Witness the Dead (28 page)

Back in Alex Shirley’s office, a new silence fell on the three officers. The detective superintendent was looking at Addison and Kelbie as if he’d never seen them before and was wondering how the hell they’d ever got a job. The two of them resumed their hope that each other would speak first and dig an almighty hole for himself. In the end, they never got the chance.

‘You,’ Shirley began, levelling Addison with a hard stare. ‘You are friends with that idiot that just left. In the past, you have persuaded me to let him take priority position on some high-profile cases. That leaves me questioning your judgement. It also leads me to wonder whether you knew what he was up to.’

Addison knew that he shouldn’t but, as ever, he couldn’t help himself. ‘No way. I had no idea whatsoever that he was going to visit Atto or that he even had any interest in him. Okay, if you want to question my sense in being his mate, then fair enough – I’m wondering that myself right now. But I will not accept the allegation that I knew what he was doing.’

Alex Shirley’s face darkened and reddened. ‘Not accept? Not frigging accept? Addison, do you not know when your head is on the bloody block and it is better to shut up?’

‘No, sir. Apparently not. I’ll take any criticism coming my way but what you suggested was way beyond that, and I’m not having it. Whatever the consequences.’

Shirley got redder. ‘Enough! Don’t push it, because you don’t want to find out the consequences, and I don’t have the time or the manpower to execute them while all this is going on. But don’t force me to make decisions when this is done.’

This time Addison said nothing and Shirley moved on to his next victim.

‘Kelbie, you can take that sleekit grin off your face. Just because Addison has stuffed up doesn’t mean that you are off the hook. This investigation is a frigging shambles and you’re the senior officer. What the hell was all that nonsense about the shoes in the TV interview?’

Kelbie squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, his tie tight. ‘There seems to be some . . . er, misunderstanding about the shoes, sir. I was certainly not suggesting any firm link or motivation on the part of the perpetrator, although I admit that does seem to be how it was construed by some sections of the media.’

‘You don’t say,’ Shirley barked sarcastically.

‘Yes, well, it is perhaps unfortunate that they took that line but, operationally, it works to our advantage.’

‘And how do you figure that out?’

‘The misplaced concentration on the shoes diverts public attention from the real point of our investigation and temporarily at least takes the heat off the situation. Now we have the Atto lead and we can get on with that without interruption.’ He took a sneering sideways look at Addison. ‘As long as we can trust everyone to keep that under wraps.’

Addison bit. ‘If there is an insinuation in that, then you better back it up with something more explicit. But there’s a tiny chance you can back it up because there’s a very small chance that there could be any truth to it. And, while we’re at it, there’s little wonder the media jumped on your slight blunder with the shoes. Jumped right in there with both size fives, didn’t you?’

Kelbie glared at Addison briefly before swivelling his head to Shirley as if to ask that the DI be reprimanded for the height jokes, but Shirley blanked him. At least he did until Addison started again.

‘Although maybe you were on to something after all, because Atto wears shoes. I’m sure he does, I read it in the papers. Maybe he has an accomplice on the outside. Probably someone who wears shoes. Maybe you should look into that.’

‘And maybe you should shut up and show a modicum of respect, DI Addison,’ Shirley cautioned.

‘A modicum? That’s just a small amount isn’t it, sir? A smidgen, a wee bit, a tiny, insignificant little amount.’

‘Addison!’

‘Sir.’

Addison couldn’t help but notice that both Shirley and Kelbie were very red around the eyes. Good. That made a bugger of a day slightly more bearable. There was, however, always a price to pay.

‘We need to speak to Atto.’ Shirley made sure they knew what he meant. ‘Properly. He’s the only person likely to be able to give us an explanation as to how his DNA was at the scene. If Winter was right and Atto claims to know about these killings, then we need to get it out of him, and fast. We cannot let him mess us about. If we need to offer him some extra prison privileges to get him to cooperate, then do it. DCI Kelbie, I want you to speak to him.’

‘What? But sir, I—’

‘You heard me, Addison. Just think yourself lucky you’re still on the case. If DCI Kelbie wants your assistance on this then he can ask you. It’s up to him.’

