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McGURN SAT IN HIS boss’s chair drawing on a roll-up, the smoke nipping his eyes as he spoke on the phone. ‘Right, right, aye, aw right, okay. Straight away, no problem, aye.’
The salubrious room was now looking very sparse. The police had raided the office and stripped the place bare. The antique furniture and the tattered book sitting on Quinn’s desk were the last remnants of the epicentre of the businessman’s empire.
McGurn and Nails had spent the previous evening and early morning reconnoitring the various outlets and contacts to gauge the scale of the raid. It was standard procedure when any associate was lifted or a business targeted by the law, though on this occasion things were edgier as the boss had been taken.
‘There’s a tout. They want us tae pinpoint who it is,’ he said, nudging his head towards the phone. ‘And quick.’
‘Ah’ve got ma suspects,’ replied Nails, frowning maliciously.
‘Everything’s shut down ’til we’re ordered different. Nae movement. Cops know too much, they think. Lifted too many people for it jist tae piss the boss off.’
***
Cal had dropped in on Suzie to pass on the news. Her continual questioning had unsettled him slightly. You’d have thought she actually cared about her estranged father as the interrogative bombardment went on for what seemed like an eternity.
‘Was it just him? What did they say? The other businesses – how many? How many police? Local police?’ It highlighted even more her empathic nature, he thought.
Cal had received the phone call to attend Stewart Street Police Station in Glasgow at 7pm. This was an added dimension to what promised to be an intriguing session. Either they thought Mill Street was too close to Quinn’s area of operation and riddled with his people, or they felt he was a security risk. Maybe it was manipulation of the media once it was leaked – ‘Look, this case is different. We had to hold him elsewhere. He’s a big fish.’
Cal met McGurn at 6pm in the greasy spoon adjacent to Gilmour Street train station. The enforcer greedily scoffed a full Scottish breakfast as he talked, mouth full or empty, which almost made Cal throw up as he sipped on a cup of lukewarm instant coffee.
‘They took the lot – files, letters, papers, phone numbers, inland revenue shite, accounts, even the fuckin’ photies aff the walls.’
Cal wrote as he spoke, not interrupting the flow. McGurn clearly had experience of debriefs given the level of detail and description he was able to offer.
‘Ten uniform, five of them carrying short arms, another six in civvies and two fuckin riot vans sitting on the street. All in bulletproof vests, led by a wee blonde English bitch – sorry, nae offence but you know what Ah mean. No’ seen her before. They were very cocky, confident. Mr Quinn said fuck all, just said tae call you when the time was right.’
Cal looked up. ‘Why were you not taken in? Just you and the big reception fella left standing?’
McGurn smirked. ‘That’s easy, they’ll be looking at a time when I was on remand, Ah reckon. As for Nails, if they’ve done their hamework they’ll know he’s as thick as fuck and wouldn’t be part of anything, if you know what I mean. Mr Quinn trusts his judgement, likes having him around. That why he’s here, and that’s all that matters.’
Cal chewed on his fountain pen as he processed the information. ‘What do you mean, Franny – they seemed, confident?’
McGurn stopped eating and looked directly at him, his stony eyes making Cal shiver involuntarily.
‘Look, oor office had been turned over before for fuck all, just harassment. Today was different. They knew wit they were looking for, Ah’m tellin ye. Invoice and payment files hoovered straight away, and the pictures, then oot the door. Everything else they lifted when they came tae it. Once they had they things, the wee blonde bird and her big-nosed skinny sidekick were all smiles, more relaxed and cocky as fuck. Mr Quinn was scooped there and then. She radioed, must have been the nod ‘tae raid the taxi office. Pulling cabs aff the road they were, turning the site security head office over. Think aboot twenty-six bodies pulled in total, so big operation fur them.’
Cal glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, that’s all very helpful. Stay in touch. I’m going to Stewart Street now. I can’t represent everyone, but let me know where they’re all being held.’
