How To Kill Friends And Implicate People (10 page)

TWENTY-SIX

ALEX

21:30

Alex stayed in the pub for another drink after Fergus left. That prick had looked all in control when he left, getting up and walking out all cool. Other people in the bar had seen that, and this was on Alex’s turf.

Well, ‘turf’ might be pushing it.

He’d been in here once since moving up.

But still, it was local. It
could
be his turf.

He
could
learn the bartender’s name. He could have people wave at him when he walked in, or at least a drunken nod. So he needed to save face. He shrugged after Fergus left, and made it look like he was in no hurry. He ordered another drink and leaned into the bar, like he was there for the long haul.

Halfway down the pint, he started to count how much he’d already put away. A few pints in the afternoon, to build up courage to meet with Fergus first time round. Three generous whiskies when he got home, and now on to his second pint since walking in. He yawned, and it followed through with a burp.

He looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

He’d got away with it.

Smooth.

He finished the drink and got up off the stool. The warm evening air made the alcohol wash around his eyeballs like a warm blanket. Yeah, he was drunk. But it was a pleasant kind of sauced, and it matched the evening perfectly.

Just after 9.30 p.m., and the sun was still out. The air was warm. There was an amber glow in the sky, like a giant pint of lager. This was like living in London. Alex smiled. If every day in Glasgow was like this, he wouldn’t mind living here.

Well, if it maybe didn’t have quite so many Glaswegians. That would help.

He turned and walked up the road. His house was at the top of a hill, and he’d never regretted that decision until now. Slogging up the steep incline with beer in his system and the sun on his back. He was sweating through his shirt by the time he reached the front door.

His wife’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Odd. She hadn’t mentioned being out this late. Alex let himself in and headed straight for his bar. He poured another whisky. A Lagavulin this time, sixteen years old. He may as well finish out the day in the manner it had gone so far.

He was taking his first sip when the front door opened. Kara walked in carrying her briefcase and a bag from the Chinese takeaway down on the main road.

‘Hey, babe,’ she said. ‘I guessed you wouldn’t have eaten, so I got us something.’

Two things:

Alex realised for the first time that he was
starving.

Was she wearing a different top?

Alex wasn’t the most observant guy in the world when it came to noticing what his wife was wearing. Other people, sure. Like young women. He noticed what they were wearing, because he noticed what they were
not
wearing. But his wife? Not so much. And the real problem now was that he couldn’t ask her about it. Because there was every chance he was wrong.

He might
be
that
guy, but he didn’t want to
look
like
that
guy.

He headed into the kitchen and picked up a couple of plates, forks and a bowl to put the prawn crackers in. He carried them through to the living room, and he and Kara met at the dining table.

Alex leaned in for a kiss, and their lips met for a few seconds. She wasn’t really into it, but that was fine, she’d been at work all day. He could understand.

Except—

‘Hey, did you have a shower?’

She smelled clean. Too clean. Soap and fresh perfume.

‘Yeah.’ She busied herself dishing the food onto plates. ‘It was a long day. You know how it is. Meetings. I get hot in the suit, but it looks unprofessional if I start dressing down.’

‘You showered at work?’

‘Yeah.’ She met his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, there was nobody there to watch me. I locked the door.’

Alex felt something in him relax. He hadn’t been aware that he was suspicious, but clearly, seeing her so clean had made him worry. It must have been that cock, Fergus, messing with his head. Kara had looked him in the eye, and told the truth. He knew his wife. He could tell when she lied. So could everyone else, that’s why he knew he couldn’t tell her about the plan.

But, oh boy, did he want to.

He wanted an audience. He wanted someone to tell him what a great idea it was. And Kara would be impressed, but it would have to wait until afterwards, when he rose from the dead with bundles of cash. It would be hard on her. She’d be grieving for him, for real. But he was sure she’d understand. Really get into the spirit of things, when she saw why he’d done it.

He had the plan.

He had the money.

Now he had the hit man.

He smiled. This was going to work.

TWENTY-SEVEN

SAM

22:20

I called Phil when I got home.

