Pitch Black Read online

  Lock-up was the worst time of the day, especially during a summer that seemed to be lasting for ever. The thin green cotton curtains failed to conceal the brightness outside and Janis had stopped bothering to pull them shut. Now she sat cross-legged upon her narrow bed, gazing out at the sky. The last wisps of pink had vanished from the space between the heavens and a horizon that was framed by the prison window. A darker blue had swept in from the east and it would be a matter of minutes before the clouds gave way to deepening shades of sapphire.

  Weren’t there fourteen different words in Gaelic for the colour blue? She couldn’t remember. Lachie would know. It was the sort of thing she could have asked him. For a long moment Janis visualised the man she had been trying to reach on that fateful day when the police had stopped her. There was something timeless about Lachie’s face, she thought: those twinkling blue eyes that could laugh or be so suddenly penetrating and that look he used give her that said so much more than words could ever say – that he understood her as no one else ever could. Janis breathed deeply, seeing again the hills behind the croft; they would be purple with heather now. She imagined herself there, turning to see the loch below, its fringes of grass and reeds alive with summer insects, the occasional ripple of a trout glistening in the day’s last light.

  Suddenly she shivered and realised that her arms were cold from sitting so still. It was time now to close the window on these memories and to hope that the dreams that came would be as kind.

  CHAPTER 15

  The reporters were all clustered around the main gate when Albert Little came to open up for the day.

  ‘Wasters,’ he muttered under his breath, scowling at them and standing aside as they pushed in. ‘Like a lot of jackals,’ he spat out after them, but nobody seemed interested in the opinions of a mere groundsman. Still, that suited him; he’d work to finish and it wouldn’t do to fall behind his schedule.

  One by one the newspaper men and women came to a halt at the front entrance and turned to see if Albert would open up for them.

  ‘You’ll need to wait for the polis,’ he told them, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his weather-beaten features as the protests began. ‘This is a secure area now,’ he added and, as if to prove Albert’s point, at that moment a police van rolled into the car park. ‘Youse cannae get in without a special permit.’ He grinned, then, opening the main door, he stood arms folded, as if daring anyone to pass. ‘Ah’ve got ma orders, so ah have, an ah cannae let onybody in.’

  There was a muttering, then one man stepped out from the crowd and stood directly in front of the groundsman. He was a tall, spare individual, a nicotine-stained moustache giving him the look of a dissolute cowboy villain, but the eyes that stared into Albert’s were sharp as flints. Albert felt the folded notes being pressed into his palm and heard the whispered words: ‘Jimmy Greer. The Gazette. Just you give me an exclusive. More where that came from, pal. Round at the Wee Barrel, six o’clock, right?’

  Albert grunted and looked away as if he was completely disinterested but his gnarled fingers pocketed the money.

  Greer stepped away and made a face to the crowd, pretending that Albert had given him a flea in his ear. ‘Wee Hitler!’ he exclaimed then pushed through the lines of journalists to where the uniformed officers were alighting from their van. The others turned and followed the Gazette’s senior reporter, the groundsman temporarily forgotten.

  ‘Bunch o’ sheep!’ Albert snorted in disgust, but he fingered the notes in his pocket, calculating their worth and wondering if he would meet up with this chancer, Greer, later on or not.

  Kelvin Park was virtually in a state of siege, thought Patrick Kennedy, as he gazed from his vantage point upstairs. If it had been match day then all of this rabble could have been sent packing by officers from the local division who came as a matter of routine to keep order among rival groups of fans. But no opposing teams would meet out on the pitch today. For the players it was the business of training as usual. He was glad that Ron Clark believed in hard work as a panacea for all ills, even for the shock of knowing your colleagues might have been picked off by some nutter on the loose on the streets of Glasgow. There had been some frightened faces among the players as they’d arrived for training.

