Single End Read online

  ‘What do you think, doctor? Suicide?’ asked Daley.

  The doctor stroked his neatly clipped salt-and-pepper beard, deep in thought, before he answered. ‘On first sight, that’s what you’d think. But, look at the wrists. Lots of bruising, and a distinct mark here.’ He flashed a small torch at the dead man’s wrist. ‘Some kind of restraint, I reckon.’

  ‘So you think someone has tied him up then cut his wrists?’

  ‘Yes, something along those lines. I’d bet money that the other wrist will bear the same marks. This type of bruising would only take place before he was in his death throes, so it’s murder, boys – pending further examination, of course.’

  ‘What’s that sticking out of his breast pocket?’ asked Scott, indicating a sliver of white on the front of the dark suit the victim was wearing. He beckoned to a Forensic Officer. ‘Gie me one o’ they rubber gloves, will you?’

  Scott pulled the single glove onto his right hand, then, with thumb and forefinger, gently removed a little white card from the breast pocket. Something was written in rough capital letters on it.

  ‘It’s a bereavement card,’ noted Daley. ‘Like one that would be sent with flowers to a funeral. What does it say, Brian?’

  ‘Doc, shine your torch on here, buddy,’ directed Scott.

  ‘OFF-HIRED’. The message was plain and simple.

  ‘There you have it, gents,’ said Scott. ‘In his line of work you don’t get a P45 when you get fired.’

  ‘Or a leaving do,’ said Daley.

  Despite the bustle in the car park, loud footsteps could now be heard in the cavernous cement structure. A middle-aged man of average height was walking purposefully in their direction.

  ‘Right, what’s this?’ he slurred.

  ‘Murder, sir,’ said Scott without hesitation.

  ‘You’ll not mind if I don’t take your word for that, DC Scott. I take it you’re the FMD?’ he said, turning to face the doctor.

  ‘Yes. And for what it’s worth, I agree with your detective. The blood’s been drained from this man while he was restrained in some way. I don’t think he died here – not enough of the red stuff. But I’m sure we’ll ascertain more at the post-mortem.’

  ‘Dae you recognise him, sir?’ asked Scott.

  DCI Raymond Sanderson drew himself to his full height and sighed. ‘Aye, I recognise him all right. Ian Provan, the Magician. Could make your money disappear in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘Obviously made some disappear in the wrong direction,’ said Daley.

  ‘Maybe so, but try proving it.’ He looked at the funeral card in Scott’s hand. ‘This is no doubt the work of James Machie and his associates, but don’t think for a second we’ll be able to pin it on him.’ Though Sanderson had stopped speaking, his mouth remained agape – the reason for his unfortunate nickname, ‘Flycatcher’ .That, and the fact that he seemed to catch little else. He’d inherited the role as head of A-Division CID from his old boss, but was nowhere near him in terms of efficacy as a detective.

  ‘Surely we can get something on JayMac for this?’ asked Daley, the frustration clear in his voice.

  ‘You have no idea, son, do you?’ replied Sanderson wearily. ‘Machie is hidden behind a million alibis and a team of expensive lawyers. As slippery as an eel.’

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Scott.

  ‘You boys stay here and get this thing tidied up. The mortuary ambulance is on its way, and Traffic will take the car to Helen Street for the once-over. But don’t expect miracles. This is what happens when you cross someone like James Machie. I need to be off. I’m having dinner with the ACC. I’ll want your preliminary reports to the duty officer in the next hour. The Serious Crime Squad will likely be head and ears into this by that time,’ he continued, addressing Daley and Scott. That said, he turned on his heel and stamped out of the car park.

  ‘We’ll never catch Machie and his like with people like him in charge of investigations, eh, Bri?’ said Daley under his breath.

  Brian Scott just shook his head, imagining the agonies Ian Provan must have suffered before his life drained away. Then, with a sickening lurch, he remembered the meeting he’d had at Pitt Street earlier that day.

  ‘Right, everybody! Let’s get this mess cleared up so I can get away for a pint.’ Scott stalked off to join Davy Fraser for a cigarette on the landing, his face as dark as Daley had ever seen it.

