When he saw the black Mercedes pulling up at the kerb outside his hardware store, Harry Brady depressed the record button on the cassette player on the shelf underneath the counter
Alec Hunter followed Terry McKay into the shop and pulled the door shut behind him. Flipping the sign in the door over to “Closed”, he tugged down the blind and slipped the bolt.
‘Where’s my money?’ McKay demanded.
‘I haven’t got it.’
McKay’s eyes narrowed. ‘How much would it cost to replace your shop windows if they accidentally got broken?’ He produced a crowbar from his pocket and swept it along the counter, smashing a glass display cabinet to smithereens. ‘Five hundred quid is chicken feed compared with what we’re about to do.’
‘Screw the nut, McKay. For fuck’s sake!’
‘How about that one, Alec?’ McKay said, pointing to a large vice on the display stand next to the door. ‘Bring it over here.’ Hunter picked up the heavy vice and carried it across. ‘Fix it to the counter,’ McKay instructed.
Hunter placed the vice on the edge of the wooden counter and fastened the clamps securely.
Leaning across, McKay grabbed Brady by the wrist and forced the fingers of his left hand into the jaws of the vice. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Brady,’ McKay laughed. ‘We are, indeed, about to ‘screw the nut’. On you go, Alec.’
Hunter leered as he spun the handle to close the vice on Brady’s fingers. He made eye contact with McKay as it started to grip and, on McKay’s curt nod, he continued forcing the handle round until there was a resounding crack.
Brady let out an agonised yelp. ‘For Christ’s sake! You’ve broken my fucking fingers!’
‘Surely not?’ McKay said. ‘How could that have happened?’ Brady’s breathing was coming in short, laboured gasps. ‘Now listen to me very carefully, Brady. Jim McHugh thought he could stop paying – and lived to regret it.’
‘Don’t you mean “died to regret it”?’ Hunter interjected with a wide grin.
‘Nice one, Alec!’ McKay sniggered. ‘As Alec so rightly says, McHugh died to regret it. My patience is wearing thin, so if you don’t want to go the same way as McHugh, you’ll pay me tomorrow. I’ll be in lounge bar in The Rock between twelve and one o’clock. Bring the money to me there. And by the way, it’s now a grand to make up for the inconvenience you’ve caused me. And just in case you’ve got any daft notion about going to the police,’ McKay added. ‘Remember I know where your daughter lives.’
‘Leave Sheila out of this!’ Brady gasped.
‘Oh, I don’t think that’ll be possible, will it, Alec?’ McKay said. ‘You see, Alec fancies shagging the arse off her – and I want to see what she’d look like with a fucking big scar down the side of her face. But when you come to think of it, there’s no reason we both shouldn’t both get what we want.’ McKay turned to Hunter. ‘Let’s have one for the road, Alec,’ he said, pointing to the vice.
Hunter gripped the handle and jerked it through another quarter turn. All the remaining colour ebbed from Brady’s features as he slumped across the counter. The sobbing in the back of his throat died away and he passed out in a dead faint.
McKay scribbled a note on a slip of paper and tucked it into Brady’s shirt pocket. Nodding to Hunter, they walked out of the shop and got into their car.
Charlie Anderson was waiting at a red traffic light, on his way to the office, when his mobile started to ring. He took his phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. When he saw the call was from Sue, he snapped the phone to his ear.
‘He called me, Dad.’
‘Hold on a minute, love. I’m driving,’ Charlie said, dropping his phone onto the passenger seat. As soon as the traffic lights turned to green he accelerated across the junction and pulled over at the side of the road. Snatching up his phone, he slammed it to his ear.
‘What happened?’
‘He called me on my mobile.’
Charlie felt his mouth go dry. ‘What did he say?’
‘That he was watching me and Jamie all the time.’ Charlie could hear Sue choking back her sobs.
‘Did you recognise his voice?’
‘No. He said he was going to call me back, Dad.’ Sue gulped. ‘What should I do?’ Her tone was imploring.
‘He somehow managed to find out your address, Sue – and he’s got hold of your mobile number, but there’s no reason to suppose he knows where you are right now. I’m on my way to the office. As soon as I get there I’ll arrange for CCTV cameras to be installed at Sarah’s house, just as a precaution.’
‘I’m frightened, Dad.’
‘I realise that, but there’s no reason to panic, love. That’s what he wants you to do. Just keep taking sensible precautions. Don’t let Jamie play outside unless you can keep an eye on him. Don’t answer any phone calls unless you recognise the number of the person calling. Contact your mobile phone company straight away and arrange to have your number changed.’
