Craig Robertson - Snapshot

Shakily, he put her picture on the pile, aware of the tension rising in him, and the hairs on the back of his neck electrified.

The next photo was of him. It was a side-on view, barely making out his face, and at his feet was a dark object that he knew to be the leather coat that Jimmy Adamson was wearing when he was shot. The photo was taken at Glasgow Harbour as Winter lined Jimmy up in his heavy leather cowl. Was it irony that someone had photographed him as he photographed the body? Or just threatening?

He saw the next photo, again taken at Dixon Blazes industrial estate. It was slightly out of focus as if it was rushed but it showed the whole group of cops looking at the warehouse door where the unseen crucified body was hanging. He and Addison weren’t there and it must have been before they entered the fray. Winter put it down, wondering just how the fuck the Dark Angel had the nerve or stupidity to stay to take that, and lifted the next one. Rachel again. Close up.

This time emerging from the front door at Highburgh Road. Home. Business suit on, going to work. A realization exploded in Winter’s mind. He knew where she lived.

The room spun and Winter’s senses rang as if he’d been smacked over the head with something heavy and hard. The wall behind him was holding him up and he slid down it till he was on his arse, the photograph in his hands. He wasn’t scared for himself but he was terrified for her. Terrified and ready to fight. If it was McKendrick that had threatened her and he’d still been alive then Winter would have killed him himself. If it was whoever had killed McKendrick then he’d kill him instead.

There was no doubt where the photograph had been taken. He’d seen that door a thousand times, the red brick, the four steps to the intercom, the hedge to the left with the lamppost in front, the lace curtains to the right. The low, black railing, the ‘Please Close The Door’ sign stuck inside the glass pane and the beginning of the cycle lane on the road. The photograph had been taken from Caledon Street which ran at right angles to Highburgh and faced right onto the close at number 21 where Rachel’s flat was on the top floor.

She was in a dark trouser suit with a dark-green blouse under it, pushing her hair away from her face. When had she been wearing that blouse? He racked his brains, knowing it was the sort of thing she’d rebuke him for not paying attention to. Was it just yesterday? Either that or the day before. The more recent it was the better, he reasoned. Less time for whoever it was to do whatever… He couldn’t finish the thought. It wouldn’t happen anyway, he’d see to that.

Suddenly something hissed to the side of him and he spun his head to see a single rat standing on its hind legs in the doorway. It didn’t flinch when Winter looked at it, maybe sensing his fear or just angry at him for keeping the hordes from their meal. What it couldn’t know, whatever it smelled, was that Winter wasn’t afraid of it. The rat might have scared the shit out of him earlier but now it was way down the list of things that frightened him.

He got halfway to his feet and began to move towards it, like a dog chasing a car, having no idea what it would do if it caught one. It was enough and the rat whipped round, disappearing in a whisk of its pink tail as if it had never been there.

Winter fell back, letting himself thud into the wall, comforted by the chill of it, and considered the paucity of his options. He decided that if the rat was a hint for him to get the hell out of there then he was going to take it.

He fished the compact out of his back pocket again and, calmly as he could, photographed each of the print-outs in turn. Any pretence at calm disappeared at seeing the pictures of Rachel. He needed to get out of there and back up above ground. He needed to do that really quickly. Grahamston, Alston Street, Central Station, wherever he was, it was closing in on him fast and he was developing a claustrophobia that he’d never known before. He had to get out.

He tossed the blanket back over McKendrick’s body, not particularly worried about replicating the placement of it as the rats had doubtless already moved it and would do so again. The printed photographs were back in their pile and the boxes were back where he’d found them. Exhaling hard, he backed out of the storage cupboard and set his sights on the way he’d got there. He was pretty sure of the way back out, knowing there were only two points at which he’d need to choose between alternative ways to go. The thought made him realize that there must have been a number of ways in because the metal sheet that he’d moved behind McDonald’s looked like it hadn’t budged in a long time. Not only that but he only noticed the footprints that had disturbed the dust on the floors once he was a fair way down and in, obviously having picked up another path.

He knew he could try and follow the footsteps and see where they’d entered but didn’t want to hang around down there and anyway, it wouldn’t matter. He’d got in, McKendrick had got in and so had his killer. It didn’t make any difference if there was one entry point or three. All that mattered was Rachel.

He scuttled through the passageways as quickly as his legs and the light would allow him. Round, along and up. Double doors and damp hospital corridors, by the recess with the generator, the white tiles then the yellow ones, passing under the walkway on Union Street which was now lit by neon. It was only then that the fear gripped him with the realization that someone could have replaced the metal sheet over the hole. Either a deliberate ploy to keep him in there or just some civic-minded twat with nothing better to do with their time. Getting out again had never occurred to him but if the sheet was back over the hole then he’d never shift it.

It was only when he passed through to the faintly moonlit hallway that he breathed again, knowing that the sliver of pale light meant the sheet was as he’d left it. He climbed the stairs gratefully and popped out onto the overgrown corridor behind the burger joint.

As soon as he was out he reached for his phone and was glad to see that the buildings weren’t cutting off his signal. He didn’t have time to go through his contacts and trusted his fingers to punch in the numbers quicker. Come on. Thank Christ, after four rings she answered.

‘I can’t talk just now. I’ll need to phone you back.’

She hadn’t used his name, meaning there was probably someone else there. Someone who couldn’t be allowed to know she was talking to him.

‘No. I need to talk to you now. Right now.’

‘I can’t do that, sorry. Things are really busy.’

She lowered her voice.

‘There’s been another shooting.’

‘Fuck. Who? In fact it doesn’t matter, just listen to me.’

‘I have to go.’

‘No! This is really important, Rachel… Rachel. Rach! You have to get away. Listen to me-’

‘I’m going into a press conference. I’ll call you once I’m home. Bye.’

‘Fucksake, Rach!’ He was talking to himself. She’d already hung up. He switched the phone to text and began frantically typing in a message.

He scrubbed it. Would just scare the hell out of her. And pose too many questions. He started again.

Don’t go home. Go to my place and text when on way.

Again he deleted it. The press conference would last a while and it would be at least half an hour, probably longer still, before she left Pitt Street. At least she’d be safe there. Instead he hurried back to his car where he’d left it off St Enoch’s Square, immediately turning the radio on when he got there and pushing the button for Radio Clyde.

Good timing. The presenter was announcing that they were interrupting the programme to go to a live news conference at Strathclyde Police Headquarters where there was news about the killing which they’d exclusively told their listeners about earlier. Another voice took over but only got out a few whispered words of unnecessary explanation before loud familiar tones began to talk above it. Alex Shirley.