Craig Russell - Dead men and broken hearts

‘What?’ I twisted my face in disbelief and it hurt like hell from where my chums on the stairs had given me the beating. ‘Just because I found Ellis dying? That makes me a witness, Jock, not a suspect. I had nothing to do with his death.’

‘Whoever killed him just happened to choose your office as the place to do it, wrecking the joint in the process, is that it?’

‘How the hell do I know, Jock? Maybe Ellis found out that his wife had hired me because she had suspicions about his fidelity and he wanted to set me straight. Or maybe he had something to tell me about Tanglewood, whatever or whoever it is, or this Hungarian crowd he’s involved with and they followed him to my office and killed him there.’

‘Your locked office?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Jock…’ I said exasperatedly. ‘Maybe I forgot to lock it when I left to meet Magda at Central Station. Maybe whoever broke in knows how to pick locks. Or had a key, somehow.’

‘Oh yes, this mysterious Hungarian brunette you say you met at Central Station?’

‘Yes, Magda the mysterious Hungarian brunette. Are you telling me that you don’t believe me, Jock?’

‘Now, there’s the thing… you seem to automatically expect me to believe you. Why is that, Lennox? Is that because you never lie to me?’

‘You think I’ve been lying to you?’ I said defensively, but there had been a touch of bitterness in Ferguson’s voice. Perhaps I should not have been so relieved to see him walk into the interrogation room; what I thought was the cavalry was maybe just more Apaches.

‘I don’t know, Lennox. Have you been lying to me?’ The bitterness was still there. I could tell Ferguson had caught me out on something, or thought he had, but I had no idea what.

‘Do you think I’ve been lying about Magda? Magda is real enough, believe me. And she played her part pretty damned well, keeping me occupied while her pals did in Ellis in my office. In fact, she was pretty insistent that I wait ten minutes after she left before going back to my office. If I had done that, then I wouldn’t even have bumped into the two heavies on the stairs. They’re the guys you should be looking for. Anyway, I’ve already told Dunlop all of this. Magda was involved with Ellis in one way or another and it’s a hell of a coincidence that she keeps me busy while Ellis meets his end, don’t you think?’

‘That’s if she exists. And I wouldn’t push the importance of coincidences too much, if I were you. There are too many coincidences revolving around you over the last week or so. And when you get enough coincidences, you get a circumstantial case. You know what a circumstantial case is, don’t you?’

‘Something you put a picture in before you hang it on the wall, in the case of most coppers.’ It was my turn to be bitter. I had expected support, not suspicion, from Ferguson.

‘No one is trying to frame you, Lennox. You’ve done a pretty good job of doing that yourself.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? Listen Jock, I understand that being found with a dying man in my office is likely to raise a few eyebrows, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that a killer doesn’t use his handkerchief to try to halt the bleeding of his victim.’

‘We found your handkerchief stained with Ellis’s blood, all right. But we also found the knife that had been used to kill him wiped clean of fingerprints. A knife you admit is yours.’

‘Oh yes… I’m a master criminal covering up my tracks. I wipe my fingerprints off my knife so you’ll never be able to link me with a dead man stabbed to death in my office. That would throw you off the trail all right, wouldn’t it?’ If my sarcasm was making an impression on Ferguson, then it didn’t show.

‘Yes, your knife. But there again you had to admit it was yours, because I saw you opening mail with it that day I came to your office.’

‘Aw come on, Jock, you know this is all crap. You know I didn’t kill Ellis. And what’s this crap that Dunlop is throwing in about me being in the frame for more than one killing?’

Ferguson stubbed his cigarette out on the pressed tin ashtray and stood up. ‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow. We’re still carrying out some enquiries and you and I are going to have a lot to talk about. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’re going to be our guest for the night.’

‘This is bull, Jock. All bull.’ It was all I could think to say.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ Ferguson said as he went to the door and called in a uniform to see me back to my cell.

The rough blankets they gave me had presumably been laundered but still oozed a fusty odour into the tiny cell and I lay, fully clothed in the uniform they had given me, on top of the bedding. If I could have summoned the power of my will and hovered, Indian guru-like, above them, I would have. But levitation was only one of the many abilities I seemed not to possess. Like common sense. Or the ability to sleep.

The facilities of the City of Glasgow Police headquarters did not run to a resident chef and I was passed a body-warmth package wrapped in grease-transparent newspaper through the fold-down flap in the heavy steel cell door. The fish and chips were caked in salt, and despite being ravenously hungry I could only eat half of them. The same went for the tea: the enamelled tin mug handed through the door was skin-peelingly hot and filled with tea turned to syrup by a ladleful of sugar. They obviously had focused their menu to meet the demands of their regular clientele.

The custody sergeant turned out the lights at nine-thirty and I did my best to sleep. I would need my wits about me the next day, and I felt bone-achingly tired, but my face hurt like hell and my brain was burning with images and thoughts and memories as it tried to make sense of what was happening. Lying in the dark, I found myself thinking of Fiona White, sleeping alone in her flat, my rooms empty above her. That was if she was sleeping alone.

I wondered how long it would take for all this crap to hit the headlines. I hoped I’d be out of this jam before the papers got a hold of my name. In the meantime, I found myself thankful that I had quit my digs when I had instead of waiting the full month. At least I wouldn’t have to see that look of weary disappointment on her face when she found out I was in deep trouble again.

I must have dozed off eventually, but was woken again at three by voices from a cell further down the block: one voice loud, strident and shrill, crying out in pain; two others deep, quiet and controlled, occasionally grunting as if engaged in physical labour. Obviously a couple of Glasgow’s guardians of law and order had dropped in on a miscreant — at the dead of nightshift — to discuss the error of his ways. Maybe the grunting was them rearranging the furniture for their guest.

I wondered if I would get a visit, but guessed I wouldn’t. Paradoxically, that troubled me. The coppers were doing everything by the book with me, and that smacked of keeping their act clean for a date in the High Court, where the judge was allowed to wear a black cap when passing sentence.

The only window in the basement cell was high up and out of reach, but still barred and meshed. When they came round with a breakfast of the same scalding brown sugary sludge and butterless toast, the small square of window was still dark and they switched on the cell block lights again.

It was mid-day when they again parked me in the interrogation room, having left me to stew in my cell until then. Ferguson and his dumb stooge Dunlop were waiting for me at the cheap oak table and a homely, uniformed WPC sat in the corner with a notepad, ready to take down in shorthand everything that was said. Everything by the book for the judge with the black cap.