Killing With Confidence (12 page)

Connor protested,
‘With all due respect, we have no place interfering with two murder
investigations … It’s not our job …’

The Weasel cut him
off. ‘We can interfere with whatever and whomever we want. We’re
the
Daily
Fucking
Herald
.’

Connor returned the
Weasel’s hostile glare. This guy was a caricature of how a news
editor should be. His management technique had died out with
dinosaurs like Fleet Street legend Kelvin MacKenzie, who bullied
his staff for fun and once famously sacked the
Sun
’s
astrologer with the opening gambit, ‘You probably already know
this,’ then spent the following thirty years dining out on that
same tale.

But here were two
living, breathing throwbacks to that bygone era, only, as far as
Connor was concerned, they were poor imitations. He was of the
opinion that most people worked harder and better out of a desire
to impress a boss who was fair, rather than one they feared. But
this pair had read the Stick It Up Your Punter handbook too often
and were already legends in their own minds. That’s why they felt
they could interfere with the country’s biggest manhunt. They
weren’t the ones who had to suffer the fallout. They barely left
the office and therefore fell into a familiar newspaper executive
trait of living in a bubble.

Connor stood his
ground with a little psychology of his own. ‘Let’s give Crosbie a
try. If he fucks with us then we’ll crucify him. He’ll have to
leave Scotland and the force – or both – if he turns us
over.’ This fighting talk was enough to placate the Weasel and
Bent. Connor left just as April was about to enter the room. He
grabbed her forearm and steered her back to their broom
cupboard.

‘What did I miss?’
she whispered.

Connor shrugged.
‘Only the latest comedy routine from Dumb and Dumber. But we’ve got
work to do. You need to see Crosbie. He owes us one.’

‘And what are you
going to do?’ she asked.

Connor put on his
coat. ‘I need to thank an old friend before it’s too late.’

22

Sticks and
Stones

‘
Here she comes, the tart
with the heart.’ It was an unfair description of April Lavender,
but then again Crosbie’s inner monologue was never known for its
fairness. ‘What does a fifty-six-year-old pudding like her think
dyeing her hair peroxide blonde looks like anyway? Mutton dressed
as mutton is what. Pathetic.’

Crosbie’s
self-dialogue may have been unkind, but his outward persona was the
complete opposite. As long as the inner didn’t become the outer,
Crosbie felt he could handle it. He’d given up any notion of going
to see the force’s psychiatrist. This double murder investigation
was eating up all of his work and spare time. His little problem
would have to remain in check until both were solved.

As agreed with
Connor, the detective planned to get one case wrapped up as quickly
as possible with a little bit of assistance from April Lavender.
DCI Crosbie turned on the charm. ‘So nice to meet you, Miss
Lavender. I’ve been reading your articles for years.’

She roared with
laughter, and playfully slapped the cop’s shoulder, saying, ‘Oh,
you do know how to make a lady feel old.’

They were sitting in
Crosbie’s office at Strathclyde Police Headquarters in Glasgow’s
Pitt Street. He poured her a tea and judged correctly that she
wouldn’t object to the three assorted biscuits he placed on her
saucer. She ate two and pocketed the third ‘for later’.

‘So, how do you fancy
turning detective for us?’ Crosbie asked casually.

‘Do I get a cop’s
pension?’ April answered with a full mouth, firing a hail of crumbs
in Crosbie’s direction.

Crosbie adopted a
more serious expression. ‘I can’t offer you that, but I can offer
you an exclusive – the capture of Selina Seth’s murderer.’

‘I know you’re not
supposed to speak ill of the dead, but she was a ghastly woman, you
know,’ April said, digressing as usual.

‘Even the ghastly
deserve justice,’ Crosbie offered, ‘you fat fuck.’ His grin
remained fixed. He wasn’t sure if he’d just called April Lavender
of the
Daily Herald
’s Special Investigations team a ‘fat
fuck’ to her face. If he had, she certainly hadn’t seemed to
notice.

‘Okay dokey, I’m off
to meet Martin Seth again. If he tries to kill me I hope your big
strong policemen will be nearby at the ready?’

‘Don’t worry,’
Crosbie reassured her, having regained his composure, ‘we’ll have
you rigged up with all the state-of-the-art equipment.’

