Killing With Confidence (8 page)

Fifteen minutes later
she took her usual seat. She was particularly hungry this morning.
Dipping her link sausage into the yolk of her fried egg April
muttered out loud, ‘I blame X Factor and Pop Idol and all these
talent shows. Kids just want to turn up and be famous now. They
don’t want to do the years of hard graft to get there.’

The waitresses and
the regulars were used to April airing her thoughts in public, but
she drew some looks from those who didn’t know her.

‘Mind if I join in
your conversation?’ Connor beamed.

‘Oh,’ April laughed,
‘was I talking to myself again? I better stop that. People might
think I’m mad.’

‘There’s no “might”
about it, my batty old friend. Right, what have you got?’

April recounted her
meeting with Chantal Cameron. At the end Connor had just one
question: ‘How did Selina know Chantal was ripping her off unless
someone told her? I’m guessing it was the dealer and I have a funny
feeling I know who it is.’

15

Anchored Down

‘Oh, look
what the cat dragged in,’ roared Badger to a packed Anchorage bar
in Yoker’s Kelso Street.

Connor could see that
his old mentor was three sheets to the wind, which meant he’d
shifted a colossal amount of booze. Badger was rarely drunk –
more like constantly ‘topped up’, as Connor used to say.

The young
mentee – as he used to jokingly be called – was greeted
with a bear hug from his old mentor and proudly introduced to the
Anchorage regulars.

Connor then steered
his old friend to a quieter corner. ‘I need to meet the detective
in charge of the Seth case. Crosbie. Known as Bing. Doesn’t
frequent any boozers as far as I’m told.’

‘Crosbie, Crosbie,’
pondered Badger, ‘I’ve never heard of him. I’ll sort something out
for you. Anyway, how are things back at the ranch? Still hanging in
there by your fingertips, I see. Has that cunt Bent no’ been found
out yet?’

‘You’re just bitter
because he sacked you,’ Connor teased.

Badger pinched
Connor’s cheek hard in something that passed for affection before
announcing, ‘I’m off for a pish,’ and staggering off towards the
toilet.

One of Badger’s booze
buddies Wee Al approached Connor. Wee Al was around six feet four
with a ruddy drinker’s complexion like Badger’s. He plonked himself
down on the seat next to Connor and sighed, ‘He’s ill, you
know.’

Connor brushed it
off. ‘No wonder with the amount he drinks.’

‘No, he’s really
ill,’ Wee Al added, touching Connor’s hand to emphasise the point.
‘He speaks of you all the time. You’re like the son he never
had.’

Badger and his wife
Rita had never had children. He’d never explained why.

Wee Al continued, ‘He
thinks the world of you. He’s always banging on about “Elvis this”
and “Elvis that”. But he’s dying … that’s why he’s drinking
more than ever. He’s in pain.’

Connor felt a wave of
emotion crash over him. He’d never had a dad growing up and Badger
had become something of a father figure.

Badger returned
singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. ‘Come on, Elvis, geez a wee shake of
those snake hips,’ he demanded.

Connor needed to
speak to him in the cold light of day. He’d take his opportunity
tomorrow, hopefully, when Badger called with details on how to meet
Crosbie.



Osiris was
seriously hacked off. He’d spent the day travelling from one
faceless industrial unit to another for a day of meetings with
various depot managers. Because he was from head office he got
nothing but moans from the branch bosses about how they’d run
things differently. Osiris would put on his best sympathetic
expression but inwardly he was glad these morons were basically
nothing more than over-promoted truck drivers.

But that wasn’t the
reason Osiris was annoyed. The prostitute he’d killed had made all
the front pages in Scotland and was linked with the death of that
rich bitch, Selina Seth, but the detective in charge of the
investigation had been at pains on the lunchtime news to keep both
murder investigations separate.

DCI Crosbie’s stern
face filled the plasma screen in Edinburgh’s Burke and Hare pub
where Osiris was having a lunchtime pint with yet another transport
manager. He found this branch head particularly tedious as he was a
clubhouse bore, full of golf jokes – all of which Osiris had
heard before.

