Killing With Confidence (14 page)

April dabbed her
reddened eyes with the only corner of her napkin that wasn’t
stained with tomato sauce and egg yolk. ‘I panicked,’ she sobbed.
‘I want to go back to speak with Martin Seth again, confront him
with the facts and see what he says.’

Connor feared for
April. She’d once told him how both her parents had suffered from
Alzheimer’s, explaining how her folks had ‘forgotten
everything – in the end they even forgot how to breathe’. He
knew his colleague worried a lot about her possibly bleak future.
He also knew many people had their own crosses to bear when it came
to their genetic make-up. For some women it was the almost certain
knowledge they would get breast cancer, after their mothers and
grandmothers. Others walked around knowing their hearts were like
ticking time bombs, with coronary heart disease running rife in
their families despite good diets and healthy lifestyles.

For Connor it was
Huntington’s disease, a genetic disorder which affects the brain.
He remembered vividly his gran’s rapid mental decline. At first she
had seemed fine, then one day she forgot to turn up at the school
gates to collect him. He had been just five at the time, and two
older girls had walked him back to his gran’s home. She was sitting
on the back porch having a cup of tea oblivious to her
child-collecting duties.

Connor still
remembered the look of horror as her snot-nosed, snivelling
grandchild approached. She’d pleaded, ‘Please don’t tell your
mother I forgot you – she’ll kill me.’ Of course, as any
five-year-old would, he couldn’t wait to blab all to his mum when
she arrived from work to pick him up. There had been a furious row
and after that his mum had had to make other after-school
arrangements.

Even though he was
young at the time, he could still recall his gran’s deterioration.
She began swearing a lot at first, which had been unlike her,
followed by a loss of inhibition, taking to wandering around the
house semi-naked. Her motor skills went, too. She became wobbly and
unsteady on her feet, suffered weight and muscle loss, and had
trouble swallowing. In the end she just faded away.

A few years back the
family curse struck again, this time Connor’s mum Annie began to
show telltale signs of the disease. She was now unsteady on her
feet, but had good and bad days. Sometimes she was incredibly lucid
when he called and at other times she had difficulty putting a
sentence together.

Connor tried not to
think of the future too much. There was a straight 50/50 chance
he’d inherit the dodgy Huntington’s genes. He’d been offered a test
by his mum’s consultant when he’d taken her for an appointment but
had refused. What was the point? The disease was incurable, despite
the encouraging noises scientists made every so often about a
breakthrough.

It usually started to
‘kick-in’, as the consultant had put it, when those carrying the
gene reached forty. Connor was now thirty-nine, so he guessed he’d
learn soon enough. But he would, as the old adage had it, cross
that bridge when he came to it. His philosophy was to live in the
now, and right now his colleague needed all the help she could
get.



In the last
few weeks the Weasel had been feeling burnt out. The Seth murder
had left him physically drained. He knew cocaine was damaging his
body. He’d been doing so much of the white stuff that his septum
was starting to wobble loose. But the Weasel felt it was worth the
toll it had taken on his body. As the cocaine high began to kick
in, he instantly felt better, and allowed himself the luxury of
stroking his own ego.

The
Daily
Herald
was at the top of its game and ahead of the pack because
of
his
leadership. His misplaced self-belief would not even
allow him to contemplate that the paper’s success with the Seth
murder had all been down to Connor and April’s hard work and
expertise. No, as far as he was concerned, he had ridden them hard
to produce the goods, which they had done.

But now, ‘the old
dear had slipped up’, meaning his plan to have her dismissed –
without the need for an expensive payoff – and install his
mistress in her place had just taken a massive step closer.

The news editor diced
up another line of the white stuff and inhaled it deeply, flushed
the toilet and walked onto the editorial floor. It had just gone 8
a.m. and the Weasel felt ready to take on the world.

27

A Deathbed
Promise

All three
of Colin Harris’s mobile phones were vibrating simultaneously.
Since he’d ‘put out the feelers’ to find his sister’s murderer,
calls were coming in thick and fast from across Glasgow. Harris
knew this wasn’t out of loyalty or desire to curry favour with him.
It was to do with the £100,000 bounty he had put on the head of his
sister’s killer.

