Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Jimmy’s perfect moment was interrupted by the telephone’s strident ring.

‘Greer,’ he said, taking the fag from his lips. His face stiffened as he recognised the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Oh, aye, what do you want, then?’ He moved across the room, cordless phone against his ear, then back towards the window to flick out his cigarette ash. Biting his lip, Greer listened to his caller. Anybody seeing the journalist would have noted the seriousness creep into his expression followed by a certain anxiety.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he said eventually. ‘You know I’ll be in deep shit if you’re wrong.’ Greer turned away from the window, nodding to himself as he heard the caller’s reply. ‘When?’ Greer asked shortly, then ‘Where?’, followed by a belligerent ‘Why there?’ His face twisted into a grimace of displeasure then, looking at his watch, he said, ‘Aye, in about an hour, then. Okay. See you.’ Switching the phone off, Greer examined the end of his cigarette thoughtfully before taking one last draw and then tossing it out of the window. The butt described an arc, its glowing tip like the cone of a rocket, before coming to earth on the pavement below.

*

Woodlands Road on that particular morning was full of people going about their particular business. Had he been interested, the journalist would have been able to say that this little part of Glasgow had a distinctly Eastern flavour, especially given the pungent scents of spices drifting out of the Asian grocery shops. But Greer seemed oblivious to the delights of the street and its colourful fruit and vegetable stalls spilling on to the pavements. Head down, he walked purposefully towards the pub where he had agreed to a rendezvous.

Just before he reached its door, a sudden loud crack from across the street made him look up. But when he tried to see where the noise had come from, Greer found himself blinded by a flash of sunlight so strong that he put his hand up to shield his eyes.

In that moment the world stopped turning on its axis. For, instead of being able to peer up at the scrubby copse of trees across the busy road, Jimmy Greer felt a pain in his head that blinded him to everything.

He was aware of his legs giving way and voices around him shouting, but the last thing he ever noticed was the feel of the warm pavement under the palm of his outstretched hand, before the blackness overwhelmed him.

‘Jimmy Greer’s been shot.’ DS Wilson burst into Lorimer’s office with the news.

‘Good grief! Is he hurt?’

‘He’s dead,’ Alistair Wilson replied tersely. ‘Someone took a shot at him outside the Uisge Beatha on Woodlands Road.

‘Any witnesses?’

‘We’ve got a couple of officers over there now taking statements. A crime scene’s been set up and the SOCOs are doing their best under quite difficult circumstances, as you can imagine.’

‘My God!’ Lorimer sat back heavily. ‘In broad daylight! I can’t believe it.’

‘It was busy enough over there. Surely someone will have seen something,’ Wilson said hopefully. ‘If it’s our man then he’s taking big risks killing someone in such a public place.’

‘But why Greer?’ Lorimer shook his head, still trying to take it in.

‘Maybe someone was trying to shut him up,’ Wilson suggested.

‘Aye, that would come as no surprise,’ the DCI countered, not trying to disguise the sarcasm in his tone. There would be plenty of folk with things to hide who would not mourn the journalist’s passing, though he was surprised to note that he did not number himself among them. Jimmy Greer may have been known as a scandal-mongering hack who delighted in the more salacious aspects of his stories, but Lorimer still felt a sense of outrage against anyone who had robbed another man of his life.

‘When will he be over at the mortuary?’ Lorimer asked suddenly.

‘Don’t know but I can find out. Why?’

‘Perhaps I might go over there myself,’ Lorimer told him. ‘They’ll need someone to ID the body, won’t they?’

That night the Uisge Beatha would do a roaring trade, but now what few clientele remained had been lined up as witnesses to Greer’s murder. Those passers-by who had given information to the police officers had also been herded into the pub which was being used, meantime, as an incident room. Members of Lorimer’s team, their resources already stretched to breaking point, were busy taking statements from anyone who could offer the slightest bit of information.

DC Niall Cameron had never set foot inside this particular hostelry and his eyes kept straying in the gloomy half-light to various objects around the room. From his position in one corner of the booth, Cameron could see heads of various moth-eaten animals (mainly stags) that were mounted on the walls, but one curious addition to this form of interior decoration drew his eye. High in the corner, diagonally across from where he sat, the bust of a well-known politician jutted out from the wall. Yes, there was no mistaking, it was Margaret Thatcher, but not as he had ever seen her. Some waggish sculptor had designed a caricature of the former prime minister as though she were hanging (literally) from a red rope around her neck. What could be seen of her frock was blue, matching the colour of her cheeks; this was meant not so much to show her political leanings but her last few breaths. The artist’s satirical humour showed through as much as his obvious political dislike of his subject, thought Cameron. He gave a shudder. It was eerie given that a man had been shot dead only a couple of strides from where that object was hanging.

They had set themselves up in the three separate drinking booths that were conveniently located in the main bar, and statements were being taken from all who claimed to have either seen Jimmy Greer, heard the shots or caught a glimpse of his assailant escaping. Cameron sank back against the wooden-framed booth, waiting for the next witness. It was dark in here and so the lamps were lit despite the bright daylight outside. The deeply recessed double doors to the pub’s interior did not allow for much natural light. On the scarred table in front of him, a tallow candle had been pushed into a wax-spattered green glass bottle that had once held Tullibardine whisky. No doubt this and other candles scattered around the pub would be lit every night, there would certainly never be a shortage of bottles to contain them. Cameron had clocked the double row of whiskies shelved high above the main bar as he’d come in; Uisge Beatha, translated from the Gaelic as the water of life by some (or simply as whisky by others), certainly was an appropriate name for this particular establishment. It was strange seeing the name glowing there in neon green and suddenly Niall Cameron felt the tug of home in a way he had not done for a very long time.

‘Hello, please take a seat. I’m Detective Constable Cameron.’ The Lewisman was on his feet the moment the man appeared in front of him.

‘Donald McIntyre,’ the man replied, fitting his huge shape between the two carved wings that formed a chair within the booth.

‘Mr McIntyre, thank you for waiting so long. If you wouldn’t mind just writing your name, address and date of birth here.’ Cameron indicated the top of his hastily acquired A4 pad. ‘Thanks,’ he added, pulling the knot of his tie a little looser. It was hot in here and they had had to keep both sets of glass doors closed so their only source of air was supplied by that single fan whirring lazily from the ceiling.

‘Now,’ Cameron began, ‘what can you tell me about this incident?’

Donald McIntyre looked back solemnly at the Detective Constable. He was a man, probably in his early forties, whose large physique owed more to his dedication at the Uisge Beatha’s bar than anything else. He had placed both hands flat upon the table as though in readiness for some serious business but Cameron found the gesture oddly distracting.