Kelbie turned in his chair to look at Addison, unable and unwilling to keep the smug grin off his face.

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll contact Blackridge immediately and make the arrangements. And, as you say, if I need DI Addison then I won’t hesitate to call on him. Although I have to say that there’s little chance of that being necessary. A very small chance indeed.’

Chapter 33

Thursday noon

Rebecca Maxwell and Imelda Couper had gone back round the hairdressers Mr Grey had been known to frequent and urged the staff to alert them when he showed up again. The salons hadn’t needed much encouragement, not given the customer’s sleaze rating. Each had taken numbers and promised they’d be straight on the phone the minute he showed up.

In the end it had taken less than a day. The manageress at Shear Genius on Hope Street called Maxwell to say that their Ryan Race had just walked in the door and asked for Libby, his usual stylist. Libby was with another customer but ‘Ryan’ had said he’d wait. The salon was halfway down Hope Street, near the corner of West George Street, and so no more than a ten-minute walk. Maxwell put a shout out for Couper, and, finding her in the building, set off with her down Hope Street at a canter.

‘Think he’s dangerous?’ Couper asked as they hustled past the newly and slightly oddly renamed Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, which would always remain the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama to passing Glaswegians.

‘Well, if he’s the guy that killed those two girls, then yes.’

‘And we’re going to go in there and nick him ourselves?’

‘I don’t see anyone else here, do you?’

Couper grinned. ‘No, and I must admit it’s worrying me a bit. Should we not have back-up? You have told Narey about this, right?’

Maxwell shrugged and screwed up her face. ‘I left a note saying where we were going.’

‘Jesus, Becca. We mess this up and we’ll both get our arses chewed.’

Maxwell smiled broadly, her eyes never leaving the road as they crossed over Sauchiehall Street. ‘Yeah, but get it right and we reap the rewards. You do want into CID, don’t you?’

Couper exhaled noisily. ‘Aye, okay. Come on, let’s get this over with.’

The hill was steeper now, running away from them down towards the river. The gold and black signage of Shear Genius was visible just a couple of hundred yards away on the other side of the road. They crossed and walked the last bit of the way in silence.

Maxwell entered the salon first, catching sight of the grey hair in the hairdresser’s chair as she pushed her way through the door. She looked into the mirror and saw the face looking back at her: early maybe mid-forties, dark, bushy eyebrows, an expression of curiosity. She watched and saw the expression change as Couper followed her through the door. The man’s eyes opened wide at the sight of her uniform.

In an instant he was out of the chair, the stylist Libby being pushed as he got to his feet, staggering backwards till she collided with Maxwell. Still wrapped in an apron, the six-foot-tall client rushed towards the door, barging his way past a startled Couper. The place was in uproar. At least one customer and one member of staff were screaming and a pile of magazines were sent flying as the man fled across the room.

Mr Grey had the door to Hope Street open before anyone could move and was halfway through it. Couper threw herself at the door, using her weight to slam it closed, trapping his trailing arm inside the salon. The man screamed in pain and frustration but Couper kept the door hard against the arm, knowing that if he freed it he’d be gone.

‘Get my cuffs, Becca,’ Couper hissed through the exertion of pressing the door against the man’s desperate efforts to free himself. Maxwell took the handcuffs from the belt around Couper’s waist and locked one round the customer’s flailing wrist and one round her own.

‘Okay, got him.’

Couper released the pressure on the door and the man immediately began to pull his arm through and run. Maxwell was ready for him, though, and braced herself, halting his movement and then swiftly pulling back to yank him clean off his feet. Couper grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and together they hauled him back inside the salon.

As Couper twisted the man’s arm behind his back, she looked at Maxwell with a rueful grin on her face. ‘Okay, now can we call for back-up?’

‘Yeah, why not? We may as well get a lift back up the hill.’

The man lay on the floor below them, breathing hard and looking up at them, wild-eyed.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he screamed. ‘I didn’t touch her.’

‘Touch who?’ Maxwell asked him.

‘Hannah Healey. I didn’t kill her. I know that’s what you think but I didn’t. I didn’t.’

