Alex Gray: Pitch Black

Lorimer clenched his fists. Stupid, stupid idiot! What had Thomson been playing at? Suddenly he recalled the closing game of last season. It had been the Kelvin striker’s temper that had caused his team’s relegation, some said. What if …? Lorimer considered the possibility for a moment. No, surely Thomson wouldn’t deliberately throw a game. Or had he been in someone’s pocket for that very reason? Like Norman Cartwright, could there be an unusually large sum of money squirrelled away in the Kelvin striker’s bank account and, if so, who was behind it?

The thunder sounded again, closer this time as the clouds hung like a suffocating blanket over the football stadium. And, despite the clamminess, Lorimer felt himself shiver.

*

Detective Constable Niall Cameron banged his fist on to the table in frustration. Lorimer had told them to keep in radio contact and yet he wasn’t responding to this call. What the heck was going on at the football stadium? He looked back at the piece of paper in his hand, a fever of excitement sweeping over him. This had to be a real breakthrough. The man had seen action in Bosnia, Northern Ireland and the first Gulf War. Who better to have experience of firearms than this? Cameron bit his lip. Lorimer had given him strict instructions to stay at HQ as their base contact, so he had to keep trying to make communication with the SIO. It was all he could do to sit still and redial Lorimer’s number, when what he really wanted was to be there himself.

It was as though he were invisible. Nobody could see him because he was part of the place, expected to be there. It gave him a feeling of pride; to be such an indispensable piece of this football club and to have this power, this control. If nobody could see him what great feats might he be able to achieve today? They were all looking towards the pitch where the boys were pitting their skills against each other. He watched for a moment, stopping on the stairs next to a steward — the man’s attention so totally taken up with the action that he didn’t even nod in his direction. Gaffney was battling for the ball against a Pars defender. The mid-fielder suddenly took the ball away and ran with it for a couple of seconds before passing it across the pitch.

As every pair of eyes followed its progress, he slipped away, still unnoticed, and headed towards the North stand, sports bag slung over his shoulder. Inside it the take-down rifle was hard and solid like the stone steps beneath his boots.

Alistair Wilson passed the man on the steep staircase and nodded. It was fine. Everything was normal, everyone was where they ought to be.

The crackle from his earpiece made him stop suddenly.

‘DS Wilson. What’s up?’

‘Make your way to the main entrance, please. We’ve apprehended a suspect,’ a disembodied voice told him. Quickening his pace, Wilson hastened down the remaining steps and headed towards the tunnel.

‘Better be our man,’ he muttered to himself as he entered the corridors of the club.

The place was swarming with uniformed officers when Wilson arrived and he was just in time to see a tall, burly individual being marched into a side room.

‘Who is it?’ he asked the nearest steward.

‘Big Jock. He’s Kelvin’s resident daft laddie,’ the man added with a grin.

‘Okay, keep everyone out, will you?’ Wilson ordered. His mouth twisted in a grimace of displeasure as he opened the door where moments before the man had been bundled. Big Jock had eluded them so far, though the staff here at Kelvin had assured them he’d be at the game. Was he on Lorimer’s mental list of most likely suspects? They’d certainly been advised to nab him on sight, though there was not yet a shred of evidence against the well-known fan. Wilson closed the door behind him and sighed. Maybe this interview would bring the whole thing to an end. Looking at the man who sat staring at him wild-eyed and mouth open in wordless protest, the Detective Sergeant fervently hoped so.

‘They’ve got somebody downstairs,’ the voice told Lorimer.

‘Right. Keep everyone on alert till half-time. I’ll see you there,’ he replied, one hand cupping his face so that his words were not overheard.

But Pat Kennedy had turned his way and Lorimer could see the sweat beading the big man’s forehead.

Lorimer leaned across to whisper in his ear. ‘It’s okay. They’ve got hold of Big Jock. Nothing to worry about.’ He met Kennedy’s eyes then looked away, pretending an interest in the game that he did not feel. Keeping the chairman safe and secure was what this was all about right now and if they found anything on ‘Big’ Jock MacInally they could all relax and enjoy the second half.

Climbing to the very top made him feel light-headed and giddy with anticipation. Down below, the figures running about the park looked smaller. Like wee insects. I could squash them with my thumb. He smiled at the thought. Three down, one to go, he told himself. Then that would be his mission completed, wouldn’t it?

There was only the usual duty-officer inside, staring at the CCTV cameras. The man turned to see who had entered the tiny room, his mouth open in astonishment. But before he could utter a word the rifle butt was smashed across his jaw. He hardly felt the headset being ripped from his ears as he was sent spinning on to the floor. Two more blows and the world fell away into a yawning chasm of black.

The man with the rifle closed the door behind him and slid the bolt. Stepping over the policeman’s body with complete indifference, he stood at the window and gazed down on that mass of humanity below him. His eyes drifted to the directors’ box and, taking his binoculars out of his jacket pocket, he trained them on the rows of people until he found his quarry. Kennedy was sitting next to that detective, Lorimer. For a moment he felt a surge of excitement verging on sheer joy. Perhaps he could take him out too? Letting the glasses fall, he swiftly screwed the three pieces of rifle together with a dexterity that showed his expertise. Then he pushed the window open and held the rifle steady, peering through the sights. One shot and Kennedy would be dead. He could make his way out, leave the gun in its usual place and nobody would ever find him. Two shots and he might lose the advantage of a quick exit. But even as he sought the man wearing the black cap, the temptation to kill DCI Lorimer was growing like a cancer inside him.

‘We’ve lost contact with the CCTV duty officer!’ The words in Lorimer’s ear made him look up immediately to the glass box perched high above the ranks of seats on the North stand. The open window and the figure standing there seemed to make time stop for a second.

‘Get down!’ he shouted at Kennedy, pushing him hard on his back then clambering over the several pairs of feet blocking his exit.

‘Lorimer to armed unit. All officers to the North stand. Suspect armed,’ he roared, careless now of who could hear his words. Looking up again, he saw the open window, but now there was no dark figure, no sniper’s rifle pointing his way.

At that moment his radio crackled into life.

‘Lorimer,’ he answered shortly, his gaze remaining on that square of glass high above the rows of seating. Cameron’s lilting voice came over the line, breathless with excitement. Had he been able to see the expression on his SIO’s face as he told Lorimer what he had discovered, it would have given Niall Cameron a feeling of immense satisfaction.

‘Where is he?’ one of the men called out, rifle at the ready. But all the armed response unit could see when they burst into the room was the crumpled shape of the duty officer lying in a pool of his own blood.

Lorimer stood in the open door behind them. He was out of breath after racing up those flights of steps and could barely speak. ‘Cover every exit. Don’t let him get away,’ he ordered, then stood aside as the officers, clad in bulletproof vests and hard helmets, clattered past him. ‘Lorimer. Get a medic up here now,’ he barked into his radio, staring at the man lying inside. He stepped in, and knelt by his side, feeling for a pulse. It was there, thank God.