ‘The red heid’s a dead giveaway. If there’s two things in this world I can smell a
mile off it’s pigs an’ Papists. An’ right now the stench of a mingin’, Fenian pig is fillin’ my nostrils an’ makin’ me want to boak.’

Realising he was being goaded into reacting, O’Sullivan felt a hot flush redden his cheeks. McAteer took a sudden pace forward, again thrusting his face to within inches of O’Sullivan’s. ‘What does your Inspector want wi’ me, Paddy? Is he gauny make me say three Our Faithers an’ three Hail Marys for bein’ a naughty boy?’

O’Sullivan’s instinct was to grab McAteer by the scruff of the neck and frog-march him out of the pub, but he knew that a public display of unprovoked police violence was exactly what he was angling after. He didn’t react to the taunts, but neither did he back off. He didn’t concede an inch. If anything, he pushed his face even closer to McAteer’s – so close he could taste the stale beer on his breath. For several seconds each held his ground, stock-still, staring unblinkingly. Stags with antlers locked – each defying the other to make the next move.

It was McAteer who made the move. Without lowering his gaze he took a step backwards and tipped the contents of his almost-full pint down the front of O’Sullivan’s trousers. ‘Oh! Terribly sorry about that!’ he exclaimed. He nudged his companion’s arm and burst out laughing as he placed his empty beer glass down on the counter. ‘My hand must’ve slipped. Barman! There’s been a wee accident. A towel for my friend, if you please.’ McAteer lowered his voice. ‘Now, if you’ll just change your nappy and wait over by the door, Paddy, I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished my discussion.’ Turning his back on O’Sullivan, McAteer resumed his conversation.

O’Sullivan took the bar towel he’d been handed and dabbed ineffectually at the sticky beer clinging to his trousers. He could feel the cloying liquid seeping through to his skin. Reaching out,
he grabbed McAteer by the shoulder. ‘Either you walk out of here with me this instant,’ he hissed in his ear, ‘or I’ll
fucking-well
drag you out.’

‘This is harassment.’ McAteer stared unblinkingly at O’Sullivan. ‘I’m warnin’ you, Paddy,’ he growled, prodding O’Sullivan hard in the chest. ‘You’re fuckin’ claimed!’ With a quick nod to his companion McAteer snatched his leather jacket from the adjacent bar stool and slipped it over his shoulders as he marched towards the pub door, O’Sullivan following close behind.

Steady rain was still falling as they stepped out into Byres Road. O’Sullivan gripped McAteer firmly by the arm and, staying within the shelter of the pub doorway, signalled to Renton who was parked on the other side of the junction. As the car engine kicked into life he grabbed McAteer’s wrists and rammed both his arms up his back, holding him in that position while he snapped on the handcuffs.

‘So you think you’re a right smart-arse?’ O’Sullivan grunted. ‘I won’t forget this in a hurry, you Orange bastard! Before I’m finished with you, you’ll be the one who’s wetting your pants.’

‘Shut your fuckin’ geggie!’

Charlie Anderson walked into the ground-floor interview room where O’Sullivan and Renton were standing by the door. McAteer was perched on a chair at the other side of the room, being tended by the police doctor.

Charlie wandered across. ‘Afternoon, doc. What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, inclining his head in McAteer’s direction.

‘Nasty cut above the eye,’ Dr Kent replied. ‘It’ll need a couple of stitches.’

‘Can you do it here?’

‘No problem. I’ve given him a local anaesthetic.’

Charlie crossed the room to where O’Sullivan and Renton were standing. He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘What happened?’ he mouthed.

‘McAteer tried to make a break for it when I was leading him to the car outside Tennent’s,’ O’Sullivan said quietly. ‘He banged his head on the car roof.’

‘You’re a lyin’ cunt!’ McAteer yelled and struggled to get to his feet.

‘Stay still, man!’ Kent roared, pushing him back down on to the chair. ‘Or I’ll have your other eye out with this needle.’ McAteer settled back in his seat and Kent held his head steady while he inserted four neat stitches to close the wound. ‘There. That should hold it.’

‘Managed to change your trousers, I see!’ McAteer sneered in O’Sullivan’s direction. He turned to Charlie. ‘I want a lawyer. This is fuckin’ harassment, Anderson. I’ve done nuthin’. You’ve no right to pull me in. And I’m filin’ a complaint against that bastard for assault.’ He jabbed a finger in O’Sullivan’s direction. ‘Banged my heid on the car roof, my fuckin’ arse! That cunt put the heid on me while I was handcuffed.’

Charlie looked enquiringly at Dr Kent who shook his head and shrugged. ‘Can’t comment, Charlie,’ he said, packing away his equipment. ‘The wound’s compatible with both versions of the story.’