‘Are you going to
turn me into Robocop? Half human, half robot?’ April giggled
playfully.

‘I’m sure we could
arrange that.’ He grinned as he moved towards his door to show
April out.

As the ageing
reporter swept past him, she stopped suddenly to place her hand
gently on Crosbie’s forearm. In barely more than a whisper, she
said, ‘Your Tourette’s won’t get any better by itself, you know.
You need to get help. Insults have never bothered me – in my
line of work I’ve been called far worse – but if you call your
superior officer a “fat fuck” you’re going to seriously damage your
career.’

Crosbie’s face turned
crimson as April rooted around in her sizeable handbag until she
found what she was looking for. ‘Ah, my contacts book,’ she said
triumphantly. The moth-eaten old book had once been bound in black
leather, but the colour had long been scuffed off to leave a sickly
grey. The pages inside contained a mass of numbers written in
various colours of ink, with several scored out to be replaced with
newer numbers. Old dog-eared business cards were wedged randomly
into the spine of the book.

Crosbie was convinced
not even his forensic scientists would have been able to make head
nor tail of this jumble of names and numbers.

But April whistled
gleefully as she quickly flicked through the pages before
declaring, ‘Ah, here it is,’ and handed Crosbie a faded business
card, which read, ‘Watt Wilson – a healthy mind makes for a
healthy body.’ Surprisingly it didn’t have any of the credentials
he imagined were required for a psychiatrist, with no long line of
letters after his name. April seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Oh,
he’s not a real shrink, but he will fix you. He sorted me and my
husbands during our divorces – all three of them,’ she added
with a cackle. And with that she waddled off to be greeted by
Crosbie’s trusted sergeant, leaving the detective alone with his
thoughts.

‘She may be a mad old
bat, but she’s right. I do need help.’ This time it wasn’t
Crosbie’s inner monologue doing the talking.



An hour
later April arrived at the Seths’ mansion, which somehow seemed to
be suffering from Selina’s loss. It looked older, more decrepit,
from the withered vines to the overgrown lawn.

When widower Martin
answered the door after letting April through the security system
at the front gates, he looked like he’d rapidly gone downhill,
too.

April held up two
grande lattes she’d brought with her from Starbucks and said with a
smile, ‘Coffee, Martin? You look like you could do with a hit of
caffeine.’

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled,
greedily grasping the disposable cup as if for warmth, adding, ‘I
haven’t got any tea or coffee left – or milk for that
matter.’

‘I thought as much,’
April said. ‘Then again, you’ve had so much on your mind, you poor
thing.’ She produced four bacon rolls wrapped in brown paper, which
were already soaked through from grease and contained in a thin
white plastic bag. ‘One bacon roll is never enough, I say, and you
look famished. To tell the truth I’m a bit peckish myself.’

Martin and April sat
in silence as they feasted on the coffee and bacon rolls.

When they were
finished Martin gave a satisfied burp, before apologising, ‘Sorry,
my stomach’s not used to it. I haven’t eaten anything in days.’

For less than a
tenner’s worth of hot food and drink, April had made a friend.

They stared out at
the spectacular views across the Kelvin valley with the Forth and
Clyde canal up to the Kilsyth hills.

‘In the winter,
Selina said they looked just like mini Alps,’ Martin reminisced.
‘My parents bought this place in 1967. They wouldn’t recognise it
now, right enough. Selina had it knocked down and rebuilt from
scratch when we began earning money. There wasn’t even any
electricity pylons running through Dullatur when I was growing up
here. Imagine that. We had unspoilt views to feast our eyes on
every day.’

It was only natural
Martin should regress to much happier times after his days of
trauma. But April needed to haul him back to the present. ‘You
know, everyone thinks you murdered your wife. My editor, our
readers and the cops. But I don’t, Martin. I truly don’t believe
you killed Selina. Help me prove them wrong.’

Martin gazed at his
feet for a long time. Eventually he said, ‘What does it matter now?
Everything is ruined.’

‘Oh, but it does
matter, Martin,’ she added. ‘It matters a lot. If not to you, then
to your children. How is life going to be for them with their
mother killed and their father locked up for her murder?’

