In the black Lancia, Tony Daly sat beside someone he’d never seen before tonight. The two in the front were strangers as well. All of them acted as if he wasn’t there, ignoring him when he spoke to them. At the lights at Charing Cross, he’d tried to get out and got punched in the stomach for his efforts. Now, strong hands pinned him to the seat and bile tasting of vanilla and molasses rose in his throat.
He’d expected to see Lachie and Rutherford at the City Chambers but there was no sign of them. As so often happened, the meeting went on longer than planned and Daly assumed the vehicle with the door open was a courtesy car laid on by the council to take him home. Too late he realised his mistake.
The driver turned right into Kelvin Way and carried on through Kelvingrove Park towards University Avenue. Even at this hour, cars lined either side. Daly glanced at one of his captors and in the harsh streetlight, saw the face of a killer and wanted to be sick.
They took a left into the darkened car park, behind Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery. A fresh stab of terror ran through him.
His voice trembled. ‘Why’re we here?’
His question went unanswered. The men got out, rubbing their hands together against the freezing air and shared cigarettes. Daly heard them talking. Their conversation was casual. None mentioned the petrified man in the back of the car or the awful thing they were about to do. One of them joked and the others laughed, while behind them, the ghostly outline of Glasgow University’s tower pointed to a black sky.
They weren’t in a hurry.
An hour later, the leader crushed the last of his smokes into the ground with the heel of his foot and barked an order. ‘Let’s do it. And remember: no marks.’
Daly saw them approach the car and felt warmth between his thighs. Without warning, his head was yanked back and thick fingers forced his mouth open. The guy in the front screwed the top off a bottle of whisky, straddled the seats until he was almost on top of him and poured the contents down Tony Daly’s throat. Daly gagged and retched and struggled to escape. He couldn’t breathe. Alcohol soaked his clothes.
The councillor pleaded for his life. He spluttered half-formed words and his eyes filled with whisky tears. He begged them. ‘Please. Ple... I’ll do… Tell, Sean. Tell him I…’
A choking fit brought temporary relief. His tormentors waited for it to pass – they didn’t want him dead. Not yet.
Again, the gangsters prised their victim’s lips apart and kept going. When the first bottle was empty a second took its place.
The driver started the car, drove along Kelvin Way and on to the heart of the West End. They crossed a deserted Great Western Road and pulled into the kerb close to the bridge on Queen Margaret Drive. From the boot, the thug who’d emptied the whisky down the councillor’s throat got a length of rope that smelled like tar and ended in a noose. Daly was dragged from the car, moaning, and carried the few steps to the bridge just as a couple appeared. The girl’s head rested against her boyfriend’s shoulder; he whispered and she smiled.
Daly’s persecutors threw their arms round him, pretending he was a pal who’d overdone the bevy. A hand pressed against his mouth prevented him from calling out, while another clapped his back in a show of support.
‘You’re all right. No problem. We’ll get you home.’
An unnecessary performance; the lovers were blind to everything but each other. Daly tried to focus and couldn’t. He knew he was going to die. In a final futile attempt to save himself he slurred and blubbered.
‘I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Tell Sean I’ll…Don’t…’
Nobody was listening. They tied the rope to a lamp post and put the noose round his neck; he slumped, exhausted and defeated, against the wall, crying like a lost child. When they lifted him and rolled him over the concrete parapet, he screamed.
The rope tightened and the scream died.
Sean Rafferty was miles away, playing cards and winning, when Tony Daly went off the Queen Margaret Bridge.
But the message had been sent. It remained to be seen who heeded it.
At one o’clock in the morning the temperatures dived and, for the first time since the New Year, rain became snow. For an hour it melted and vanished but, around two-thirty, it started to gather. By five, it was inches deep, coming down thick and fast. Glasgow was in for another day of train cancellations and traffic jams.
In the hours after dawn, the Kelvin Walkway was deserted. The Walkway was one of the city’s best kept secrets. This early, the jogger had it to himself. Sometimes, especially in summer, he went as far as Milngavie. Today he didn’t consider it. Beyond Maryhill, the narrow, muddy single-track would be rutted hard and dangerous. Even on the flat the soles of his shoes struggled to find traction. His friends already thought he was crazy. If they could see him now he would never live it down. They didn’t understand what it was to feel you were the only person on the planet. Staying fit they got but missed the most important parts. The beauty. The peace.
He crossed the river behind the Botanic Gardens and headed into woodland just as the snow cleared. His footsteps padding the ground and the rasp of his breathing as cold air burned his lungs were the only sounds, apart from the rushing of the swollen river. The remains of the North Woodside Flint Mill distracted him; he slipped, almost fell, and decided that, however much he loved it, in the conditions, what he was doing wasn’t wise. Tranquillity was one thing; a broken leg was something else. The chances of being found soon weren’t good. He would freeze.
A bend in the path brought him in sight of the Queen Margaret Bridge.
The body hung motionless from the rope. Ridiculously, snow patched its head like a hat and lay on the shoulders like white epaulets. The face was grey. Grey and dead.