Killing With Confidence (21 page)

‘That’s all well and
good, but what, exactly, is in it for me?’ April asked.

‘Well, maybe if you
help catch one of the killers you’ll keep your job,’ Crosbie
said.

‘And …’ April
demanded.

‘And … I’ll run
a background check on the Weasel for you. Deal?’ he said
hopefully.

‘Ach, what else have
I got to do with my time anyway? I’m suspended. And if I get the
sack, at least I’ll have a head start going on the game.’

42

Cut and Thrust

The broom
cupboard was pretty lonely without the constant chatter from across
the desk. Connor missed April’s ramblings. He could still recall a
recent conversation about her kitchen saga. Before he had barely
been able to take his coat off one morning, April had been in full
flight. ‘Do you know Liz Cowley from advertising? Of course you do,
big, hefty lass with too much make-up. Well, her best friend
Heather is going out with a joiner who’s just got her pregnant.
Well, I got him to fit my kitchen units, and what a mess, by the
way. He’s made a total pig’s ear of it. Everything’s
skewiff.’

Connor had laughed as
April retold this tale while wearing a pair of squint, mangled
glasses she’d obviously sat on for the umpteenth time. ‘Anyway,’
she continued, barely pausing for breath, ‘I went right through him
for his shoddy workmanship, and do you know what he did?’

‘Shat himself?’
Connor asked hopefully.

‘Almost as bad –
he cried. Seriously, stood their bubbling like a big baby. I told
him he’d need to pull himself together now he’s going to be a dad.
What a mess to get himself in getting Liz Cowley’s best friend
Heather pregnant and mucking up my kitchen units.’

The memory evaporated
as the broom cupboard door flew open and the Weasel strode in.
‘How’s one half of Scotland’s best crime-fighting duo this
morning?’

‘Fine,’ Connor
replied straight-faced, ‘and how’s Scotland best ever news
editor?’

The Weasel chose not
to reply to the quip. Instead, he hit Connor with his morning
mantra of, ‘What have you got for the schedule?’

‘I could do you a
cutts job on Scotland’s unsolved murders if that’s any use? Because
apart from that I have nothing else on,’ Connor smiled, just to
make sure he got right up the Weasel’s nose.

The news editor’s
beady little eyes narrowed. If Connor had been a junior reporter,
he’d have bawled him out across the editorial floor and then called
him at midnight to demand he do an early morning stakeout, a tactic
he had used all too often to erode the fragile confidence of those
starting out in the business. Instead he decided to bide his time
and snapped, ‘Cutts job it is, and since you’ve no real stories you
can rewrite a press release, too,’ before tossing a sheet of A4
onto Connor’s desk.

Connor’s heart sank.
Press release rewrites were the bane of a journalist’s life,
usually government surveys or private sector research which tried
to present itself as hard news facts in return for a plug in the
paper. They were mostly dubious at best – the condom makers
who claimed their brand was used more often in Scotland per head of
population than anywhere else in the world. The helpful PRs even
supplied headline suggestions, adjusted to the style of the papers
they targeted, so the red tops would receive Randy Scots Are Top Of
The Bonks while more upmarket publications would receive Scots Are
Top Of The Love League.

It was all nonsense
as far as Connor was concerned. But desk heads loved these press
releases because they were cheap, filled a space and gave them
something for their schedules. ‘And they wonder why circulations
are plummeting,’ thought Connor. He turned to the copy and
deliberately misspelled the name of the contraceptive brand
throughout in the hope that it wouldn’t get picked up by the subs
and make it into the paper.

It had just gone 11
a.m. and he’d already done his work for the day. It would buy him
some much needed time to execute the plan he had hatched with April
and DCI Crosbie. But first he needed to visit an old friend.



April had
decided to treat her daughter Jayne to lunch in Windows restaurant
on the top floor of the Carlton George Hotel. April loved the
place. It was so intimate and sunny, with views across George
Square and the city’s rooftops.