‘Nae bother, maist will be oot by the morning. You just make sure the boss is one of them, understand?’ he hissed in Cal’s ear menacingly.
Cal made his way to the Stewart Street front desk. The building resembled every other soulless station he had visited: prefabricated dull concrete, blue signage and plastic Formica seats ingrained with visitors’ initials and burned with cigarettes.
‘Take a seat. They’ll be with you in a minute sir.’ Another familiar feature: the rotund, ageing desk sergeant counting the days until retirement.
‘Mr Lynch, good evening. This way, please.’
Cal raised his head from his notes to see a blonde woman standing with her back to the door, smiling as their eyes met.
‘DCI Nicki Henshaw, Serious Crime Squad.’ She stretched out her hand, her firm grip catching Cal by surprise.
‘I’m sure this could have been conducted in Paisley,’ he responded abruptly, glancing quickly at her body. She looked very trim and clearly took care of herself. The fitted suit jacket was struggling to hide the shoulder holster and automatic handgun.
‘We decide where and when, Mr Lynch.’
‘I will be meeting my client prior to any interview,’ he remarked, making his way down the narrow corridor. It was an early marker, something he’d used on previous occasions to dictate the flow of the process.
‘Of course you will. Straight down the corridor, last door on the right. Your man is waiting for you.’
Her accent was south London, Cal thought. He turned to face her. ‘You mentioned Suzie McGrath at Mill Street earlier. Care to expand? Have you been following me?’
‘Mr Lynch, do you think I’m paid to look good and flutter my lashes to show off these lovely blue fucking eyes? I know everything about your client, his estranged daughter and you,’ she added tellingly. ‘So please, no feigned surprise. You’ve got ten minutes, then we start.’
Quinn raised his hand as Cal entered the sparse interview room. He was sitting calmly at the table in an open-neck shirt, his sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows exposing his thick forearms. ‘Nice way to spend your Friday evening, Mr Lynch. Please make yourself at home,’ he said despondently, pointing towards the plastic chair. ‘Quite a wee show they put on. You spoke to Francis?’
‘Yes, he gave me chapter and verse on the raids across your business portfolio. Have they spoken to you?’
‘Who the cops? They know the craic. I wouldn’t say a word without a brief.’ Quinn tapped his thick fingers impatiently on the table, his eyes on firmly on his lawyer. ‘So your about to tell me you have a plan to get me out a’ here?’
Cal opened his leather case and read over the notes from his earlier meeting. ‘We’ll listen to their allegations. I’ll provide a written statement which you will read out. After which you do not answer any further questions,’ he said firmly.
‘Well, let’s see what they throw at me. I might want some fun with them – make up for being stuck in this dump.’
‘Anything you’d like to share with me. Why the raid on all your business interests by the Serious Crime Squad?’ Cal asked almost dismissively, still mulling over his paperwork.
Quinn started to circle the room, stretching his arms above his head and tidying his appearance in the large smoked-glass window. ‘Must be chasing somebody big down south and my name’s popped up. They’ve done a history check and they’ve decided to turn me over.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
Cal gripped his pen and looked directly at Quinn. ‘Tell me about your history, then. That may help with how this will go.’
Quinn sneered. ‘C’mon, you saying you’ve no’ been nosey? Hate these places. Been questioned in every shithole in the West of Scotland and never found guilty of anything.’
Cal thought of Dixie’s remarks about the network Quinn had in place – police, judiciary, paid council officers and criminals providing him with information and ensuring he stayed two steps ahead of the law. Until now.
‘Granted, I was a bad boy in my youth but I’m legit. All my businesses are legit,’ Quinn stressed.
Cal pressed again, hoping for a glimpse of Quinn’s past. ‘Your preceding years – why would they be interested? Were you involved in any rackets, anything serious, assaults? It may help me build a picture.’
‘Nothing that Serious Crime Squad should be interested in. I was a bit like Francis, aggressive, determined, think later.’ Still walking the room, Quinn’s hands motioned with every step.
