that Johnstone had been shot and what was in the air was the whiff of disappointment.
She saw the TV crews and press pack that were being held back at the end of the street, vultures in a feeding frenzy, delighting in the latest kill but probably sharing the dissatisfaction that there was a survivor this time. The Dark Angel was going to claim yet more headlines. Deadlines, she thought darkly.
There was a difference too in the work of the forensics. They were meticulous as ever but she sensed they were cutting with the dull blade of someone who knew what they would find. Baxter would ensure that their standards didn’t slip but they somehow lacked urgency as they laid out yellow markers – for photographs that Winter hadn’t the chance to take, she reflected – measured blood spatter and calculated angles. She wondered if they too had come to the conclusion that a gangster being shot wasn’t perhaps the worst thing in the world.
Then she saw a child being hugged in a mother’s arms a few doors away from Johnstone’s house, a neighbour whose daughter had got out of the front door and seen the blood that soaked the steps where Jo-Jo had stood. Johnstone had kids, she remembered, and wondered where they might be now. With one of the neighbours, maybe, or waiting anxiously at the hospital. Whatever their dad did for a living, they were still children and she couldn’t wish this on them.
The thought triggered memories of Jan McConachie and her daughter. What was her name? Amy. Narey wasn’t sure if she believed that Jan was dirty, whatever the evidence of the phone call from George Faichney suggested, but either way, her heart bled for that wee girl.
She realized someone was standing next to her and turned to see Corrieri and Colin Monteith at her shoulder.
‘All the neighbours have been interviewed,’ Corrieri was saying. ‘Only one of them actually saw Johnstone being hit, the others only heard the shot. It gives us a firm time of the shooting but nothing much more.’
‘Okay, thanks, Julia. What do you think, Colin?’
Monteith shook his head at the scene before him.
‘I think it’s a hell of a waste of manpower for a scumbag like Johnstone.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ Narey chided him.
‘Don’t I? How many people here do you think actually feel sorry for him? Not the neighbours, I mean. Us, the police. If any of them are sorry it’s that the Dark Angel didn’t finish him off.’
‘Yeah well, keep that to yourself,’ she hissed at him. She nodded at the woman cradling her crying daughter. ‘There are people here who are upset even if you’re not. That kid probably played with Johnstone’s children.’
‘You want me to feel sympathy for a gangster’s kids?’ he mocked. ‘Where did the money come from for the big house that they lived in? What paid for their toys and their holidays? Other people’s fucking misery that’s what. Don’t lecture me about what to think, Narey.’
Maybe it was the guilt she felt at having let similar thoughts pass through her own head earlier but Narey bit back at him.
‘And what about Terry Gilmartin’s kid? You heard that his boy died in hospital this morning?’
‘Same answer,’ Monteith snarled. ‘He was a gangster’s son. Don’t lay that emotional blackmail pish on me.’
‘That kid was five years old!’ she blasted.
‘Dry your eyes, Rachel. I’m not losing any sleep over what some scumbag did to a scumbag like Gilmartin. He has fucked this place over for years without any of it bothering his conscience. Well, what goes around comes around. Fuck him.’
She stared at him, bothered as much by the fact that so many people seemed to be in agreement as by what he had said. She hadn’t read one ounce of sympathy for the victims of the Dark Angel and she doubted she’d read much the next morning about Gilmartin’s son. It certainly didn’t make what Monteith said any more appropriate though. She didn’t know how many wrongs it took to make a right and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
She didn’t have an answer for him that he’d understand or want to hear so she settled for the only answer she could muster.
‘Fuck you.’
CHAPTER 38
The moment Cat Fitzpatrick left, Winter hurried back to his office and jumped back onto his PC, bringing up the Photoshopped image of the ring that had punched its mark into McCabe and Strathie. He hadn’t known what it was but now he had a fair idea where to start looking. Special Ops, Navy, water-boarding, torture techniques.
His first guess turned out to be the right one. He typed ‘Special Boat Service’ into Google Images and hit enter. Twenty pictures leapt up onto the page, men on dinghies, men wearing balaclavas and night goggles, men dark and unknown, armed to the teeth, men getting on and off boats and paddling canoes.
There was a group shot of six guys, all menacing in their anonymity and their machine guns, strapped up with pocket after pocket of kit, looking like they were ready to retake the Falklands. Another showed eight men in a dinghy on high seas, every one of them except the one at the helm had machine guns or pistols pointed at some poor fucker who had no chance. Another had four men launching themselves into the sea from the back of what looked like a transport carrier. It was accompanied by some info. ‘The Special Boat Service is one of the Royal Marines’ two Special Forces units, the other being the Mountain and rctic Warfare Cadre. SBS Marines are proficient at demolitions, parachuting, and various weaponry and specialize in intelligence, observation, reconnaissance and sabotage. The SBS motto is “Not By Strength, By Guile”.’
But three of the images, three of them were different, and they had leapt out at him right away.
Set on a black background, it was a silver-gray dagger with a scroll either side of the handle and two thick blue waves behind the blade. The insignia of the SBS. He downloaded the picture, bringing it up full size then switching between that and the image he’d created from the bruise marks. Insignia, bruise mark, insignia, bruise mark, insignia, bruise mark. Identical.
Back to the search engine. He typed in ‘weapons used by the SBS’ and up it came. A long list of deadly weapons.
‘The Diemaco C8 carbine, the HK MP5 Sub Machine Gun, the HK53 Assault Carbine, the G3 Sniper/Assault Rifle, the Sig Sauer P226 Pistol, the FN Minimi Para Light Machine Gun, the GPMG Machine Gun, the L115A3 Sniper Rifle…’
His heart stopped then thudded against his chest. He read on for reasons that were beyond him, as if doubting the evidence of his own eyes. ‘The HKP11 Underwater Pistol, the Flashbang Stun Grenade.’
He clicked the link to the L115A3.
‘Shown to be accurate up to 2.4km, the British made L115A31 AW sniper rifle is a fearsome weapon, especially when placed in the hands of an SBS sniper. Like most sniper rifles, it is a single-shot bolt-operated weapon. The L115A3 is typically fitted with a Schmidt amp; Bender 5-25 x 56 telescopic sight. It is a large calibre weapon which provides state-of-the-art telescopic day and night all-weather sights, increasing a sniper’s range considerably.’
Winter pulled out his mobile and flipped through his contacts until he found his uncle Danny’s number. Three rings and it was answered.
‘Hullo?’
‘Hi, Uncle Danny. It’s Tony.’
‘Jeezus, how many times are we having Christmas this year? You’ve phoned me twice in a week. Am I about to die and leave you money that I don’t know about?’
‘I hope not, Dan. There’s been enough deaths lately without adding you to the list.’
‘Is it this Dark Angel case? You done any work on that?’
You could never get much past Danny Neilson.
‘Yes, I’ve done some photographs. Nasty stuff.’
‘You know any of these cops that were shot, Tony? It doesn’t exactly look good for them.’
Winter hesitated. This wasn’t where he wanted to go.
‘Not really, Dan. Cops and photographers, you know how it is.’
It was Danny’s turn to hesitate.
