#ChooseThePlot Page 5

  ‘What’s the situation then?

  ‘You know as well as I do. Two dead bodies at the Water House restaurant. One killed with a bullet to the head, the other decapitated with what appears to be a Samurai sword.’

  ‘Appears to be?’

  ‘We haven’t found the murder weapon, but there’s a sword missing from a display at the restaurant. Stands to reason it’s what was used.’

  ‘Don’t make assumptions.’ Goodison steepled his fingers under his chin, something he’d no doubt seen other senior officers do to make themselves look like they were thinking. ‘Jake Finnegan. There’s a lot of people would be happy to see him dead.’

  ‘I don’t think this is gang related, sir. Least, not any of the gangs we know about. Not their style. And the woman, Mandy McFarland. That has all the hallmarks of a contract hit.’

  ‘What about the husband? He had motive, surely.’

  ‘Yes, he did. Motive for both killings, but not the money to pay for them.’

  ‘You sure of that?’

  Black closed her eyes, counted to three. Ten would have been too obvious. ‘He lives in a one bed basement flat, worked in the Over Easy diner cleaning dishes for God’s sake. Where’s he going to get enough cash together to pay for his wife to be shot? No, this was about something else. And Jake Finnegan getting his head lopped off a day later just confirms it for me.’

  ‘What do you mean “something else”?’

  Black looked at her boss with his important haircut, shiny forehead and bugger all between the ears. Promoted to his level of incompetence; wasn’t that how it always worked?

  ‘If I knew that, sir, do you think I’d be here chatting with you?’

  Ian knew rough. He’d grown up in the Barrowlands after all. But there were parts of the city even he felt uncomfortable in. Maybe it was the hard, wary eyes staring at him from shop doors, street corners, bus stops. Or it might have been the foreign, almost exotic smells emanating from open windows. Cooking he didn’t recognise, spices that sent him back to Kandahar and Helmand. It could have been the language, the accent. Not the Glaswegian burr that he was used to, not words he could actually understand. It put him on edge even more than the events of the past day, or at least compounded them.

  The address Charlie Over had given him wasn’t quite a slum tenement. All of those had been demolished years ago to make way for the motorways that pierced the heart of the city. It wasn’t far removed though, with red sandstone buildings rising up four storeys, darkening a narrow street. At the far end, a high brick wall daubed with indecipherable graffiti stopped anyone escaping. A more perfect trap it would be hard to imagine.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. Don’t belong.’

  Ian looked to see who had spoken, and found an old woman standing in a tenement doorway. She was tiny, short, with the sort of wizened face you normally associated with National Geographic magazine. She held a meat cleaver in one hand, a headless chicken in the other. It reminded him too much of Jake Finnegan not to shudder.

  ‘I’m looking for a young woman. We call her Golden. I don’t think that’s how it’s really pronounced though.’

  ‘She no here. She go away. You go away too.’

  Ian eyed the cleaver nervously. ‘I will. Just tell me. Do you know where she’s gone? Where I might find her?’

  ‘She go away. Run from bad men. You a bad man, mister?’

  ‘I…’ Ian found he had no clear answer for that. He’d never really thought of himself as bad, but he’d fenced stolen goods, served time in Barlinnie for it. He’d taken a murder weapon from a crime scene and destroyed forensic evidence. ‘I really don’t know.’

  The old woman cocked her head to one side, staring right through him. ‘Is good answer. What you want this woman for? You looking for sexytimes?’

  ‘I – No. Nothing like that. I wanted to warn her. About the bad men.’

  ‘You too late then.’ The old woman spat onto the steps. ‘But she has sister in the other city. She maybe go there.’

  ‘The other city? Edinburgh?’ Ian asked, but the old lady had disappeared back into the tenement.

  ‘McFarland didn’t do it.’

  DCI Black sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the endless line of traffic stretching to the horizon. Or at least to the Kingston Bridge. Gilmore had one hand on the steering wheel, the other poised over the gearstick. For all the good it would do him. They weren’t going to be moving anywhere soon.