Martin began to weep.
Slowly at first, with just a few tears staining his cheeks. But
they soon made way to great howls of pain as Martin finally set
free his agony.

April had been here
many times before. She’d always had a way of tugging at folk’s
heartstrings long before she joined newspapers. Most people do feel
better after bawling their eyes out, although she hadn’t allowed
herself to cry in years. She knew only too well if she opened those
floodgates she would never be able to stop.

The sobs finally grew
further and further apart. April discreetly switched on her voice
recorder and placed it on the coffee table beside them. This was
for April’s own benefit, as every word said had already been
recorded by a wireless transmitter, which was placed in her ample
handbag – the microphone disguised as a peacock brooch on her
jacket. ‘Now’s the time, Martin. Tell me what really happened.’

23

The Im-Patient

Badger was
holding court as usual, cigarette in hand, telling a mixture of old
stories peppered with a colourful mixture of
obscenities.

Connor couldn’t help
looking at him from a distance through admiring eyes. What was it
about this foul-mouthed, cantankerous old sod that left such a
lasting impression on all who knew and worked with him?

As Connor approached,
Badger burst into his familiar greeting, chanting ‘El-vis,
El-vis – give us “Blue Suede Shoes”.’

‘You know,’ Connor
said in reply, ‘one day I might just do that and then you’ll be
sorry.’

Badger’s raucous
laugh made way to a hacking cough. ‘Come here, lad,’ he eventually
managed to splutter, before hugging Connor roughly. It was an
awkward embrace with the younger reporter bent over his mentor’s
wheelchair. Badger whispered in his ear in a conspiratorial tone,
‘I’m gubbed, son. My tea’s out, but don’t start blubbing yet. I’ve
got to give those daft cunts over there some hope.’ He motioned
over his shoulder to various members of his family, who had
assembled outside the main entrance of Gartnavel hospital, on
Glasgow’s Great Western Road.

Badger’s wife Rita
squeezed Connor tightly, kissed his cheeks and said, ‘I’m so glad
you’ve come – you’ve made Russell’s day.’

‘Right,’ Badger
announced returning to his bullish ways, ‘I’m fed up with all the
tears and snotters around here. I’ve been given six months to live
and I’m not going to spend it looking at your greetin’ faces.
Elvis, push me over to that bench to give some of these poor sods a
seat. Don’t worry about me – I’ve brought my own.’

Connor found the
lever to release the wheelchair’s brakes and pushed Badger slowly
over the twenty feet of hospital pavement to a row of benches. But
with every crack and pebble the chair passed over, Badger winced
agonisingly in pain.

‘Careful, you twat,’
he snapped. ‘If I wanted to be handled as roughly as this I’d have
stayed in the ward.’

Connor was no medical
expert, but he thought his mentor’s six-month life sentence was
extremely optimistic, reasoning that if he had lost the power of
his legs, then the cancer must surely have already spread.

‘You know,’ Badger
said, his smile replacing his scowl, ‘the doctors haven’t told me
to stop smoking. I thought that’d have been the first thing to go.
“Now, Mr Blackwood, you must give up the ciggies since you have
tumours growing in both lungs.” But nope, nothing, not even a
ticking off. Can you believe that?’ He fired up another
cigarette.

Connor never ceased
to be amazed by the West Coast of Scotland’s reckless attitude
towards health. The region had consistently come top of the
binge-drinking, coronary heart disease and lung cancer leagues for
the whole of Europe and no matter how much money the government
pumped into it, the statistics just got steadily worse. He
suspected that many Glaswegians were secretly proud of the
statistics – at least the country was top of something. But it
always made grim reading for Connor. In the city’s worst postcodes,
life expectancy was just forty-eight years of age. Some developing
nations could expect to live longer than that.

Connor gave a wry
smile. ‘Well, I guess it’s a little too late to quit the ciggies
now.’ Although he dared not show it, inwardly Connor was grieving
over his stricken mentor. His time left on the planet would be
short. Connor hoped his final days wouldn’t be spent in pain. He
already looked like a bag of bones.

‘Too fucking true,’
Badger offered. ‘The strange thing is I haven’t missed the drink.
Weird that, eh?’