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  Shallow Water

  Death on the Clyde – Book 1

  Published by Stonehill and Hunter Publishing at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 Hunter J Walker

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and brands are acknowledged.

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  Chapter 1

  Friday evening

  ‘See you, Jimmy!’

  James Cameron-Smythe heard the voice, caught the name and half turned towards the speaker. He glimpsed a flash of silver just before the cut-throat razor sliced though his cheek from ear to jaw. If James had been interested in the history of Glasgow he’d have known that the city was once the murder capital of Europe and that the cut-throat razor was once the traditional weapon of choice for Glaswegian hard men. As the shock hit home James staggered and tripped backwards, falling and hitting his head on the pavement, instantly losing consciousness.

  Not that the man wielding the razor could be classed as a traditional hard man – he was not stupid or badly educated; just educated in a way the educational establishment would not recognise. An accountant once made the mistake of assuming that the man lacked the education to understand complex financial matters and he would not see the money disappearing from the company bank accounts. The accountant regretted his mistake every day he spent in Glasgow’s notorious Barlinnie Prison during his three-year sentence for fraud.

  Before James hit the pavement the man in the dark overcoat closed the razor and disappeared into the early evening crowd. Two passing girls screamed: ‘OhmyGod,’ at the sight of the blood flowing down James’ face and ran away. The crowd, eyes averted from the scene, carefully walked around the man and the spreading pool of blood on the pavement. Finally an old man in a worn donkey jacket stopped, took in the scene at a glance and calmly took out his mobile phone. He phoned the emergency services and informed the woman who answered that a man had collapsed in the street outside the Blind Piper public house and needed an ambulance. He terminated the call without giving his name. Next, he took hold of James under the armpits and dragged him back against the wall of the pub, out of the way of the crowd. To stop James drowning in his own blood the old man heaved him onto his side.

  As James regained consciousness the old man patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hold on there son, you’re no’ going to die from that scratch. Just hold the edges together…now my mate Davie, he had a real wound: a bloody great hole in his stomach, blood everywhere…in Aden that was. I don’t suppose many folk remember that war; not that it was a much of a war, we never actually declared war on them, just some Arabs shooting at us and us shooting back…’

  Chapter 2

  Saturday

  ‘Dougie, how very nice of you to drag your sorry carcass into work – I know it’s a dismal morning, but one is supposed to show willing at the start of one’s career. Even when one reaches the giddy heights of Detective Inspector the buggers still expect you to turn up on time – you have years of slogging through the mire in front of you before you can turn up late!’

  DC Douglas Ashburner sat upright in the chair and looked across the desk at his boss. She picked up her cup of tea and started slurping from it. He knew perfectly well she was only doing it to annoy him. Finally she put the cup down on a pile of reports at the back of her cluttered desk and began rummaging through the papers in front of her until she found Saturday’s incident report. She leaned back in her chair and glanced down at the sheet of paper. ‘Well Dougie, what should one start with this god-awful morning?’

  Douglas said nothing, knowing that whatever he said, DI Nicola Collins would ignore it.

  ‘Well Dougie, we are blessed so we are, there’s not much on this morning’s list. No deaths, no armed robberies, no wounding with a firearm; just one wounding with a cut-throat razor…now, Dougie, that is unusual.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Indeed it is, Dougie.’

  ‘Why is the Major Incident Unit interested in a wounding?’

  Nicola leaned forward in her chair and Douglas suspected that a lecture was about to start. She began: ‘The cut-throat razor used to be the weapon of choice for Glasgow’s hard men, but I haven’t comes across someone using one for years. Baseball bats are easier to get hold of and have a legitimate use and how many neds shave with a cut-throat razor these days? I doubt if one could make a plea to the Beak that one was on one’s way to a shave with a cut-throat in one’s pocket.’

  ‘Where does this knowledge get us?’

  ‘Use that expensive education, Dougie, it was a message.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am, but what was the message?’

  ‘If we knew that, Dougie, we could just get the uniform lot to go out and detain the sender.’

  ‘So what are we going to do this morning?’

  ‘Well, Detective Constable Dougie, we’ll go talk to the victim and find out which old fashioned Glasgow hard man he pissed off.’ She paused to scratch the side of her nose. ‘Now, which hospital was he in?’ Nicola picked up the report and ran her finger down the page. ‘Here it is, Dougie, the Infirmary. Give them a ring and ask if Jimmy Cameron-Smythe has been discharged, and book out a pool car. We leave in ten minutes.’

  Out in the main MIU office Douglas had to ask Julie, the DC who occasionally occupied the desk facing his, how to book out a pool car.

  ‘Who authorised this?’ she said looking up at him. ‘They don’t just hand them out to all and sundry wishing to haul home the groceries.’

  ‘DI Collins,’ he replied succinctly, aware that the ten minutes for this task was rapidly eroding.

  ‘Oh, you are privileged, as a rule she doesn’t take the new boys under her wing. You’re in for a lesson in the custom and practice of the Glasgow MIU.’