  ‘You’re not still going on about his nutjob story are you? Only it didn’t make much sense when we only had one dead body to deal with. Now there’s two and he’s the only link between them.’

  Black let out an all too audible sigh. Gilmore wasn’t a bad detective, really. He just lacked imagination sometimes. Needed constant prodding.

  ‘How do you figure that?’ she asked. Not because she wanted to know so much as to fill the time. Not as if they had anything better to do.

  ‘Well it’s obvious. McFarland’s wife walked out on him, right? Shacked up with Jake Finnegan of all people. I guess there’s no accounting for taste. He’s not a bad type, McFarland. Didn’t run with the gangs like most of his mates. He joined the army, served queen and country. Can’t fault him on that, but Afghanistan? Well it hardens you, doesn’t it. I’ve read his army records. His squad got hit hard. He lost friends to a roadside bomb. Then he came home to find his wife had been cheating on him? That sort of thing would send me over the edge, for sure.’

  ‘Not arguing with you there. We know he went a bit wild, but that was a couple of years back. He did his time. Got himself somewhere to live, a job of sorts. He was working it out. Why shoot his ex-wife now? Why not two years ago?’

  ‘I spoke with his boss this morning. You say he got himself a job, but cleaning dishes in a greasy diner? That’s not exactly steady work for a man used to army discipline. And anyway, he was fired yesterday. Seems the customers were complaining about his lack of manners.’

  ‘In the Over Easy? Jesus, what did he do? Spit in their soup at the table?’ Black had been there just once, but it didn’t take more than that to get the measure of the place.

  ‘No idea, but some Liverpudlian lorry driver got a severe beating last night, left half dead in a pile of garbage just a few hundred yards from the diner. Someone kicked the hell out of him and stole his wallet just a few hours before Mandy McFarland was shot.’

  ‘He say it was McFarland who did it?’

  ‘He’s not saying anything. Got his jaw wired together until the bones heal. Doubt he’d remember anything anyway.’

  ‘Still, doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing McFarland would do.’ Black thought of the naked man she’d accosted in the street at the back of his tenement block, tried perhaps unsuccessfully to suppress a smile at the image. He’d kept himself fit had Ian McFarland.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Gilmore eased the car forward as a gap appeared in the traffic. ‘He grew up in the Barrowlands. Joined the army and fought two tours in Afghanistan. He’s not some kind of bleeding heart.’

  ‘Oh, no. He probably beat the life out of the guy, I’ll give you that much.’ Black pushed aside the thought of well-toned muscle rippling under naked skin. ‘Just doesn’t seem the type to steal a wallet after. More likely some toerag found your Scouser unconscious and went through his pockets.’

  ‘Still think you’ve got him all wrong.’ Gilmore shook his head, missing that the traffic had started up again. A split second later the car behind was blasting its horn at them. He muttered something under his breath, then flipped the switch that brought on the hidden blue flashing lights before moving off.

  ‘Well, we need to bring him in for questioning anyway. You can ask him if he killed his wife and her new boyfriend then. I’m telling you though, he’s going to say no.’

  Gilmore indicated, turned down a side street.

  ‘Where’re we going now? This another of your magic short cuts? Only the blues and twos would get us to Ribisi’s place quicker.’ Black braced herself against the door as they took the next corner faster than was perhaps wise. Gilmore’s face was still as impassive as it ever was, but the white of his knuckles on the steering wheel was perhaps an indication that she’d pushed him just a little too far. At least it was nice to get a rise out of him, even if they were both going to die in a horrible accident sometime soon.

  ‘Thought we’d go and pick up McFarland instead. Ribisi’s not going anywhere, and we’ll never pin anything on him anyway. Not with the connections he’s got.’

  ‘Aye, and the money. Don’t you think it’s more likely he’d be the one to bankroll an expensive hit on his partner’s squeeze?’

