| |
CAL SPUN THE VINYL in his hands. Listening to music in his sparse office helped his concentration and thinking process, though his team’s disquiet meant he only increased the volume when they left of an evening and he continued to work.
‘Jack, you’ve looked over Mr McGurn’s case notes again. What grounds do we have for a not guilty?’
Jack attentively read his copy of the file. ‘Not great, boss. They have two witnesses, one being the victim and the other a bit dubious, by my reckoning. But they have photographs showing swollen and grazed knuckles on Mr McGurn from when he was lifted, forensics from the scene, and statements from the police interviews with McGurn after he was scooped two days after the assault while boarding a London-bound train at Glasgow Central. The second Crown witness puts our client at the scene and says he: “saw him smash the victim’s head on the urinal several times, stamped on him once he fell. He then walked away saying ‘I’ll be in yer shop next week have yer money ready’.” This will be a tough one.’
‘So there were only three of them in the public toilet?’ Cal placed the needle on his chosen record, Whitesnake’s ‘Here I go again. The decibel level led Jack to raise his head from the file.
‘Sorry, I’ll turn it down.’
‘His name’s, err, David Dawson. He says: “I entered the toilet and two men were already using the facilities. The person to my left walked behind me as I relieved myself and attacked the person on my right. I froze to the spot, frightened, as the bigger man I described earlier really started laying in to the older man, who was screaming in pain. There was blood everywhere. I’ll never pass through the West End again.” Aw, he’s traumatised.’
‘I hear you frequent the Thistle bar at lunchtimes. Have you heard any gossip?’ Cal asked.
Jack frowned, feeling his loyalty was being questioned by his new boss. ‘Your newfound friend Dixie never misses a trick. I haven’t, as it happens. Have you met Mr McGurn yet?’ he added, quickly changing the subject.
‘I have. Thoroughly unpleasant individual. Very intimidating. Grab your jacket and bring the file with you, we’re going to the crime scene.’ Cal was already out of his office door. ‘Ms Knox, we’re heading out. I’ll be back in time for my 4pm.’
‘Do I have to listen to that awful racket?’ she replied contemptuously, nodding towards the record player.
‘Feel free to change it to something more to your taste,’
***
‘Where’s McGurn?’ Peter peered through the mirrored glass partition of the taxi office, which was laid out with second-hand furniture, littered with job receipts and stacked with radio handsets. The only thing that seemed to be dust free was the Chubb safe situated in the corner adjacent to the manager’s desk.
Two staff members were sitting with their backs to the window, fielding calls and issuing tasks to drivers via the two-way radio. One of them removed the telephone headset and proceeded to apply moisturiser to her hands, still not raising her eyes to meet her newest employee. ‘He’s still away on extended leave. He should be back next week, I think. I’m the office manager, Peter. Any questions, come to me. You know that.’
‘Well, if you’re in charge, Michelle, don’t be giving me any more fares like the last one. Ah don’t give a shit what the others allow in their motors but I’m no’ driving that round the town. You got that?’ Peter spoke in a low tone, though the conversation was picked up by the handful of drivers idling around waiting for a fare or about to go on shift.
‘I’ve not got a clue what you’re on about Peter, but I’ll put you on the hospital run if that would be more suitable.’ Michelle was now making eye contact with Peter, studying him intently.
‘You do that,’ he replied, leaving the office. The silence followed him out of the door. A fellow driver was at his back as he made his way to his car, which was situated at the front of four identical vehicles outside the office.
‘Here, big man, whit was that aw aboot? I’m no’ long started and want tae steer clear of any bother,’ the younger man said.
‘Mind yer ain,’ Peter replied brusquely, closing the driver’s door behind him.
‘Taxi 1 to base. Get me an intelligence report on a Peter Mulheron, new start at A-Cabs. IC1, approx. six foot four, brown short hair, grumpy bastard. Mibbae potential informer. Dig up some dirt I can use. I’m heading for a couple of hours kip. I’ll do the nightshift, see what they’re up to then.’
The young driver returned the small handset to his inside pocket, checked his mirrors again for prying eyes then drove off, giving Peter a friendly wave as he passed.
Taxiing was not Peter’s thing. He preferred to be active, using his hands, creating, not stuck behind a wheel for up to thirteen hours a day. In the past three weeks, he had managed to clear his provident cheque debt and put some decent food on the table, so all was not bad. He hated working for Quinn and, worst of all, people knowing that he did. The risk of being caught up in the illegal activity that might be emanating from the taxi office made him determined to find some other line of work if possible. He’d hoped to get some parts for his car, book the boat for Donegal for the holidays and give the kids some money for new gear. That’s the plan, he thought. No need to sign off the dole just yet. I will do six months, tops.
He had just spent the morning driving some wannabe gangster around four housing schemes in Paisley delivering what he assumed were drugs and lifting money. Once was enough, he thought. That wouldn’t be happening again.
***
‘Right, Jack.’ Cal spoke through his scarf, the pungent smell of stale urine making him boak. ‘There’s something not quite right with his statement.’
