Snapshot (15 page)

‘Behave yourself, Tony. You can’t win that one.’

It had been his turn not to notice what was at his feet. Cat Fitzpatrick had her hands in the pockets of the dead guy’s leather jacket and had found a wallet from which she produced a driving licence. Those eyes, the colour of wet Irish grass, were laughing at him.

‘I took it you were finished since you had the time to play wee boy’s games with the nice constable,’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ve got names for all of them. Come on.’

She stood up and walked a few yards before holding out the licence for Shirley and Addison to see.

‘The old man is called Alasdair Turnbull. And as for these two . . . the brown leather jacket is Mark Sturrock and the first guy, the white shirt, is Stephen Strathie.’

‘Strathie?’ said Addison. ‘Name’s familiar.’

‘Strathie’s a courier, I’m fairly sure of it,’ piped up Jan McConachie. ‘Stevie Strathie. If I’m thinking of the right guy then he runs drugs for Malky Quinn. Or did. Don’t know the other one.’

‘Fucking great,’ replied Addison ironically. ‘Phone it in and have the names run through the computer. Get me everything there is on both of them. Probably a waste of time but get me the licence of any car or van that’s registered in either name too.’

McConachie nodded and pulled out her mobile to contact Divisional HQ.

‘So, assuming this is the same guy . . .’ Winter began.

‘It is,’ muttered Addsion.

‘If it’s him then why go to all the trouble and all the risk of shooting them so publicly?’

‘So that we would know it was him.’

McConachie held up her hand to signal for attention and began nodding confirmation to Addison and the rest of the team. Strathie was a courier all right while Sturrock had previous for dealing and worked for the Mighty Quinn. Then her eyebrows furrowed and her jaw dropped. She looked up at Shirley, almost apologetically.

‘Sir, a white van has been abandoned in the middle of George Square with two petrol containers sat away from it. They say there’s what looks like twenty kilo bricks of cocaine sitting next to the petrol cans.’

‘
What?
’ Addison was stuck like Winter had never seen before. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Who’s at the scene?’ demanded Shirley.

McConachie blinked. ‘Three cars and two fire engines and more cars on the way. They’ve got the square cordoned off but they can’t get near the van.’

‘Why not?’

‘One of them tried and a shot was fired at his feet. From a distance.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ recovered Addison. ‘I don’t suppose the van is registered to either of your men here by any chance?’

‘Nope, but one of them might well have been driving it till an hour ago. DVLA say it’s Malky Quinn’s.’

The call from Joanne Samuels had been left on Narey’s answering machine and hadn’t left much room for manoeuvre or much time to get there.

‘Rachel, it’s Joanne. I hope you get this soon. I’ve managed to talk to one of the women who knew Melanie quite well. Be at the Criterion Café at the beginning of the Gallowgate at two o’clock. She’s very jumpy so if you’re late then I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep her there. Criterion Café. Two o’clock.’

It was nearly one-thirty when Narey, still fuming from the bombshell at the morning conference, picked up the message and she didn’t have much time to get across the city centre to the east end. She jumped in her car and battled her way across Cowcaddens Road and George Street before crawling down High Street, cursing the traffic and the never-ending succession of red lights. As the digital clock on her dashboard shifted ever nearer to two, Narey became less convinced that she would make it on time. With just two minutes to the hour, she spotted a space near the Tolbooth Steeple and braked sharply, ignoring the horns that complained at her, and threw her car into the opening so she could run the rest of the way.

At last the powder-blue sign and low roof of the Criterion were in view. Surely the woman wouldn’t have left yet, surely Joanne could keep her there that long. With thirty yards to go, she slowed to a walk in order to get her breath back, knowing she would now be able to see anyone leaving the café. As it happened, no one came through the door by the time she reached it and as she pushed her way inside she saw Joanne at a corner table, sitting with her back to her. Opposite her sat a young woman with short, spiky dark hair who was nervously fidgeting with a napkin and looking around anxiously.

Narey didn’t take the chance of asking if she could join them, instead just pulling back the chair next to Joanne and sitting down. The girl continued to look round the room as if worried that someone would see Narey with her.