  In the end Douglas had to beg her to tell him before she gave in and said: ‘Rachel, in the office, looks after the booking of pool cars.’

  ‘How do I tell which one is Rachel?’

  ‘You can’t miss her; she’s the traditionally built one with the embonpoint to match.’

  Douglas raised his eyebrows and Julie traced a large outline over her petite figure with her hands.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he said.

  ‘You certainly will. As I said, you can’t miss them,’ she replied with a grin.

  Douglas made it to the office with five minutes to spare. As Julie had suggested Rachel was easy to spot and she handed over the keys with the minimum of fuss and a signature, together with some advice: ‘Remember, Constable, you signed for it and it’s your responsibility to report any damage to the vehicle.’

  In the car park he used up the remaining minutes searching for the car corresponding to the registration on the key ring.

  ‘The pool cars are round here.’

  He heard the voice and turned to see Nicola disappearing round a corner. He ran after her and found find her standing by a line of assorted cars.

  ‘Keys, Dougie; I’m no’ going to trust my life to your driving.’

  He handed them over and she read the registration. ‘I bet she palmed you off with biggest heap of junk she has in stock.’ Looking along the line of cars she spotted their car – a dark red Corsa. ‘Must be your lucky day, this one looks like it might get us there and back.’

  As the car roared out of the car park Douglas r
esolved to keep hold of the keys in future. Trusting his life to the DI’s driving didn’t seem a good bet.

  ‘You know this is the chance of a lifetime, Dougie. Glasgow was the murder capital of Europe not so long ago and the fact that title has passed on to others is due, in no small part, to the efforts of the MIU.’

  Douglas reached for the grab handle as she wrenched the steering wheel round to pass a taxi. ‘Glad to hear that, ma’am.’

  ‘Must be a PhD in there for someone, because it wasn’t like Taggart in the old days, with cries of there’s been another murder every ten minutes. Albert didn’t get much trade in Glasgow.’

  ‘Albert?’

  ‘Dougie, where did you get your education? Albert Pierrepoint was one of Britain’s last executioners and the most prolific. At one point he executed a dozen Nazi war criminals a day: two by two to get the speed up; apart from the women that is, being an old fashioned gentleman he hung them one at a time.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit morbid you knowing all this stuff?’

  Nicola paused while she swerved round a black cab, which was nosing out into the line of traffic without the slightest regard for the cars in its path. At the next set of traffic lights she wound down the window and shouted at the offending cab: ‘I’ve got your number ya bampot. I’ll report you to the council.’

  ‘What happens if he reports you first?’ he said once the window was closed again.

  ‘Well, Dougie, we’re in plain clothes, so he can’t see our numbers…and in any case you booked the car out.’

  Douglas groaned inwardly.

  At the next set of lights Nicola continued: ‘And I forgot to mention this, but you’re wanted you for an undercover job. Your face isn’t known around town yet…and you’ll be with teamed the big girl who’s just arrived from traffic.’

  Douglas groaned inwardly for a second time and wondered just how long he would be able to put up with a Glaswegian woman who spent her day harassing motorists.

  Nicola glanced at him and saw the expression on his face. ‘Don’t be like that Dougie; us women are not all useless for anything but bed and kitchen. You might even respect her as a co-worker; just like the manual says you should.’ But then she ruined the effect by bursting out in laughter.

  He remained silent for the rest of the journey to the Infirmary.

  *****

  Douglas followed Nicola as she sped through the hospital. He caught up with her by the reception desk inside the ward entrance just in time to hear her say: ‘James Cameron-Smythe, point me in his direction, please.’

  The woman took her time before looking up. ‘And you are?’ she said.

  ‘The police.’

  The receptionist’s face took on a stony expression. ‘Show me your warrant card then!’

  Grudgingly Nicola fiddled around in her pockets until she found her warrant card and thrust it into the woman’s face. After glaring at it and then at Nicola the receptionist pointed down the corridor. ‘Third bay on the right, he’s the one with the facial injury.’

  Nicola pocketed her warrant card. ‘Right, Dougie, let’s see if our man has survived the MRSA and the C-Diff and the other bugs swarming round this swamp.’

  ‘And remember to clean your hands before you go near our patients,’ the receptionist shouted after them.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Nicola replied as they headed down the ward.

  *****

  James looked up as the young man and the older woman walked towards his bed. He knew instinctively they were police and the woman was the superior. Putting down an old copy of Hello magazine he waited for them to start.

  The woman started politely. ‘James Cameron-Smythe?’

  He nodded; the slash running down his face under the dressing was painful despite the painkillers. He had been given a local anaesthetic before the wound had been stitched by the surgeon who had told him: it was as well as could be expected, but he would always have a scar as the wound was too long and too deep.

  Nicola ran her eyes over the man on the bed: young, well-cut hair, expensive watch, clear skin, not defensive or agitated by their presence. The dressing covered the whole right side of his face from eye to jaw. She drew up one of the plastic chairs scattered around room. ‘Can you talk, James?’

