‘We are all exceptionally busy. That is why I shall take as little of your time as is possible. I’d like to ask if you have any objections to Tony Winter being placed at the disposal of the team investigating the recent sniper shootings.’
Baxter bristled. An angry flush emerged on his cheeks and his words spluttered out in a barely concealed fury.
‘What? Winter? Absolutely not. I would have to post the most strenuous objection to any individual, particularly that individual, being allocated to a specific investigation. It goes against the very grain of the established bi-partisan working arrangement and I would take it as a personal affront and an attack on the integrity of the Scottish Police Services Authority itself.’
Shirley tried to let the old goat blow himself out, seeing with some satisfaction the distress of Baxter’s heaving paunch and the dismay of the sneering, pursed lips that peeked out from his salt and pepper beard.
‘Well…’ he began, only to be interrupted by Baxter’s continued bluster.
‘There is a matter of protocol here, Superintendent, and it strikes me that you intend to drive a coach and horses through that understanding. While I understand that Mr Winter is neither an officer of your constabulary nor a member of the SPSA, neither quite fish nor fowl as it were, I must make clear my objection. I would consider him to be something of a maverick, his behaviour being quite unsuitable to the task at hand and falling considerably below the standards I would seek in scenes of crime examiners. Furthermore…’
The Temple did not wish to hear furthermore.
‘Campbell, I have had to consider the advantage, in such an inevitably high-profile case, of expert photography and the beneficial effects this will have with a jury.’
If human beings were actually capable of blowing a gasket, then Baxter’s cylinder head was suddenly in severe danger of separating itself from his engine block.
‘Am I to take it,’ he raged, ‘that you consider my department incapable of taking acceptable photographs? Because I can assure you that is far from being the case. The supposed art of photography is greatly exaggerated in terms of courtroom presentation but there is no crime scene examiner under my aegis who cannot produce perfectly satisfactory work in this regard.’
Addison wanted to get out of his chair and punch Baxter in the head to see if that would deflate some of his insufferable pomposity. But he didn’t. Instead he smiled directly at him and nodded as sweetly and sarcastically as he could. He knew what Baxter couldn’t – Alex Shirley had already made his mind up.
‘ Mr Baxter,’ the superintendent emphasized his civilian title in order to stress his own superiority. ‘When I asked if you had any objections to Winter being assigned to the sniper killings, what I actually meant was that I was telling you he was being assigned to the sniper killings. That was by way of courtesy. I had assumed, perhaps wrongly, that you would have had the sense to realize the difference.’
Baxter’s mouth opened then closed again. He repeated the motion, succeeding only in looking like a rather stupid, bloated fish.
Addison was torn between laughing in Baxter’s face or kissing his boss on the cheek but decided that neither was the correct course of action. At least not until Baxter had closed the door behind him.
Baxter pulled himself up into what he must have assumed was a position of moral indignation and said curt goodbyes before leaving with a scrap of his self-respect intact.
Shirley stared almost disbelievingly at the door as it closed behind Baxter, shaking his head.
‘That man gets right on my tits. I hope that Winter is aware that Baxter is going to make his life a merry hell for as long as he is on this case and for a good while after that. He’s never liked the idea of us having specialized photographers and this isn’t exactly going to help. Just keep Winter in line will you, Derek, and keep that fat oaf Baxter out of what’s left of my hair.’
‘Not a problem, sir.’
‘I don’t give a frigging fuck if it’s a problem or not. Just do it. Now move your arse, we’re due at the briefing in two minutes. Phone Winter and get him down there, too. He may as well see what he’s getting involved in.’
The squad room set aside for the operational briefing was in one of the bigger rooms in Stewart Street and out of the way of random cops walking the corridors, so it suited the purpose just fine. When Shirley, Williamson and Addison pushed their way through the double doors, they saw that most of the team that had been hurriedly put together to investigate the Caldwell and Quinn shootings had already assembled. Narey was among them, sitting expectantly in the second of three rows of eight chairs. The superintendent nodded in her direction and saw Addison groan at the prospect of explaining the change of plan to his feisty DS in front of a squad room of cops.
Addison eased his way past a couple of CID officers to get to a point where he could catch Narey’s attention and signalled for her to step out of the row and speak to him. She quickly excused herself and went to the side where Addison leant in close and began explaining what was to happen.
‘What? You are kidding me, right?’
Heads turned at Narey’s angry outburst. Addison again spoke quietly but it didn’t go down any better.
‘And that means you can take your seat at the top table here, does it? While I have to bugger off and-’
Shirley’s voice barked over them and brought the argument to a close.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began loudly. The greeting might have been aimed at the whole team but Narey and Addison knew it had been meant for them. They pulled back from each other and took their seats.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he repeated, more calmly this time before turning somewhat theatrically to the large posters behind him.
‘Cairns Caldwell.’ He paused slightly for effect. ‘Malky Quinn.’
Everyone in the room already knew the names tagged to the bloodied bodies on the posters but Shirley wanted to remind them just how huge the consequences of the killings might be. It had the desired effect and every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on the superintendent.
‘I don’t want anyone in this room thinking that their murders are in any way good news,’ he continued evenly. ‘It isn’t. There’s no good news in this for us. We get it nipped in the bud right away or all hell will break loose. I will not have this become a free-for-all for either the press or the dealers. We stop it here and now.’
No one said a word. Heads turned though as the Ops room doors swung open and Winter sidled silently, almost embarrassed, into the room.
‘Welcome to Operation Nightjar,’ Shirley continued to his audience. ‘It starts in this room, it reaches out to everyone in Strathclyde Police, and it ends in this room. We find out who did this and we put them away. It needn’t be any more complicated than that.’
Shirley again looked around the room, his authority unchallenged, as Winter slipped into a seat in the back row, which he felt suited his position in the scheme of things.
‘Forget rotas, forget overtime,’ Shirley was telling them. ‘We are here till this is done and I want that to be sooner rather than later. If you need something you will get it. DCI Williamson is going to talk us through what we already know and what we need to know. Iain…’
DCI Williamson pushed back his chair and joined Shirley in front of the PowerPoint presentation, setting about monotonously recapping everything to do with the two shootings and might well have lost his audience but for Alex Shirley’s stern gaze searching the room for anyone’s eyes daring to wander. Williamson was a details man and was missing nothing out. He divided the room up into three teams of six and specified their different roles.
Winter did his best to listen but his gaze kept switching to the hypnotic sight of the two blown-up photographs of Caldwell and Quinn that grabbed the stage above Shirley and Williamson’s presentation. He stared at them, drinking in every dot per inch, wishing it had been him that had taken them, seeing violated bone and singed flesh, guilt and penance, blood and more blood. It was all he could do to tear his eyes away from them.
Williamson was saying that shift patterns had been torn up and every bit of available manpower was to be directed at what had happened at Central Station and Kinnear Road and what may or may not happen from that point on. The baw was on the slates, he told them, and it was their job to get it down again.
As for Winter, he was to be where he was needed and at the beck and call of all and sundry. In other words, he thought, he’d be where the action was and that suited him just fine. More than fine. He stared hard at the photographs of Quinn and Caldwell again, wishing something that he could never have voiced in that room. He wanted more.
Williamson was still in full flow – explaining how the SPSA had verified that the bullets that killed Caldwell and Quinn were fired from the same gun, almost certainly a variant of the army’s L115A3, a designated sniper rifle –