  Gilmore slowed down, possibly because he was thinking, but more likely because the traffic had backed up even down the narrow side streets. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she found out something about their restaurant she wasn’t meant to. You know, like it was being used to launder drug money? Maybe even to push the stuff as well?’

  ‘I guess that might do it. But Ribisi’s enemies usually just disappear. Mandy McFarland’s death was kind of public.’

  ‘A warning then, to others.’

  ‘Others like Jake?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe Jake took exception to his girlfriend being shot in the head. Had it out with Ribisi, only it didn’t go so well for him.’ Black considered the possibilities, but something still didn’t add up. ‘Stop, will you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop the car.’ They’d only just started moving forwards again, but it was obvious they weren’t going to get far. Gilmore pulled over slightly and Black clambered out.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To find McFarland. I’ll be quicker on foo
t. You head back to the station. Two murders in his restaurant in less than twenty four hours? I think that’s probably enough to get even Alessandro Ribisi into a nice interview room, don’t you think?’

  The other city. Ian mulled over the meaning of the old woman’s words as he walked back across town to his grubby little basement flat. He needed a shower badly, a change of clothes even more. His earlier panic was beginning to subside though. So far the police hadn’t come after him, hadn’t even called him. He pulled out his battered and cheap pay as you go mobile, peered at the cracked screen to see if he’d missed any calls. At least it still appeared to have power and signal.

  The flat was exactly as he’d left it, which was to say cold and unwelcoming. What few clothes he had were past their best, but at least they were clean. A shower and a shave went some way towards making him feel a little more human. There was still a long journey ahead though. It was only as he was closing the door on his way out again that he noticed the envelope. The postman had obviously missed the letterbox in his hurry to get out of the building before it collapsed, or sucked out his soul. It was suspiciously thick and familiar looking, addressed to him. Sliding it open revealed a familiar credit card and covering letter. Well, this time he’d take it straight to the police, give them the proof they needed.

  ‘Glad to see you got the new card, Ian.’

  He whirled around at the voice. It was dark in the hallway, what little light there was outside having to fight its way in through windows thick with dust and grime. Ian made out two figures in the gloom, but couldn’t see their faces. Not that he needed to. He knew that voice.

  ‘Not going to invite us in?’ Alessandro Ribisi emerged from the shadows, his pale face almost glowing. Behind him the cadaverous assassin stared silently from his mask. No escape that way.

  ‘Come in. Make yourselves at home.’ Ian unlocked the door and stepped inside. Ribisi followed, wrinkling his nose at the smell of mould. The assassin stepped through behind him, pulling the door closed.

  ‘You’ve lost the sword, I see. That was wise. Can’t have you running around the city with a murder weapon.’

  ‘Then why’d he give it me?’ Ian nodded at the assassin.

  ‘He has his reasons. Best not to press the point. Anyway, Ian – I may call you Ian?’ Ribisi didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We’re here about you, not about him. Very silly of you throwing that card in the river. But it’s easily enough replaced, see.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was obvious. I want you to come and work for me.’

  ‘You want me to kill for you?’

  Ribisi shrugged, then waggled his hand, fingers splayed. ‘Maybe. Mostly I have my friend here to do that sort of thing.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Same as you’re already doing. I want you to find your ex-wife’s exotic friend, Golden.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  Unbidden, The silent, cadaverous assassin reached into his jacket, pulled out a slender pistol. From another pocket he produced a silencer and slowly screwed it onto the end of the barrel. Ian had seen many weapons during his time in the army, fired most of them, sometimes at other people. This one might have been small, but that didn’t mean it would be any less lethal.

  Ribisi smiled like a jackal as the assassin stepped forward and pressed the gun to McFarland’s forehead. There was no expression in his eyes and his hand was as steady as a rock set in concrete.

  ‘Well now, Ian. There’s a question.’

  DCI Black was a seasoned detective, trained to see details however small. As she turned into the terrace of scabby houses where Ian McFarland lived, she couldn’t help but notice the expensive car exiting the other end, the vapour from its exhausts hanging lightly in the air. Shiny black, with windows tinted to obscure whoever might be inside, it disappeared around the corner before she could get a registration number. It set her internal alarms ringing, nonetheless.