I was drunk, but not wasted. I’d cycled back after the bar, and promised myself it was the last time I was going to do it. I made the same promise every time. It never lasted. Cycling after a few drinks wasn’t all that difficult. The physical exertion forced me to be alert.

But that was the gin speaking. I knew I shouldn’t do it.

I lived out by Celtic Park in the East End. I wasn’t as hard core a fan as my father had been, but listening to the crowd each week made me feel closer to him. I used to live a mile closer to town, in Bridgeton, but it had become uncomfortable when the wrong kinds of people had targeted my address after a previous case.

Phil picked up straight away, ‘Yes, Commissioner?’

‘
Commissioner
?’ I said.

‘Yeah. Gordon. You get upset when I call you Robin, but I’m pretty sure I’m The Batman, so I made you the Commissioner instead.’

‘Isn’t he, like, ancient?’

‘Nah, he’s cool. Second toughest person in the city.’

‘Next to you, I’m guessing?’

‘Well, duh.’

I could hear people talking in the background, but it was quiet. He was listening to one of his podcasts in the car. Ifanboy, or Movie Fights. He’d tried to get me to listen a few times, but what do I care? ‘Still outside the Pennans’ house?’

‘Yeah. They’re both there now. Wife turned up a few minutes ago.’

I checked the time on my Fitbit. ‘So, about twenty to ten, you think?’

‘Sounds about right.’

Interesting. I lost her just before seven. She didn’t get home for another three hours. Where did she go?

My gut was telling me I was right, that Kara was up to something.

‘Put trackers on both cars,’ I said.

Our detective agency owned four GPS trackers. They were surprisingly cheap to buy, and a huge leap forward from the way my dad would have operated the business. He was all about going down those mean streets, talking to people, whiling away tax deductible hours in the pubs building up a network of informants.

Me and Phil?

We had smartphones and GPS.

‘And don’t forget to log all these hours on the app,’ I said. I was going to hang up when I thought of something else. ‘Phil, do you have a cassette player?’

‘You know this is 2016, right? Nobody uses cassettes anymore.’

That’s what I’d thought, too.

I hung up and changed into the T-shirt and pants that passed for nightwear. I grabbed an open bottle of red wine from the kitchen, along with a clean glass.

On the sofa, I tapped the contents of the package out onto the cushion and stared at the tapes. The riders for our messenger service would probably have tape players. If there was a perfect hybrid between the hip and the obscure, between people who loved obsolete technology and people who liked to be cool and cutting edge, the fixed-gear bike messenger was it.

I was sure at least two of the lads I knew on the deliveries circuit would be able to lend me a player, but those were two of the guys Hanya had been talking about, and I didn’t want to ask them for favours. They’d give me those puppy dog eyes and use it as a reason to follow me around for a few days.

The Barras market would definitely have some tape players for sale. You can get anything there, as long as by ‘anything’ you mean, ‘old stuff’. But the market wasn’t open on weekdays, and I didn’t have time to wait until Saturday.

My phone buzzed.

I opened up the vLove app to see that Fergus had replied to my message. I’d sent him a simple, ‘Hi.’ I’d done it on impulse before leaving the bar, because I knew I would have talked myself out of it if I’d waited.

FergusSingsTheBlues – Hi. Thanks.

FergusSingsTheBlues – For liking me, I mean.

FergusSingsTheBlues – (That just made it sound worse, didn’t it?)

I’ll be honest. A wee part of me was tempted not to reply straight away. See how much nervous gibberish he would talk in the silence. But then, that was the part of me that was covering for my own nerves.

Truth was, I was scared.

I’d never really done something like this before.

I went for honesty.

TheSamIreland – Ha. Don’t worry. I know what you mean.

FergusSingsTheBlues – Thanks for not saying LOL.

TheSamIreland – LOL.

I’m not sure what it was, but something about talking to Fergus took my mind off the cassettes enough to figure something out.

When I’d taken over the detective business from my dad, I’d inherited all of his files and equipment. None of it was any use to me, because he’d never really joined the twenty-first century.

