Pitch Black (book 5) Page 5

  ‘Well, Jim, I would say that Kelvin’s reputation makes the home fans pretty confident of victory. Just listen to them!’

  ‘Ah, but football’s a strange game,’ Jim Nicholson, the host of Radio Scotland’s Sport Saturday, replied. ‘Look at all the surprises from last season. And with Nicko Faulkner’s death and Jason White not in the line-up, who knows what might happen?’

  ‘Any idea why White’s not playing today?’ his co-presenter asked.

  ‘No. A bit odd that he’s not even on the bench, don’t you think?’

  Then the commentators broke off as a minute’s silence began.

  The ripple of talk died away leaving only the crackling static from the tannoy system and a whine like an air-raid siren as a motorbike started up. Its engine roared into life, then the noise faded into the distance until all that could be heard was a plaintive seagull crying above the stadium.

  A minute is a long time to be silent, reflecting on one man’s death. The mass of people stood, some with bowed heads, others staring at the two teams lined up on the pitch. In the quiet seconds ticking their way towards the start of the game, there was a sense of unease mingled with a desire to forget the recent tragedy and continue with the more important business of football. One man watched the clock, counting off the seconds. Then he put a whistle to his mouth and raised one arm skywards. Once again the noise erupted from the terracing, some handclapping endorsing the football club’s respectful action.

  From his vantage point in the directors’ box, Patrick Kennedy watched his team with something amounting to pride. They had all stood for the minute’s silence, but now, like schoolboys released at the sound of a bell, his players were suddenly running into their positions, eager to begin this game. The pitch was in perfect condition. Wee Bert had spent days with the sprinkler, coaxing some energy back into the dried turf. The freshly painted goals gleamed white in the sunshine, no hint of a breeze disturbing the brand-new nets. Gordon Carmichael, their regular first-team goalkeeper, stood between the posts, eyes scanning the ball, but it was well up the park, no threat to Kelvin’s six-foot-six goalie. He was a big, douce lad, was Gudgie Carmichael, thought Kennedy. Nobody meeting him off the park would dream that he was totally fearless when coming out to challenge an opponent.

  Glancing around him, Kennedy could see the expressions on the punters’ faces. Many of the men around him were recipients of the corporate hospitality that Kelvin offered at home games, and after a good lunch and a few drinks, they were happy to be Kelvin fans, if only for that afternoon. Last season’s relegation was behind them now and all the talk was on getting back into the Scottish Premier League. Further along from the directors’ box, people were getting down to the serious business of the new season, all eyes on the ball as it was booted across the park into the path of the oncoming Kelvin players.

  A howl went up as Leo Giannitrapani missed an attempt at goal. Kennedy shook his head. Their Sicilian striker had disappointed them the previous season and if he didn’t begin to fill the score sheet, the fans would expect him to be out this time next year. Still, it had been a chance for Kelvin to draw first blood and the crowd were applauding Giannitrapani’s effort.

  Kennedy’s eyes followed the ball up and down the park, his teeth clenching in irritation as chance after chance went awry, Queen of the South’s defenders nipping at his strikers’ heels. Now if Jason White had actually been here … He sighed. All that money spent and what had the team to show for it? The new mid-fielder had been one of their great hopes. The player was still in custody after a night of riotous behaviour, despite all of Ron Clark’s pleading. Relations between the local police headquarters and the football club were generally good but asking for favours like releasing the player for today’s game had been a non-starter. White would suffer for this.

  ‘Ohhhh!’ The shout followed yet another missed shot on goal, this one from young John McKinnery. Kennedy joined in the hand-clapping. McKinnery’s face expressed annoyance with himself. But his chairman nodded in approval. The lad was working his socks off today and deserved to score. Maybe the absence of Faulkner and White was giving him the chance to shine that he craved?

  By half-time the score sheet was still blank and Kennedy trooped downstairs with the rest of the club officials and today’s corporate guests.

  ‘Well, Jim, still think Kelvin can win today? Queen of the South are giving them a run for their money, don’t you think?’