‘At this moment in
time we are not connecting the deaths of Mrs Seth and Jacqueline
McIvor. We’ll obviously keep an open mind, but I’d like to assure
the public that we do not believe this is the work of a serial
killer and I’d like to ask the country’s media to show
responsibility and restraint in their reporting of these separate
cases.’

Crosbie hated
appearing on television. He wasn’t like Detective Superintendent
Cruickshank who loved the sound of his own voice and his looks even
more. He’d taken a calculated risk making such a bold statement.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t the murderers he was most wary of, it was
the press. By having a dig at them in public, basically rubbishing
all of today’s front pages, he could expect a huge backlash –
especially if one of the killers struck again. He was gambling on
having flushed them out by then.

Osiris watched
intently as Crosbie made his announcement on the TV news. He began
to hatch a plan that would take him way out of his comfort zone.
But it was a risk he believed was worth taking.



April
Lavender was eating again. ‘Relentless grazing’, as Connor called
it, but she simply couldn’t help herself. She felt hungry every
couple of hours. And not just hungry – ‘positively starving’
as she was fond of saying.

She’d long given up
on the bathroom scales, which were now covered in dust after being
kicked, unloved, under the U-bend, but she did fancy enrolling in
swimming classes at her local pool. Although she’d once been a Wren
she’d never learned to swim. The last time she’d been to the
‘baths’, as they were called in Glasgow, to thrash around was when
she was ten.

Her dad had bought
her the biggest bag of chips afterwards, smothered in salt and
vinegar. Lovely. She could still taste them. ‘Oh bugger, now I’m
desperate for a bag of chips.’ After getting the daily dose of
self-loathing out the way, April felt a lot better after polishing
off a full Scottish breakfast, which is much like an English
breakfast, except with a uniquely Scottish potato scone – a
triangle of baked flour and potato, lightly fried and possessing
the ability to soak up other food’s saturated fats like a
sponge.

April had decided on
a different diet strategy, opting for a hearty breakfast –
instead of her two rolls and bacon – followed by a moderate
lunch, then a hearty dinner. She hoped this would diminish her
desire for snacks. She smiled at the waitress Martel and said,
‘There’s method in my madness, you see.’

As usual, the
waitress in the Peccadillo didn’t have the foggiest idea what April
was wittering on about but decided to humour her, ‘Well, I hope it
works out for you.’

April gave her a
knowing wink. ‘And if it fails, well, it’ll just be our little
secret.’

The waitress turned
on her heels and brushed by Connor who had just come in.

He took one look at
the girl’s bemused face and said to April, ‘That poor girl looks
completely baffled – what pish have you been spouting this
morning?’

April rarely took
offence, which was just as well as she had to put up with plenty of
insults. Instead she gave her trademark dirty laugh, left the
correct change and headed for the door.

On the way out Connor
tugged the waitress’s sleeve and whispered, ‘You’re lucky, you just
have to listen to her in the morning – I have to put up with
her insanity all day.’

This waitress smiled
then blushed. Connor was more attractive and better mannered than
her usual clientele.

He easily read her
body language, feeling a small stirring in his loins, and thought
to himself, ‘It’s been a while.’

Someone else picked
up on the vibes, too. ‘Keep it in your pants, you dirty boy,’ April
said as they made their way to the office.

Connor made a mental
note to himself. April was definitely a lot more perceptive than
she let on.



Badger was
Connor’s first call of the day. His old mentor repeatedly had to
cover his mouthpiece as he exploded into hacking coughing
fits.

‘You need to get that
checked out,’ Connor said tentatively, already anticipating the
abusive answer.

‘What are you? My
doctor or my wife?’ Badger growled, ‘And anyway I have checked it
out. I’m getting the test results at the end of the week. But
enough of that bollocks. Your man Crosbie is a runner, mad for it
apparently. Never could understand that myself – pound, pound,
pound, bore, bore, bore. He’s running the Glasgow half-marathon
from George Square on Sunday. He’s in the blue group, whatever that
is. Something to do with the expected finishing time.’ Connor could
hear the flicking of pages while Badger checked his notepad.
‘Crosbie runs it in about one hour thirty-five,’ he added. ‘Better
get those shorts on, Elvis, and you’ll need to swap the blue suede
shoes for proper trainers.’