‘Sorry I’m late, Joanne. Hi, I’m Rachel,’ she said, holding her hand out to the girl opposite. No handshake came back though, the girl holding on to the napkin and twisting it below the table where a cup of coffee had been barely touched.

‘This is Pamela,’ Joanne explained. ‘She was a friend of Melanie’s.’

As Narey looked at Pamela she could see that her nervousness wasn’t just down to meeting a cop. The girl was an addict. The paranoia went way beyond their meeting; Pamela jumped every time the door opened or someone at another table laughed. Her bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils might have been many things but Narey knew what they really were. With barely any make-up on, the dark circles under her eyes were as obvious as the sour smell from her breath. When she finally spoke, there was a noticeable tremor in her speech.

‘I’m doing this for Melanie, right?’ she slurred. ‘It’s the only reason I’m here.’

‘Okay,’ Narey nodded. ‘I understand that. Did you know her long?’

‘Long enough,’ the skinny girl said quietly. ‘A year maybe.’

‘Did you meet her on the street?’ Pamela’s eyes briefly flickered with resentment.

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, what can you tell me about Melanie, Pamela? Anything you know could help us find out who did this to her.’

The hooker looked at Joanne for reassurance and must have got it because after another fretful look round the café she leaned in towards Narey.

‘She was awrite. Some people didn’t like her ’cos she could get a bit full-on when she was high but she was awrite really, know what ah mean? Never did me any harm.’

‘Where was she from?’ Narey asked.

‘Like where did she come from, you mean? Glasgow, south side somewhere, I think. She didn’t talk ’bout it much. I think she fell out with her mum and dad.’

‘Can you remember where on the south side?’

‘No. Told you. She didn’t like talking about it.’

‘And she was living somewhere in Maryhill?’

‘Aye. She had a room there in the high flats in the Valley.’

‘You know the address, Pamela?’

‘It was the big block in Collina Street but ah cannae remember the number. She hudnae been there that long.’

‘That’s okay. Did Melanie have any children?’

Pamela looked at the table then the door.

‘Aye, she had wan. A wee girl. She’s six.’

Narey and Joanne swapped a quick glance.

‘Where is she now?’ Joanne asked.

Pamela was twisting the napkin furiously now, her interest seemingly taken up by her shoes.

‘Where is Melanie’s wee girl?’ Narey repeated anxiously.

‘The wean’s wi her dad,’ Pamela answered quietly.

‘And who’s her dad?’ Narey pushed.

Pamela just shook her head, still staring at the floor. Her anxiety levels had just rocketed.

‘Please, Pamela,’ Joanne Samuels broke in. ‘It could be important, pet. I think if you know then you should tell her.’

The girl’s hands went unconsciously to her face, wiping under her nose.

‘He’s trouble. A real bad bastard,’ she hissed. ‘He’d kill me if he knew.’

All Narey’s senses were telling her that this was a name she had to know.

‘He won’t know, Pamela,’ she assured the girl. ‘No one will know except the three of us round this table. Melanie was your friend and I think she deserves for the person that killed her to be caught.’

Pamela was tilting her head to one side and repeating the gesture: anxious, thinking, afraid. ‘Tommy Breslin,’ she whispered.

‘Okay. Tell me about Tommy,’ Narey pursued.

The girl repeated her head-tilting routine and nibbled on the inside of her cheek.

‘They call him T-Bone. Or he calls himself it, anyway. He was Melanie’s boyfriend. Sort of. Thinks he’s some kind of gangsta but all he is is an arsehole dealer.’

She looked up suddenly, remembering who she was talking to. ‘It’s okay, Pamela. He’ll never know we’ve spoken to you. This is between us. How did this T-Bone treat Melanie?’

She shook her head bitterly.

‘Like shit. Like a piece of shit. He was always laying into her for nothing. He broke her arm once and was always leaving marks on her. Kicks and punches. And he was the bastard that got her onto the shit in the first place.’

She looked up at them fearfully again but the thought of what Breslin had done to her friend gave her some steel.

‘He was her dealer too. And mine.’

Narey nodded, grateful for the girl’s information.

‘Do you think he could have done this to Melanie?’

Pamela said nothing but looked Narey straight in the eyes and nodded.