‘Should I tell Mum about him calling me?’ Charlie hesitated. ‘If he’s got my number,’ Sue added, ‘he might have Mum’s as well. He might try to call her.’
‘We have to stick together as a family to get through this. Phone your mother and let her know what happened. Tell her to get her mobile number changed as well, just in case. To be on the safe side, I’ll arrange for CCTV cameras to be installed at your Aunt Grace’s house.’ Charlie drove to Pitt Street as fast as he could. As soon as he got to his office, he issued instructions for CCTV cameras to be installed at Sarah’s house and at his sister-in-law’s.
Sitting down at his desk, his head in his hands, Charlie stared unseeing at his blotting pad. The bastard was out there somewhere, taunting him, laughing at him. Was there really nothing he could do, other than kick his heels and hope that Mhairi Orr’s profiling software might come up with something? For fuck’s sake! He didn’t even believe in profiling. The sense of frustration, of total impotence, was eating away at his guts. He didn’t even want to go down to the incident room where he would have to face O’Sullivan and Stuart. What did he have to say to them? He couldn’t give them any direction.
Charlie’s mind was in turmoil. Should he bite the bullet and go and see Hamilton? Ask him to assign the SIO role to someone else because he wasn’t getting anywhere? He’d never walked away from a case in his life. But this was more important than his pride – a hell of a lot more important. His family’s lives were on the line. But what could anyone else do that he couldn’t? What line of enquiry could they pursue? At least he knew the people on his list – and what they were capable of. He’d have to stick with it, he told himself. He didn’t have any other option. Despondently, he took the list of names from his desk drawer and went through them again, one by one, trying desperately to figure out who could be doing this to him – and why.
Ten minutes later, when he got to the last name on his list, he felt mentally drained. He was no further forward. He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He thought about going home to try to get some much-needed sleep, but the prospect of going back to an empty house was thoroughly depressing. Tugging his phone from his pocket, he paged through his contacts and clicked onto Bert Pollock’s number.
‘Bert, it’s Charlie. What are you up to?’
‘I could use a dram. Fancy joining me in James Davidson’s’?’
‘Fine – eight o’clock?’
‘See you there.’
Malcolm Stuart’s eyes were glued to the computer screen in the incident room while his fingers danced around the keyboard. He didn’t hear Tony O’Sullivan approaching from behind.
‘Bit of a whiz at the typing, I see.’ Malcolm’s fingers didn’t slow down as he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘I’ve never got beyond two fingers, myself,’ Tony said. ‘It’s Catch 22. I must have started the touch typing course a dozen times, but just when I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it, I have to break off to type something urgent.’
Getting to his feet, Malcolm pushed his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, stuck out his stomach and started strutting round the room. Lowering the pitch of his voice, he made a passable imitation of Charlie’s accent. ‘This touch typing nonsense will never catch on, O’Sullivan. Passing fad. Stick to shorthand and you’ll be all right.’
‘Ahem! Good evening, sir,’ Tony said, forcing a cough.
Malcolm spun round, blushing furiously.
‘Fifteen-love!’ Tony shouted triumphantly, thrusting up his right arm in a self-congratulatory high five.
‘You bastard!’ Malcolm reached up to slap his open palm.
‘Swearing at a senior officer. That’ll cost you a pint.’ O’Sullivan looked up at the wall clock. ‘Time we were knocking off, Malcolm. All work and no play makes Tony a dull boy. Seven o’clock on a Saturday night is late enough for anybody.’
Malcolm sat down again and spun round to face the terminal. ‘I just need to finish this off. It’ll only take me a couple of minutes.’ He raised his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. ‘What did you think of the boss on the telly last night?’ he asked as he was tapping away at the keyboard.
‘Under the circumstances, I thought he did all right.’
‘Do you think he’d had a few jars before he went on?’ Malcolm asked.
‘I wouldn’t think so.’ Tony frowned. ‘What gave you that impression?’
‘He looked pretty hot and bothered – and he got flustered over a couple of questions.’
‘Probably the studio lights and the pressure,’ Tony said. ‘I wouldn’t have fancied bearding the lioness in her den.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Malcolm grinned slyly. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’
‘You’re getting ideas way above your station, my lad. Anyway, the word on the street is that Fran prefers female company to randy toy boys.’
‘Oh, don’t spoil my fantasy! I was hoping I might be able to talk her into being my Mrs Robinson.’