  Kennedy had been wakened in the wee small hours by DCI Lorimer telling him about White’s death. Since then he’d hardly had a good night’s sleep. When he’d opened his eyes this morning it still seemed like some wicked dream he’d been having and it was only his wife Barbara’s hushed tones that had brought him fully awake and facing reality. Now the chairman stood, hands behind his back, gazing out at the empty expanse of green and Wee Bert walking around the perimeter of the pitch with his white paint-marker. There was something infinitely reassuring about the groundsman’s activities, he realised, watching the man mark out the lines with military precision. Thank God someone was behaving normally at least.

  Pat Kennedy pursed his lips. Things weren’t going right at all. By now the newspapers should have been full of the success of his two new signings, White and Faulkner, plus the news that he’d so far kept to himself of Kelvin’s putative new stadium. Kennedy clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails dug into the flesh. He’d worked and planned meticulously to achieve it all and Barbara’s control of the shares would be meaningless once he’d finished … He’d imagined the headlines in all the local papers, especially after the hype they’d written about his promising new players being sure to take Kelvin into the Premier League this season, but nothing could have prepared the chairman for what had actually appeared instead. ‘Kelvin Killer at Large’ one of them had written; ‘Football Club Seeks Protection’ another one had proclaimed. And it was true: Kennedy had insisted that Lorimer provide them with some form of security. The DCI had listened to his harangue on the telephone and answered politely that while Strathclyde Police could not offer continuous police protection, they would make every effort to give advice to the players and staff and in fact a senior liaison officer had been promised at the club within the hour. Kennedy had ended the call with a sense of dissatisfaction. It was one more instance of things slipping out of his control, he thought, as he watched the groundsman mark out the pitch.

  He should really speak to the players, give them some reassurance, let them know that ‘Big Pat’ Kennedy wasn’t standing for any nonsense. An official from the Scottish Football Association had already been on the phone to ask if the fixtures were to continue as planned. Kennedy had said Yes, of course, and had merely grunted when the fellow on the other end of the line had gone on at length about offering commiserations and did he want the association to send anything to White’s family? With a sigh that seemed to come from his boots, Kennedy contemplated that other, necessary, call. What on earth was he to say to White’s mother? Had the player disclosed the bollocking he’d been given? Kennedy chewed his lip for a moment. No, probably not. The wee toerag wouldn’t have wanted his mammy to know he’d been in trouble with his new boss.

  Kennedy shuddered. This wouldn’t do at all. Thinking ill of the dead was just as bad as speaking it, and it would make things a lot worse if he should blurt out exactly what he had thought about the late Jason White.

  Despite the manager’s best intentions, business was anything but normal for the players that morning. Usually they’d be training outside with Ally Stevenson, their coach, but today they had been making do with the facilities in the gym. Stevenson looked as glum as they all felt. By this time of the morning he’d usually be bawling them out, running back and forwards with them, his thickset figure belying the man’s strength. Stevenson had been a professional footballer years ago but now he resembled more a wrestler or a prop forward. Some players hinted that years of steroids had altered the coach’s physique, but none of them would ever have dared ask him.

  ‘Where’s Donnie Douglas?’ Stevenson growled.

  ‘Dunno. Not everyone came in this morning,’ Baz Thomson mumbled.

  ‘Well, he’
s supposed to be here,’ the coach objected. ‘Anyone else missing?’ Stevenson looked round at them. What he saw were boys whose heads were bowed, not only avoiding the coach’s stare but deliberately failing to look at one another. There was a collective sense of grief about them that Stevenson suddenly admired. They were good lads, all of them. Even if White had been a bit of a Jack the Lad, he’d been their teammate and his murder was a huge shock.

  ‘Ally, d’you know what we’re meant to be doing?’ Gudgie Carmichael spoke up at last.

  Stevenson shook his head. ‘Waiting for Mr Clark and Mr Kennedy to come down and see us all,’ he replied. A few heads shot up at his words. They weren’t used to hearing Ron Clark being referred to as Mister, Ally thought. But it had seemed right to speak in that way even if such formality had a strange, funereal foreboding about it. Why had he said that? The manager, whilst not being their bosom buddy, was an approachable sort and they had begun to have a good rapport with him. But everything was different now; all their relationships with one another were under scrutiny and would be until they found who had killed these three men. And the sooner these boys realised that, the better.

