15
Anchored Down
‘Oh, look what the cat dragged in,’ roared Badger to a packed Anchorage bar in Yoker’s Kelso Street.
Connor could see that his old mentor was three sheets to the wind, which meant he’d shifted a colossal amount of booze. Badger was rarely drunk – more like constantly ‘topped up’, as Connor used to say.
The young mentee – as he used to jokingly be called – was greeted with a bear hug from his old mentor and proudly introduced to the Anchorage regulars.
Connor then steered his old friend to a quieter corner. ‘I need to meet the detective in charge of the Seth case. Crosbie. Known as Bing. Doesn’t frequent any boozers as far as I’m told.’
‘Crosbie, Crosbie,’ pondered Badger, ‘I’ve never heard of him. I’ll sort something out for you. Anyway, how are things back at the ranch? Still hanging in there by your fingertips, I see. Has that cunt Bent no’ been found out yet?’
‘You’re just bitter because he sacked you,’ Connor teased.
Badger pinched Connor’s cheek hard in something that passed for affection before announcing, ‘I’m off for a pish,’ and staggering off towards the toilet.
One of Badger’s booze buddies Wee Al approached Connor. Wee Al was around six feet four with a ruddy drinker’s complexion like Badger’s. He plonked himself down on the seat next to Connor and sighed, ‘He’s ill, you know.’
Connor brushed it off. ‘No wonder with the amount he drinks.’
‘No, he’s really ill,’ Wee Al added, touching Connor’s hand to emphasise the point. ‘He speaks of you all the time. You’re like the son he never had.’
Badger and his wife Rita had never had children. He’d never explained why.
Wee Al continued, ‘He thinks the world of you. He’s always banging on about “Elvis this” and “Elvis that”. But he’s dying … that’s why he’s drinking more than ever. He’s in pain.’
Connor felt a wave of emotion crash over him. He’d never had a dad growing up and Badger had become something of a father figure.
Badger returned singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. ‘Come on, Elvis, geez a wee shake of those snake hips,’ he demanded.
Connor needed to speak to him in the cold light of day. He’d take his opportunity tomorrow, hopefully, when Badger called with details on how to meet Crosbie.
Osiris was seriously hacked off. He’d spent the day travelling from one faceless industrial unit to another for a day of meetings with various depot managers. Because he was from head office he got nothing but moans from the branch bosses about how they’d run things differently. Osiris would put on his best sympathetic expression but inwardly he was glad these morons were basically nothing more than over-promoted truck drivers.
But that wasn’t the reason Osiris was annoyed. The prostitute he’d killed had made all the front pages in Scotland and was linked with the death of that rich bitch, Selina Seth, but the detective in charge of the investigation had been at pains on the lunchtime news to keep both murder investigations separate.
DCI Crosbie’s stern face filled the plasma screen in Edinburgh’s Burke and Hare pub where Osiris was having a lunchtime pint with yet another transport manager. He found this branch head particularly tedious as he was a clubhouse bore, full of golf jokes – all of which Osiris had heard before.
‘At this moment in time we are not connecting the deaths of Mrs Seth and Jacqueline McIvor. We’ll obviously keep an open mind, but I’d like to assure the public that we do not believe this is the work of a serial killer and I’d like to ask the country’s media to show responsibility and restraint in their reporting of these separate cases.’
Crosbie hated appearing on television. He wasn’t like Detective Superintendent Cruickshank who loved the sound of his own voice and his looks even more. He’d taken a calculated risk making such a bold statement. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the murderers he was most wary of, it was the press. By having a dig at them in public, basically rubbishing all of today’s front pages, he could expect a huge backlash – especially if one of the killers struck again. He was gambling on having flushed them out by then.
Osiris watched intently as Crosbie made his announcement on the TV news. He began to hatch a plan that would take him way out of his comfort zone. But it was a risk he believed was worth taking.
April Lavender was eating again. ‘Relentless grazing’, as Connor called it, but she simply couldn’t help herself. She felt hungry every couple of hours. And not just hungry – ‘positively starving’ as she was fond of saying.
She’d long given up on the bathroom scales, which were now covered in dust after being kicked, unloved, under the U-bend, but she did fancy enrolling in swimming classes at her local pool. Although she’d once been a Wren she’d never learned to swim. The last time she’d been to the ‘baths’, as they were called in Glasgow, to thrash around was when she was ten.
Her dad had bought her the biggest bag of chips afterwards, smothered in salt and vinegar. Lovely. She could still taste them. ‘Oh bugger, now I’m desperate for a bag of chips.’ After getting the daily dose of self-loathing out the way, April felt a lot better after polishing off a full Scottish breakfast, which is much like an English breakfast, except with a uniquely Scottish potato scone – a triangle of baked flour and potato, lightly fried and possessing the ability to soak up other food’s saturated fats like a sponge.
