The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) (21 page)

She’s usually so confident. Even when she’s not, she’s usually so good at faking it. She’s looking at Nate and wondering why she can’t manage to fake it now. She
used to be able to, even with him. So what’s changed? It’s because he doesn’t care. When they each cared about the other, she could control him. Not any more. Time has taken him
outside her reach.

‘I’m in a wee bit of a corner,’ she’s saying. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to the house and the money Lewis had. I won’t get it soon, if I
get it at all. I have some things,’ she’s saying, and she pats the large handbag on her knees. ‘Some cash. Some . . . merchandise. I need help with it. I need help from someone I
can trust. Otherwise I have nothing to live on.’

He’s sitting and listening to her, but he’s not reacting. There’s no change in his expression. Nothing. It’s as if he wants to make her suffer. Does he even know how to
behave properly with people any more? So much time spent intimidating.

‘You want me to set up an account, sell the drugs, put the money in the account.’ Not a question, a statement of fact.

‘Yes. I need your help with this.’

‘You have no one else who can help you?’

‘No,’ she says in a whisper. She knows he’s not asking in order to humiliate her. He’s asking her because he’d rather she turned to someone else.

Zara sits and waits for him to say something. She thinks Nate wants her to go somewhere else because he doesn’t care about her. She’s wrong. Very wrong. He wants her to go somewhere
else because he does care about her. He still loves her. He assumes that he always will. But she’s bad news. Not for him; he can handle her and, indeed, far worse demons than her. But
she’s bad for Rebecca, their daughter. His first responsibility is to her. If Zara comes back into his life, then she comes back into Becca’s as well. He doesn’t want that. He
wants better for his little girl. But he can’t just leave Zara to the wolves. There are so many people in this business who could take advantage of her, if he doesn’t help.

‘What have you got?’ he’s asking her, leaning forward to see.

Zara takes the shoebox out of her bag and opens it. Two wads of cash, two plastic bags. Coke and methamphetamines. She places them on the coffee table.

He’s looking, and nodding his head. ‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll set up an account on Monday morning. Get the money safe, as quick as possible. The rest will take longer.
I’ll find someone safe to sell it through. You won’t get full value, not for a one-off provision. You’ll do all right out of it, though.’

She’s nodding enthusiastically. ‘I get that, but anything would help. Right now I’ve got next to nothing, so . . . ’ She trails off in a shrugging embarrassment.

There’s a moment of silence. As far as Nate is concerned, this meeting is over.

‘When will I?’ she says, pointing to the coffee table.

He shrugs. ‘Say, a week Monday. Come round then and I’ll let you know how it’s gone. You might want to leave the money in the account for a couple of months, until you can be
sure the cops aren’t watching you. Aren’t watching the account, either.’

‘I don’t think they are watching me. I’m a witness. I’m not a suspect.’

Nate looks at her. There’s a little hint of disgust in his expression, but only a hint. ‘You’re the girlfriend of a dead drug dealer. They will be watching you. You know things
they want to know, and they’ll keep watching you until they know they can’t get anything from you.’

He’s showing her to the door, giving every impression of a man fed up of her company. When he closes the door behind her, she finds herself out in the front garden, unsure of how she
feels. She’s glad to have his help, but his warning rings in her ears. The police will be watching you. The spectre of DI Fisher looms somewhere in the city, and she has a horrible feeling
that she’s not going to be able to shake him off. Nate knows these things. As Nate closes the door he pauses. Zara, back in his life. Help her, and then let her go. She’s so entirely
selfish; once she’s been helped, she’ll be gone again. Keep her away from Becca.

Phoning round taxi firms, finding out who was working the club on Friday night. It feels like plod’s work. It’s being in the office that does it. Fisher hates being
in there. Some detectives love it. Some hide away in the office, scared of going out among the people. Clinging on by their fingernails. Desperately hoping to survive until retirement and pension.
How they made it this far, he cannot fathom.

First couple of calls draw a blank. Third call, and success. Yes, they had a couple of people working that area. Yes, they regularly do. Yes, they can give him the numbers of the two drivers who
might have carried those passengers.

