Alex Gray: Pitch Black

DI Grant tried to smile back but failed. This was a right waste of time. The girl had a cafe to run on her own, was trying to serve coffees and snacks, set up customers at their computers and find time to clear away stock. It was little wonder she’d spent no time staring at their mystery customer.

‘If we bring in a photograph,’ the DI said, standing up to go, ‘can we be sure to find you here?’

‘Oh, better give you my mobile number, hadn’t I?’

‘Actually,’ Grant grinned, ‘I’d like a wee bit more than that. Like your name and address for a start. Okay?’

‘Says she can identify our man,’ Grant told Lorimer. She was sitting in her car with the window down, mobile in one hand, cigarette in the other.

‘Looks like he’s made his first mistake, then. Going back to the same internet cafe,’ he replied.

‘So what do we do? Take photos of all of Kelvin Football club’s staff and players?’

‘Can you think of a better idea?’ Lorimer asked.

‘They’ll want to know why.’

Jo Grant could almost hear the wheels of Lorimer’s mind turning. To take photographs of them all might alert their killer. And was it worth the risk?

‘We don’t need players’ photographs,’ he replied at last. ‘For two reasons. One, we’ve got them all on match-day programmes and two, this girl — what did you say her name was?’

‘Wilma Curley.’

‘Aye, this Wilma girl says he’s an older bloke, about forty, so that cancels out most of the players, doesn’t it?’

DI Grant blew out a thin line of smoke before answering. ‘Not sure she’s even that reliable about ages, but yes, I’d say that probably rules out most of the footballers themselves.’

‘Okay, see what you can set up at Kelvin today. There’ll be plenty of other officers there anyway for a pre-pitch inspection.’

Jo Grant put down the phone. The actions dealt out this morning had given her a sense that something was happening at last. The other officers had felt it too, she was sure. It just remained to see if her hunch was right and if DCI Lorimer was indeed going to set up a surveillance operation at the football ground.

Solomon Brightman sat, one leg crossed over the other, his foot swinging back and forth as if to some music that only he could hear. His face was intent but Lorimer was gratified to see that the psychologist’s customary smile was back in place.

‘We can narrow it down to several people,’ Lorimer told him, ‘both in terms of age and of physique. We must suppose that Pat Kennedy didn’t send the email to himself and some of the staff, like Jim Christie, don’t fit the girl’s description.’

‘So, how many middle-aged ordinary men with medium-brown hair are we looking at?’ Solomon smiled.

Lorimer shook his head. ‘Goodness knows. There are the manager and his deputy, the coach, the club doctor, the groundsman, though I suspect he’s probably a good deal older than forty, some of the older players perhaps and a few others who come in and out on a part-time basis.’

‘Of course it may be none of these people,’ Solomon suggested with a grin. ‘It could be the elusive Big Jock that everybody claims to know.’

Lorimer pursed his lips. They’d got no further with tracing the Kelvin Keelie who seemed to be such a fanatical supporter. ‘He’ll be there tomorrow,’ he assured Solly. ‘Kennedy says he never misses a home game.’

‘The person you’re looking for has a degree of organisation to his killing,’ Solly reminded him. ‘I can’t see it being someone as simple minded as this fan is reputed to be. And he knows about firearms. Does anybody fit that description so far?’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. We’ve done background checks on most of the players. Nothing has come up so far to suggest a link with guns. But we’re still investigating that angle,’ he said. For a moment he thought of Rosie and her enthusiasm to root out just what sort of weapon had made away with Norman Cartwright.

Solly lifted a piece of paper from where he’d laid it on Lorimer’s desk. ‘This looks like the work of an uneducated man to me,’ he suggested. ‘No comma or apostrophe, for instance.’

‘And all block capitals?’

‘Ah, he might well use uppercase to emphasise his point. He’s not totally illiterate when it comes to using a computer, but I don’t think we’re looking for anyone who’s particularly used to composing letters. And he isn’t a professional hitman, doing this on anybody else’s behalf. Otherwise why use an internet cafe?’

‘Maybe he doesn’t own a computer?’

‘Or perhaps he doesn’t want to risk anything being traced back,’ Solly mused. ‘Of course, he may deliberately have kept the message simple to throw us off his scent. And another thing,’ Solly bent his head to one side, his face suddenly serious. ‘He’s used the same internet cafe twice which shows that he’s gaining in confidence. Maybe your football chairman’s more at risk than we imagine.’

‘Maybe he is, but he won’t cancel the game,’ Lorimer said, looking at the psychologist. ‘Which means we’re going to have our work cut out tomorrow.’

The first rumble of thunder made Chancer rush for cover. Cowering under the overhanging shrubbery, the little cat curled himself into a tight ball, tail tucked neatly beneath him, paws firmly together. Although it was early morning, the usual birdsong was absent from the heavy air. Chancer looked up and sniffed, sensing that rain would come today after those endless weeks of heat that had left dry, cracked patches all over this garden. He had become familiar with every bush and shrub in the Lorimers’ overgrown backyard as well as with the signs of life that denoted a full bowl of cat food and a lap to sit upon. As yet there were no humans stirring in the house. At the first twitch of a curtain, the little cat would be up and running, tail erect, ready to greet his new owners, so he kept one eye on the house for any sign of movement while smelling the air around him.

At last there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the door to the kitchen was flung open.

‘Hello, you.’ Maggie Lorimer trailed her fingers through her long untidy mop of curls and regarded the ginger cat standing patiently on her doorstep. Not waiting for an answer, she walked back in, letting the morning air into the room. Chancer stepped over the threshold, gave an inquisitive meow and sat expectantly, waiting for breakfast to appear.

‘Still no sign of your owners, boy,’ Maggie told him. ‘Maybe we’re going to get lucky, you and me.’ She grinned and bent down to scratch behind his ears. The cat tilted his head and closed his eyes, an ecstatic expression on his face as he lost himself in a paroxysm of purring.

Maggie Lorimer left him to eat his food and flipflopped through from the kitchen, her sandals making a hollow sound on the tiled surface. It seemed unnaturally loud, and made Maggie glance up. Outside the sky was a deep shade of grey, a streak of burnt orange lightening up the horizon. So, the good spell of sunshine and cloudless days was coming to an end, was it? Well, next week she’d be back in her classroom. They’d had the best summer on record, so nobody was going to complain, least of all the waterboard people who had been issuing dire warnings of shortages. If that sky was anything to go by, there would be a right good rainstorm before the day was out.

Kelvin Park had never looked so good, thought Ron Clark as he stepped out on to the terracing. The pitch was at its best, thanks to Wee Bert’s ministrations, and the banners were actually being lifted by a tiny breeze. If the weather forecast was to be believed they should have a dry morning so there was no chance of rain putting off the crowds. He glanced up at the sky. It was dark today and the gathering clouds looked ominous. Clark felt in his trouser pocket. Yes, he hadn’t forgotten to put it there. The team sheet with the list of all those who had been picked as players or substitutes was nestled against his right thigh. Big Gudgie was in goal, with Craig Mitchell as the substitute keeper. Woods and Thomson were his final choice of strikers though he expected McKinnery would come off the bench before full-time. Austin Woods was reliable but, like all ageing players, he didn’t usually make the full ninety minutes. He’d play Gaffney, Sweeney, McGrory, Douglas and Friedl in mid-field with Rientjes, Lynch and his own nephew, Davie, in defence. Davie’s time had come, Ron thought to himself. The wee fella had been football-daft all his days and a Kelvin supporter to boot. Now it was a mark of pride to be able to pick him for his own team, a team that was going to make it back into the Scottish Premier League if their manager had anything to do with it.