The Victorian public toilets were dark and unwelcoming. A recent coat of paint did nothing to eradicate the repellent odours emitting from the urinals. White tiles remained stained with the victims’ blood, and the edge of a urinal showing what seemed to be the point of vicious impact. The area’s reputation ensured only the bravest, the most desperate, or drunkest male would risk their life and utilise the facilities on offer.
‘Can’t see anything, boss. Seems straightforward.’
‘Think about it.’ Cal walked slowly, recreating the scene. ‘You enter a toilet, there’s already two guys pissing here at the urinals. And you go and stand in between them? That would not happen, Jack, it’s not natural.’ Cal scanned the area looking for answers. ‘Any guy would just go to one of those empty cubicles, would they not?’
He pushed open the wooden cubicle door revealing magnolia-painted skimmed surfaces, the remnants of forensic blue dust still visible on the walls and the heavily stained toilet.
‘Ye may have something. I’ll go over Dawson’s statement again.’
‘We need the full forensic report – that’s where they’ve left a hole. I guarantee it. First day of trial is tomorrow. There’s a chance, due to the severity of the assault, that the sheriff may refer the case to the high court, which wouldn’t be good for us. So, no pressure with this one.’
‘I’ll get onto it. Now can we get out of this rancid shithole?’
Emerging from the dimly-lit basement, their eyes squinted to adjust to the bright afternoon sun as they both inhaled deep breaths of fresh air.
‘So, you head back, Jack, and trawl the file,’ Cal said. ‘I’ll be in shortly. If I miss you, leave what you’ve found on my desk.’
He had spotted Suzie outside her salon directly across from the public toilets, helping an elderly customer into a taxi. Her elegance dazzled in the sunshine; her long dark hair shimmering as it flowed over petite shoulders, complementing her figure-hugging red dress.
‘Well, how are you, Miss McGrath?’ he asked. They were comfortable enough to greet each other with a kiss. ‘I’ve not seen you for about eight hours.’ He smirked cheekily.
‘I’m fine, Mr Lynch. I thought I left quietly. Your snoring was a sure sign you were sleeping,’ she retorted, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Should I be worried about you leaving a public toilet with another man? Anything you wish to share?’
‘Just a case I’m working on for your loving father.’ His eyes diverted to Quinn’s office window.
‘Charge him plenty. Interesting case, is it?’ she asked, walking swiftly towards her shop door.
Cal ogled her hour-glass figure. ‘One of his employees is up for serious assault. Nothing exciting.’
‘Tell me more,’ she teased, clutching his waist. ‘Guilty or squeaky clean?’
‘You never did tell me why you don’t get on with your daddy. Oh, you fancy a hot date Friday next week? There’s a special Mass at St Mary’s Chapel. The first invite I’ve received to anything since I arrived in this lovely town,’ he said excitedly.
‘Don’t get too carried away – all local businesses are invited. And yes, I will accompany you. You’d better get your rear end to confession beforehand.’
‘Fancy dinner this Saturday evening? That lovely Italian where you got me drunk on red wine and malt whiskey?’
‘Go on then, pick me up at seven. You can tell me all about your court case. I have to go, Mrs Curtis might be frying under the dryer. And ... he’s a violent scumbag, that’s why I don’t have anything to do with him.’
***
Peter tried to block out the mundane surroundings of the dole office. In a bid to avoid the embarrassment of meeting commuters heading to their shops and offices, for the last three years, he had always arrived at Smithill Street by 9am for signing on. Though he had worked from the age of fourteen and was clearly due every penny, the indignity of being on the bru, and the personal self-loathing he felt for failing to provide for his family, was something he couldn’t eradicate.
High grey walls peppered with advisory posters that no one paid a blind bit of attention to, stained blue plastic chairs screwed to the floor, vagrants, drunks and the disenfranchised, led him to daydream of better times until his number was called to sign and he could escape back to the comparative reality of the street and take a wander along the riverbank. There he found some peace watching the heron guard its territory along the River Cart, it slim grey neck darting as it looked for prey.
‘Mr Mulheron, you’re here to present yourself for unemployment benefit. Are you actively seeking employment?’ The officious staff member enquired from behind the security glass as she studied Peter’s dole card.
‘Every fortnight, Mrs Jacobs, you ask me that and the answer is always the same – I’m currently available for, and actively seeking, employment. Dying to work.’ He laughed, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. The charade was becoming tiresome but he knew he would be out soon enough.
She lifted her eyes toward the glass, the first time they had met his in three years. ‘Mr Mulheron, go to room two, please. My colleague would like to discuss your claim.’
‘Eh, what’s this all about?’
Her outstretched hand directed him to a door at the rear of the office.
Peter entered the room as two individuals arrived via a door on the other side of an excessively wide table. He assumed the width of the furniture provided a safety buffer for staff being subject to attack by their disgruntled clientele. The large red panic button added to the unreceptive environment.
‘Mr Mulheron, take a seat, please.’ The staff member had his creased shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie hung untidily around his neck, protruding over his inflated waist.