Half eight in the evening. Neither driver is apparently working tonight. Fisher calls the first. Gets a grumpy reception. Would rather be doing this face-to-face, but he needs to find the right
person first. Fellow says no, he doesn’t remember picking up a young couple and an older man. Goes off on a rant about a fat woman being sick in the back of his car, and a young couple
behaving like animals. Feral scum, he’s saying, and then something about not having any shame. The police need to do something about it. Fisher hangs up. His patience with people who
aren’t useful only goes so far. He rings the second man. Better reception. More polite.

‘I’m looking for the driver that picked up a young couple and an older man from the front door of Heavenly at about twelve forty-five.’

There’s a pause, the cogs are turning. ‘Yeah, I think I remember that. Yeah, I think that was my pickup. The older guy was out on his feet, the other two weren’t so
bad.’

‘I’m glad I’ve caught up with you. When can you come into the station to have a word with me about them? You see, they were involved in a crime not long after you dropped them
off, so I’d like to chat about them. It shouldn’t take long.’

Another pause. People are always reluctant to get involved, even when they’ve done nothing wrong and they know they can help. ‘I suppose tomorrow. Any time after four
tomorrow.’

Fisher arranges it. That’s for tomorrow. What about tonight? Find the cop who was looking after Cope and kick her right up the arse. He was sure Cope had suggested that she wasn’t
going to go back to the house. She had left the station and gone off the radar. The useless plod had said that Cope was planning to go back to the house in the next few days. Bollocks! Now he has
to find Cope. Time to put her under a little pressure. Catch her while she’s still feeling the nerves of the incident. She’s a liar. It’s just a question of what she’s lying
about. No progress on an ID for the younger man, either. People looking into that. Find out if he’s in the industry. Find out if he’s a potential killer.

A stroke of luck. Putting out calls to a few contacts working in hotels didn’t throw up anything, but the first call to a rental agent hits the target. Magnificent. Cope’s taken a
little flat in the west end. Nice place, cash up front. So she’s got a little bit of money from somewhere after all. Easy to find her. Get out of the station. A chance to get some
almost-fresh air. Out into the city, onto the street, where police work should be done. He’s falling into an idealistic mood as he gets into his car and pulls away from the station. Found the
taxi driver. Found Zara Cope. Two little strokes of luck, just need a third to get the young man. And Zara can provide us with that.

After a fashion, he finds the flat. Hidden away, built-up area. Nice little street, though. Small flat, but respectable enough to command a respectable price. He’s knocking on the door.
Nothing. He rings the doorbell, waits thirty seconds. Still nothing. So he’s knocking on the door again. There’s no sound coming from the flat, no sign that there’s anyone at
home. The poor little wretch, with no money and no one to turn to, suddenly has money and places to go. Don’t jump to conclusions. That’s reckless. That’s what gets good coppers
into trouble. No assumptions.

She made it sound like she would struggle to find help, but she still has family and presumably some friends. There was one friend at the house before they went to the club. So someone could
easily help her out with cash. Her parents are alive and looking after her kid. There’s the father of the kid. Nate Colgan. Apparently they’re not in touch any more. Shame. Fisher would
love to be able to take Colgan on with something concrete. Get that evil bastard behind bars, where he belongs. One day. For now, it’s time to set a little test for Miss Cope.

Knocking on the neighbour’s front door. Wait thirty seconds. The door opens. A suspicious old woman looks out. Excellent, just what he was hoping for. Some gossipy old biddy who’ll
make a big deal out of everything.

‘Excuse me, dear, my name is DI Fisher, Strathclyde Police. I’m looking for the young woman who’s just moved in next door. Do you know if she’s in?’

‘I don’t. I don’t. Is she in trouble?’ she’s asking, and her eyes are getting a little wider. A bit of scandal. A lovely bit of juicy scandal to tell the world
about.

‘Not necessarily, no. But can you do me a favour? When you see her, let her know that I was round.’

‘I will,’ the old lady’s saying as Fisher is turning away and going back down the stairs.