Narey mentally crossed her fingers and asked the question she hoped for an answer to more than any other.

‘Did Melanie ever tell you her real name?’

‘Yeah. She told me once when she was out of it and after that it didn’t matter. Her name was Una. Said she’d always hated it.’

‘Did she tell you her surname?’

‘No sure. She told people her name was Melanie McCulloch. Don’t know if that was real or not. Look, I’ve had enough. I need to go. Told you enough.’

Narey still had a head full of questions but could see that Pamela was right on the edge and had made her mind up to go. Anyway, she thought, she had a hell of a lot more to work with than she had when she sat down.

Joanne said that she would take Pamela home, noticeably refusing to say where that was, and Narey left them after picking up the bill for the coffees. She saw Joanne’s hand comfortingly placed over the girl’s but by the agitated look on her face it was going to take more than that to put her mind at ease.

The door of the Criterion swung closed behind her and she was immediately hit by the cool afternoon breeze that had picked up. Her first thought was to telephone Addison with what she’d learned until she remembered that the bastard had dumped her with this and she was the one in charge. Well, sod him and whatever he was attending at Harthill, she was the one with the breakthrough.

When she got to the Tolbooth she found a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen and swore at the paperwork that was going to be involved getting it overturned. Fuck it, it had been worth it. She turned her car round and threw it headlong back into the traffic heading for George Square and from there would go on to Stewart Street. Christ, it seemed even busier than it had been earlier. The traffic was at a complete standstill and there was nothing at all coming the other way. What the hell was going on?

Up ahead, she could see flashing lights, blue as well as red. For the second time that afternoon, she abandoned her car in the nearest available space, this one with double yellow lines, and continued on foot. The closer she got to George Square, the more she realized some serious shit was going down.

She pulled out her phone and got onto Stewart Street, demanding to know what was happening. As the answer came through, so the old red square came into view. Narey couldn’t believe her eyes.

Narey arrived at George Square no more than fifteen minutes after the white van was parked up and about ten minutes before it began snowing. When the response came from the desk at Stewart Street, she raced the last couple of hundred yards until she reached the politburo splendour of the City Chambers itself.

A large crowd of shoppers and office workers had already gathered round the square and Narey pushed her way through them, alternately shoving, shouting and waving her ID card. She could see a ring of yellow-jacketed uniforms and two fire engines and headed for them as quickly as she could.

A uniformed inspector was standing at the nearest corner of the square, speaking into a walkie-talkie and looking like he was ready to punch someone or shit himself. Narey made a line straight towards him, trying to remember what his name was. Benson, Bett, something like that.

The guy saw her coming, looking her up and down in a way that made her want to puke. Prick, she thought. What the hell was the sleazeball’s name?

‘Inspector?’ she started. ‘I’m DS Narey, I—’

‘Yes, I know who you are. I’m a bit busy, Sergeant. What is it?’

‘We have reason to believe this is connected to an ongoing CID case and I need to ask you what you know about what’s happened here.’

‘Oh, do you now? What case is that then?’

‘The shootings of Cairns Caldwell and Malcolm Quinn. I’m sure you are aware of them.’

To Narey’s satisfaction, the inspector blanched, his eyes widening as he took in the consequences of what she said.

‘From what we’re told, the van came along the Queen Street side,’ he began. ‘It drove off the street and onto the square where it is now. No one’s got a clue where the driver is but we’re told he ran off as soon as he’d laid things out. You see the petrol canisters?’

Narey nodded.

The two green canisters sat close together about twenty feet away from where the van had been abandoned with its doors wide open. It sat on the red concrete, shunned by the statues that ringed the square, all with their backs turned to it.

Beside the canisters were a couple of dozen bricks, quite obviously kilos of cocaine, wrapped in white paper and stacked in four hurriedly constructed piles. She knew if it hadn’t been for the presence of the cops, the bricks would have been nicked in two seconds flat.

‘So did any one of your guys try to approach the van, sir?’ she asked the inspector.

‘Twice,’ he answered with a curt nod. ‘Both times they got shot at. Nothing too close the first time, maybe a few feet away but enough to scare them off. After the first try we got someone togged up and had another go but the second time the shot missed him by inches. We haven’t tried again.’