He’d had to switch
off the phones while visiting his mum’s hospital bed. Old Jeannie
had suffered a stroke a few days after April had interviewed her.
Harris was no medical expert, but he knew his frail old mum wasn’t
long for this world. She looked tiny, with her skeletal body barely
raising the starched hospital sheets. Her mind was scrambled from
the massive aneurysm on the left-hand side of her brain, which had
rendered the right-hand side of her body virtually useless.

But as Harris kissed
her forehead to say his goodbyes, Old Jeannie’s strength and
lucidity suddenly returned. She gripped her son’s hand tightly.
Then with all her might she managed to spit out the slurred, but
clearly audible words, ‘Find him, son. Find Jackie’s killer.’

Colin clasped his
mum’s bony fingers and promised, ‘I’m working on it, Ma. Night and
day I’m working on it.’



DCI Crosbie
left the first session with Watt Wilson feeling invigorated. He had
a spring in his step and a smile on his face for the first time in
as long as he could remember. He could recall Watt hypnotising him
with a silver medal dangling on a chain. Once under, he felt like a
weight had been removed from his shoulders and all the restraints
he had to show as a police officer vanished.

The detective had
been able to pour his heart out, rhyming off the numerous
frustrations from his professional career to his home life that had
been building up inside him, like a big ball of fury, which would
erupt with his foul-mouthed rants. He had sworn repeatedly and
loudly under hypnosis, but he had enjoyed it. Watt Wilson had
encouraged him to swear more and more. In fact, he recommended that
every so often Crosbie should drive into the Campsie hills, that
give Glasgow its unique skyline, and scream obscenities into the
wilderness.

‘That sounds like a
fucking marvellous idea,’ Crosbie had remarked, before Watt had
ordered Crosbie to return his swearing alter ego back inside the
deepest realms of his mind, like putting a ‘genie back into a
bottle’.

The detective felt
good. He was ready to tackle his two murder cases with renewed
drive and enthusiasm. And he didn’t fear his inner self any more,
even though it had threatened to derail his career. Instead, he had
been actively encouraged to set it free. ‘Like venting off steam,’
Watt had explained, ‘before you explode.’

‘That old dear,
April, was right – you are good,’ he’d said to Watt as he left
the hypnotist’s home a happy man.

28

Weasel Words

The Weasel
had clearly been waiting for April to arrive. No sooner had she
stepped foot on the
Daily Herald
’s editorial floor, he
barked, ‘You. HR. Now.’

By taking matters to
human resources, the Weasel was making everything official. The
unions had long been drummed out of the
Daily Herald
, and
left toothless after the Thatcher government. New Labour had
introduced new laws in the unions’ favour, but the
Daily
Herald
’s management steadfastly refused to negotiate with the
likes of the National Union of Journalists. To appease the workers,
and stay on the right side of the law, a staff association was
formed instead. It was the elected members of this staff
association who handled everything from pay negotiations to
disciplinary actions. But since it was not funded by contributions
from members’ subscriptions, but by the owners of the
Daily
Herald
itself, it was seen as little more than a company
puppet.

It was an accusation
that always annoyed the staff rep Davie Paterson. Davie was the
former Father of the Chapel for the
Herald
’s National Union
of Journalists branch. He was an old-school union type with the
ruddy complexion of someone who enjoyed a right good drink.
Paterson hated the new breed of managers like the Weasel, being of
the firm belief that most problems could be sorted in the
department, without official involvement from HR and the staff
association.

Paterson looked
flustered when he met April and Connor outside the HR department
for the hastily arranged meeting, asking bluntly, ‘What the fuck is
this about, April? I only got summoned five minutes ago.’

Connor spoke on
April’s behalf. ‘April’s screwed up badly. She never called in
after a story. The Weasel was waiting to splash what she’d got.
They’d hung on all day waiting for her to check in. In the end they
needed to get another splash – which I supplied.’