But that meant—

Maybe—

I opened the closet where I stored all his stuff. I lifted the biggest boxes out of the way, mostly full of paperwork and old invoices. At the back was a small box, where I’d kept his old electrical equipment. Including, yes, a tape recorder.

I pressed the buttons but the batteries had died long ago. I checked the size, and then opened up my TV remote to steal the AAs from inside. I clipped them into place in the tape machine and pressed the buttons again. The little black spools turned.

Bingo.

I lifted the first tape off the cushion, slipped it into the deck, and pressed
play.

FIRST INTERMISSION

Cal’s Log

CAL’S LOG

>click<

Cal’s Log. Stardate whatever-the-fuck.

How do they work those out? I don’t fucking know, do I? I’m no a geek.

If you’re listening to this, well, you’re a nosy prick aren’t you? Unless I’ve given it to you, and it’s all part of my big genius plan.

My Babycham.

Hey, that rhymed.

Listen up, this is DJ Cal, bringing you the truth about Glesga.

And it’s expensive, so I hope you’re paying me a bundle for it, aye?

See. I know a secret. And it’s a big wan. There’s this lassie. She’s been working in the gangs an’ that. But she’s here on a super-secret mission, like. But her boss is dead, and it looks like naebody else knows about it.

She’s got naebody to turn to.

But here, I’ll let her tell the story. See, I got her stoned, and she started telling me all aboot it, and I’ve got it all on tape, haven’t I?

So hang on, let’s get her filling you in on it all.

>click<

>click<

Aye. Well. Okay. Cal’s Log, stardate whatever, like, a few seconds after the last wan. What is it they call that on the TV? ‘Cal’s Log, suppository.’

So. Well, I’ve been a bit of a fud, and I taped my log over the top of Paula’s confession. So I’m back at the start.

But, if you’re listening to this, then that means I found extra proof anyway, and I’ve sent it to you.

I can’t wait to find out what it is.

PART THREE

June 7th

‘I’m a part-time private detective. I’m paid to have trust issues.’

—Sam

TWENTY-EIGHT

SAM

07:08

I got to the office later than usual.

Normally I’m there by half-six, loading up my messenger bag with a couple of water bottles, brewing a coffee and checking my emails and tyres before getting the early shift in.

Orders for the courier service came in around seven-thirty. Those runs, along with regular slots we had booked with law firms and surveyors, gave us a busy period that lasted from eight until ten. Our crew was made of young guys and old punks. They liked to sleep in, and start work just before the second rush at lunchtime.

It worked out fine. I liked to do the morning work myself, and it meant they all understood if I took time off later in the day to focus on investigation work. I liked the mornings. I used to be a runner, before a string of thigh injuries made me switch to the saddle, and I’d always enjoyed getting out into the morning air. Added to that was the buzz of being timed, of having deadlines to deliver the packages.

It was a fun game.

Usually.

Trouble was, I’d stayed up too late listening to the tapes and drinking wine. Cal seemed to be saying Paula was an undercover cop. But for what? Was this why the feds had taken the case so quickly? The second tape was more difficult to listen to. It was a mostly sex noises, with two men talking cryptically beforehand about a meeting set for the ninth. They mentioned the words ‘takeover’ and ‘the cartel’. They meant nothing to me, out of context. Had they meant something to Paula? Was that what she’d died for?

The third tape was a mix tape. Nineties’ pop music.

I’d tried to find Paula Lucas on social media. I’d tried all the usual sites, then a births, marriages and deaths database that I had access to as a private investigator. The name got plenty of hits, but none of the profile pictures matched the woman I’d seen, and the database wasn’t going to be much help without more data to narrow the search.

Wait—

If she was undercover, she’d probably use a different name.

I remembered that the delivery had been paid for by debit card through our app. I logged in to check the details. The card was in the name of Paula Lafferty. I texted the name to Hanya, along with
Cop?
I didn’t get an immediate response. She’d still been at the bar when I left; maybe it had turned into a good night.