  3

  The Press Bar was the haunt, not just of its eponymous profession, but also of police officers. These very different occupations seemed to gravitate towards one another all over the world, with an illicit to and fro of information commonplace. Officers of the law and journalists, both of whom encountered the worst humanity had to offer on a daily basis, instinctively created an unholy fraternity.

  A thick tier of grey-blue cigarette smoke hovered over one and all in the crowded bar, like a false ceiling. Signed football jerseys vied for wall space with blown-up photographs of sportsmen and celebrities, and mirrors bearing the name of the brewers who produced them. A stout barman, assisted by a slim watchful girl, kept things moving, as customers came and went, many of them wearing civvy jackets over their police uniforms.

  Scott forced his way through the throng at the bar with two pints of Tartan Special. Daley was sitting at a corner table the pair had been lucky enough to grab when they arrived. For Scott, at least, this was a relief; he didn’t want his discussion with Daley being overheard – didn’t really want to hear it himself, if truth be told.

  Just as the young detective placed the beer on the table, an argument broke out at the bar as to whether or not the flickering TV in the corner should be showing the horse racing or the golf. As Scott sat down, it was soon apparent that the aficionados of the sport of kings had prevailed, as Peter O’Sullivan’s voice rose frantically above the general hubbub, describing the dramatic end to a race.

  ‘What’s up with you, Bri?’ asked Daley, loosening his tie for the first time that day. ‘God, this bloody thing feels like a noose.’

  ‘Maybe cos you’re putting on a few pounds, amigo,’ replied Scott, patting his own stomach, but nodding at Daley’s. ‘Fair wee kite you’re getting, there.’

  ‘Good living. Married life’s suiting me.’ Daley smiled and took the first sip of his pint. ‘You still haven’t answered the question. Why are you looking like a wet weekend? And don’t tell me it’s because you’re depressed at Sanderson’s detection skills, we’ve known about them for a while. You’ve been moping about since you came back from Pitt Street.’

  Scott rubbed his chin and contemplated his beer. ‘Och, it’s a sore yin, Jimmy. I’m in a right bind, to be honest.’

  ‘Spill the beans, Bri. You know it’ll go no further than me. I thought that carry-on with your uncle had been swept under the carpet?’

  ‘Aye, but the buggers up at the Evil Empire have me by the short an’ curlies, an’ no mistake,’ said Scott.

  ‘Go on. You know I’ll help if I can, mate.’

  Scott sighed, fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Turns oot, one o’ the gaffers – an’ I’m talkin’ big bosses here – likes a wee bit o’ R an’ R in some unusual places.’ He placed a fag between his lips, cupped his hands, and lit up. He inhaled deeply. ‘Here, sorry, do you want one, Jimmy?’

  ‘What do you mean, in some “unusual places”,’ replied Daley, shaking his head at the offer of a cigarette.

  Scott leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Need tae watch in here. Mair folk wae shorthand than in Mrs Pitman’s hoose.’ Scott lowered his voice further. ‘Turns oot, this gaffer – he’s a chief super in charge o’ car parks or some fuckin’ thing – anyway, turns oot he likes tae visit a sauna or two.’

  ‘What? Is he mad? You know that’s what I’m working on just now. The squad’s about to go active – in the next few days, in fact.’

  ‘Aye, tell me aboot it.’ Scott took a long draw of his pint. ‘Of course, since they cannae be seen tae ask for themselves, they wan
t me tae get them some info on what’s being raided and when, so this bugger keeps his nose clean. Got the sword o’ bloody Danny Cleese o’er my heid, an’ no error, Jimmy.’

  Daley decided to let the sword reference go. ‘So someone’s putting you under pressure to find this out, using that bar fight as leverage?’ He shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Och, come on, Jimmy. You know fine how things work. There’s mair crooks in uniform than oot on the streets. I just need tae find a way tae sort this, or I’ll be back on the beat in Royston Hill for the next twenty-five years. Aye, or worse.’

  ‘It’s going no further than this gaffer, whoever he is, right?’

  ‘Oh aye, they assured me aboot that. Said that if I find oot when the places he goes tae are going tae get the burn, they’ll tip him the wink. Problem solved – easy peasy.’