‘So no cases, no trials?’ Cal held his voice level while inside he could feel his emotions rising.
Quinn stopped pacing and placed his hands on the table, leaning towards him. ‘There was one,’ he said slowly. ‘As I told you ... never guilty.’
‘Mr Quinn, take a seat. We’ll get started.’ DCI Henshaw walked briskly to the table, sat down and was joined by her colleague, the big-nosed one McGurn had described earlier. Henshaw looked over the paper file in silence as her colleague organised his pens and notepad.
‘So, Mr Quinn. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Henshaw and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Miller. We’re both from the Serious Crime Squad. You’ve been brought in to help us with our enquiries into a number of serious matters.’ She closed the file, lifted her head and looked directly at Quinn, slowly glanced at Cal and returned her glare to Quinn. ‘So, Eddie – can I call you Eddie?’
Quinn nodded, leaning forward in the chair his face within touching distance of his focused interrogator. He had been in a similar situation on many occasions previously and was experienced with the routine which they usually followed. This latest adversity was a challenge but nothing he was overly concerned about.
‘I’ve spent a lot of taxpayer’s money watching you for the last eighteen months. You’re good, elusive, very slippery. You cover your tracks very well.’
‘Whit a waste, I hope ye have to pay it all back,’ Quinn sniggered, maintaining eye contact.
‘Oh, not to worry, there’s always an Achilles heel isn’t there. Once I found that I knew I could sleep easy.’ Henshaw was looking to put Quinn on the back foot from the outset, unnerve him with her confidence and what may be coming his way during the course of his interrogation.
‘DCI Henshaw, my client has been in your custody for nearly five hours. You have prevented him going about his lawful business and done untold damage to his reputation, for which we will be seeking recompense. I’ve already seen headlines in the Glasgow Evening Times as I left Central Station. I wonder how they managed to get the news of Mr Quinn’s detention so quickly?’ Cal was positioning himself well as the purported legal protector of his client.
‘Bloody journalists, Mr Lynch. It never came from my office. But hey, Eddie here is a big fish in these parts. Isn’t that right Eddie?’ Henshaw clasped her hands and again looked directly at Quinn. ‘Okay, so as you know we removed the accounts for four of your businesses. Err, let’s see,’ she stalled looking at her file, ‘A-Security, A-Cabs, A-Construction and A-Holidays. Quite a nice empire you have, Eddie.’
‘Amazing what hard work does for ye. Try it sometime,’ Quinn snapped back, sarcastically.
‘So, we believe what we’ll find in your books is a web of transactions, cash being moved from each arm, large deposits from surprisingly average outlays.’
‘DCI, this is very interesting but it does not justify the level of intrusion for my client and being held for so long in your custody,’ Cal objected.
Henshaw continued to glare at Quinn while responding sharply to Cal’s interruption. ‘I’ve twenty-four hours, Mr Lynch, as you know. And if I go for an extension I’ll get it. We’re here for the long haul, so get comfortable.’
She stood up and put her hands in her trouser pockets as she slowly walked towards the large smoked-glass mirror. She leaned her back against the wall and faced the table. ‘You see, Eddie, we’ve got your accountant telling us he cooked the books on your say so. But that’s not enough to put you away is it?’ she said, almost in a whisper. She tapped her knuckles on the glass. ‘We have my good friend Margaretta Pisano at Interpol very interested in our Eddie, and telling us they believe you’re heavily involved in organised crime. Say hello, Margaretta.’
A gentle knock came from behind the glass.
‘She’s very much a lady, unless she’s on the grappa.’ Henshaw laughed and waved. ‘But Eddie, you’re good, very good in fact. So all that wasn’t enough. We needed the Achilles heel, didn’t we?’
Returning to the chair, she opened her file again. ‘For the record, DS Miller, I’m showing Mr Quinn items P1, P2, P3, and P4. Do you recognise these pictures?’
