Snapshot (12 page)

‘My point is that if a honey badger could speak then you could bet your last fucking dollar that it would have a Glaswegian accent. Too small to be continually picking battles with the big boys but programmed not to know any better. Just too brave or too stupid to know when to back away from a fight.’

Winter laughed. It was the wrong answer apparently.

‘The thing is it’s not funny, Tony, not funny at all. Every fucking day in Glasgow some stupid wee dick dies because he was born in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong attitude. And, just to be clear, every single one of them, every single one of
us
, is born with the wrong attitude. If you don’t have it then you get the shit kicked out of you. Or get it kicked into you. Chicken or egg. Hit the fucker with the stick and if that doesn’t work then hit him with the carrot. Or stab him with the stick. Either way, you stand on your own two feet or you die on your arse. It’s the Glasgow way. Fuck them or they fuck you. Learn quick or be a victim.

‘That’s why this place is full of wee boys who are dying to be hard men. The cemeteries are full of them. Wee boys with what they think is courage instead of brains, all of them ignorant of the single piece of wisdom that might just keep them alive. The brave thing to do is run, the cowardly thing is to stand and fight just because you are scared of being labelled a coward. The ones that can find the guts to realize that it’s all right to be afraid are the ones that just might live to see their next giro rather than become another statistic. The rest end up the same place that stupid wee fucker out there is going. I give him five years tops till he’s pushing up daisies.’

Addison knocked back the last of his Highland Park, closing his eyes and savouring it as it slipped down. When he opened his eyes again, he turned to Winter with a grin replacing the grimace that had been stuck to his face.

‘Okay, lecture over. I’ve drunk enough for one day. Home time.’

With that he lurched off the bar stool and headed for the door without looking back.

‘Remember to talk to Alex Shirley for me?’ Winter shouted after him. ‘Get me doing photographs on the case?’

‘Och, no chance. You’ve burnt your bridges on that one.’

Winter jumped off his stool and caught the door before it hit the latch.

‘Come on, Addy, you said you’d speak to him. You know how important this is to me.’

The DI still didn’t look back but shouted to him over his shoulder as he headed towards Sauchiehall Street.

‘I’ve told you, wee man, you bite too easily. Takes all the fun out of it. Trust your Uncle Addy. Talk to you tomorrow.’

Winter could still hear him laughing as he disappeared down Elmbank Street in search of a taxi.

Thursday 15 September

Alex Shirley’s office in divisional HQ in Stewart Street was more functional than decorative, a bit like the man himself. The carpet was plain but sturdy, fit to take the boots of a thousand coppers marching to his solid oak desk. It was sparsely decorated, with just one framed award on the wall and a photograph of his wife and two teenaged children propped up on the desk next to his computer.

DI Addison was sitting in front of the desk, examining the family group shot and thinking, not for the first time, that Mrs Shirley was a bit of a looker and would have been pretty hot about a stone and a half ago. Alex Shirley himself was a dapper man, five foot ten with a close crop of steel-grey hair and a wide, muscular build making up for any lack of height.

The Temple’s blonde daughter was in her late teens and Addison’s opinion of her was mercifully cut short by the door opening behind him and Superintendent Shirley striding in with DCI Iain Williamson following behind. Addison wrenched his eyes from the photograph and made a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet until the Temple shooed him back into the upholstery.

‘Thanks for coming in, Derek,’ the superintendent began. ‘We’re all up to our eyes in it today so I’ll keep this as quick as possible. The briefing is in half an hour and I’ve got other calls to make before then. The chief is going in front of the television cameras this afternoon and he’s not looking forward to it one bit.’

‘That makes a change, sir,’ chipped in Addison brightly.

‘Aye, very good, Inspector,’ drawled Iain Williamson. ‘Keep those thoughts to yourself. No point in making this week even worse than it’s already lined up to be, is there?’

The DCI was a dour Dundonian who had been working in civilization for the past ten years or so. He was a good, solid cop but permanently wore the expression of a man who had found out his dog had died.

‘No, sir,’ Addison agreed.