  Shaking his head James pointed to the pad and pen on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Right, James, I will try to keep the questions to ones which you can nod your head for yes and shake your head for no.’

  James nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘You were assaulted outside the Blind Piper public house at approximately eight-thirty last night?’

  James nodded.

  ‘By a single assailant?’

  James nodded again.

  ‘Did you recognise the assailant?’

  James shook his head.

  ‘Write me a description of the assailant. As much as you can remember.’

  James picked up the pad and wrote: white man, a bit over six feet tall, dark coat, only glimpsed part of his face.

  Nicola took the pad from James, tore off the top sheet of paper and handed it back.

  ‘Was anything stolen from you?’

  James shook his head.

  ‘Do you have any thoughts about why you were assaulted?’

  James shook his head again.

  Nicola stood up, folded the piece of paper and put it in her coat pocket.

  ‘Are you finished with my patient?’ The authoritative voice made Nicola and Douglas turn their heads in the direction of the speaker. Nicola saw a young woman in a white coat standing in the entrance to the bay with her hands on her hips – the stethoscope around her neck clearly indicated she should be a Doctor – but before Nicola could open her mouth to say anything the woman’s frosty expression suddenly transformed into a wide grin. ‘Oh my God, it’s Douglas.’

  Nicola muttered Hell’s bells under her breath, thanked James Cameron-Smythe for his co-operation and told him they would need a formal statement shortly.

  She said loudly in Douglas’ ear: ‘I’m going to find myself a sandwich, Constable, and I’ll meet you by the car.’ Getting no reply she left them to their reunion and went in search of the hospital shop.

  *****

  The Blind Piper pub was, in Douglas Ashburner’s opinion, the sort of hole to be avoided like the plague – a place that still stank, years after the smoking ban, of the tobacco smoke and tar ingrained into the walls. Where people with no visible employment lurked all day in the corners and the toilets were best avoided at all times. He stood behind Nicola as she surveyed the dingy interior. Conversation had ceased before the door had swung closed on its worn hinges. Nicola, never one to hold back, snarled at the nearest drinker: ‘Were you in here last night between eight and nine?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Smart arse! You ken well enough, we’re the polis. The slashing last night just outside. Did you see or hear anything?’

  ‘Nae, hen, nothing.’

  ‘Any more of the hen, sonny! And we’ll have you down the station for abusive language.’ Nicola turned and walked over to the bar and stood in front of the solitary barman. Leaning forward over the stained bar she shouted in the barman’s face: ‘The CCTV tapes, I want them now!’

  The barman, saying nothing, turned and walked along the bar and through the door at the end. He returned in less than ten seconds with two tapes. After placing the tapes on the bar, he stood back, glaring at her without saying a word. Nicola picked up the tapes and drew her lips back. ‘I’ll be back for you later …Gordon McKenzie…for a nice long session down the station…about your VAT returns.’

  Douglas noted her voice was clear and cold, with an edge of steel. The barman’s face flinched ever so slightly.

  Nicola turned on her heel and started for the door. He turned to follow her and as he looked around the room he noticed two girls sitting at a table near to the door – the one on the left he barely noticed, but the one on the right, stopped him in his tr
acks. When he saw her – his heart raced. She was wearing a short black skirt in a shiny material and matching black shoes with high heels. Her ample beasts were visible under a tight red top – her nipples visible through the thin material. But the thing he noticed most about her, was her black hair – as black and shiny as her shoes – and cut in a short ragged bob. It struck Douglas that it was expensively cut – something that didn’t match the rest of the pub’s clientele.

  As he looked at her, she turned to her friend and giggled. ‘He can take me down to the station for a session any day.’

  Douglas heard a voice, as though at a distance, from the back of the pub.

  ‘Aye, son, run away back to the station.’

  Nicola turned towards the source of the sound and then advanced on a wizened old man, sitting by himself. ‘Did you say something, sonny.’

  ‘Away an’ boil yer heed, hen.’

  ‘Any more of that language, sonny, and there’ll be a report on the Fiscal’s desk by Monday and you’ll be away for a short break in the Bar-L, you’re favourite holiday destination.’ Nicola turned back towards the door and swept past Douglas. ‘Put her down, Dougie, she’ll have an STI.’

  The girl with the black hair smiled at him. ‘Bye, bye, Douglas, better go or Miss will give you a detention after school.’

  Douglas’ face went a bright red colour. Unable to hide his confusion he turned and ran for the door.

  *****

  Outside in the street Nicola was waiting for him and he could tell from her body posture that a severe lecture was about to start.

  ‘Her name is Shona Doherty. Stay away from her, Dougie, she’s nothing but trouble.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s an exotic dancer, and that, in case your expensive education didn’t cover that particular topic, is just a fancy name for a stripper.’

  Douglas knew better than to argue. ‘OK boss…what about the tapes?’