Quinn laughed noisily and nudged Cal with his elbow. ‘You looking at this? Jeezo, blondie, I hope you have something better than this pish. I was hoping to at least get an evening meal in here but it looks like me and Cal will be eating at my expense in that wee Italian across from Central. You seriously questioning me ’bout giving to charity?’
‘Hmm. The pictures show your very generous donations to a pensioners’ charity, an approved school and two local amateur football teams?’ Henshaw enquired.
‘Once you’ve made a bit, it’s always good to give something back. What was the last good deed you done for folk – have a lie in?’ Quinn snapped.
‘I’ll come back to these lovely photos. However, they tell me you’ve never been charged with an offence in what ... over twenty years? And were only charged once with murder when you were aged...’ she paused, looking at her notes, ‘eighteen ... found not proven after a very short trial with witnesses developing amnesia.’
Cal had warned his client to say nothing but he hoped the current line of questioning would play out.
‘That wis a long time ago. Mibbae I was innocent, Henshaw,’ Quinn barked, leaning back in the chair. ‘Look, stop arsing about and get on with this – yer pissing me off now.’
‘A young father chased and stabbed to death in a Glasgow tenement close and robbed of a couple of pounds. His lifeless body found at the back door. Trying to escape his assailant, the police notes say.’ Henshaw tutted, shaking her head in disapproval.
Quinn moved agitatedly in the chair. ‘Not guilty, for fuck’s sake. How many times do your mob need to hear that? Not fucking guilty of killing that man.’ He nodded at Cal, who seemed to be in a trance, seeking his intervention.
‘DCI, you have yet to provide any basis for holding my client and we are now treating this as police intimidation. I instruct my client again not to answer any further questions,’ Cal stated.
Henshaw dismissed his comments with a wave of her hand. ‘These pictures, Eddie. Anything look familiar? Do you see a pattern here?’ She pointed a manicured finger at the photographs.
‘Aye, they’re all looking very happy with the donation my company has given them.’
‘Of course they are. Who wouldn’t be happy receiving a new eighteen-seater minibus? Four brand new buses?’ she asked.
‘Over four fucking financial years,’ Quinn responded, glancing towards the ceiling and rubbing his pale skin.
‘Let’s take a break,’ Henshaw stated suddenly. Miller glanced at his boss in surprise. ‘DS Miller, can you get our visitors a cup of our finest coffee? We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.’
Miller followed his colleague along the corridor. ‘Why the break? You had him rattled,’ he whispered in frustration.
‘Yep, but his wee brain will be doing somersaults wondering how much we know. And the lawyer will be pulling his hair out because his client can’t hold his tongue. Have the TV and video in there when we go back in,’ she responded confidently.
***
McGurn scribbled quickly onto the writing pad while his colleague Nails paced the floor.
‘That’s a right few hours they’ve had him in already. I thought he’d be oot by now.’
‘Calm down, Nails. The sharp lawyer is with him. Look, this list of names – they’ve been let oot. Get them in. Find oot whit they said, whit they were asked and judge how shifty they are. Might be a tout among them. I’m expecting a phone call.’ McGurn studied the notes within a black notebook. ‘The boss left orders if he was scooped ... different stages of actions based on how long he’s been in for questioning.’
Nails looked through the list of names as he continued to walk the office floor. ‘Naw, Ah don’t think any of them would open their mouths even if they knew anything. I’ll get them in and rattle them anyway. Ah’ve got ma’ own thoughts of who’s been mouthing aff.’
‘Need it done the night, mate. They’ll be another batch out the morra.’
The noise of the ringing phone reverberated around the empty office. McGurn placed his thick finger on his lips bringing his colleague’s walkabout to a halt. ‘Yes... Stage two,’ McGurn spoke quietly as he scanned the notebook. ‘Okay, consider it done.’
‘Whit now?’ Nails was back to wearing out the carpet, chewing at his fingers as he went.