‘Correct answer,’ interrupted Shirley, who was far less bothered about Addison’s quip than his DCI was. ‘Okay, tell me that you have brought DS Narey up to speed on the Wellington Lane girl so that we can get on with this other shit. It’s to be Operation Nightjar, by the way.’

The codenames came from an approved list generated by a computer and one was picked at random from it. One month, all the names could be trees, the next it might be breeds of dog. It was meant to avoid using names that were connected to the case and might end up muddying the water.

‘Catchy,’ replied Addison. ‘Nightjar? Makes me think of last orders. Or is that just me?’

Addison was looking at the superintendent but was aware of Williamson on his right, shaking his head disapprovingly.

‘Just you, Derek,’ replied Shirley. ‘A nightjar is a medium-sized nocturnal bird. Or so Iain tells me. So, DS Narey?’

‘I’ll make sure she is fully briefed today and I’m going to assign DC Julia Corrieri to her so she won’t be short of support. They’ve both been involved with the case to date so that will help.’

‘Two female officers? Should work well with parents. How does Narey feel about taking over the case?’

‘I haven’t spoken to her yet but I’m sure she’ll be delighted with it,’ Addison lied. ‘Narey’s good, sir. Very good. Allowing her to run the Wellington Lane case means we can put every other resource towards the sniper killings.’

The Temple raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes, you convinced me of that last night. And it also allows you to be free for the bigger case.’

‘Well yes, sir. I can’t deny that is something that appeals to me.’ Addison quickly tried to shift the conversation away from his motives. ‘But as I say, I feel these shootings are going to need every resource we can give. And on that front, I’d like to make a suggestion.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I think it might be a big help, particularly further down the line, if we use Tony Winter on this.’

‘The photographer?’

‘Yes, sir. If it does pan out to be the Gilmartins or Riddle or whatever bampot out there is responsible for these shootings, then the last thing we want is for it to slip loose in court because of some evidential problem. I’d want to make sure that everything is nailed on.’

‘You don’t think the SOCOs are up to the job?’

‘It’s not that, sir. We all know how huge this is going to be when it gets to trial and that added expertise is certainly not going to go amiss. At the end of the day, he is a specialist and this is what we pay him for, sir.’

Addison gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back for that one. Alex Shirley was a big fan of specialists and had been around long enough to remember the benefits before half the force was turned into Jacks and Jills of all trades.

The Temple nodded slowly.

‘Agreed. But this is assuming there is going to be something else to photograph. Which you think there will be?’

‘Which I’m certain there will be,’ Addison replied.

‘Yes. Me too, unfortunately. Iain, what do you think?’

Williamson was equally aware of what the superintendent thought of specialists and could think of no good reason to argue against the principle.

‘It can’t do any harm,’ he agreed. ‘But hang on, is Winter not the same twat who turned up at the scene of the Caldwell shooting, taking pictures on his frigging mobile phone?’

‘Er, yes, sir,’ Addison admitted.

Shirley’s head slid briefly into his hands.

‘Great. Just great. Campbell Baxter is going to go mad at the very suggestion of this,’ he muttered.

Addison allowed a sly smile to sneak across his lips.

‘That’s just an added bonus, sir.’

Shirley laughed despite himself and even Williamson seemed vaguely amused.

The superintendent sat in thought for a few seconds before swearing briefly under his breath, picking up his telephone and waiting for his secretary to pick up the other end.

‘Phyllis, get me Campbell Baxter. Ask him to drop whatever he’s doing and come over to see me as soon as possible. Like now.’

Shirley swore softly again.

‘That awkward sod is going to bend my ear about this. I can’t bear the pedantic prick at the best of times and he’s going to be a right pain in the arse when I tell him what I want. This will be worthwhile, right?’

‘I’m sure of it, sir.’

The phone rang and Shirley picked it up immediately.

‘Yes? Thank you, Phyllis. Baxter will be here in twenty minutes. Okay, you two, what else is happening out there? I want to know every frigging incident that even sounds like it might be connected.’

Addison detailed the beatings and manoeuvrings that had erupted in the aftermath of the shootings. Those that had been officially reported and the far greater number that hadn’t. The ears of Strathclyde cops were flapping overtime to get an idea of just how much of it was going on.

