me. Go on without me, I’m holding you back. Don’t worry, I’ll follow on.’
Narey and Winter swapped glances but knew Danny was right. She turned and started up the stairs again, him following on closely and thinking it wasn’t really the time to admire her bum but he couldn’t help himself. With Danny left behind, they were at last gaining on Monteith.
They could have been no more than twenty feet below him when he reached the top of the stairs, bathed in light now from the street walkway, and burst through a door on his right. They were at it in moments and pushed at it, only to find it blocked and barely budging. Winter took a few steps back and charged it with his shoulder, knocking it open far enough that they could get through, sprawling on the ground and seeing the breeze block Monteith had placed there.
‘My hero,’ she laughed.
‘Fuck off,’ he grinned.
She pulled him up and they took off after Monteith, maybe fifty yards behind him now. He went through another door and they headed for it too, finding this one opened easily. The tiles on the wall were a similar murky yellow to the hallway that Winter had entered just below street level near McDonald’s and he was sure they were near the surface. They charged on, hearing Monteith’s footsteps and knowing they were close behind.
A bang rang out, like a door hitting against a wall and sure enough when they rounded the next corner, there it was, a fire door flapping open, and they burst through it and found themselves in what had obviously been a gents toilet but looked like it hadn’t been used for years.
They hurried through, the smell of stale urine nothing compared to the stench Winter had been putting up with in the storage room, and found themselves facing a small set of narrow stairs and they hurried up them. There was noise everywhere now, Monteith’s feet loud on the tiles, a buzz of people, then suddenly the clang of metal. At the top of the stairs was an open set of rusty green gates and behind them was the concourse of Central Station itself. Monteith was standing there, anxiously fiddling with a padlock, obviously trying to lock them in. They were only a few feet away though and he had to settle for swinging the gate towards them. He hurtled into the crowded station, pushing people aside and heading for the main entrance.
They were after him, Winter’s eyes blinking at the light that flooded in through the glass ceiling, past the white beams and the famous four-faced clock that hung from one of the supports. Monteith was making his way towards the stone arches that led onto Gordon Street, sliding as he ran along the floor and clattering into more and more people. Behind him, Winter and Narey pushed apologetically past the same passengers, desperate to get to him. Monteith skidded to a halt and changed direction, hurtling right. They looked beyond where he had been going and saw a dozen uniformed cops at the main entrance and knew that he had seen them too.
‘He’s going for the Union Street entrance,’ shouted Narey, frantically waving towards the police and urging them to cut him off. They were nearer and faster though, gaining on Monteith with every step. He knocked a little old lady flying and she fell into their path. Narey hurdled the woman without breaking her stride but Winter caught the whack of her walking stick as he ran round her. Monteith plunged into the narrow doorway of the entrance and hurtled down the stairs towards Union Street. They were just a couple of feet behind and could see a uniform positioned at the bottom the stairs with his back to them and Monteith. Narey shouted out but too late and as the cop half turned, Monteith barged past him, the momentum of coming down the stairs taking the officer clean off his feet.
Monteith ran again and they were after him, emerging to see a number of cops further down the street towards Gordon Street and knowing he was not going to get away. He stopped and looked round anxiously and saw his options severely limited at either end of the street. He dashed between two cars into the four lanes of one-way traffic, causing a series of others to slam on their brakes in a cacophony of squeals. Monteith edged to the right and saw an opening, looking back to see where his pursuers were before running straight in front of a silver Golf. The car slammed into Monteith, whipping his legs away and throwing him back onto the bonnet with a sickening thud and a shattering of glass.
The Golf came to a screeching halt a few yards further on with Monteith splayed across the bonnet and puncturing the windscreen.
Winter and Narey were on him immediately but there was no need to hurry, the rogue cop was going nowhere. Blood trickled from his mouth and a violent gash on his temple. His legs were surely broken and probably his pelvis as well, but he was alive if only just.
In seconds, the car and Monteith were surrounded by uniformed cops. A heavily panting Danny Neilson pushed his way through to join the party. Behind the wheel, a young woman sat open-mouthed and completely frozen.
Winter reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, patting it down until he remembered that Monteith had smashed it hundreds of yards below them. He reached an arm across Narey, neither of them taking their eyes off the man on the car, patting at her pocket to get her attention.
‘What?’
‘Phone. Please.’
Without looking at him, Narey found her mobile and handed it over.
Winter quickly found the camera function, briefly shaking his head at the miserable four megapixels that it offered, and framed Monteith’s broken body through the viewfinder.
‘Got him?’ Narey asked as the sound of an approaching ambulance closed in on them.
‘Yes, got him.’ Winter replied. ‘I got him.’
Narey nodded at him before continuing.
‘Colin Monteith, I am arresting you for the murder of Jan McConachie, Graeme Forrest, Harvey Houston…’
CHAPTER 49
Going along the corridor to Ward 52, it struck Winter that he hadn’t been in the Royal since he’d gone to photograph the baseball bat damage to Rory McCabe’s knees twelve days earlier. A nothing photo of a nothing injury, so routine that it had bored him but he ought to have known better. Every bit of everyday crime feeds into the whole rusty machine.
He pushed through the doors into 52 and saw him straight away, sitting propped up in bed with a huge grin on his face and a nurse by his side. The jumble of gauze, bandage and scaffolding on his head didn’t seem quite as shocking now that he was awake and talking and didn’t seem to be bothering him in the slightest.
‘Awrite, wee man? Thought you were never going to make an appearance.’
His voice was slightly slurred but Winter was used to that with him. He shook his head ruefully, thinking that some things never change.
‘Good to see you, Addy.’
‘And you too, wee man. I’m forgetting my manners. This is the lovely Tricia,’ he said with a wave of his hand towards the petite red-haired nurse. ‘Tricia, wee man, wee man, Tricia.’
She giggled and left them alone, doubtless aware that Addison’s eyes followed her as she wound her way down the ward.
‘As soon as I’m out of here I’m in there,’ he grinned.
‘Are you not supposed to be ill?’ Winter asked him.
‘Oh aye, I am. But I’m only ill, not dead. A man would need to be dead not to look at that.’
‘Aye well, there are enough people dead to be getting on with.’
‘Amen, brother.’
‘What’s the prognosis on that then?’ Winter asked, nodding towards Addison’s broken skull.
‘I’ve got to keep the turban on for a while but I’ll be fine. They’ll put a plate in to replace the bit of skull that the bullet took out and they say there’s no brain damage.’
‘How can they tell? You got shot in the head and it manages to miss your brain, what does that say? I knew all the space in there would come in handy one day.’
‘Size doesn’t matter,’ he chipped back. ‘It’s what you do with it.’
‘Addy, you keep telling yourself that if it makes you happy.’