‘Oh crap, I haven’t
run in years. How long is a half-marathon again?’ The anxiety in
Connor’s voice was clearly audible.

Badger laughed loudly
before succumbing to another coughing fit. He eventually managed to
croak, ‘Thirteen miles. But it’s your only chance to meet him. He
does bugger all else except work and run. Oh, and someone wants to
meet you today. Very important. Be at the Portman bar at noon.’

‘You know it’s hard
to get any time out of the sausage factory these days. Who is
it?’

Badger gave a
one-word reply: ‘Harris.’



‘Colin
Harris – now what the hell did he want?’ Connor thought to
himself.

Back in the broom
cupboard he told April about his rendezvous with one of Glasgow’s
most lethal gangland enforcers turned author and alleged legitimate
businessman. Now it was Connor’s turn to speak his thoughts out
loud. ‘Legitimate, my arse.’ He turned accusingly to April. ‘Your
insanity is rubbing off.’

The Weasel
interrupted their conversation with his usual absence of
pleasantries. ‘The editor wants to see you both in his office
now.’



Bent was
sitting in his usual well-rehearsed pose behind his large mahogany
desk, chin resting on his index fingers as if deep in thought. He
didn’t even make eye contact when April and Connor were shown in by
his PA, launching into a question instead: ‘Any news?’

Both reporters
detected the hint of anxiety in the editor’s voice, and both
decided to toy with him.

‘Well, I’m trying for
an address for Jackie McIvor’s mum,’ April said.

Bent snapped ‘No, not
with the scumbag prostitute. Are the police getting anywhere with
the Seth killer? What’s this Crosbie character got to say off the
record?’

‘I don’t know,’
apologised Connor, knowing full well those were three words all
editors hated, ‘but I’m hoping to meet him this weekend.’

Bent was silent.

April’s curiosity got
the better of her. ‘You seem very concerned about this case –
did you know Selina well?’

A look of outrage
swept across Bent’s face, and April butted in before he could
speak, ‘I think everyone’s been shocked by her death. They will
find her killer.’

Bent slumped back in
his chair, and eventually mumbled, ‘You’re right, we are all
shocked. I had lunch with her the day before she was murdered. I
just want the bastard caught.’

‘So you don’t think
it was her husband then?’ enquired Connor.

‘No, I don’t. Too
obvious,’ Bent said.

Funny how an editor’s
real views often betrayed what they put in their papers. ‘Well, I
shall hopefully find out Crosbie’s real views, too,’ Connor
added.

Bent didn’t answer as
he stared unfocused at some imaginary spot on the carpet.

Connor and April took
the silence as their cue and quietly slipped out his office leaving
Bent to his thoughts.

‘He certainly knows
more than he’s letting on,’ April remarked.

16

Colin ‘The Hitman’ Harris

The Portman
bar was unimaginatively named after Portman Street where it sat on
a corner in Glasgow’s rundown Kinning Park district. Like many of
the pubs in the area it had thrived when heavy industry ruled. But
those days were long gone. Now, the Portman was a miserable little
drinking den full of dead-eyed regulars. Its floorboards were bare
and scuffed, and its walls were yellow from nicotine even though
the smoking ban had forced drinkers to puff out in the wind and
cold for several years now.

The boozer was almost
completely empty, but even so Connor barely noticed the
bespectacled figure sitting at the bar reading the
Daily
Herald
. He ordered himself a pint.

‘Are you not buying a
beer for me?’

The reporter turned
to size up his inquisitor.

A slim, middle-aged
man wearing a blue pullover and casual trousers, best described as
slacks, smiled back at him and offered his hand as a welcome.
‘Colin Harris is my name, and you must be Elvis. Actually, I’ll
have a glass of Chablis, stopped drinking beer the last time I got
out of jail, puts too much on the gut.’ With that remark he clasped
the remains of his beer belly.

Connor screwed up his
face and replied, ‘With all due respect I don’t think this is the
type of establishment that sells wine, never mind Chablis.’