Black Mail (2012) (21 page)

‘Of course, of course, I understand that.’ He coughed harshly into his fist. ‘I realise everything will have to be out in the open eventually. I was just hoping to be able to break the news to Jude myself – before she hears it from someone else.’

‘I wouldn’t leave that too long if I were you, Mr Ramsay,’ Charlie said, rising to his feet. ‘Once the press get wind of an arrest, things tend to move pretty quickly.’

Tony O’Sullivan heard Charlie’s voice before he saw him. He slipped the paperback he was reading under his pillow and feigned sleep as Charlie’s footsteps came clomping down the ward.

‘I know you’re awake.’ Charlie pulled out the visitor’s chair, turned it round and straddled it. ‘If you don’t open your eyes right now, Sergeant O’Sullivan,’ he said in a mock stage whisper, ‘I’m going to tickle you in the ribs.’

Tony’s puffed-up eyes opened slowly. ‘How did you know I was awake?’

‘The ward sister told me you were sitting up in bed reading. Don’t worry, I’m saving up my tirade until you’re back on your feet. That way I won’t feel so bad about sticking the heid on you.’

‘Ouch!’ Tony touched the splint on his nose.

‘Nice wee Glasgow kiss you’ve got there,’ Charlie said, stroking his chin approvingly as he examined Tony’s bruised face.

‘The bastard nutted me while I was handcuffed.’

‘Now where have I heard that before?’

‘He only got a split eyebrow,’ Tony protested. ‘Not that I’m admitting anything,’ he added quickly. ‘This one’s a real cracker, though.’ He fingered the splint carefully.

‘I can’t wait to hear all about it.’ Charlie dragged his chair closer to the bed.

‘Freer and I followed McAteer from Laura Harrison’s place to a deserted caravan park near Luss,’ Tony said. ‘I went into the caravan to arrest McAteer while Tom waited outside. I actually had the bastard cuffed when my attention was distracted by someone flushing the toilet – I’ve no bloody idea who he was! McAteer grabbed me and stuck the heid on me, then he and this other bloke dumped me outside in the snow and drove off. Freer saw them leave, but he didn’t show himself.’

‘Thank God someone around here showed a modicum of common sense!’

‘The worst indignity was that McAteer had cuffed me with my own handcuffs. Freer had a look round in the caravan for the keys but he couldn’t find them, so I had to navigate him to the Southern General with congealed blood in my eyes and my hands cuffed behind my back. I’m telling you, I felt a right pillock when the doctor had to send out for bolt cutters before he could treat me.’

‘If it’s sympathy you’re after you’re barking up the wrong tree. You deserve everything you got for going in after McAteer without back-up.’

‘I realise that.’ Tony slumped his head back on the pillow. ‘Any news of him?’

‘Just before I left the office I heard that his Volvo’s been found abandoned on the A82, somewhere near Arden, along with some poor sod lying unconscious in the ditch. The forensic boys are on standby to give his car the once over as soon as it’s brought in. It seems McAteer commandeered another vehicle, which was found abandoned in the city centre late last night. We’ve no idea
where he is now. It’s unlikely he’ll go within a mile of the caravan site or his brother’s flat in Govan – but we’ve got both places under surveillance just in case.

‘However, things are hotting up on the murder enquiry front,’ Charlie continued. ‘Laura Harrison has admitted to hiring McAteer to bump off a blackmailer – though she claims she didn’t know it would turn out to be her old man. According to her, Simon Ramsay was being blackmailed and he came to her for help – apparently, they’ve been having an affair for the past couple of years. I’ve just been to see Ramsay. He denies all knowledge of any blackmail attempt and claims to know nothing about McAteer being hired as a hit man. His version of events is that Laura is trying to drag him down with her out of spite because he ended their affair.’

‘Who do you believe?’

‘Mrs H. hasn’t produced any concrete evidence that would implicate Ramsay, but I’ve got a feeling in my guts that he’s involved. He was bending over backwards to appear cooperative this morning but at the end of the day he seemed more concerned with stopping his wife finding out about his shenanigans than about his girlfriend being arrested as an accessory to murder.’ Charlie gave a knowing wink. ‘Mr Ramsay would appreciate it if we could keep the news of his extra-marital affair from his wife for as long as possible.’

Noticing the grapes on the bedside table, Charlie helped himself to a handful. ‘I’m not your first visitor, then?’

‘A secret admirer dropped by earlier.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘It wouldn’t be a secret then.’

‘Be like that,’ Charlie said, stuffing grapes into his mouth.
‘Nice grapes, these – seedless – my favourite.’

‘Help yourself.’

‘Any idea how long they’re planning to keep you in?’

