Craig Robertson - Snapshot

‘Fuck you, Officer. If you…’

He wasn’t sure what the rest of that sentence was going to be but he knew it was going to contain a threat he couldn’t back up. So maybe it was just as well that it was cut short by a soft voice just to his right.

‘Behave yourself, Tony. You can’t win that one.’

It had been his turn not to notice what was at his feet. Cat Fitzpatrick had her hands in the pockets of the dead guy’s leather jacket and had found a wallet from which she produced a driving licence. Those eyes, the colour of wet Irish grass, were laughing at him.

‘I took it you were finished since you had the time to play wee boy’s games with the nice constable,’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ve got names for all of them. Come on.’

She stood up and walked a few yards before holding out the licence for Shirley and Addison to see.

‘The old man is called Alasdair Turnbull. And as for these two.. . the brown leather jacket is Mark Sturrock and the first guy, the white shirt, is Stephen Strathie.’

‘Strathie?’ said Addison. ‘Name’s familiar.’

‘Strathie’s a courier, I’m fairly sure of it,’ piped up Jan McConachie. ‘Stevie Strathie. If I’m thinking of the right guy then he runs drugs for Malky Quinn. Or did. Don’t know the other one.’

‘Fucking great,’ replied Addison ironically. ‘Phone it in and have the names run through the computer. Get me everything there is on both of them. Probably a waste of time but get me the licence of any car or van that’s registered in either name too.’

McConachie nodded and pulled out her mobile to contact Divisional HQ.

‘So, assuming this is the same guy…’ Winter began.

‘It is,’ muttered Addsion.

‘If it’s him then why go to all the trouble and all the risk of shooting them so publicly?’

‘So that we would know it was him.’

McConachie held up her hand to signal for attention and began nodding confirmation to Addison and the rest of the team. Strathie was a courier all right while Sturrock had previous for dealing and worked for the Mighty Quinn. Then her eyebrows furrowed and her jaw dropped. She looked up at Shirley, almost apologetically.

‘Sir, a white van has been abandoned in the middle of George Square with two petrol containers sat away from it. They say there’s what looks like twenty kilo bricks of cocaine sitting next to the petrol cans.’

‘ What? ’ Addison was stuck like Winter had never seen before. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Who’s at the scene?’ demanded Shirley.

McConachie blinked. ‘Three cars and two fire engines and more cars on the way. They’ve got the square cordoned off but they can’t get near the van.’

‘Why not?’

‘One of them tried and a shot was fired at his feet. From a distance.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ recovered Addison. ‘I don’t suppose the van is registered to either of your men here by any chance?’

‘Nope, but one of them might well have been driving it till an hour ago. DVLA say it’s Malky Quinn’s.’

The call from Joanne Samuels had been left on Narey’s answering machine and hadn’t left much room for manoeuvre or much time to get there.

‘Rachel, it’s Joanne. I hope you get this soon. I’ve managed to talk to one of the women who knew Melanie quite well. Be at the Criterion Cafe at the beginning of the Gallowgate at two o’clock. She’s very jumpy so if you’re late then I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep her there. Criterion Cafe. Two o’clock.’

It was nearly one-thirty when Narey, still fuming from the bombshell at the morning conference, picked up the message and she didn’t have much time to get across the city centre to the east end. She jumped in her car and battled her way across Cowcaddens Road and George Street before crawling down High Street, cursing the traffic and the never-ending succession of red lights. As the digital clock on her dashboard shifted ever nearer to two, Narey became less convinced that she would make it on time. With just two minutes to the hour, she spotted a space near the Tolbooth Steeple and braked sharply, ignoring the horns that complained at her, and threw her car into the opening so she could run the rest of the way.

At last the powder-blue sign and low roof of the Criterion were in view. Surely the woman wouldn’t have left yet, surely Joanne could keep her there that long. With thirty yards to go, she slowed to a walk in order to get her breath back, knowing she would now be able to see anyone leaving the cafe. As it happened, no one came through the door by the time she reached it and as she pushed her way inside she saw Joanne at a corner table, sitting with her back to her. Opposite her sat a young woman with short, spiky dark hair who was nervously fidgeting with a napkin and looking around anxiously.

Narey didn’t take the chance of asking if she could join them, instead just pulling back the chair next to Joanne and sitting down. The girl continued to look round the room as if worried that someone would see Narey with her.

‘Sorry I’m late, Joanne. Hi, I’m Rachel,’ she said, holding her hand out to the girl opposite. No handshake came back though, the girl holding on to the napkin and twisting it below the table where a cup of coffee had been barely touched.

‘This is Pamela,’ Joanne explained. ‘She was a friend of Melanie’s.’

As Narey looked at Pamela she could see that her nervousness wasn’t just down to meeting a cop. The girl was an addict. The paranoia went way beyond their meeting; Pamela jumped every time the door opened or someone at another table laughed. Her bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils might have been many things but Narey knew what they really were. With barely any make-up on, the dark circles under her eyes were as obvious as the sour smell from her breath. When she finally spoke, there was a noticeable tremor in her speech.

‘I’m doing this for Melanie, right?’ she slurred. ‘It’s the only reason I’m here.’

‘Okay,’ Narey nodded. ‘I understand that. Did you know her long?’

‘Long enough,’ the skinny girl said quietly. ‘A year maybe.’

‘Did you meet her on the street?’ Pamela’s eyes briefly flickered with resentment.

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, what can you tell me about Melanie, Pamela? Anything you know could help us find out who did this to her.’

The hooker looked at Joanne for reassurance and must have got it because after another fretful look round the cafe she leaned in towards Narey.

‘She was awrite. Some people didn’t like her ’cos she could get a bit full-on when she was high but she was awrite really, know what ah mean? Never did me any harm.’

‘Where was she from?’ Narey asked.

‘Like where did she come from, you mean? Glasgow, south side somewhere, I think. She didn’t talk ’bout it much. I think she fell out with her mum and dad.’

‘Can you remember where on the south side?’

‘No. Told you. She didn’t like talking about it.’

‘And she was living somewhere in Maryhill?’

‘Aye. She had a room there in the high flats in the Valley.’

‘You know the address, Pamela?’

‘It was the big block in Collina Street but ah cannae remember the number. She hudnae been there that long.’

‘That’s okay. Did Melanie have any children?’

Pamela looked at the table then the door.

‘Aye, she had wan. A wee girl. She’s six.’

Narey and Joanne swapped a quick glance.

‘Where is she now?’ Joanne asked.

Pamela was twisting the napkin furiously now, her interest seemingly taken up by her shoes.

‘Where is Melanie’s wee girl?’ Narey repeated anxiously.

‘The wean’s wi her dad,’ Pamela answered quietly.