  Daley sighed, swirled his beer around in the glass. ‘Do you know where he goes?’

  ‘Eh, wait the noo,’ said Scott, fishing around in his pocket. He brought out a crumpled piece of paper bearing a few lines of his untidy handwriting and handed it to Daley. ‘This is the five here, Jimmy.’

  Daley read the list, then eyed his friend, who stared back expectantly. The pair sat in silence, sipping their pints.

  ‘There’s only two of these on the cards at the moment, but they’re both being raided on the first night of operations,’ said Daley eventually.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Monday night.’

  ‘Shit, I’ve nae time tae find oot aboot times or anything. This is Thursday. But it’s a good start, Jimmy. I owe you one, big man.’

  ‘They’re both at nine p.m. . . . These two, Bri,’ said Daley, pointing at two names on the list. ‘They have to be synchronised in case word spreads. We’re doing them in batches, between two and three weeks apart. The idea being, just as they think the danger is over and get back to business, we move in again.’

  ‘Very clever. Jimmy, I don’t know how to thank you for this.’

  ‘You can bring a decent bottle of malt over on Saturday night.’ Seeing Scott’s puzzled look, he grinned. ‘You’re coming to us for “a light supper and drinks”, as Liz calls it. Remember?’

  ‘Oh aye, aye. I’d forgot a’ aboot that. Don’t know aboot the supper, but I’m intae the drinks part. Ella’s agreed tae drive. She’s no’ much o’ a boozer.’

  ‘She wouldn’t need to be with you about.’

  ‘Aye, very funny. You can sink a few yourself, big man. That’s how you’re growing that belly. Here, I’ll get another in, least I can do.’ He stood, picking up the empty glasses from the table.

  ‘This is going to be okay, Brian, yeah?’ said Daley, fixing Scott with a serious stare.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy. Just saved some fat auld gaffer fae making an arse o’ himsel’. Nae bother.’

  Scott walked to the bar with a heavy heart. He hated having to lie to his friend, but everything came at a price. His worst nightmares were those where he’d lost his job and was left back on the mean streets of the East End, struggling to make ends meet, spiralling further and further down to the dark place from which he’d come. So, a couple of brothels would escape justice – so what. He was much more unsure about what was going to come next. He pushed the thought from his mind.

  He was joined at the bar by a young man, long-haired and fresh-faced, apart from dark brown rings around his eyes. Dressed in a trendy, but cheap suit, his fingers were visibly stained with ink.

  ‘Are you Brian Scott?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ replied Scott, recognising a reporter when he saw one.

  ‘Sorry. I’m Ronnie Wiley. I write for the Reporter. I’m new. Someone said you might be interested in passing on a few bits and pieces, you know what I mean.’ He winked knowingly and looked at Scott.

  Scott returned his gaze. The kid was no more than five feet five in height, painfully thin, and he still bore the pimples of youth.

  ‘And just who was this someone?’

  ‘Come on, man. You know fine I can’t reveal a source.’

  ‘Aye, well, here’s a message for you and your source.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Scott shouted his order to the barman, who acknowledged it with a nod. When he looked back, Wiley was gone, engulfed by the throng of customers in the Press Bar.

  4

  Scott said his goodbyes to Daley then watched him head for the train station and home. He’d made the excuse of staying on for a few more beers after he’d bought another packet of fags, but instead, once Daley had gone, he went quickly to Buchanan Street Bus Station.

  It was a busy place, with late commuters scurrying to and from the many stances where buses in a variety of colourful liveries sat. Scott checked his watch and then made for a line of public telephones, each enveloped in a Perspex bubble, offering the user as much privacy as possible. As he’d been instructed, he waited for the third phone along to become available, then ducked into the bubble, taking an empty cigarette packet from his pocket as he did so.

  He read the number, scrawled in his own handwriting across the back of the packet, took a deep breath, inserted a few coins, and listened. The call was answered. He sighed as his coins fell into the box.

  ‘Hello.’ The voice on the other end was distant, but still recognisable.

  Scott hesitated before replying, screwing up his eyes and desperately trying to remember his instructions. ‘Aye, how ye doin’? Eh, dangleberry here. I have the information . . . Over,’ he added out of habit, then grimaced at his mistake.