‘The doc’s coming to see me on his rounds this afternoon. I’m hoping he might let me out later today.’

‘No chance! The ward sister told me it would be at least another twenty-four hours before they’ll even let you get out of bed.’ Charlie tugged off another stem of grapes. ‘I wish you’d tell me who your secret admirer is. I’d like to know where she got these.’

When he got back to his office Charlie found a message waiting for him, telling him to call Superintendent Hamilton. He sighed as he picked up the phone.

‘I’ve got a press briefing in a couple of hours,’ Hamilton stated. ‘What’s the latest news on O’Sullivan?’

‘I’ve been over to the Southern General to see him. He’ll be out of action for a few days but there doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage.’

‘Why in the name of Christ did he try to tackle McAteer on his own?’

‘I have to concede it wasn’t the brightest thing he’s ever done.’

‘I warned you about that one, Anderson. He’s a hothead. I’m still not convinced we did the right thing in promoting him to Sergeant.’

When Hamilton disconnected, Charlie turned his phone sideways and mimed playing the flute, quickly coughing into his fist and fumbling to replace the receiver when Renton walked into the office.

‘Forensic report on McAteer’s Volvo,’ Renton said, waving a document. ‘Hot off the press.’

‘Anything of interest?’

‘Pebbles found in the treads of the Wellingtons in the car boot are a match for those underneath the bridge in Kelvingrove Park. There are also traces of cordite ground into the carpet in the boot.’

‘Get your snitches working flat out on this one, Colin. Someone must know where McAteer’s hiding out. With his handsome kisser it’s not as if he can melt into the background.’

‘How long are you goany be hangin’ around here?’ Gerry Fraser asked hesitantly.

‘Until I decide to go.’ McAteer was stretched out on the settee in front of the television, using the remote control to flick through the channels. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘I’m supposed to be meetin’ Johnny Devlin in the pub at twelve.’ Fraser pointed at his watch. ‘If I don’t turn up he’ll wonder where I’ve got to.’

‘Let him fuckin’ wonder. Why is there nothin’ on the telly about Parkheid?’ McAteer furrowed his scarred brow as he kept switching channels.

‘Celtic won two nothin’, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.’

‘Are you tryin’ to take the piss?’

‘Naw!’

McAteer pulled himself stiffly to his feet and crossed to the window to look up and down on the street. ‘What is there for eatin’?’

‘Nothin’. I was goany get a sanny doon the pub.’

‘Go an’ get some stuff,’ McAteer said, pulling the brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket and fishing out a
twenty-pound
note.

‘What do you want?’ Fraser asked, taking the money.

A fry-up. Eggs, bacon, sausages. Get rolls an’ cheese as well. I don’t suppose you’ve got any booze?’

‘There’s a couple of cans of lager in the fridge.’

McAteer produced another two twenties and handed them across. ‘Get a bottle of Bells and a dozen cans o’ heavy. An’ pick up the papers while you’re out. An’ be quick about it,’ he added, ‘I’m starvin’.’ As Fraser was heading towards the door he felt McAteer’s hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m warnin’ you, Fraser, if you try anythin’ smart-arsed I’ll have your guts for garters.’

As soon as Fraser turned the corner into the Gallowgate he broke into a trot and he kept running until he reached a phone booth outside the Forge shopping centre. Grabbing the receiver he dialled 999. ‘Police! CID!’ he panted. ‘Quick as you can!’

‘What’s your name, sir? Where are you calling from?’

Fraser gabbled the information. ‘I have to speak to Anderson or O’Sullivan in Pitt Street – it’s an emergency.’

Charlie Anderson was in conversation with Renton when the switchboard connected with his extension. ‘Will you take a 999 call from someone called Gerry Fraser, sir? He seems highly agitated.’

‘Put him through.’ Charlie switched the phone to loudspeaker mode as the line clicked twice. ‘Anderson here!’ he barked.

‘It’s Gerry Fraser, Mr Anderson,’ the voice blurted out. ‘McAteer’s hiding out at my place.’ Charlie’s grip tightened on the receiver.

‘I know where he lives, sir,’ Renton mouthed. ‘He’s got a flat in Whitevale Road.’

‘Are you calling from your flat?’ Charlie demanded.

‘You must be fuckin’ jokin’! I telt you, McAteer’s there right now. I’m in a phone box. He sent me out to get grub.’

‘Do what he told you and go straight back to your flat. We don’t want to arouse his suspicion.’

‘Do you think I’m saft in the heid, Anderson? So he can drop me oot the fuckin’ window while your lot are batterin’ down the door? You can do whatever the hell you like! I’m offski.’ Fraser dropped the receiver onto the cradle.