‘Dream on!’ Tony snorted. ‘Now if I can bring you back to reality with a resounding thud, what do you have planned for this evening?’
‘If you’re one hundred percent sure Fran’s out of the frame –’ Malcolm gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’ll probably grab something to eat and have an early night.’
‘Do you like curry?’
‘Sure.’
‘How about we pick up a take-away and head back to my place? I’ve got beer in and maybe I can educate you with a malt or two?’
Malcolm’s fingers darted around the keyboard as he filed the document he was working on. ‘Best offer I’ve had all day,’ he said, leaning forward to switch off the terminal.
‘If we’re going to have a session, it would make sense for you to drop your car off at your flat and walk over to my place. It’s only about ten minutes. Here’s the address,’ Tony said, plucking a sheet of paper from the stack on the printer and writing it down. ‘I’ll draw you a map. It’s straightforward,’ he said, sketching. ‘Up to the top of Byres Road, across great Western Road, along Queen Margaret Drive and Wilton Street is the second on the right. My flat’s on the right hand side of the road, two up, left hand side of the landing. My name’s on the bell.’ Tony handed across the sheet of paper. ‘While you’re dropping off your car, I’ll pick up a take-away from the Shish Mahal. What do you fancy?’
‘I’m easy.’
‘How about chicken curry and onion bhajis?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Vegetable pakora to go with it?’
‘Fine.’
‘How hot do you take your curry?’
‘I usually go for vindaloo.’
‘Have you tried Glasgow vindaloo?’
‘No. Is there a difference?’
‘I’ll put you down for mild, then.’
‘What?’
‘Just kidding.’
Charlie found a parking bay in the High Street in Renfrew and went into the Fish Bar to get a chicken supper. He was picking at it half-heartedly as he walked along Hairst Street when he saw Bert Pollock pull into a parking space on the other side of the street.
‘Fancy a chip?’ Charlie said, offering the supper to Bert as he crossed the road.
‘No thanks. I’ve already eaten.’ Bert eyed Charlie up and down. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so Charlie, you look like shit.’
‘I don’t feel that good,’ Charlie said, scrunching up the chicken supper and dropping it into the nearest bin.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’ll tell you inside.’
Bert went up to the bar and ordered two Lagavulins and two half pints of heavy which he carried across to the table where Charlie had installed himself.
‘I saw you on the telly last night,’ Bert said as he took the seat opposite. ‘I thought you handled the situation pretty well.’
‘I hated every minute of it. But things have taken a turn for the worse.’ Charlie threw back his whisky in one, then tipped the dregs into his beer. ‘The bastard has somehow got hold of Sue’s address and her phone number and he’s terrorising her.’
‘How did he manage to do that?’
‘Christ only knows!’ Charlie picked up his beer and glugged it down. ‘Same again?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
‘I’ve haven’t even touched mine yet,’ Bert protested, indicating the drinks on the table in front of him. He put a restraining hand on Charlie’s sleeve. ‘Getting smashed isn’t the answer, Charlie.’
‘What is?’
‘Take it easy.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Charlie said, shrugging his arm free. ‘I’m only going to get myself a fucking drink.’
‘You weren’t joking about Glasgow vindaloo,’ Malcolm said, wafting his hand in front of his mouth as Tony came back from the toilet and took his seat at the other side of the kitchen table.
‘I used to take vindaloo, but I must be getting old,’ Tony said. ‘These days I never go for anything hotter than Madras.’
‘I think I’ll join you next time. That was a lot hotter than anything they serve down south,’ Malcolm said, scooping up the last of the pilau rice with his fork. He hesitated with the fork half-way to his mouth. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, Tony?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Does Dino have a drink problem?’
Tony raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. Why?’
‘A couple of times in the office I thought I could smell whisky on his breath.’
Tony took a slow swig of beer. ‘Charlie likes his drink as much as the next man, but I’ve no reason to think he has a problem.’
Malcolm swallowed his forkful of rice. ‘I probably just imagined it.’
‘Are you ready for a wee malt?’ Tony asked, getting to his feet.
‘To quote Colin Renton,’ Malcolm said, making a dreadful attempt at a Scottish accent: “Haud me back, Jimmy!”’