She had done many
interviews there over the years, before the Weasel had banned
‘entertaining’ on expenses. That had been like having a limb cut
off. If a journalist couldn’t entertain on company expenses, then
they were immediately at a disadvantage, as far as she was
concerned. Sure, the system had been battered and abused over the
years, mostly by newspaper executives who didn’t think twice about
adding bottles of champagne to the bill, but meanwhile foot
soldiers like April sweated over ordering a couple of
cappuccinos.

A good lunch never
failed to get a good interview. When people were relaxed they
revealed things they’d never told the press before.

Then there had been
the time April had recommended this same hotel to the head PR at
Camelot, who ran Britain’s National Lottery. They would bring their
jackpot winners to the boutique hotel to meet the press, and the PR
would make sure she gave April a little titbit or two more that’d
give her a better angle than the rest of the press pack.

April loved Lottery
winners. Factory worker syndicates always looked so uncomfortable
in their new suits and frocks, and whenever the photographers asked
the winners to give a cheesy kick for the cameras, the labels from
their newly purchased shoes would be clearly visible on the
soles.

April often thought
of journalism as acting. Each story was like a different role. One
day it would be health, the next a death knock, or a showbiz sit
down. The job certainly had its moments, but the highs were fewer
and more far between than the day-to-day drudgery. She would be
acting out a new role tonight and was beginning to feel a little
anxious about her stint as a hooker. What if she was picked up by
this psycho? What if he killed her? Crosbie had assured her she
would be safe, but what if something went wrong? And what legacy
would she leave behind if she were murdered? Would people say she’d
been a good journalist but a bad mother?

That’s why she had
decided to call Jayne. After they had ordered, Jayne had asked her
what was up. April had welled up and eventually told her daughter
everything, from being suspended and how her mean bosses were
trying to get rid of her on the cheap to tonight’s dangerous
mission. The two women had talked for hours, the first time they
had spoken to each other so honestly and openly in years.

At the end of their
lunch Jayne had kissed her mum and hugged her tightly. April
Lavender no longer felt like a useless mother. Jayne had said,
‘Sometimes we all just need a hug.’

April now had her
fighting spirit back. And she was ready to catch a killer.

43

Farewell to a Friend

Badger
looked terrible. His face was gaunt and his skin so grey it was
practically transparent. He was lying on top of his sheets, with a
pair of paper trousers barely covering his modesty. His face lit up
when he saw his protégé. He uttered, ‘Elvis, how you doing?’ before
his voice was replaced by a hacking cough.

He wasn’t able to
speak again for several minutes. He tugged at the knees of his
paper trousers. ‘Pretty snazzy, eh? I was thinking of going jigging
in them later on. Give it some of my John Travolta moves.’ He was
on a roll now. ‘The beauty with these is, if you shit yersel, they
just tear them off and give you a new pair. I wish I’d known about
them years ago.’

They both laughed
which sparked off another prolonged coughing fit for Badger. When
his chest finally calmed down, they sat together with smiles on
their faces.

It was Badger who
spoke first. ‘So, how’s old April shaping up?’

‘Not so great, Badg,
but she’s a tough old burd,’ Connor told him before silence ensued
again.

Badger sighed.
‘Newspapers are not what they used to be, Elvis. I’ve worked under
my fair share of editors, many of them drunks and hotheads, but,
boy, they were good. They knew instinctively what their readers
wanted, what was a
Daily Herald
story. They worked you hard
but you always wanted to go the extra mile for them. And they’d
always buy you a pint afterwards. But this new breed are not only
vindictive, they’re fucking hopeless. Can you imagine someone like
Danny Brown treating April this way? No chance. If she fucked up,
Danny would be the first to bollock her, but then that would’ve
been it. End of story, the next day it would all be
forgotten – the way it should be. Now we have a little cunt
like the Weasel terrorising his staff, psychologically wearing the
poor bastards down, going out of his way to end careers, and for
what? His own pleasure, the twisted little fuck. I just can’t
understand their mentality. How does a frightened, demoralised
staff produce exciting stories? They don’t, then year in, year out
the quality of the papers drops as fast as their circulation.’

