Craig Robertson - Snapshot

‘Right. What’s your point?’

‘Well, I was thinking more about what she didn’t find.’

‘Let’s hear it. We know the shooter had taken the car keys.’

‘He didn’t have a mobile phone on him, did he?’

‘Nope, and someone like Strathie, doing what he did would have had at least one mobile, more likely two or three.’

‘Addy, why do I get the impression you don’t sound surprised?’

‘Because I’m not. The same thing occurred to me. But I’m impressed though. We could make a traffic warden out of you yet.’

‘Fuck you. I’m trying to help.’

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t trying to help as much as he could. For a start he could have mentioned how Sammy Ross didn’t have a mobile on him either when he was found.

‘Thanks for that, wee man,’ Addison laughed drily. ‘Very public spirited of you. But the question isn’t why Strathie, or Sturrock for that matter, didn’t have mobiles. It’s what the cunt that took them wanted with them.’

‘And what’s the answer?’

‘Obvious enough. Most probably information. If this guy is doing what it looks like he is doing and cleaning out anyone and everyone at the top end of the city’s drug operations then most of the names in those phones should be double-locking their doors at night. And they won’t all be criminals either.’

Winter raised his eyebrows questioningly but Addison just shook his head wearily.

‘Work it out for yourself when you are at the bar. Another Nigerian lager for me.’

Winter shook his head at him, kicked back his chair and headed to the bar. Derek the bar manager had seen him coming and had already stuck the first of two Guinnesses under the tap.

‘Your pal alright, Tony?’ he asked.

Winter immediately went on the defensive. Derek was the kind of barman who knew when and when not to ask questions. He knew his punters and wouldn’t have stuck his nose in without good reason.

‘Aye, he’s fine. Why do you ask?’

The manager frowned.

‘It’s just he’s been hitting it pretty hard. He’s had a large malt with every second pint. That’s heavy going even by his standards.’

‘He’s just got a lot on at work. You’ll have read about the shootings.’

‘The Dark Angel? Aye, of course. It’s all anyone that comes in here is talking about. It’s time someone sorted those bastards out if you ask me. They’ve had it coming for years. The guy deserves a medal,’ he sighed softly.

‘Well, don’t let Addy hear you saying that. I’ll keep an eye on him, Derek. He’ll be no bother.’

The bar manager nodded and Winter took the pints back over in time to see Addison knock back the last of the glass in front of him.

‘What’s he saying?’ he asked as Winter returned.

‘Derek? Nothing. He was just talking about the Celtic game.’

‘Don’t kid a kidder, wee man. Especially not when he plays at being a detective for a living. He on about how much I’m drinking?’

‘No.’

Addison eyeballed him.

‘Aye,’ Winter conceded.

‘He should keep his nose out and just count the money,’ Addison snarled. ‘Stressful job, don’t you know?’ He paused and slugged some more. ‘Getting more stressful by the day.’

Winter let the comment hang there, drawing deep on his own pint, letting the silence settle both of them for a bit.

‘Who else then?’ he asked at last. ‘Who else should be worried about their numbers being on those mobile phones?’

‘Know what I miss?’ the DI replied. ‘Being able to smoke in here. Just being able to light up and have a fag without dragging your arse out into the cold.’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘I used to. Haven’t had one for eight years but I’m still a smoker at heart. Still miss it. See, wee man, you don’t know everything. And that’s my point.’

‘It is?’

Winter was pleading ignorance even though he was pretty sure where Addison was going with the conversation.

‘It is. You don’t know who else was listed in those phones. And neither do I. But the nature of the business that Strathie and Sturrock were in it stands to reason there are people in those mobiles who wouldn’t want anyone to know they knew drug dealers. Especially a big bad wolf with a gun.’

‘Uh huh, people like who?’ he persisted.

‘You no listen? I told you, I don’t know.’

‘Cops?’

Addison’s hand and pint were halfway to his mouth but he stopped and placed the tumbler back on the table, looking into its murky depths for an answer.

‘Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.’

They both looked at their drinks rather than each other and it stayed that way for an age till Addison eventually broke the silence.

‘My round.’

‘Just pints, Addy, eh?’

He gave Winter his best undertaker’s smile.

‘Just pints, wee man. Not a problem.’

He barely missed a beat on the way to the bar, just a slight brush against the chair hinting that all wasn’t as it should be. He signalled Derek towards him and Winter saw him grimace before setting up the two pint tumblers. But as they were pouring, he shoved a glass under the optic, twice, and set it down in front of Addison. He had his back to Winter but Winter still saw his arm come up to shoulder height then fall back down in one swift movement.

Seconds later he was back at the table, a Guinness in each hand.

‘Two pints, wee man. Just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Addy…’

Winter let his question disappear into the air. How can you ask just one question when there’s a hundred of them battering at your skull?

‘What is it, wee man?’

‘Nothing. Cheers.’

Addison grinned widely and scooped half a pint of Guinness down his throat. Winter knew it was his round again.

Saturday 17 September

Brendan and Margaret McCullough lived in a smart semidetached bungalow in Merryburn Road in Giffnock on the city’s south side. Driveway, garage and four bedrooms, it would set you back a quarter of a million or so. Not flash, just smart and cheaper than most houses in the area.

Oonagh McCullough’s parents had lived there for twenty-five years, the two of them before their only daughter was born.

Narey and Corrieri pulled up outside the low wall and neat hedge, both unbuckling their seat belts before taking a deep breath.

‘You ready?’ Narey asked her.

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Let’s go.’

The two women got out of Narey’s Megane, walked up the driveway and climbed half a dozen steps to the front door. Narey raised her hand to press the bell but the door swung open before she could hit it and a stern-looking man in his late fifties looked at them doubtfully.

‘Sergeant Narey?’

‘Yes, Mr McCullough. This is my colleague, DC Corrieri. May we come in?’

The man didn’t answer but pursed his lips and nodded them past him inside. Everything about him was neat. Closely trimmed reddish hair and a manicured greying moustache, immaculately ironed trousers and shirt and polished shoes. The front room that he directed them to was equally tidy, albeit in an explosion of floral chintz.

As they entered the room, an anxious-looking woman pushed herself up out of a chair and greeted them with a nervous smile, extending her hand to meet theirs. Behind them, her husband introduced the visitors although there was no doubt Mrs McCullough had spent the afternoon waiting for them to arrive.

‘Margaret, these are the police officers,’ he was saying unnecessarily. ‘Ladies, Officers, this is my wife.’

Mrs McCullough smiled again.

‘You said on the telephone that you might have some information about Oonagh?’

‘We think we have, Mrs McCullough. Is that your daughter in the photographs on the mantelpiece?’