  Pat Kennedy strode into the gym, followed by the manager and a uniformed police officer.

  Kennedy introduced the stranger. ‘This is Sergeant Cornwell. He’s from Strathclyde Police and will be helping you to …’ He broke off, turning to the policeman who had moved into the centre of the room to give a full explanation.

  ‘Good morning.’ The officer turned slowly, making eye contact with each and every one of them. ‘There are various matters that I want to discuss with you, but mostly to let you all know that there has been a special police protection unit set up, should you wish to avail yourselves of that.’ Seeing a few blank looks, the policeman stifled a sigh and added, ‘We can arrange for CCTV cameras to be set up in your own homes if you so wish. Not that we think any of you are in any immediate danger.’ He finished off with a tentative smile.

  ‘What’re you gonnae do?’ Baz Thomson demanded of the man sitting next to him in the club coach.

  Andy Sweeney, the Kelvin captain, gave a shrug. ‘Do what they’ve suggested. Make sure I’m travelling with someone else to and from the club,’ he said. ‘Mandy’ll kill me if I don’t,’ he added, referring to the dark-haired beauty to whom he was engaged.

  ‘Is it yer bird ye’re scared of or some nutter?’ Baz jeered.

  Sweeney gave a sheepish laugh then asked, ‘What about you?’

  ‘Och, I don’t know. Kind of ruins your street cred tae have a mate follow ye around, know whit ah mean?’

  ‘That’s daft,’ Gudgie piped up from across the aisle. ‘They said it would only be till they caught the guy. Why take a chance?’

  ‘And what if they don’t catch him, eh?’ Leo Giannitrapani, the Sicilian striker, cut in. ‘What if this is some sort of vendetta?’

  ‘Ach, away ye go, Leo. Glasgow’s no like Sicily. We’ve nane o’ yer Mafioso gangsters here,’ Baz protested.

  ‘Want to bet?’ came a soft voice from behind them. The other players turned to look at John McKinnery. No one spoke. McKinnery’s family were all drug dealers and it had been his passion for the sport that had hauled the young footballer away from that ghetto.

  There was a silence after that while the coach sped down the strip of motorway that led to their training ground. But John McKinnery’s gaze travelled from one player to another as though he were sizing them all up. He’d come from a world where life was cheap and sometimes short, but murder seemed to be no respecter of persons or places. Being on the right side of the tracks no longer seemed the safe option and McKinnery was experiencing the first bitter taste of life’s ironies.

  CHAPTER 16

  Willie shoved the last pair of boots into the dookit and sat back on to the floor with a groan. It wasn’t so bad polishing them all after every training session and the boy really didn’t mind doing them post-match either, but the heat down in the boot room was oppressive. The smell of polish mingled with an older, mustier odour: decades of sweat and toil overlaid by the dust that gathered in each dark corner of the room. There was no window in this place and the only light came from the partially opened door that led to the stone-flagged corridor.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, then rolled it from side to side, just like the physio had shown them. The dizziness was probably just from bending forward for so long, that and this stuffy atmosphere. If only the place had decent air conditioning, he thought, but Kelvin FC still lacked some of these useful devices. Those other more modern clubs had it all. His mate Derek had told him about the new stadium at Falkirk with all its mod cons. The boy sighed. He was happy enough where he was for now and if he stuck at it maybe he could have a real chance of making it into Kelvin’s first team in years to come.

  His body slumped against the wooden bench that ran around the tiny room and for a moment he let his mind slip into a fantasy where he was running out on to that green pitch wearing Kelvin’s black and white strip. He saw a ball cross over his way and suddenly it was at his feet and he was running, running down the park, his marker trying to keep up with him. But his feet were speeding over the turf and the goal was in sight. With one eye on the goal mouth he aimed, kicked and shot. The roar of the crowd sang in his ears and he was being raised up high on several pairs of shoulders.

  A cold current of air woke the boy from his reverie and he opened his eyes. From the corner furthest from the door he sensed a movement that made him turn and stare.