  ‘Sloe, sloeberry!’ growled the voice, clearly irritated that Scott had forgotten his designated codename so quickly. ‘But you’ve done well – quick work. Now, all you have to do is communicate this to one of our friends, and you’re in.’

  ‘Aye, easy peasy. How dae you suggest I achieve that?’

  ‘Frank MacDougall is attending a function at the Western Winds pub on Sunday night – some post-Christening event. I don’t need to tell you what happens at such occasions with your friends from the East End.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ replied Scott, remembering how much booze was sunk to wet every baby’s head. ‘So . . . I just go there and spill the beans? Sounds dead easy, but I guarantee that it won’t be, sir.’

  ‘Not sir – I’m the Grocer. Bugger me, don’t you take anything in, Br–. Sloeberry?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sorry aboot that. So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Just get in there and reacquaint yourself with an old mate. It can’t be that hard. Call me back on Monday from the same phone. You know the times to call, or have you forgotten that, too?’

  ‘Aye, okay, will do . . . Grocer. Hey, what if . . . Hello?’ All Scott heard in reply were a couple of bleeps and a long tone. ‘Bastard,’ he cursed under his breath, feeling more like a dangleberry than a sloeberry at that moment.

  As they drove towards Bridge of Weir, Scott took in the scene: lush fields, trees, big houses, the odd farm, all framed by the hills beyond. Dusk was trying its best to become night as he looked at his wife Ella, her head thrust forward as she propelled their ancient Morris Marina along.

  ‘I don’t know how you can drive like that, Ella,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘Your nose is near touching the windscreen. Who the hell taught you tae sit like that?’

  ‘My faither. Aye, an’ he’s twice the man – and driver – you are, so back off, ba’heid.’

  ‘Charming, I’m sure. Here, I hope you’re no’ going tae speak like that at Jimmy’s?’

  ‘Oh no,’ replied Ella. ‘It would never do for one tae make a fool of oneself wae her majesty aboot.’

  ‘Och, she’s no’ that bad. Oor Jimmy dotes on her, you know fine.’

  ‘She’s a bonnie lassie, I’ll gie her that, but she’s young. I bet her folks weren’t that keen when a cop turned up tae whisk away their pretty daughter.’

  ‘Seems she has her faither roon her little finger. Gets what she wants.’
<
br />   ‘Fae Jimmy, tae, Brian, fae what you tell me.’

  ‘That’s how marriage is meant tae be, Ella. You’re no’ meant tae scrab my eyes oot when I say I want tae watch the telly. No, nor turn your back on me when I’m after my congenial rights, neither.’

  ‘Conjugal, Brian, the word is conjugal. An’ I’m no’ obliged tae make hay wae you – this is no’ the Mayor o’ Casterbridge, you know. I mind it fae the school.’

  ‘It’s Bridge o’ Weir we’re after, no’ Casterbridge.’

  The car soon swung into the village, and, recognising the pub in which he and Daley had enjoyed a few drinks when he’d helped the couple move in to their new home, Scott was able to direct Ella to the small, newly built private housing estate where Liz and Daley lived.

  He tutted as Ella took her time parking the car and noticed a light go on in the window of the semi-detached house. The silhouette of Jim Daley was framed in the doorway.

  Brian Scott had never eaten moussaka before. It was a bit like his mother’s mince and tatties with a white sauce, but not quite as tasty. However, he’d really enjoyed the fizzy wine that Liz had induced her new husband to pour, and had soon built up the requisite appetite.

  He ignored Ella’s scowl as he reached over to the serving dish in the middle of the table and helped himself to another portion.

  ‘Here, leave some for me, Bri,’ said Daley with a smile.

  ‘No, you go right ahead, Brian,’ interjected Liz. ‘I swear Jim’s putting on weight, so he’s on reduced calories.’

  ‘Och, he’s a big lad,’ remarked Ella. ‘Just growing intae yourself, aren’t you, big man? Who wants tae be wed tae a skinnymalink?’

  ‘Who wants to be married to a guy with a big beer gut?’ retorted Liz. ‘Mind you, it’s fun helping him work it off.’ She giggled, nudging her young husband in the ribs.