Badger realised he
was ranting and gave a shrug. Connor had a slightly more pragmatic
view. He believed many journalists did have a sell-by date. He
hated the old codgers kicking around newsrooms, boring everyone
with their tales from their glory days. That sort of banter was
fine for the boozer but not when everyone else was trying to
work.

Badger had been
different. He had continued to produce the same stunning range of
stories and investigations until the day he’d been forcibly
retired. He had called it his ‘freelance mentality’, explaining to
Connor, ‘Treat every working day as if you’re a freelance – no
stories, no pay. Too many of these staff cunts think they can
cruise by on a story or two a week. Hell’s teeth, in the old union
days with overstaffing some writers didn’t bother their typewriters
for months on end. But who the hell wants to sit around doing
nothing? Not me.’

He concluded their
chat on an upbeat note. ‘Look, the industry has changed. People now
read their news on their bloody smartphones rather than on
newsprint, but remember, Connor, good writing, however it’s
delivered, will never go out of fashion. And you’re good. In fact,
I don’t think you know just how good you are. So don’t let the
bastards grind you down.’

With that he closed
his eyes and fell asleep.

Connor kissed his
mentor gently on the forehead and said his goodbyes for the last
time.



DCI Crosbie
was tentative when speaking to anyone now that his inner monologue
was fully unleashed. He hoped for the sake of his career it would
stay quiet while he spoke to his superior, Cruickshank.

‘Making progress,
Crosbie?’ Cruickshank enquired.

‘Yes, sir.
Anticipating some developments tonight, sir,’ he replied, trying
desperately to keep his answers as short and formal as was politely
possible, in case any expletives escaped.

‘Oh, Crosbie, just to
let you know, if we don’t see some positive results as you keep
promising then DCI Creaney shall be taking over the case.’

Crosbie flinched at
the mere mention of Creaney’s name. In every area of working life,
there is always someone you cannot stand the sight of and someone
who feels exactly the same way about you. This was the case with
Creaney and Crosbie.

Beads of sweat
gathered on the detective’s forehead as he struggled to contain the
urge to give a full and frank account of what he thought about
Creaney. Somehow he managed to keep his alter ego at bay. He’d got
away with it. He really needed to take himself up a big mountain
and scream obscenities at the top of his voice as Watt Wilson had
recommended. That would give him renewed confidence about staying
on top of his split personality.

However, Cruickshank
was feeling a lot less confident about the investigation’s progress
as he left Crosbie’s office. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ the
DS later told the Chief Constable during a briefing, ‘DCI Crosbie
concluded our meeting by calling me a cocksucker.’

44

To Catch a
Killer

Connor and
April entered DCI Crosbie’s Pitt Street office to find the
detective sitting behind his desk looking the perfect picture of
authority – until he opened his mouth.

‘It’s fatso and
cunty, how are you twatting on?’ he said offering a friendly
handshake.

‘That doesn’t even
make sense,’ Connor replied sternly, refusing to shake Crosbie’s
hand.

It was April who
broke the tension. ‘Now, now, David, remember what I said about
keeping that potty mouth of yours under control. I think you need a
few more sessions with Watt before you end up in hot water.’

‘You’re right,’ he
replied looking suitably chastised. ‘You’re cunting right as
friggedy fuckety usual, cow face,’ he added, realising with horror
that he’d started making up swear words that he’d never heard
of.

‘You,’ Connor
growled, pointing directly at Crosbie, ‘are a fucking nutter.’

Even Crosbie’s inner
self realised it had gone too far. He desperately tried to regain
his composure. ‘Okay, Miss Lavender, fancy being a washed-up old
hooker tonight instead of a washed-up old hack?’ The detective
surprised himself with the last statement. He was pretty sure he’d
made it himself, without the foul-mouthed interjection of his ‘dark
side’.



April
considered her transformation into an old streetwalker. It had all
been a bit too easy. The only major adjustment she’d made was to
tie her hair back and put on a short summer skirt she hadn’t worn
in years, with a pair of high-heeled shoes. The plunging top was
one she regularly wore on a rare night out. As for the make-up,
there wasn’t much extra she could slap on her face. Connor would
joke how she virtually put the stuff on with a trowel anyway, the
older and craggier she got.