  ‘No!’ he cried, backing away from the figure that loomed towards him, shielding his face with both arms. With a whimper he scrambled for the half-open door and staggered into the corridor.

  Just once he risked looking behind him. And what he saw made him run headlong towards the back stairs, and safety.

  ‘It was real. I tell you I saw it!’

  ‘Okay, calm down, Willie. Hey, you’re shaking, son.’ Jim Christie, the kitman, put a hand on the boy’s shoulders, feeling the tremble through his thin T-shirt. ‘Tell me again, what happened?’

  Willie closed his eyes as he began to speak. ‘I wis jist sitting there, right? I’d just finished polishin a’ the boots and I wis jist havin a wee rest. Then it all got cold and …’ The boy opened his eyes wide and Jim saw him try to blink back tears.

  ‘I saw it.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I saw the ghost of Ronnie Rankin!’ he said, one hand clutching the kitman’s sleeve, as if he needed the reassurance of holding on to something safe and solid.

  Ron Clark groaned. Three murders and now another sighting of the legendary Kelvin ghost: it was simply too much to bear. The manager bit his lip. It wouldn’t be so bad if they could keep it to themselves, but he doubted that would be possible. The evening papers would be full of it. He could just imagine the headlines suggesting that Ronnie Rankin’s shade had been disturbed by what was going on at Kelvin Park. It was a load of bollocks. All of it. There was no ghost down in the boot room, just a wee daft laddy with an overactive imagination.

  He knocked on the chairman’s door and pushed it open.

  ‘Well? What are we to do about all this nonsense?’ Big Pat began, leaning back in his captain’s chair and glowering at his manager.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Eh? I’m not standing for this sort of tosh, Ron! Sack the wee blighter.’

  Ron Clark sat down in the chair opposite and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Pat. Jim Christie said the boy was genuinely terrified. The press would make a meal of it if we kicked him out. Why not just ignore it? Treat it as another nine-day wonder.’

  Pat Kennedy pursed his lips and for a moment he seemed ready to argue. The manager kept his gaze steady, waiting for the chairman’s response.

  ‘Ach, I suppose you’re right, Ron. It’ll all blow over eventually. But tell the boy he’s relieved from boot duties, meantime. And find a lad who’ll do the work and not end up having bad dreams down there!’

  �
�Fine.’ Ron attempted a smile. ‘What about Saturday’s fixture?’

  Kennedy returned the smile with a nod. ‘Aye. A league match against Dundee will suit us fine. And they’ve promised us maximum security.’

  ‘Who’s the ref?’

  Kennedy managed a smile this time. ‘Graham Dodgson.’

  Clark breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s one problem solved. Dodgson’s never been known for a truly controversial decision.’

  ‘No, but he doesn’t suffer fools gladly either,’ the chairman growled. ‘It’ll be fine, Ron. Just stop worrying. Okay?’

  ‘A ghost, eh?’ Jimmy Greer grinned at the man sitting opposite him in the Wee Barrel. He slurped his pint, letting the foamy head settle on to his moustaches, then licked them slowly, never taking his eyes off the Kelvin groundsman.

  ‘Aye, that’s what ah said. A ghost.’

  ‘And who’s it meant to be – Norrie Cartwright?’

  Bert looked sourly at the journalist. ‘That’s not very funny,’ he replied with a sniff of contempt.

  Greer laughed, then, looking over his shoulder to check that they were out of earshot, he leaned forward. ‘What about my other story, though? I thought we had a deal.’

  Bert looked intently at his glass, his mouth a straight line of disapproval. He’d hardly touched the whisky, somehow it seemed better to down it once this business was done. After all, the man was paying for it.

  ‘Ah’ll tell you what ah know but only on condition that ye never let on who told you, right?’ As his eyes met Greer’s, he saw the grin fade from the journalist’s face. Then a nod of agreement told him that they had a deal, but one that was on Bert’s terms.

  ‘Listen.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Look, Greer, less of the cheek, right? This is serious stuff we’re talking aboot.’