  Lorimer switched off the radio. Half-time commentaries annoyed him. He’d tune into the second half and then to Super Scoreboard to see what the rest of the day’s results had brought to the opening day of the season. He’d had half a mind to go to Kelvin Park to see the game himself, but after the events of this week a quiet day with Maggie was infinitely preferable. Their holiday in Mull had brought them closer together again and he was loath to relinquish that feeling of deepening trust and affection. Still, he was curious to know how the staff at Kelvin FC were taking the sudden demise of one of their new strikers. Had Faulkner been playing today, he doubted that the score would be nil–nil right now. Monday would bring more reports on to his desk about Janis Faulkner. Then what? She’d been charged. The burden of responsibility was off them all for the time being. But there was something about this case that worried him.

  What had happened that day? Had she really slammed a kitchen knife into her husband’s chest? The forensic reports showed a missing blood spatter. Someone, somewhere must have been sprayed with arterial blood, spots so numerous and so minute that they might even have covered the assailant’s hands and face. Had Janis washed off all that blood? And had she destroyed whatever clothing she had been wearing? There was absolutely no trace of her husband’s blood on her person, no fingerprints nor any significant DNA to show that she had perpetrated that fatal act. But the woman’s gym bag was missing. He imagined it stuffed with blood-stained clothing. Had she burned it somewhere? Or shoved it into a skip? Lorimer sighed. It was all far too speculative and he didn’t like that at all. And another thing: why wasn’t she protesting her innocence more vociferously? Why this dreadful clamming up that only seemed to confirm her as guilty?

  ‘Now the teams are back out on the pitch and there are no changes to either side. And there goes Sweeney, passing the ball to McGrory who heads it across to McKinnery, and – oh, nicely intercepted by Logan. And Logan is running with the ball, passes – Rientjes, going fast down the line and, oh, gets himself into trouble there with the Dutch player who comes in again hard. Referee says play on and Rientjes hoofs it back up the park only to meet the head of O’Riley...’

  Kennedy sat staring at the ground, his mind wandering. The industrial site at Maryhill was perfect. It would require a lot of upgrading but once the old football club was sold to the supermarket chain there would be enough money to give them a stadium they’d be proud of, and a decent backhander for himself. The only downside was the pitch itself. He’d had three separate surveys done and they’d all told him the same thing: AstroTurf was by far the cheapest option. UEFA had deemed it a safe playing surface and the Scottish Football League had long ago endorsed it as an alternative to natural turf. Yet there were other voices that still rose in dissent. The chairman’s gaze drifted over the terracing towards the high-rise flats that dominated the skyline. He could just make out faces at the windows, watching the game for free. His face creased into a smile of grim satisfaction. They’d have to pay up like the rest of the punters if all his plans came to fruition. There would be changes, lots of changes, but that was inevitable. Nothing stayed the same for ever, he told himself, his eyes flicking over the black armband of his captain, Andy Sweeney.

  ‘And he’s nutmegged him beautifully and Ross is going to go all the way! Can he put one past Gordon Carmichael? And he has! Beau-tiful goal by Ross, and Queen of the South take the lead!’

  Lorimer banged a fist into his open palm. Carmichael! he agonised. The man they called ‘the safest hands in soccer’, just like his fictiona
l counterpart in Roy of the Rovers, Gordon Stewart. He shook his head. Who would have believed it? But the commentator’s voice continued and the policeman crouched over his radio, listening intently.

  ‘Jim, can Kelvin come back from that? What d’you think?’ the commentator asked as the teams regrouped.

  ‘Well, they’ll have to, won’t they? Being knocked out of the cup at this stage isn’t the best way to begin a season. Still, it’s the league matches that really matter to them if they want to get back into the SPL. Now the game has restarted and Sweeney plays a clever cross to McKinnery. McKinnery’s off down the wing! Can anyone catch him? Oh! McKinnery’s been brought down in a fearsome tackle by Logan but the referee says play on. Just listen to the crowd! McKinnery’s still lying on the ground and now the physio has come on. That’s a real let-off for Queen of the South’s Logan. He’s lucky not to have been sent off for that. You can’t blame the fans for their outcry. That was a terrible decision. Well, they’re bringing on a stretcher and McKinnery’s being carried off. I saw Woods was limbering up a minute ago and, yes, it’s Austin Woods coming on to replace young John McKinnery.’