Jude Ramsay chewed slowly on the tuna sandwich she had prepared for her lunch, her face like thunder as she waited for her husband to come home.

When Simon walked through the front door he headed straight for the kitchen. ‘We need to talk, Jude.’

‘At least that’s one thing we agree on,’ she said, putting down her sandwich and folding her arms across her chest.

‘You know?’ he said quietly.

‘Laura phoned Dad. Dad phoned me. It’s a small world.’ Simon slumped down on the chair at the opposite end of the table. ‘How could you?’ she fumed. ‘Of all the people in the world you could have chosen to shag, why did it have to be my sister?’

‘I didn’t plan it like that. It just happened. I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘Sorry! And now the two of you are mixed up in a murder!’

‘Mike’s murder’s got nothing to do with me. The police told me what Laura said in her statement, but none of it is true.’

‘Why would Laura make up something like that?’ Jude asked incredulously. ‘She’s already admitted to hiring McAteer to kill a blackmailer. Why would she drag you into it if it wasn’t true?’

‘Out of spite, I suppose, because I told her our affair was over. You remember how moody she was at the dinner party last week? That was because I’d told her the previous day that I wasn’t
going to be seeing her any more. She pleaded with me to change my mind, but I was adamant. I haven’t spoken to her since last Wednesday.’

Jude stared at him hard. ‘I don’t believe a single word of it. Laura would never make up a story like that.’ Jude paused. ‘By the way, I also happen to know that you didn’t need to go out for cigarettes the morning Mike was murdered,’ she added slowly. ‘I saw the half-full carton of Marlboro in your study drawer.’

The colour rose in Simon’s cheeks. ‘You can believe whatever you fucking-well want to!’ Springing to his feet he stormed from the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. He slammed his study door behind him and turned the key in the lock. Switching on his computer he lifted the stopper from the whisky decanter on his desk and poured a large measure into a crystal tumbler, sipping at the drink while he waited for the machine to boot up. As soon as the Windows desktop appeared he started to go through his files, meticulously checking each one in turn and deciding what to delete, then he accessed his mail folder and deleted the email from Liam Black. Noticing that there was one new message waiting he dragged the mouse to click on the ‘Inbox’ icon, then froze when he saw the message he was downloading had been sent by Liam Black.

The crystal tumbler slipped from Ramsay’s grasp and bounced from the keyboard onto the floor. He scrabbled for a cigarette and lit up with twitching fingers as he clicked on the message:

Ramsay drew hard on his cigarette, repeatedly mouthing ‘for fuck’s sake’ as he read and reread the text. Having deleted the message he closed down his computer.

Charlie Anderson stood in front of Superintendent Hamilton’s desk. ‘What’s the latest on McAteer?’ Hamilton demanded.

‘We’ve received information that he’s holed up in a flat in Whitevale Road. Shearer is on his way across with an armed unit to try to bring him in.’

‘What’s the situation with Laura Harrison?’

‘We’ve charged her with conspiracy to murder. She’s confessed
to hiring McAteer to kill a blackmailer, though she claims she didn’t know the victim would be her husband. According to her, she and Simon Ramsay concocted the plot together, but he denies all knowledge of it. Harrison’s father has instructed her to say nothing more until she’s seen a lawyer. He’s cut short his business trip to Aberdeen and he’s on his way back to Glasgow.’

‘Are you planning to pull Ramsay in?’

‘Not at this stage. It’s her word against his and we don’t have enough to hold him.’

‘Jim Cuthbertson has a lot of friends in high places,’ Hamilton stated. ‘You better make sure you get this one right.’

Charlie glanced at his watch and moved towards the door. ‘My priority right now is finding out what’s happening with McAteer.’

‘Keep me posted.’

Simon Ramsay parked in the underground car park beneath his office block and took the lift to the fifth floor. Closing his office door he unlocked the top drawer of his desk and took out the company chequebook. Office procedures for transferring funds to a client required the signature of either Mike Todd or himself on a cheque for less than ten thousand pounds, both signatures being mandatory for any sum greater than that. It was now or never. Laura had told her father about their affair so he knew he’d be out on his ear as soon as Jim Cuthbertson got back from Aberdeen. He considered writing several cheques, made out to different names, for amounts under ten thousand pounds, but he dismissed the idea as impractical as there was no way he could create fictitious bank accounts to pay the cheques into. One cheque was the only solution. He studied an example of Mike
Todd’s signature on a letter; a short enough name, but at least a dozen loops and whorls. He tore up his first three efforts but was reasonably satisfied with his fourth attempt – at least he didn’t think he’d be able to improve on it. Using a different pen he appended his own signature and wrote the amount of fifty two thousand four hundred pounds in words and figures. A cheque made out to himself wouldn’t be negotiable as a signatory couldn’t also be a beneficiary. He filled in the name ‘Bjorn Svensson’ on the payee line.