Chapter 34

Thursday afternoon

DCI Kelbie and DS Jim Ferry were standing next to their car, wearing matching dark raincoats and grim expressions, viewing the clinical exterior of Blackridge Prison and taking a moment before crossing the car park and going inside. They’d worked together for four years and there was no need to say anything or to explain their hesitation. Ferry knew how much it meant to Kelbie and it was a big deal for him too. Promotion for one probably meant an overdue step up for the other. They both wanted it badly. Atto was a stepping stone to a better future for them.

‘C’mon,’ Kelbie muttered as casually as he could. ‘Let’s get in before the flaming rain starts again.’

The men hurried across the car park, dodging puddles and casting anxious glances at the low clouds glowering blackly at them from above. The heavens looked about fit to burst and, if they did, it was likely they’d return to find their car sitting abandoned in a tarmac swimming pool.

Kelbie delved into his pocket as they hustled past the sodden flags dripping from the flagpoles in front of the gatehouse. He brought out his ID and clenched it in his right hand, ready to show it as soon as they were inside. He had no intention of waiting in any unnecessary queues or being given any less than the attention and respect that they deserved. The staff inside wore uniforms but they weren’t cops; they had to be shown who was in charge right from the off.

There were a few people in the queue waiting to be seen at the gatehouse but Kelbie wasn’t having any of that. He walked behind them and flashed his warrant card at the man behind the desk. ‘Police. DCI Kelbie. This is DS Ferry. We’re expected and in a hurry. Where’s the visitors’ centre?’

The man didn’t look best pleased and neither did those in the queue, but nothing was said. Instead, the officer just pointed, leaving Kelbie to charge on, satisfied he’d scored his first point. He and Ferry pushed their way inside the holding hall and Kelbie looked around for assistance. He knew there were all sorts of procedures for getting into the visit but they didn’t apply to him. A stocky officer with a bullet bald-head was a few yards away, scouring the room with a drugs dog, and Kelbie shouted to him.

‘Hey, you. Police. I need some help over here, now.’

The officer’s thick, shiny head turned as did plenty of others at the use of the word ‘police’. He didn’t exactly seem enamoured with Kelbie’s manner but did wander over towards him, albeit with a demeanour that suggested he was as likely to chin the cop as help him.

‘What’s your name?’ Kelbie demanded as soon as the man was within a few feet.’

‘Officer Crighton. And yours?’

Kelbie flashed his ID again. ‘I’m DCI Kelbie. This is DS Ferry. Okay, Crighton, you’re my man. We’ve got an appointment to interview a prisoner in the segregation unit and I want you to get us in and out of there without any of the usual hassle. I’m not standing in line with these scumbags. Park your dog somewhere if you need to but let’s get on with it.’

The man grimaced at the suggestion. ‘There’s procedures that need to be—’

‘Listen, I’ve not got time for that shite. That’s why I’m talking to you. Make one quick phone call to your governor and then get us in there. You people should have known we were coming. C’mon, shift.’

‘Who is it you’re here to visit?’

Kelbie leaned in close and dropped the volume of his bark. ‘Archibald Atto.’

The officer’s eyes widened. ‘Atto? That’s his second visit within a couple of days.’

‘Aye. You got a problem with that?’

‘No. Not at all. Just . . . surprised. I’ll make the phone call.’

Kelbie sneered with self-satisfaction as the man turned his back and walked a few yards to an internal phone. He returned just moments later, looking much less happy than the dog that trotted obediently at his heels. ‘I’ll take you through.’

‘Right, let’s go.’

The officer led Kelbie and Ferry to a room off the visiting hall, a sparse pink-walled space with just a single table, one chair behind it and two in front. The two cops took up the chairs and waited. The officer, Crighton, left them there and closed the door behind him, assuring Kelbie that he would remain outside and escort them back outside once they were finished.

Ferry sat to his boss’s right, his chair slightly withdrawn so that he was further back from the table. As well as taking up an obvious position of deference, it allowed him to watch Kelbie without being seen. The DCI was edgy, anxious to get started rather than nervy, but drumming his fingers on the table and shifting in his seat. He kept glancing at the door opposite as if that would make Atto appear, his trademark snarl creasing the side of his mouth at every minute that passed without the door sliding back.