That old crow will spend the rest of the night with her ear pressed up against the inside of her front door, waiting to hear her new neighbour come home. She’ll be out there talking to
her, first chance she gets. That’ll let Cope know that she’s been found. Then it’ll be interesting to see how she reacts to that. Does she run? Does she feel the breath of the law
on the back of her neck and flee the flat? It would prove that she has a lot to hide. Maybe she sticks around and waits to see what happens next. Tries to bluff it out. Her sort often do. Think
they can get away with just about anything. Not this time, love. This time you’re going to pay the price for your misdeeds.

It feels distant already. It feels as though the precise details are fading in his memory, to be replaced with an overview. It doesn’t matter. Calum’s never going
to tell anyone the story of what happened. The only people who might ask would be Jamieson and Young, but they won’t. They know better. There are some in the business who tell their employers
every last detail. There are some employers who want to know everything. That won’t happen here. Too much professionalism. All Jamieson and Young want to know is that it was done, and done
well. They want to know that it won’t come back on them. If they know that, they’re happy.

A quick shower, then breakfast. Something heavier today. Feeling like normal already. Amazing how quickly normality intrudes. Used to take many days to fight down the nerves, but not any more.
Now it’s hours. Soon there won’t be any at all. Is that a good thing? Probably not, he’s reflecting as he works in the kitchen – probably better to have a little edge. Once
you think you’ve got nothing to be worried about, you slip up. No taking it easy. Stay alert. He remembers talking to Frank, more than a year ago now. Frank told him that even now he gets
nervous before a job. If he didn’t, he would quit.

You quit when you stop feeling nervous, because you’re no longer able to work out the risks. Happens to people. You become blasé. It’s a job. You go to work and you do it and
you don’t even consider the risks any more. That’s downright dangerous. There’s another problem, though. You get older. You become more aware of your mortality. You become more
concerned about the things you’re missing out on. Suddenly you’re not nervous, you’re just scared. Then you definitely stop. Then you’re going to make a multitude of
mistakes that are going to cost you your life. But a deadening of nerves seems more likely to Calum. He’s never been truly scared on a job.

Sitting at the breakfast table, reading a Sunday newspaper. Flicking through it, looking for the one story that matters. There it is. A little sidebar. No pictures, no big headlines. Man
murdered in Glasgow. Killed in his own home. Lewis Winter, forty-four. Killed after a night out. Police looking for information. Suspected links to organized crime. And that’s about the sum
of it. Winter’s life and death, reduced to a little side column on page twenty-three. Maybe a hundred words. It’s not much to call a life.

It reassures Calum. The mention of organized crime is just there to reassure the public. It’s drug dealers killing drug dealers, so you have nothing to worry about. Most people will read
it and think: who cares? The world’s better off without him. Let them all kill each other. The only people who’ll be terribly concerned will be the people living on his street. For
everyone else, it’s one less scumbag in the world. No description of who carried it out. Most likely because they don’t have one. Certainly nothing reliable. The naked guy
wouldn’t have been able to give a description anyway. Cope might have – she was calmer. But even so, they took every precaution.

He’s feeling good about what he’s read. A standard piece about a drug dealer being killed. The police with no specific requests for information. No descriptions issued. He’d be
more concerned if there hadn’t been anything at all in the papers. They would be holding back information for a reason. That would be unsettling. So far, so textbook. Still, he must be
cautious. Sit about the flat, doing nothing that he wouldn’t ordinarily do. Keeping an appropriate distance from the people that matter. A boring consequence of the job. Into the living room,
sitting down in front of the TV, letting time die around him.

It’s the afternoon when the phone rings. Mute-button on the TV remote, picks up the phone.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, Calum, it’s Glen Davidson – long time no speak.’

Alarm bells are going off all over the place. Loud and constant. Why the hell is Glen Davidson calling him? Glen Davidson is a gunman. Freelance. Kills, and often kills rough. Good at covering
his tracks, but a nasty bastard. He’s been lucky to stay out of jail. Big fellow, been around the business since he was a kid, because of his father. It’s the family trade.
Calum’s crossed paths with him a couple of times, knows him to say hello to, but nothing more than that. They’ve never done a job together. Calum wouldn’t want to do a job with
him. Not trustworthy.