Another call from
Colin Harris had taken care of that. Today’s front page read:

Harris: I’ll pay £100,000 to
catch my sister’s killer

GANSTER’S BOUNTY BOOST

Davie Paterson sighed
and softened his tone, ‘April, old darling, you’re too long in the
tooth to screw up like that. What really happened?’

She’d never been the
crying type. In fact, April hated how younger female colleagues
would turn on the waterworks if things didn’t go their way. But
tears welled up in her eyes once more. She sobbed, ‘My bottle went.
I had a murder confession on tape which I knew was lies and so did
the police. I was getting told to do one thing by the police and I
knew I’d have to do the complete opposite for the paper. I just
ceased to be able to make a rational decision. I think I’ve finally
passed my sell-by date. This is a young man’s game.’

‘Don’t talk pish,’
Paterson barked. ‘Can’t have the toddlers taking over the creche.
Then we’d really be in the shit. Right, this cunt is going to hit
you with a gross misconduct charge. I want you to say nothing. Let
me do the talking.’

Paterson burst
through the door of the HR manager’s office, clutching what looked
like a caseload of notes. In actual fact they were just photocopies
of the last staff association meeting‘s minutes, but it was one of
the oldest tricks of the trade to look like you’d come to a fight
armed to the teeth. Paterson was a short man – barely five
feet five – but his presence filled the room. He sat directly
opposite the Weasel and eyeballed him. For all his grand standing
of being a tough nut, the fiery news editor could not meet
Paterson’s thousand-yard stare.

April took her seat
next to Paterson and smiled meekly at the HR manager Patricia
Sharpe, an unfriendly and stern type, whom April had learned over
the years was Sharpe by name and nature.

Human
resources – which had replaced the old-fashioned personnel
office – was a growth industry as far as April could see. In
the old days one or two strange little accountant types seemed to
be able to handle the payroll and pension payments of an entire
company with thousands of staff.

Now it appeared you
needed a whole department full of strident, young go-getters with
university degrees to do the same job. Of course, they’d argue that
the job description had changed out of all recognition what with
the ever-increasing number of EU employment laws, along with
various company initiatives and benefits for staff. April suspected
it was a ruse. HR workers were now some of the highest paid within
newspapers, many of which were struggling to turn a profit.

Patricia Sharpe
wouldn’t have to bother her perfectly coiffured head with what
stories she was bringing to the table today, unlike the reporters
who were the very lifeblood of the industry. Yet a woman who’d
never chapped the door of a murder victim’s family was now sitting
in authority over a time-served journalist like April. It just
wasn’t right.

Patricia opened the
proceedings by saying, ‘We are here because the company intends to
start disciplinary procedure against April Lavender for gross
misconduct.’

Davie cut her off
mid-flow, growling, ‘Aye, aye, we didn’t think we’d come here for
the fucking coffee, which is pish, by the way. Kenco this
ain’t.’

Patricia had had many
meetings with Davie, and was expecting his usual gruffness. ‘Now,
David,’ she responded using his Sunday name, ‘you know I’m legally
required to adhere to company procedure.’

‘Legally what?’ Davie
snorted. ‘This isn’t
LA Law
, love. Just lay it on the table,
what you’ve got and what this is really about.’

If Paterson had
wanted to provoke a response, he certainly got it. ‘I’ll tell you
what this is really about.
She
,’ the Weasel said,
aggressively pointing his finger towards April, ‘didn’t file
yesterday when she was out on a splash story. She didn’t even check
in. And for that alone she has no place on my news team.’

Paterson’s face
turned red with fury, as he stared silently at the news editor,
before exploding. ‘First of all, if you point again at one of my
members, you’ll leave here with nine fingers – the other will
be shoved up your arse. Secondly,
she
has a name. It’s April
Lavender, and she’s had more splashes than you’ve had your hole,
sonny. And thirdly, by saying she has no place on your news team,
does that mean she’s now sacked? If so, then why are we bothering
our arses going through procedure when you’ve already acted as
judge, jury and executioner?’