‘Would you stop biting yer nails, ya manky fucker. We’ve tae book hotel rooms in Glasgow, cash, names of two hotels needed at different locations, as soon as. Don’t know what the fuck that’s about.’
Nails studied his nail cutting, sniffed it, and placed it with his collection in the small box he kept in his three-quarter-length leather jacket.
‘Manky bastard,’ McGurn muttered to himself.
‘Who's making the phone calls?’ Nails enquired.
‘Eh?’
‘The calls. Who is it? The boss is in the nick, so who’s calling?’
‘Must be the boss’s boss. Fuck knows,’ McGurn replied, shaking his head.
***
Quinn sipped on the tepid coffee, grimacing as the bitter taste of the thick mixture hit his tongue. The harsh fluorescent lighting was beginning to play havoc with his eyes and the blonde cop was getting under his skin.
‘Please follow my advice, Mr Quinn, and answer no comment,’ Cal said.
‘They’ve nothing. Just a fishing trip, that’s all. Told you Ah’m legit. Ah’m more worried about my businesses being shut down.’ He rubbed his forehead anxiously.
Cal continued to scribble on his pad, planning for the next session and hoping for a weakness to emerge in the police case that he could utilise and build around in the weeks ahead. The DCI seemed very confident and in total control which unnerved him slightly, causing his mind to race as he tried to figure out her next move and, more importantly, his own.
Nicki Henshaw had spent the break going over Miller’s notes, gathering her thoughts and receiving feedback from the colleagues who were observing proceedings through the two-way mirror. They had all felt Quinn was rattled and she was premature in cutting the interview short. Her experience had allowed her to plan every session and wait for triggers at various stages in the process. Once complete, she would have a strong case to proceed with either charges or nailed a confession.
Henshaw’s youthful looks belied her thirty years as a dedicated officer. Having lost her marriage due to her obsession with cracking cases aligned with her reluctance to settle down and start a family, meant more time dedicated to putting people behind bars. She had been transferred to Serious Crime after six years undercover in London, where she’d gathered evidence, infiltrated and set up anarchist, left-wing environmental protestors, drug barons and the National Front. Her clandestine career had ended abruptly after her real identity was compromised following a break-in at the Met and a price was put on her head. Now she worked in the shadows, but she was equally effective and dedicated to putting criminals behind bars.
She entered the room followed by DS Miller, who was pushing a large television, the wheels screeching with every movement. ‘We ready to continue, Mr Quinn, Mr Lynch?’ she enquired, glancing at both while standing over the table.
‘Please. We want this cleared up as soon as possible,’ Cal responded, lamely.
Henshaw continued walking slowly and leaned against the wall, looking at her file. Miller took his seat and fiddled with his tie while studying Cal’s dapper appearance and preparing to take notes, setting out his various pens neatly in front of him.
‘So where were we? Oh yes, you were telling us all about how innocent of any wrongdoing you’ve always been.’ Henshaw smirked at Quinn, her eyes focused. ‘I want to go back again. That murder you dodged, how did you manage that?’
Cal raised his head. He really should interject but he wanted to hear more.
‘In the name of fuck, how many times do you have to be told? Not guilty.’ Quinn’s voice was raised, exasperated by the past being dragged up again.
‘Not Proven, slight difference I’d say, Eddie. That unique option Scottish juries have.’ She moved back towards the table and sat directly opposite Quinn, her arms folded across her chest as she leaned towards him. Her eyes darted at Cal.
‘You see, I’ve been looking into that case. Family man waiting for a bus after a night out. An argument over a taxi ensues. A young thug chases him up a close and stabs him to death for a couple of pounds. He doesn’t even rob him of all his cash. The guy’s found a few hours later with multiple stab wounds and six one-pound notes, believed to be his Glasgow Fair holiday pay, stuffed in his mouth.’
Cal sipped the lukewarm water as he felt beads of sweat forming on his skin and running down his spine. His eyes were firmly on Henshaw but his mind drifted.