  The front door to Ian McFarland’s basement flat was open, but there was no sign of any builders coming and going. A terrible silence hung upon the scene, as if the city had just taken in a deep breath.

  She should have called for backup, Black knew. She also knew there was no way she was going to waste precious minutes waiting for them to arrive. And neither did she want to let anyone know she was here.

  Fishing out her phone, she sent a quick text to Gilmore, hoping he’d be able to make it across town through the traffic. She paused just long enough to steady her nerves, then stepped quietly into the darkened hallway.

  And that’s the question at the end of the chapter. Does DCI Black find McFarland’s dead body, a neat bullet hole in his forehead where he’s refused to work for Ribisi. Or has he taken his chances with the Mafia boss, accepted the offer and continued his search for the mysterious Golden?

  If you think DCI Black stumbles upon McFarland’s dead body, head to Chapter 3.

  If you think the flat is empty, head to Chapter 6.

  3

  Dead Man’s Buff

  Jane Casey

  DCI Black hurried down the dark hallway, stepping as carefully as she could without compromising her speed. Builders’ rubble littered the hall and she didn’t want to trip. As she came nearer to Ian McFarland’s door she slowed down, and that was what saved her. Three feet away from it her foot skidded on something. Without thinking she put her hand out to brace herself against the wall, then snatched it back. Leaving prints all over the place was not part of her plan. She twisted and by some miracle managed to stop herself from falling into – she shone her torch down at her feet – a slick of red that spread down the dark hall from under the door.

  Serena swore quietly and fluently for a few seconds. There was no way she could pretend she hadn’t been there now. At best she was looking at running another crime scene, another murder investigation. At worst, she was about to engage in a fight for her life. The blood was wet, recently spilled. And there was much too much of it on the ground to think the person who’d shed it had survived.

  She pulled on blue evidence gloves and pushed the door gently. As she’d suspected, it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even closed properly. The door swung open silently and Serena peered around the frame, exposing as little of herself as possible. She didn’t often wish she was allowed to carry a firearm, but this was one occasion when the weight of a gun in her hand would have been reassuring. It would have felt like evening up the odds, though the killer of Ian McFarland was a better shot than she would ever be. She knew it was him straight away, even though she could only see the toe of one worn-out trainer from her position. As she moved further into the room, she could see the rest of his body. He lay with his head towards the door. Or at least, what was left of his head.

  ‘Oh, Ian,’ she said softly. ‘You poor fool.’

  The bullet had gone straight through McFarland’s left eye and exited at the back. She knelt over his body, torch in hand, trying to keep away from the blood and brain matter that coated the floor behind him. There was black stippling on his cheek and forehead. Serena didn’t need Wallace, the gun expert, to tell her what it was.

  ‘Gunpowder.’ She had a sudden, vivid image of how Ian must have died: facing his killer, the gun in front of his eye. He had known there was no escape. He hadn’t done what they wanted. He hadn’t tried to run.

  He’d died like a hero.

  ‘Idiot,’ Serena said, not unkindly, and levered herself to her feet.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The voice was shrill and Edinburgh-cultured, even to Serena’s ear. She whipped around and saw an old woman, five feet tall at most, wrapped in a dirty dressing gown. She was very thin – fragile was the word that occurred to Serena. There was nothing fragile about her expression, though. Serena had dealt with drunken dockers who looked less aggressive than this old dear.

  ‘I’m a police inspector and this is a crime scene, Madam. Can I ask you to step back?’

  ‘What do you mean, a crime scene? This is my house. I heard strange noises and then I saw you strutting in. I wanted to know what was going on.’ The old woman shuffled in through the door, moving with surprising speed considering her age and the stick she was holding. Serena wouldn’t have been surprised to find out the crone didn’t need the stick at all. Except maybe for fighting.