Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Nothing,’ Wilson said at last. ‘Come on, I need some fresh air. The smell in here would choke a horse.’

‘Today’s Friday,’ Cameron said absently as the DS locked Greer’s door behind them. ‘One more day till Kelvin play Dunfermline.’

‘You’re going to the game, then?’

‘Depends if I’m on duty or not,’ Cameron told him with a wry grin. None of the team had been free to enjoy their weekends much recently.

‘Maybe I’ll go myself,’ Wilson nodded. ‘Should be a good game.’

‘We need a result!’ Ron Clark flung his hand in the air, desperate to communicate his enthusiasm to the players. He hadn’t given out a team list as yet but Donnie Douglas was back in among the senior squad and listening eagerly to the pre-training pep talk. Clark tried to catch the eye of every man as he looked at them in turn. Baz was grinning back at him, his cheeky face shining with anticipation. He’d be mad to leave the striker out: he had that knack of always being around the goalmouth to toe in a stray ball, a trait that endeared him to the Kelvin fans. Giannitrapani wasn’t even a consideration after his recent poor showing. Woods would take his place against the Pars tomorrow, Clark told himself, unless something disastrous happened at today’s training. As for his mid-fielders, well, now that Douglas was back he’d take a chance with him, Simon Gaffney was on good form and of course Andy Sweeney, their captain, would find a place on the team sheet.

As Ron Clark gazed at the footballers he wondered how many of them would be here next season. The shock of these murders was enough to make any one of them think about a transfer. Today and tomorrow they might be anxious to be selected for the match against Dunfermline but next week? Next month? Individually footballers were a self-seeking lot, their agents having dinned it into them to look for the best deal, never mind what it might do to their existing club. He’d been around enough Scottish clubs to know that each and every one of them was busy chasing the elusive big money. Mid-season transfers could be a body-blow to a club like theirs as they struggled to regain a position in the Scottish Premier League.

‘Okay, same time tomorrow. I’ll be reading out the team sheet, so don’t go looking for it pinned to the wall until just before the game.’

‘Is that in case you change your mind, boss?’ Baz Thomson asked, his eyes alight with devilment.

‘Aye, maybe so,’ Clark replied diffidently. He wasn’t going to be drawn on team selection at this stage, no matter how much his mind was already made up.

Lorimer stared at the forwarded email in disbelief. ITS YOU NEXT KENNEDY, it said. The Kelvin chairman had done exactly as Strathclyde CID had instructed him to — sending on any scurrilous pieces of mail or any threats. Maybe they’d be able to close in on the sender this time. He looked at the email again and noted the time of receipt. Pat Kennedy had been sent this email at 6.30 a.m. So, anybody inside the club could have been up and about this Friday morning to send it, but it was more than likely that it had come from the same twenty-four-hour internet cafe as before.

The DCI tapped out the code for technical support. Some clever dick might just be able to trace this. Then it would simply be a matter of seeing who had visited Cafe Source early this morning.

‘John? DCI Lorimer here. I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

Patrick Kennedy sat staring at the computer screen, Ron Clark by his side.

‘You have told the police, I hope,’ Ron said.

‘Yes, of course I have. First thing I did,’ Kennedy snapped back at him.

‘What did they say?’

The Kelvin chairman did not take his eyes off the words as he replied, ‘They’re taking it seriously this time.’

Ron Clark stared at his boss for a long moment. The big man’s face was crumpled into a scowl but under that Clark sensed a change; Pat Kennedy was afraid, and Ron could tell that it was an emotion he wasn’t enjoying in the slightest.

*

It wasn’t lost on DI Jo Grant that the internet cafe was only fifty yards away from the Uisge Beatha pub. Whoever had written the two anonymous emails might easily stay within walking distance of both of these establishments. Parking round here was a nightmare. Woodlands Road itself had double yellow lines and the areas nearby were either for residents only or had already been taken. In the end she had to double back and find a meter near the Hogshead pub further down the road. Walking along the road she glanced across at the narrow lane running past the bowling green, right across from where the reporter had been gunned down. Lorimer had had the SOCOs scouring every last bit of the area, temporarily closing off the entire road whilst the white-suited figures searched methodically for any trace of the second bullet or of anything that the killer might have left behind.

‘DI Grant, Strathclyde Police,’ she said, holding up her warrant card for the young woman behind the counter to see.

‘Oh, yes, we got a call … come on round the back, will you?’ The girl looked quickly across at the customers sitting crouched over their computer screens before gesturing for the DI to follow her. It was clear she didn’t want to leave the cafe unattended.

‘I’ve been here on my own since six o’clock,’ the girl explained. ‘There should have been another guy working by now but he hasn’t turned up yet.’ She frowned, darting glances through the open door as if afraid someone would abscond with the computers. ‘So it’s me you want to talk to, I suppose,’ she added. ‘Look, find a seat, sorry, the place is such a shambles but we just took delivery of more stock and I haven’t had time to put it away.’

Jo Grant lifted a pile of A4 copy-paper from a seat and dumped it under the table. So long as she could sit down and get some sense out of this lassie she didn’t care what the back room looked like. ‘You’ve been here on your own all morning?’ Jo asked.

‘Oh, except for the customers,’ the girl replied.

Grant breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We think you might be able to identify a customer who was using one of your machines here at about six-thirty this morning,’ the policewoman began.

The girl’s face cleared suddenly. ‘Oh, that’s not a problem. There was only one fellow in then. Didn’t want coffee or anything to eat, just wanted to use the computer. That’s okay. Lots of them do that. We make enough on the food to pay rent on this place-’

‘This customer,’ Grant interrupted her. ‘Can you describe him to me?’

The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘He was quite old,’ she began.

The DI flashed her an appraising look: she was probably not even twenty herself. How old was quite old in this young woman’s estimation?

‘Maybe forty?’ the girl suggested. ‘He wasn’t very tall or anything.’

‘Hair colour? Distinguishing features?’ Mentally Grant encouraged her to think harder, to recall just who had been there that morning.

‘Um, just sort of an ordinary man. Kinda brownish hair, short. Nothing special about him, really.’

‘What was he wearing, can you remember?’

The girl heaved a sigh and shook her head. ‘No, I can’t remember. Sorry. Not anything I’d remember like shorts or a kilt.’ She giggled, then seeing Jo’s frown, hastily rearranged her features into a semblance of sobriety.

‘If I were to bring a photograph of this man to you, could you identify him?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The girl brightened up immediately. ‘I’m good with faces. There was this thing in one of these magazines where you have to identify bits of famous people’s faces,’ she said eagerly. ‘I was good at that, so I was.’