His mother had spent the day packing clothes in their two large wooden suitcases while Cal studied a book from the library all about the Isle of Arran. It was their first-ever holiday. Dad was due in any minute, having worked extra hours all month to pay for it. He needed a good rest, he said.
Cal had compiled a list of interesting places to visit and facts about the island. He couldn’t decide whether to share them with his dad when he came home, or wait for their train journey from Central Station the next morning. Dad would no doubt be tired after a hard shift at the Beardmore Forge Iron works, but the train would be jammed and noisy with excited children running about.
‘You see, I’ve a wee theory, Eddie. Your bosses ensured you would walk on that charge because they need a mad bastard like you to do their dirty work. And, because they kept you out of jail, you’re owned. And here we are many years later and you’re the kingpin. The top man,’
Quinn slammed the table and looked at Cal for support. ‘In the name of Christ, Lynch, shut her up, will ye?’
‘DCI Henshaw ... I’ Cal stuttered. ‘I will be submitting a written complaint to your superiors regarding my client’s treatment. Either charge him or we leave. He has assisted you with your enquiries. You have a further – what – eight hours left to hold him? Which would clearly be futile, so please get to the point or we walk.’
Henshaw smirked at Cal and glanced at Miller, who opened a thick folder and flicked through the pages for what seemed like an eternity. ‘Mr Quinn, I would like to take you through some documentation I have here. Evidence reference P5, P6, & P7,’ he said in a soft low voice. His accent was from the south but less harsh than his colleague. His manner and his body language were also less aggressive.
‘Mr Quinn, this account shows payment to A1 Holiday Bookings Ltd for a series of return bus trips for various organisations to travel to Spain. Would you concur?’ Miller pointed Quinn towards the paperwork like a schoolteacher.
‘Yes, that looks legit,’ Quinn responded, welcoming the interaction with Miller.
‘And err ... and this, Mr Quinn, the manifest from the boat crossings for the minibuses. This err... corresponds with the bookings, yes?’
‘It looks that way, yes.’
‘And all via the port of Dover, with two separate trips through Portsmouth. Mr Quinn, this other file I have here shows that A1 Securities Ltd or A1 Cabs Ltd paid your other company for the fares of the groups. Would that be right?’ Miller asked.
‘Well, the groups would collect the money from their members and drop it in to the cab office or security hut and they’d pass it on. Simple.’ Quinn shrugged, unsure where this was going. He’d helped numerous families, charities and clubs with generous donations over the years, and took pride in all the happy faces that adorned his office walls. Being seen as a legitimate, empathetic businessman was important to him to dispel the consistent rumours that persisted about his reputation and his interests.
‘Mmm ...’ Miller looked through the file, quietly talking to himself, his eyebrows rising with each page he turned. ‘Mmm. I thought you might say that, Mr Quinn, so I prepared a route map. You will observe that all the groups involved, from where their respective treasurer resides, would walk past your A1 Holiday Booking Ltd offices to get to the cab office or security office.’
‘I don’t fuckin’ know, do I? Ah own the businesses, Ah don’t take the bookings,’ Quinn responded, growing more agitated by the minute
‘Were you, err, aware that your companies were booking the travel arrangements?’ Miller asked, continuing to push his map under Quinn’s nose.
‘Nope.’
Henshaw untied her hair and wrapped the long blonde tresses round her fingers. ‘So let’s be clear for my sake. I’m a bit thicker than DS Miller here. You donated the minibuses to charity?’
‘Aye.’
‘You were providing them with the means to experience a different culture, to travel abroad?’ Miller interjected, nodding.
‘Aye.’
‘You then paid for that travel abroad?’ Henshaw asked, checking her hair for split ends.
‘Naw, they did,’ Quinn retorted, becoming increasingly irritated.
‘Right, but you booked it ... made all the arrangements. A bloody saint you are, Eddie.’ Henshaw laughed, bowing sarcastically.