Charlie’s phone rang. ‘Shearer here, sir.’

‘What’s the status?’ Charlie demanded.

‘We drew a blank. When we got to Fraser’s flat there was no one there. We didn’t have to break the door down – someone had already done that for us. The place was deserted. If McAteer had been there it looks like he left in a hurry – the television was still on.’

‘What on earth are you doing here, Simon?’ Bjorn Svensson had been summoned from the computing department to the foyer of the bank.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ he asked furtively.

‘Not really.’

‘Come outside for a minute. There’s something I need you to do for me. It’s urgent.’ Despite Bjorn’s protestations, Simon guided him through the door and led the way along the street towards the Italian café on the next block.

‘What the hell is this all about? I’m supposed to be working.’

‘It won’t take long.’ Entering the café, they sat down at a table near the window. ‘I need you to do me a favour,’ Simon
said, producing the cheque from his pocket and sliding it across the table. ‘Pay this into your account and transfer the funds to me.’

‘What!’

‘It’s okay. It’s all perfectly legal. I had a bit of luck in the currency markets.’

‘Hold on a minute!’

‘It’s not insider dealing or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not supposed to dabble in the markets at work but I had a strong fancy that the euro would fall against the dollar so I went for a put option. In three days the euro plummeted and I cashed in. I couldn’t have the cheque made payable to myself without arousing suspicion so I arranged for it to be made out in your name. All I’m asking you to do is pay it into your bank account and transfer the funds to me. It’s as simple as that.’

‘That is not simple! For a start, how am I supposed to justify this amount of money hitting my account?’

‘Nobody needs to know anything about it and if you transfer the money to me this afternoon it won’t even be in your account overnight. If any questions are asked you just have to say you had a bit of luck on the currency markets.’

Bjorn ran his fingers through his gelled hair. ‘This is crazy. Even if I agreed to go along with it my account wouldn’t be credited until the cheque had been cleared. It would be at least three days before I could transfer the funds to you.’

‘You can transfer money quicker than that when it suits you!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The fucking Cayman Islands.’

‘Shut up!’ Bjorn grabbed Simon by the arm and glanced
anxiously round the café. ‘Will you please keep quiet about that!’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

‘We all have our little secrets we’d prefer our employers not to know about, Bjorn. I’m only in breach of internal company procedures. I’m not breaking the law,’ he added forcefully.

Bjorn narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this some kind of threat?’

‘Spare me the melodrama. All I’m asking you to do is pay a cheque into your account and do whatever you have to do to the computer programs to make sure the money’s transferred to me today. I don’t want to know about having to wait three days for the cheque to be cleared.’

‘I can’t touch the programs that deal with cheque deposits. They’re classified as “sensitive”, which means written management authorisation is required before any software changes can be made.’

Simon stared long and hard at the cheque, then ripped it into shreds. ‘I’m in the shit, Bjorn. Right up to my fucking neck. I have to find a solution. I’ve got to have fifty thousand in my account by lunchtime tomorrow.’

‘There’s no way I can get my hands on fifty grand as quickly as that. It’s just not possible!’

‘You’ve been salting away five thousand a month for years,’ Simon hissed. ‘Make it possible.’

Bjorn rubbed hard at his dimpled chin. ‘I’ll get in touch with the Cayman Islands this afternoon and see what can be done.’

‘That’s more like it.’

‘I’ll give you a call this evening and let you know.’

‘I won’t be at home. Call me on my mobile when you’ve spoken to your contact in the Caymans. And if you want your
little secret to remain safe,’ he added as he got to his feet, ‘you’d better come up with a solution.’ Turning on his heel he stomped out of the café.

Billy McAteer checked to make sure he wasn’t being followed before pushing open the door of Shuggie Morrison’s café.

‘Give me the works, Shuggie,’ he called out to the squat figure behind the counter. ‘I’m starvin’.’

‘Tea or coffee, Billy?’

‘Tea.’

The conversation at the table by the window stopped and the three customers on the bench seat craned round to see who had come in. Bert Tollin looked casually at his watch. ‘Is that the time, boys?’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’d better be on my way. See you tomorrow.’

‘Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?’ The Red Hand of Ulster was pointing straight at Tollin.

‘To the bookies, pal. I’ve got a cert for the three-thirty at Kempton.’

‘Plank your arse back down there. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere until I say so.’

Tollin hesitated. ‘I need a pee. I’m burstin’.’

