shipyards. It’s all upmarket, funky and modern, part of the urban waterfront regeneration and sitting in the shadow of the Finnieston Crane, the iconic symbol of the city’s engineering heritage. It maybe wasn’t quite the same as having an apartment on the edge of the Seine but it was nice enough.
You couldn’t argue with the views, remnants of hundreds of years of shipbuilding wherever you looked along with silvery glimpses of new Glasgow in the shape of the Science Tower, the Clyde Auditorium and the Squinty Bridge. And the river itself, wide enough to turn a 150-metre Type 45 destroyer but not as wide as most Glaswegians, stretching away as far as the eye could see.
When Winter arrived at half-past eight, there was a quite different view, the kind that money wouldn’t want to buy. He was looking at two men lying dead either side of a gleaming black BMW, its paintwork daubed in splashes of vermilion. There was a lot more of the stuff on the ground and over the clothes of the two guys that wore it.
Addison, Colin Monteith, Campbell Baxter and his forensics plus a whole bunch of uniforms were already there when he arrived. Tenting was getting assembled and by the look of the skies it was going to be needed. It was going to chuck it down any second.
‘I know this one,’ Addison was muttering, nodding at the man on the left of the car, a heavy-set gorilla, well over six feet tall. ‘Jimmy Adamson. They called him Gee Gee because he was a big punter on the horses. He’s an enforcer for Terry Gilmartin, broke legs for a living.’
The DI was shaking his head and chewing on his lip, obviously not best pleased.
‘He was shot first then the other one,’ he murmured, looking from one body to the other. ‘The second cunt is familiar too.’
‘It’s Andrew Haddow, Gilmartin’s accountant.’
Winter turned to see who belonged to the female voice behind him and saw Jan McConachie glowering out from her white bunny suit and blue overshoes.
‘He kept the books and put Gilmartin’s money in piggy banks from here to the Cayman Islands,’ she added. ‘He also ramped up interest payments on loans owed to Gilmartin and put people in the poorhouse. He was a piece of shit and I hope he burns in hell.’
‘And a good morning to you too, DS McConachie.’
‘Piss off, Inspector.’
‘Someone didn’t get any last night then,’ sneered Addison.
‘With respect, sir, fuck off. For your information, I’ve been taking a statement about one of Caldwell’s dealers, Jake Arnold, they call him Beavis. His people weren’t for saying but I heard he’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Some think he’s done a runner with some of Caldwell’s money but others say he wouldn’t have the bottle. Either way no one knows where he is. Sir.’
The tone was full-on mock sincere, guaranteed to get right up the DI’s nose and it was a dangerous game. Winter recognized that Addison looked like he was suffering a raging hangover but McConachie had gone for it, delivering her information with an exaggerated smile before turning away from him.
‘Right, if you two could just play nice,’ he said, trying to break the tension before anyone else got hurt, ‘I’ve got some photographs to take.’
‘Just get on with it then, camera monkey,’ snarled Addison. ‘Leave the talking to the big boys. And girls,’ he added with a condescending nod to McConachie. ‘Jan, get a best guess out of Two Soups. Don’t take any of his shit, just get an answer on where he thinks the shot came from, and flood the area. I’ve had enough of this cunt. Tony, hurry the fuck up.’
Winter ignored him and turned the lens of his Nikon onto Adamson, lying half on his side and half on his back where the impact of the bullet had sent him spiralling. The man they called Gee Gee had a purplish tinge to his cheeks, a drinker by the look of it as well as a gambler. His fingers also had the telltale orange glow of a smoker. A true Scotsman, not judged by what he wore under his kilt but by how he abused his vital organs. Winter imagined that if he looked in the car there would be half a dozen Scotch pies, some square sausage and a litre of Irn Bru. Breakfast of champions.
The man had hands like shovels, huge meaty paws that had made a career of meting out justice according to the laws of Terry Gilmartin. How many legs had he broken, how many kneecaps had he smashed, heads busted, jaws punched or eyes gouged? Winter looked at every scar and bump on his hands and wondered if they related to a dealer, an addict, a granny with a bad bingo habit or a rival thug.
His full-length leather coat looked like it weighed a ton, a heavyweight article that gave him the look of a rock-star gun-slinger. It was soaking up his rosso corso and Winter couldn’t help but think it was a waste of a cool coat. But then again this guy had been a waste of a pulse.
His eyes didn’t register much except astonishment, unlike the accountant’s. His were terrified. Haddow had seen Gee Gee get shot in the head and would have known instantly who did it and what was coming next. He would have had the time it took an expert to reload the L115A3 and take fresh aim. Time enough for his arse to empty, his life to flash before his eyes and for him to take a couple of fruitless steps back towards the flats.
The difference between his hands and Adamson’s were all too obvious. Smaller, softer and weaker. Still covered in blood though. These hands had never punched anyone or picked up a baseball bat but they were guilty all the same.
He was in his early forties, small and slight, dressed in a black pinstriped suit with an open-necked white shirt. It must have been the season’s colour for getting shot in.
If Adamson was a waste of a pulse then the accountant was a waste of an education. The bits of brains that were littered over the pathway could have been put to much better use. Keeping Gilmartin’s books was the job for a lab rat. In many ways that angered Winter more than Gee Gee making a living out of his muscles. McConachie was right, the man had been a piece of shit.
Winter walked back twenty paces and framed the whole scene before it was covered by the tent. The Beamer was nearly new, the two men lying on either side of it in a way that BMW probably never considered using in an advert. The Ultimate Dying Machine didn’t have quite the same ring to it. With the expensive Glasgow Harbour pads as a backdrop it all yelled money. A caption for his photograph sprung to mind, hardly original but apt. Crime Doesn’t Pay.
He took some more scene-setting pictures. Cop cars, residents hanging over their terraces at a view they hadn’t expected, a local drunk who had wandered over for a nosey, forensics picking their way over the pathway. He managed a cracker of a man in a suit on one of the balconies, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a quizzical look on his face as if he’d been looking for Cash in the Attic and turned on the wrong channel. As he was taking them, Winter sensed a presence over him and looked up to see Campbell Baxter glowering at him. The forensic had not softened to him in the slightest.
‘Mr Winter,’ he sneered. ‘It is my understanding that you have been assigned to this investigation in order to photograph the victims so as to help facilitate a successful prosecution case in the event of it proceeding to trial. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to how your photographs of local residents or passers-by, no matter how expertly taken, will be beneficial in that regard. Can you tell me that? Can you?’
Winter didn’t need this.
‘It is a procedure known as scene setting,’ he began to bluff.
‘Really?’ The scorn in his voice suggested that Baxter was unconvinced. ‘Please do enlighten me.’
‘There are, er, various benefits. It provides scale, local character germane to the crime scene, all helping to create a, eh, panoramic image rather than simply a one-dimensional approach based solely on evidence photographs. Also the subjects within them may prove to be vital witnesses that might otherwise be missed by the investigating officers.’
Baxter gazed at him in mild confusion.
‘Panorama? Local character? It is not in my nature to indulge in intemperate or coarse speech but this is bullshit, Mr Winter. Bullshit. I don’t know what you think you are playing at here but this is not the sort of professional behaviour that I demand of my officers. I shall be speaking to Superintendent Shirley about this and expressing my continuing dissatisfaction with both your role and your methods. If I get no satisfaction from him then I shall not hesitate to take the matter higher. Do you understand me?’
Winter understood perfectly well.
‘Yes, I do. You don’t like me.’
Winter saw a vein in Baxter’s temple throb and wondered whether the man was about to bust a blood