April had decided on a different diet strategy, opting for a hearty breakfast – instead of her two rolls and bacon – followed by a moderate lunch, then a hearty dinner. She hoped this would diminish her desire for snacks. She smiled at the waitress Martel and said, ‘There’s method in my madness, you see.’
As usual, the waitress in the Peccadillo didn’t have the foggiest idea what April was wittering on about but decided to humour her, ‘Well, I hope it works out for you.’
April gave her a knowing wink. ‘And if it fails, well, it’ll just be our little secret.’
The waitress turned on her heels and brushed by Connor who had just come in.
He took one look at the girl’s bemused face and said to April, ‘That poor girl looks completely baffled – what pish have you been spouting this morning?’
April rarely took offence, which was just as well as she had to put up with plenty of insults. Instead she gave her trademark dirty laugh, left the correct change and headed for the door.
On the way out Connor tugged the waitress’s sleeve and whispered, ‘You’re lucky, you just have to listen to her in the morning – I have to put up with her insanity all day.’
This waitress smiled then blushed. Connor was more attractive and better mannered than her usual clientele.
He easily read her body language, feeling a small stirring in his loins, and thought to himself, ‘It’s been a while.’
Someone else picked up on the vibes, too. ‘Keep it in your pants, you dirty boy,’ April said as they made their way to the office.
Connor made a mental note to himself. April was definitely a lot more perceptive than she let on.
Badger was Connor’s first call of the day. His old mentor repeatedly had to cover his mouthpiece as he exploded into hacking coughing fits.
‘You need to get that checked out,’ Connor said tentatively, already anticipating the abusive answer.
‘What are you? My doctor or my wife?’ Badger growled, ‘And anyway I have checked it out. I’m getting the test results at the end of the week. But enough of that bollocks. Your man Crosbie is a runner, mad for it apparently. Never could understand that myself – pound, pound, pound, bore, bore, bore. He’s running the Glasgow half-marathon from George Square on Sunday. He’s in the blue group, whatever that is. Something to do with the expected finishing time.’ Connor could hear the flicking of pages while Badger checked his notepad. ‘Crosbie runs it in about one hour thirty-five,’ he added. ‘Bette
r get those shorts on, Elvis, and you’ll need to swap the blue suede shoes for proper trainers.’
‘Oh crap, I haven’t run in years. How long is a half-marathon again?’ The anxiety in Connor’s voice was clearly audible.
Badger laughed loudly before succumbing to another coughing fit. He eventually managed to croak, ‘Thirteen miles. But it’s your only chance to meet him. He does bugger all else except work and run. Oh, and someone wants to meet you today. Very important. Be at the Portman bar at noon.’
‘You know it’s hard to get any time out of the sausage factory these days. Who is it?’
Badger gave a one-word reply: ‘Harris.’
‘Colin Harris – now what the hell did he want?’ Connor thought to himself.
Back in the broom cupboard he told April about his rendezvous with one of Glasgow’s most lethal gangland enforcers turned author and alleged legitimate businessman. Now it was Connor’s turn to speak his thoughts out loud. ‘Legitimate, my arse.’ He turned accusingly to April. ‘Your insanity is rubbing off.’
The Weasel interrupted their conversation with his usual absence of pleasantries. ‘The editor wants to see you both in his office now.’
Bent was sitting in his usual well-rehearsed pose behind his large mahogany desk, chin resting on his index fingers as if deep in thought. He didn’t even make eye contact when April and Connor were shown in by his PA, launching into a question instead: ‘Any news?’
Both reporters detected the hint of anxiety in the editor’s voice, and both decided to toy with him.
‘Well, I’m trying for an address for Jackie McIvor’s mum,’ April said.
Bent snapped ‘No, not with the scumbag prostitute. Are the police getting anywhere with the Seth killer? What’s this Crosbie character got to say off the record?’
‘I don’t know,’ apologised Connor, knowing full well those were three words all editors hated, ‘but I’m hoping to meet him this weekend.’
Bent was silent.
April’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘You seem very concerned about this case – did you know Selina well?’
A look of outrage swept across Bent’s face, and April butted in before he could speak, ‘I think everyone’s been shocked by her death. They will find her killer.’
Bent slumped back in his chair, and eventually mumbled, ‘You’re right, we are all shocked. I had lunch with her the day before she was murdered. I just want the bastard caught.’
‘So you don’t think it was her husband then?’ enquired Connor.
‘No, I don’t. Too obvious,’ Bent said.
Funny how an editor’s real views often betrayed what they put in their papers. ‘Well, I shall hopefully find out Crosbie’s real views, too,’ Connor added.
Bent didn’t answer as he stared unfocused at some imaginary spot on the carpet.
Connor and April took the silence as their cue and quietly slipped out his office leaving Bent to his thoughts.
‘He certainly knows more than he’s letting on,’ April remarked.