‘What’s the problem?’ Peter enquired, trying to sound assertive while eyeballing the untidy staff member and his female colleague. She seemed the meeker of the two; her head was bowed and her stare fixed on a closed brown file. If things got bad for him, he would concentrate on her.
‘Mr Mulheron, just a couple of cross-checks. You reside at 29 George Street and are currently claiming unemployment benefit?’ The man’s nasal voice was monotonous, something he had clearly worked on no doubt to appear as bureaucratic and impervious as possible.
‘Correct. Now what’s the problem?’
Mr Untidy opened a small brown file and sighed. ‘Mr Mulheron, we have evidence that you have been participating in paid employment while still claiming benefit from the state which, as we believe you are working, is not due to you. If you wish, I can show you photographic evidence of you engaged in paid employment with a company called A-Cabs Limited.’
Caught red-handed, Peter fought to control his rising temper. ‘Ye know, Ah’ve done some shitty jobs in my time, but Ah couldnae do yours. How’d you sleep at night?’ He glanced at the petite woman to garner sympathy, but her eyes remained fixed on the pictures being placed on the Formica table.
Mr Untidy continued, ‘Mr Mulheron, we believe you have been working for at least four months. Pending an investigation and a further meeting, your benefits are suspended. This process may take some time to complete. Any subsequent benefits due to you will be minus the sum owed to the state for that four-month period. We will, of course, allow this to be repaid over a longer period of time, should you wish that to be the case. You do have the option to cease claiming benefit and continuing in your current paid employment.’
‘How very fucking kind of you.’ Still seated, Peter arched across the table, his large intimidating frame leading the colleagues to lean slowly back in their chairs. ‘Ye know, I’ve worked longer than you’ve probably been alive, ya wee prick. I’ll keep the small bit of dignity that you lot can’t take off me, and bid you fuckers goodbye. Send me a letter telling me what you’re doing.’ He rose swiftly and turned to leave the room.
‘There is another option.’ The diminutive woman finally spoke in a soft voice.
‘Sit down, Peter. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Henshaw.’
Peter looked on incredulously as the staff door closed; clearly Mr Untidy was not required at this stage.
She quickly flashed her warrant card, just long enough for Peter to catch the words Serious Crime Squad. She glanced at the chair, her eyes taking control. Peter followed her instruction, while continuing to maintain eye contact.
‘We’ve been watching your employer for the last eighteen months. We believe – we know – Eddie Quinn is the major player in the procurement and distribution of Class A drugs in Paisley and beyond. Probably feeding the whole of the west of Scotland.’ Clasping her hands, it was now her turn to lean across the desk. ‘We want to put him away for a long time, but we need help.’
Peter folded his arms across his chest and laughed nervously. ‘Eh? Naw, naw, no way. Are ye serious? Touting? That’s a death wish around here. Anyway, I know fuck all. Seriously, are you mental? No thanks, detective I’ll take the hit from that other mob and my weans might starve, but at least we’ll have all our limbs.’
‘Peter, I don’t think you understand. The way I see it, you have just been done by the social, bang to rights. If you don’t go back to work for Quinn just as we are about to turn him over, who do you think his first suspicions will fall on? Yes, you. And if they don’t, we’ll make sure it somehow makes its way into the court papers to steer his henchmen in your direction.’
‘You bitch! What the fuck did I do to deserve this?’
‘Nothing. Wrong place, wrong time. You seem like a decent bloke, a family man, just trying to get by, and you’re somebody we think we can trust.’ She lowered her voice to garner his support. ‘Look, we’re nearly there. We just need eyes and ears in the taxi office to pick up any additional intel, just small snippets, conversations about where the deliveries are going. If you help me out, I’ll sort things this end with the social and make sure no one suspects you.’
‘I’m off.’ Peter rose again to leave.
‘I’ll need an answer within the next twenty-four hours. Here’s my card. Call me direct,’ she said confidently, her bleached-blonde hair falling over her sharp features. ‘Bye.’
He slammed the door shut and the partition walls reverberated. ‘This is fucking nonsense. I don’t know anything, honestly.’ He pleaded for sympathy as he retook his seat.
‘Look, Peter, we know you don’t like what he does. We’re aware you had an argument about the smack deliveries. We just need a little bit more to shut his operation down for good. However, we want the whole distribution network, from where it’s coming in from to the two-bit dealers in the schemes. All I’m asking is that you spend a bit of time round the office and get back on the main run. I’ll check in with you every now and then for anything you may have picked up. That okay?’
‘And you’ll sort out this lot?’ Peter tossed his head towards the door.
‘Yes, no problem,’ Henshaw asserted.
‘I want you to help my boy, Michael, get an apprenticeship somewhere, anywhere out of Paisley. You must have contacts in the Merchant Navy or with a contractor somewhere. No British Army. If that’s not agreed, yer getting fuck all.’
‘After the info you provide is verified I’ll sort it, guaranteed. You will still receive a letter advising that your benefits are suspended pending investigation but just ignore that, moan about it. We don’t know how far Quinn’s network stretches, so everything is very tight. I’ll be in touch. Nevertheless – anything at all, call me. Oh, and slam the door on the way out.’