Craig Robertson - Snapshot

The man had hands like shovels, huge meaty paws that had made a career of meting out justice according to the laws of Terry Gilmartin. How many legs had he broken, how many kneecaps had he smashed, heads busted, jaws punched or eyes gouged? Winter looked at every scar and bump on his hands and wondered if they related to a dealer, an addict, a granny with a bad bingo habit or a rival thug.

His full-length leather coat looked like it weighed a ton, a heavyweight article that gave him the look of a rock-star gun-slinger. It was soaking up his rosso corso and Winter couldn’t help but think it was a waste of a cool coat. But then again this guy had been a waste of a pulse.

His eyes didn’t register much except astonishment, unlike the accountant’s. His were terrified. Haddow had seen Gee Gee get shot in the head and would have known instantly who did it and what was coming next. He would have had the time it took an expert to reload the L115A3 and take fresh aim. Time enough for his arse to empty, his life to flash before his eyes and for him to take a couple of fruitless steps back towards the flats.

The difference between his hands and Adamson’s were all too obvious. Smaller, softer and weaker. Still covered in blood though. These hands had never punched anyone or picked up a baseball bat but they were guilty all the same.

He was in his early forties, small and slight, dressed in a black pinstriped suit with an open-necked white shirt. It must have been the season’s colour for getting shot in.

If Adamson was a waste of a pulse then the accountant was a waste of an education. The bits of brains that were littered over the pathway could have been put to much better use. Keeping Gilmartin’s books was the job for a lab rat. In many ways that angered Winter more than Gee Gee making a living out of his muscles. McConachie was right, the man had been a piece of shit.

Winter walked back twenty paces and framed the whole scene before it was covered by the tent. The Beamer was nearly new, the two men lying on either side of it in a way that BMW probably never considered using in an advert. The Ultimate Dying Machine didn’t have quite the same ring to it. With the expensive Glasgow Harbour pads as a backdrop it all yelled money. A caption for his photograph sprung to mind, hardly original but apt. Crime Doesn’t Pay.

He took some more scene-setting pictures. Cop cars, residents hanging over their terraces at a view they hadn’t expected, a local drunk who had wandered over for a nosey, forensics picking their way over the pathway. He managed a cracker of a man in a suit on one of the balconies, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a quizzical look on his face as if he’d been looking for Cash in the Attic and turned on the wrong channel. As he was taking them, Winter sensed a presence over him and looked up to see Campbell Baxter glowering at him. The forensic had not softened to him in the slightest.

‘Mr Winter,’ he sneered. ‘It is my understanding that you have been assigned to this investigation in order to photograph the victims so as to help facilitate a successful prosecution case in the event of it proceeding to trial. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to how your photographs of local residents or passers-by, no matter how expertly taken, will be beneficial in that regard. Can you tell me that? Can you?’

Winter didn’t need this.

‘It is a procedure known as scene setting,’ he began to bluff.

‘Really?’ The scorn in his voice suggested that Baxter was unconvinced. ‘Please do enlighten me.’

‘There are, er, various benefits. It provides scale, local character germane to the crime scene, all helping to create a, eh, panoramic image rather than simply a one-dimensional approach based solely on evidence photographs. Also the subjects within them may prove to be vital witnesses that might otherwise be missed by the investigating officers.’

Baxter gazed at him in mild confusion.

‘Panorama? Local character? It is not in my nature to indulge in intemperate or coarse speech but this is bullshit, Mr Winter. Bullshit. I don’t know what you think you are playing at here but this is not the sort of professional behaviour that I demand of my officers. I shall be speaking to Superintendent Shirley about this and expressing my continuing dissatisfaction with both your role and your methods. If I get no satisfaction from him then I shall not hesitate to take the matter higher. Do you understand me?’

Winter understood perfectly well.

‘Yes, I do. You don’t like me.’

Winter saw a vein in Baxter’s temple throb and wondered whether the man was about to bust a blood vessel.

‘Like you? Like you? Mr Winter, you have not the merest comprehension of what I like or dislike but I can assure you that my personal feelings have no bearing whatsoever on my judgement of a person’s professional ability. None whatsoever. Like you? It would not occur to me to either like or dislike you. I dislike what you do and the way that you do it but do not dare to think that impinges on my professional assessment.’

‘Okay.’

‘What?’

‘I said okay. I accept what you say.’

The vein in Baxter’s head pulsed even stronger.

‘I… I… This is not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. We are the dog and you are the tail and I shall not allow the tail to wag this dog. We are the dog. You…’ he pointed a finger at Winter, ‘you are the bloody tail. Get on with your work.’

As Baxter turned and left, muttering under his breath, Winter flicked a V at his retreating bulk and took one last picture of the scene, knowing while he did so that it was a bad idea but doing it anyway. McConachie was standing over Haddow, a snarl of disgust under her nose as she cast a shadow over the accountant’s bloodied body. He couldn’t resist it.

She threw up her head, staring at him, but the look of disgust didn’t disappear; instead her eyes narrowed and Winter became the object of her scorn. He was no one’s flavour of the month. Still, McConachie seemed much madder at Addison than at him and she was even madder at the corpses on the ground than she was at the DI. She glowered over them, seemingly resisting the urge to boot them as they lay there.

‘What the fuck is up with that crazy bitch?’ asked Addison, now standing at his shoulder. ‘Does she not know they are already dead? She looks like she wants to kill them again.’

Winter didn’t feel much like speaking up for the angry DS but the decision was taken away from him when Addison’s mobile rang the Top Cat ringtone. He turned away from the photographer as he took the call. He was nodding and talking and nodding some more. What Winter could hear of his tone of voice meant it was no time for messing around. Alex Shirley was all business.

‘Shirley,’ Addison announced to the team as he hung up. ‘He’s just finished up with Ally Riddle, pulled him in first thing. It’s why he’s not here. Wasn’t exactly best pleased at the news that there’s two more of them. He’s got steam coming out his ears. Says another of Riddle’s team hasn’t been seen for two days. Reckons one of the opposition has been balancing up the numbers and he’s probably under a flyover somewhere.’

‘What’s Riddle saying?’ Monteith asked.

‘Seems he’s playing it very cool. A smart cookie according to the Temple. He’s being cooperative enough but giving nothing away. That’s assuming he has something to give away.’

With that, Addison shooed both the detectives and the forensics in towards the bodies, walking to the side where Winter joined him.

‘And you think he has something to give away?’ Winter asked him.

‘Who knows? Could be that he and the Temple have come to an understanding. It happens.’