Darkness had fallen by the time Harry Brady regained consciousness. When he came round slowly, he found himself slumped across his counter, his left arm and hand completely numb. Gingerly, he gripped the handle of the vice with his right hand and tried to unwind it, but it refused to budge. Taking a deep breath, he summoned all the strength he could muster and gave the handle a sharp tug. The stab of pain that pulsed through his left hand was excruciating and he almost passed out again, however, he had managed to move the handle a quarter turn. Heart pounding, he rested for a minute to recover, then he gripped the handle tightly and forced it through another quarter turn, the searing pain in his left hand easing slightly as the pressure slackened on his crushed fingers. Two more quarter turns – and he managed to free his hand. As he cradled his broken fingers to his chest, he noticed a piece of paper protruding from his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and crossed to the window where he could read the note by the light of the street lamp: Pay me a grand tomorrow – or we pay Sheila a visit.
Limping back across the room, he lifted the cassette recorder from the shelf underneath the counter. He rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The recording was crystal clear. Removing the tape from the machine one-handed, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘There’s no way you’re driving, Charlie.’ Standing outside James Davidson’s, Bert Pollock plucked Charlie’s car keys from his hand.
‘Give me back my keys,’ Charlie slurred, grabbing hold of Bert’s wrist. ‘I’m okay to drive.’
‘You are not okay.’
‘For God’s sake! It’s only a couple of miles.’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate without getting done for drink-driving. Why don’t you come back to my place and kip down for the night?’
‘I can’t. I’ve got a cat to feed.’
‘Then I’ll drop you off home. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so your car will be fine where it is. You can pick it up in the morning.’
Charlie heaved his shoulders. ‘I’m all right to drive.’
‘How many haufs was it?’
‘Not that many.’
‘Aye, right! Come on,’ Bert said, pocketing Charlie’s car keys. ‘I’m just across the road,’ he said, pointing as he led the way to his car.
Charlie’s slumped low in the passenger seat, his eyes never leaving the wing mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed as Bert drove the length of Paisley Road. When they got to Wright Street, Bert turned the corner and pulled up outside Charlie’s gate. He handed him his keys. ‘I’ve no idea what the solution is, Charlie, but one thing’s for sure – it doesn’t come in a bottle.’
Charlie unclipped his seat belt. ‘Thanks for the lift, Bert. I’ll give you a bell.’
Getting out of the car, Charlie stood on the pavement while Bert executed a U-turn and drove off. He looked up and down the street, seeing no one, before swaying his way up his steep drive. He hesitated at the front door with his house keys in his hand, then went round to the back of the building to check for any sign of a forced entry. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but nothing seemed to be amiss.
The house was cold and unwelcoming. He went through to the kitchen and was fixing himself a cheese sandwich when a clatter behind him made him spin round, bread knife poised. Blakey’s plaintive miaow drowned the bang of the cat flap closing behind him. Charlie put down the knife and picked up the purring animal, draping him over his shoulder. ‘How are you, my big boy?’ he said, scratching at the top of the cat’s bony head. Blakey started struggling to get down. ‘More interested in food than cuddles, as always,’ Charlie said, setting the cat back down on the floor. Opening the cupboard above the cooker, he took the nearest tin of cat food from the shelf and bent down to fork the contents into the bowl by the door, Blakey nudging his hand out of the way as he tried to get at the food. ‘You’ve got more of an appetite than I have, big man,’ Charlie sighed. Picking up his sandwich, he took a couple of bites, then dropped it into the pedal bin.
Going through to the lounge, Charlie poured himself a large belt of malt whisky and carried it up to his bedroom.
The pain in his hand had been replaced by numbness as Harry Brady trudged up Gibson Street, his broken fist cradled inside his jacket. He made his way up University Avenue and down the hill on the other side, as far as the Western Infirmary. When he went into A&E he saw there were more than twenty people waiting to be attended to. He went over to the reception desk.
‘What seems to be problem?’ the receptionist enquired.
Brady held up his hand. ‘I think I might have broken my fingers.’
‘How did that happen?
‘I was working in the garden when a rock fell on me and crushed my hand.’
‘Not a great idea, that – working in the garden in the dark.’
‘It wasn’t dark when it happened. My hand was trapped under the rock. It took me a long time to get it free.’
‘I need some particulars,’ she said, selecting a form from under the counter. ‘Name, address, GP, next of kin and religion.’
‘Religion?’
‘It’s on the form,’ she said, tapping the sheet of paper in front of her. ‘And please don’t say “Jedi Knight”,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘None’s fine. I just have to fill in the boxes.’
When the receptionist had completed the form, she indicated the row of blue chairs opposite. ‘Take a seat over there and wait till your name’s called.’