‘On you go, then,’ McAteer said, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the toilet as he sat down at the table nearest the door.

Tollin hurried to the toilet and went into the solitary cubicle, locking the door behind him. Fishing his mobile from his inside pocket he paged down to Colin Renton’s number. He held the phone hard against his ear as it rang out and as soon as a voice answered he flushed the toilet. ‘Billy McAteer is in Shuggie Morrison’s café, Mr Renton,’ he gabbled over the sound of
rushing water. Disconnecting immediately, Tollin scuttled back to the café and took his seat on the bench.

Sue Paterson dropped into the Southern General on her way home from school. Climbing the two flights of stairs she traipsed the length of the ward with Jamie holding onto her hand, a book clutched tightly to his chest. When they came to Tony O’Sullivan’s bed they found him lying on his back, snoring gently through a heavily bandaged nose.

‘Is that Mr O’Sullivan, Mummy?’ Jamie asked, standing on tiptoe to peer over the bedclothes.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘What happened to his nose?’

‘As far as I know it was a clash of heads.’

‘Is he a forward or a defender?’

‘I don’t actually know, Jamie,’ she said, smiling.

‘Can I show him my book now?’

Sue put a finger across her lips. ‘It would be a shame to disturb him while he’s sleeping,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe we could show it to him later?’ Sue stopped a male nurse who was walking past. ‘Can you tell me anything about Mr O’Sullivan’s condition?’ she asked.

The nurse lifted the clipboard from the end of the bed. ‘His nose was reset this afternoon. No complications. The doctor will see him on his rounds in about half an hour and he’ll probably let him out later on today. We like to clear as many beds as possible before the weekend,’ he explained. ‘A&E gets overrun when the pubs come out. Especially so near Christmas,’ he added with a grimace.

‘Okay if I leave a note for him?’ Sue asked.

‘Of course. Do you need something to write on?’

‘No thanks, I’ve got a notebook,’ she said, tapping her handbag.

Lifting the visitor’s chair noiselessly from beneath the bed, Sue sat down, took her notebook out of her bag and began to write:

Having added her address and phone number at the bottom of the note Sue tore out the page, folded the sheet of paper and propped it among the discarded grape stalks in the bowl on the bedside table. Getting to her feet she shepherded Jamie back down the ward.

Sergeant Andrew Shearer deployed his resources: two men round the back of the building and two at each end of the block containing Shuggie Morrison’s café. All six were wearing
bulletproof
body armour and had hand guns strapped to their waists. One man in each pair carried a walkie-talkie.

Shearer directed operations from his car parked at the end of the street from where he had an unobstructed view of the café entrance. His walkie-talkie crackled into life.

‘Unit A in position round the back, sir. There appears to be only one door at the rear of the building and it’s closed.’

‘Stay in position and await further instructions,’ Shearer ordered. He watched as an animated group of half a dozen men and women crossed the road away from the café – they looked like workers making their way back to the office after a very long Christmas lunch. A teenage girl, pushing a pram, turned the corner where two of his officers were leaning casually against the wall and she headed along the pavement in the direction of the café. ‘Units B and C,’ he barked into the mouthpiece. ‘Hold position.’ The pram stopped outside the café and the girl studied the menu in the window. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t go in!’ Shearer muttered under his breath, willing the girl to move on. Glancing at her watch, she used the pram to nudge open the door and went inside. ‘Shit!’ Shearer’s men heard the exclamation reverberate through their walkie-talkies. They’d also seen the girl go into the café and four pairs of expectant eyes turned towards the parked car.

‘We still have to bring McAteer out, boys.’ Shearer spoke into his mouthpiece. ‘The girl and the pram are just an added complication. Maximum speed and maximum caution will be required. Units B and C, approach the café rapidly, staying as close to the wall as you can.’

Shearer watched his men hug the buildings as they closed in on the café from both sides, stopping when they got to within a couple of yards of the entrance, their bodies flattened against the brick wall. ‘Unit B,’ Shearer said, ‘withdraw firearms and go
in when you’re ready. Unit C, hold position and don’t make any move unless you hear shots fired.’

A solid shoulder almost took the door off its hinges as Unit B went through the café door together, arms outstretched, pistols levelled. Billy McAteer scrambled to his feet and pulled out his flick knife. He froze when he saw the guns, one aimed at his head, the other at his chest.

‘Police! Drop the knife, McAteer.’

McAteer spun round to face the counter. ‘Which one of you fuckin’ bastard shopped me?’ he roared, lancing his knife across the room, the blade whipping over the pram by the counter and burying itself in the wall above Shuggie’s head, bringing down a cloud of white plaster.