Craig Robertson - Snapshot

Winter’s heart missed a beat with excitement.

‘Yes. That’s exactly what I think.’

Cat tilted her head to one side and upwards as if thinking the answer she sought might be up there somewhere.

‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘Unlikely as it may be, it fits with something like waterboarding. You know what that is?’

‘A torture technique? Something to do with Guantanamo Bay?’

‘Not just a pretty face,’ she smiled grimly at him. ‘Yes, but not limited to Gitmo. It’s a Special Forces favourite, used in operations from Baghdad to Beirut to God knows where. It’s classed as a professional interrogation technique. You put a wet cloth or cellophane over the subject’s face and pour water over it till they start telling you whatever you want to hear. It triggers the mammalian reflex and makes the subject believe they are actually drowning. The average that anyone lasts before they give in is fourteen seconds. The beauty of it is that it doesn’t leave a mark. Not so much as a bruise.’

In Winter’s mind, one dot just joined to another.

‘So who would have the knowledge or the skill to do something like that?’ I asked her.

‘The CIA, MI5, MI6, SAS, Barlanark Boy Scouts. Take your pick.’

‘The Navy?’

‘Yes, maybe, but it would more likely be the Special Ops boys. SBS or US Navy Seals. What the hell is going on, Tony? What has this got to do with what happened to Addison, McConachie and the others?’

He knew that she deserved an answer but he didn’t want to get her into trouble. He was likely to be in enough for both of them.

‘How about I do us both a favour and don’t tell you?’ he answered. ‘And you don’t tell anyone else? Ross was just a two-bit drug dealer who got stabbed. No one cares.’

‘Okay, that’s obviously a lie. And you know I could lose my job over this. You’re asking a lot.’

‘I know. But I am asking. I need you to do this for me, Cat.’

She held his gaze for an age, trying to read his mind and make her own up before shaking her head slowly at him.

‘Are you involved with someone, Tony?’

‘What?’

It wasn’t the response that he was expecting.

‘It’s a straightforward question. Yes or no would suffice.’

‘Well…’

‘That was neither yes nor no. Are you involved with someone? I’m not asking who it is.’

Thank God for that, he thought.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just answer the question, Winter. I’m serious.’

‘Yes. Yes I am.’

‘There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?’

She looked him over again, finishing her deliberations.

‘Okay, I won’t tell anyone about Sammy Ross and neither will young Alastair. I think he’d just as rather no one knew. But don’t make me regret it. You do and I’ll have no hesitation in making you pay.’

He believed her.

‘Thanks, Cat. I really appreciate it.’

‘You should.’

‘I do. Honest. But… why did you ask… what you asked?’

‘God it’s like talking to a teenager. Because if you are involved with someone else then it gives you a valid reason for not shagging me again. Okay? If it was because you didn’t like it then I’d have been very offended.’

‘I did. I mean I…’

Winter stumbled over his embarrassment, realizing it was probably not best to mention that he fell for Rachel so shortly after his dalliance with Cat. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

‘Oh shut up,’ she stopped him. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. If you are involved then you stop looking at me the way you do. It’s not on. I like you, Tony, and can now forgive you for being so stupid as to not know a good thing when you saw one, but you keep your eyes off my ass in future.’

‘It will be difficult.’

‘At least you didn’t say it would be hard. I might have had to change my mind about the deal if you had. And I mean it, don’t give me cause to regret this. Whatever it is, sort it soon. This deal might expire.’

‘I intend to.’

‘You be very careful. You’re a photographer, not a cop. Promise me that if you are in over your head then you will go to someone who actually knows what they are doing and get this dealt with properly.’

‘I will,’ he said, knowing almost certainly that it was a lie.

Smeaton Drive in Bishopbriggs was a family residential area and the neighbours were never likely to take too kindly to having anyone shot on their doorsteps, let alone someone who turned out to be a major gangster. By the time Narey arrived, Jo-Jo Johnstone had been rushed to hospital and what was left behind was a pool of blood and a shocked and unhappy group of locals.

The crime scene examiners were busy at work and the police were going door to door to get every bit of information they could. No one doubted who had done it but they still didn’t know who that someone was. The word Dark Angel went unsaid.

Narey sensed the strange mood that pervaded the scene and couldn’t help but share it. She’d known of Jo-Jo Johnstone for as long as she’d been on the force and knew just what a bad bastard he was. Every officer there was aware of the money laundering, extortion, violence, brothels and drugs.

It had been the same with Caldwell and Quinn, and to a lesser extent with Strathie, Sturrock, Haddow and Adamson plus the four at Dixon Blazes: Houston, Faichney, Honeyman and Arnold. Every cop knew of them and knew they were no loss to society.

The shock wasn’t the same in Smeaton Drive as it had been with some of the others. It was just the latest and there wasn’t enough sympathy on that street to fill a teaspoon. Narey could smell it. They didn’t give a fuck that Johnstone had been shot and what was in the air was the whiff of disappointment.

She saw the TV crews and press pack that were being held back at the end of the street, vultures in a feeding frenzy, delighting in the latest kill but probably sharing the dissatisfaction that there was a survivor this time. The Dark Angel was going to claim yet more headlines. Deadlines, she thought darkly.

There was a difference too in the work of the forensics. They were meticulous as ever but she sensed they were cutting with the dull blade of someone who knew what they would find. Baxter would ensure that their standards didn’t slip but they somehow lacked urgency as they laid out yellow markers – for photographs that Winter hadn’t the chance to take, she reflected – measured blood spatter and calculated angles. She wondered if they too had come to the conclusion that a gangster being shot wasn’t perhaps the worst thing in the world.

Then she saw a child being hugged in a mother’s arms a few doors away from Johnstone’s house, a neighbour whose daughter had got out of the front door and seen the blood that soaked the steps where Jo-Jo had stood. Johnstone had kids, she remembered, and wondered where they might be now. With one of the neighbours, maybe, or waiting anxiously at the hospital. Whatever their dad did for a living, they were still children and she couldn’t wish this on them.

The thought triggered memories of Jan McConachie and her daughter. What was her name? Amy. Narey wasn’t sure if she believed that Jan was dirty, whatever the evidence of the phone call from George Faichney suggested, but either way, her heart bled for that wee girl.

She realized someone was standing next to her and turned to see Corrieri and Colin Monteith at her shoulder.

‘All the neighbours have been interviewed,’ Corrieri was saying. ‘Only one of them actually saw Johnstone being hit, the others only heard the shot. It gives us a firm time of the shooting but nothing much more.’

‘Okay, thanks, Julia. What do you think, Colin?’