‘Piss off.’
‘DS Miller, play the video tape please. Evidence reference P8.’
The tape ran for more than forty minutes Cal stared transfixed at the screen while Quinn tried hard to hide the fear that was quickly being transmitted from his brain to his face. Fear of spending the next twenty years of his life in Barlinnie Prison or worse.
Henshaw broke the silence. ‘So, Mr Quinn, what you have seen here is two of your donated minibuses, which DS Miller has pointed out your organisation paid for to travel to Spain on two separate occasions via the Calais to Dover ferry. While your driver and the lovely, grateful pensioners were upstairs on the boat, we were busy in the hold stripping the panels from the buses to check for drugs. We estimate the street value of each haul to be in the region of £1.2 million. Unfortunately, we’re a bit pissed we missed a further eight trips with schoolkids and football teams which the ferry manifests show took place over the past 12 months.’ Henshaw clicked her tongue, shaking her head in disgust.
Quinn was thinking how he could escape this. No matter how many times I used my skills and acumen to set up companies, provide jobs, create success stories, I’m pulled back down to their level. He bit his lip, ready to tell all.
‘I’ve told you I know nothing of this.’ Quinn’s dread was becoming apparent as he squirmed in his chair and wrung his hands in frustration.
‘Bit lame, Eddie. DS Miller?’ Henshaw said.
‘Yes, Mr Quinn. In the first van, we marked the cargo. This in the main contained class A drugs, heroin and cocaine, with a small quantity of hashish. We replaced the panels and allowed the vehicle to continue on its journey. The second bus we seized in Dover a week later, which was last Thursday evening. The driver, a Mr – err – Grady, was arrested.’ Miller smiled, the first time he had shown emotion.
‘Yes, Mr Grady, Eddie.’ Henshaw was back on her feet, straight backed and strutting around the room. She paused at the two-way mirror. ‘He’s been very helpful, provided lots of useful information to the team in there. He’s wanting a deal. I’ll probably give him it. Your networks in Spain and Morocco are being hit as we have this chat. The evidence we’ve amassed means you’re fucked anyway, Eddie.’
Henshaw returned to the table and stood over Quinn who stared transfixed at the wall. She seemed to somehow dwarf him as he became more deflated with each revelation.
‘See, we want everything, Eddie. You’re the key to the warehouses, the distribution web across the UK, the money lending, the whole network, right down to the wee wannabe gangster who floods the housing schemes with your gear. And we’ve done that with some help from others. I can show the gear from that bus, your bus, arriving at one of your security yards, cut down and distributed via your taxi business to dealers in every scheme in and around Paisley and beyond. All chemically marked by our ingenious colleagues.’
Quinn lowered his head and clasped his hands tightly at the back of his head, looking uncharacteristically rattled.
Henshaw knew she was entering the final stages and her prize was in sight as he withered under the barrage of evidence. ‘You’re the head of the snake, and I’m so glad to have you here,’ she hissed. ‘So, Mr Lynch, I will not require the additional hours, thank you. Mr Quinn, you will be charged with drug trafficking, possession with intent to supply and money laundering. Our nerdy accountants are still going through your books. That’s taking longer than expected though, looking on the bright side; I may get to add to your charge sheet. And we won’t be granting bail.’
Quinn’s veins were enlarging on his forehead as he smashed his fist on the table. ‘It’ll never stick, ya wee bitch. How many times? I’m a legitimate businessman!’
Henshaw sat motionless, eyeballing her fallen prey. ‘Take him to be booked in, DS Miller. You’ll be moved to Barlinnie tomorrow to appear at the high court on Monday.’
Cal intervened, trying to provide some reassurance to his client who was now breathing erratically. ‘If the fiscal allows this to get as far as court, it will be laughed out. You’ve broken all manner of protocol. I require more time with my client.’
‘Of course – once he’s charged,’ Henshaw replied, staring coldly at her adversary.