I searched for Paula Lafferty on the same social media sites, but still didn’t find anything that looked like the right match.

It hadn’t stopped me sitting up most of the night and trying, though.

And keeping me company, each step of the way, had been Fergus. There hadn’t been any small talk. There hadn’t really been any big talk, either. Just
talk
. I was sure they hadn’t intended it, but Paula Lucas and Fergus Fletcher had combined to make it very difficult for me to get up and make the morning deliveries.

I pulled off the main road and skidded my bike to a childish, tyre-balding stop in front of the office. I wheeled the bike past a parked car, a blue Ford. The driver was sat behind the wheel reading a book. I recognised the cover but not the reader.
Girl Meets Boy on a Crime Spree.
Everyone in the world seemed to have it. I had a copy in my bag, but I’d never cracked the spine.

The PI business operated out of the backroom of the courier depot, in a small Gorbals unit. Most of the space was taken up by spare bikes, tyres, tubes and other equipment. We had a selection of second-hand sofas arranged around an Xbox and a cheap TV. We had two desks in the office. One was filled with paperwork, comics and the computers that Phil used to run both companies. The other was arranged with chairs on both sides, and lined with empty coffee cups.

As I turned the coffee percolator on, I heard a car door shut outside. The guy who’d been sat in the blue Ford stuck his head in around the entrance. ‘You open?’

Technically no. We didn’t open the door to customers until around seven-thirty, but I’d be out on my bike by then and Phil wouldn’t roll in until later, so I started seeing people as soon as they turned up. You don’t make money by turning it away.

‘Hiya.’ I walked forward and waved for him to come on in. ‘How can I help?’

‘Are you Sam Ireland?’

‘Yup.’

I took his hand in a shake. He had the grip of someone who’d never been told not to do it so hard. He was a little taller than me, but on the short side for a man. He had broad shoulders, and his body stretched out in all directions from there, with belly fat, back fat, man boobs and thick arms.

He didn’t look unfit, despite the flab. He was strong, and looked like he worked out with the same vigour that he ate cheeseburgers.

‘Mike Gibson,’ he said, and everything made sense.

I knew who Gibson was.

‘You know me?’ My reaction had given it away, but he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, hen, most of it’s made up. I read about the work you did with the arson case last year. That was good stuff.’

‘Thanks.’

He looked around at the bike equipment. ‘This your office?’

I led him through to the back and waved for him to take a seat at the desk. I walked round the other side and settled in. It’s a clichéd bit of theatrics, but it serves a good purpose. Clients tend to think they can treat you like crap when you’re freelance, but if you put them in their place right at the start, and establish a little control, you’ll get treated better.

‘How can I help?’

‘You know I have properties in town, aye?’ I nodded. ‘Right, well, one of them burned down last night.’

I had an idea where this was going. Ever since I’d solved a big case last year that involved a string of arson attacks, people thought that was my
thing.
I was a pop band, and fire was my hit single.

‘I don’t really work arson cases, Mr Gibson—’

‘Mike—’

‘Sure, okay. Mike. I don’t really work them. And yours was last night?’ His turn to nod. ‘Well, see, the polis will still be investigating it. And the water fairies.’

‘Water fairies?’

I smiled. ‘Sorry. Cops and paramedics hate the fire service. I don’t know why, really, but I’ve picked up the slang.’

He laughed. A little too much. It was polite of him, but the joke hadn’t been that good. ‘Well, see, I’m not bothered about the building. The insurance’ll pick that up. And I already know who’s done it.’

‘You do?’

‘Aye. My shite of a son. Callum. He’s been trying to piss me off for ages and, bully for him, he’s finally done it. Done a fucking runner, though, hasn’t he? I want you to find him, let me know where he is.’

Callum?

As in
Cal
?

It couldn’t be, could it?

Glasgow is a big city, but it gets very small when there’s trouble. Everybody knows each other. Especially in Gibson’s world. If his
Callum
and my
Cal
were the same, then this was all linked to my dead undercover cop. Why not let Mike Gibson pay me to work it from both sides?