When the door to Shirley’s office burst open after the most cursory of knocks, the three officers looked up to see the heavily bearded, heavy breathing presence of Two Soups looking down at them questioningly. Baxter was clearly eyeing Williamson and Addison with suspicion, as if he was being led into some kind of a trap.

‘Campbell, sit down. Please.’

‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind, Superintendent Shirley. We are extremely busy and I really ought to be back in the lab as soon as is practicable.’

All three cops sighed internally but let nothing show.

‘Thanks for coming over at such short notice, Campbell. I do appreciate you are under pressure at the moment.’

‘Yes, we are.’

The superintendent’s voice hardened.

‘We are
all
exceptionally busy. That is why I shall take as little of your time as is possible. I’d like to ask if you have any objections to Tony Winter being placed at the disposal of the team investigating the recent sniper shootings.’

Baxter bristled. An angry flush emerged on his cheeks and his words spluttered out in a barely concealed fury.

‘What? Winter? Absolutely not. I would have to post the most strenuous objection to any individual, particularly
that
individual, being allocated to a specific investigation. It goes against the very grain of the established bi-partisan working arrangement and I would take it as a personal affront and an attack on the integrity of the Scottish Police Services Authority itself.’

Shirley tried to let the old goat blow himself out, seeing with some satisfaction the distress of Baxter’s heaving paunch and the dismay of the sneering, pursed lips that peeked out from his salt and pepper beard.

‘Well . . .’ he began, only to be interrupted by Baxter’s continued bluster.

‘There is a matter of protocol here, Superintendent, and it strikes me that you intend to drive a coach and horses through that understanding. While I understand that Mr Winter is neither an officer of your constabulary nor a member of the SPSA, neither quite fish nor fowl as it were, I must make clear my objection. I would consider him to be something of a maverick, his behaviour being quite unsuitable to the task at hand and falling considerably below the standards I would seek in scenes of crime examiners. Furthermore . . .’

The Temple did not wish to hear furthermore.

‘Campbell, I have had to consider the advantage, in such an inevitably high-profile case, of expert photography and the beneficial effects this will have with a jury.’

If human beings were actually capable of blowing a gasket, then Baxter’s cylinder head was suddenly in severe danger of separating itself from his engine block.

‘Am I to take it,’ he raged, ‘that you consider my department incapable of taking acceptable photographs? Because I can assure you that is far from being the case. The supposed
art
of photography is greatly exaggerated in terms of courtroom presentation but there is no crime scene examiner under my aegis who cannot produce perfectly satisfactory work in this regard.’

Addison wanted to get out of his chair and punch Baxter in the head to see if that would deflate some of his insufferable pomposity. But he didn’t. Instead he smiled directly at him and nodded as sweetly and sarcastically as he could. He knew what Baxter couldn’t – Alex Shirley had already made his mind up.

‘
Mr
Baxter,’ the superintendent emphasized his civilian title in order to stress his own superiority. ‘When I asked if you had any objections to Winter being assigned to the sniper killings, what I actually meant was that I was telling you he was being assigned to the sniper killings. That was by way of courtesy. I had assumed, perhaps wrongly, that you would have had the sense to realize the difference.’

Baxter’s mouth opened then closed again. He repeated the motion, succeeding only in looking like a rather stupid, bloated fish.

Addison was torn between laughing in Baxter’s face or kissing his boss on the cheek but decided that neither was the correct course of action. At least not until Baxter had closed the door behind him.

Baxter pulled himself up into what he must have assumed was a position of moral indignation and said curt goodbyes before leaving with a scrap of his self-respect intact.

Shirley stared almost disbelievingly at the door as it closed behind Baxter, shaking his head.

‘That man gets right on my tits. I hope that Winter is aware that Baxter is going to make his life a merry hell for as long as he is on this case and for a good while after that. He’s never liked the idea of us having specialized photographers and this isn’t exactly going to help. Just keep Winter in line will you, Derek, and keep that fat oaf Baxter out of what’s left of my hair.’