  Ron Clark sat down again, his fists clenched. What was the referee playing at? There would be some harsh questions asked at the close of this game. His face turned towards the action on the pitch, seeing his players’ efforts to keep possession of the ball, trying to turn it in time to move ever forward in the direction of their opponent’s goalmouth. For a time it seemed that every kick of the ball was deemed to find the blue shirt of a Queen’s player and a see-saw of passing ensued. Then a lovely pass by Hugh McGrory was scooped up by Baz Thomson. Clark grinned as the number seven weaved in and out of the blue-shirted defenders, an impudent smile on his thin narrow face. He watched the player ducking this way and that, Thomson’s dyed-red spiky hair making him an easy player to identify. A quick pass to Sweeney, then Thomson was screaming for the ball again. Seconds later he’d shimmied to one side and launched the ball into the net.

  The crowd was on its feet, arms raised in elation, but it was short-lived. For a second time, Ron Clark sank into his seat, his expression thunderous. Thomson had never been offside! He watched as his players remonstrated with the referee, Baz among them, shouting something nobody could hear above the din from the crowd. And suddenly, there it was: a red card being held aloft and Baz Thomson was running towards the tunnel, hands held against his head as if to block out what was happening. Clark looked at the police and stewards as the air was filled with screams and obscenities. The noise took a while to die down; murmurs of anger were punctuated by yells of hatred for the referee. Clark checked his watch. Only a few minutes to go. Could his team possibly pull something out of the bag? Last-minute goals were not unknown. But as the minutes ticked by, the game deteriorated into a series of fouls that were rewarded by a rash of yellow cards and as the final whistle blew, the manager’s mouth was a thin line of suppressed fury as he glared at the referee.

  *

  Nobody looking out at the team trooping back disconsolately to the dressing room could possibly have guessed that this would be their most memorable start to any season, and for all the wrong reasons.

  CHAPTER 8

  Norman Cartwright pulled into the driveway, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath his tyres. For a few moments he sat behind the wheel, too exhausted to move, glad of the silence now that the engine was switched off. It had been a hard game. The jeers and howls still rang in his ears. McKinnery’s fall had been an accident. Scrambling boots had made contact with the ball, of that Norman was certain. It had been the hard ground that had concussed the Kelvin striker, not his opponent.

  The referee sighed heavily, eyes closed, trying to relive the moments before he had blown his whistle, disallowing that Kelvin goal before all hell had broken loose. He’d made eye contact with the official running down the line. He’d known Thomson was offside, hadn’t he? Well, they’d know soon enough when the match highlights were shown on tonight’s television. And even if he had made a mistake, well, the referee’s word was law and what was done was done, he thought, comforting himself in well-worn clichés.

  There had been no post-mortem afterwards, the other officials wanting out of Kelvin’s grounds and away as fast as they could. Norman had waited until most of the ground had been cleared before making his solitary way to the car park. If Rangers or Celtic had been Kelvin’s opponents today it would have been quite another matter, and the referee would have had an escort from the grounds to his car, parked at a distance for his own safety. Norman sighed again. He would have welcomed that measure of security this afternoon. Had he made a mistake, though? Had he?

  Perhaps if Norman Cartwright had not rolled the window down to feel the breeze from the passenger side of his Volkswagen he might have seen it coming. And, if he had not continued to sit so quietly and conveniently for the gunman who had him in his sights, perhaps he would have found the answer to his question.

  But the projectile came whistling through the air, a malicious wrecking force crashing through the side of his skull. Norman slumped sideways from the sudden impact, any speculations he might have about the validity of Baz Thomson’s goal cut off for ever.

  ‘Not another one?’ Rosie Fergusson protested. ‘Can Glasgow folk not enjoy themselves on a Saturday without having to murder each other?’ Her voice held a tone of jocularity that was at odds with the forensic pathologist’s dedication to her work. A little levity helped in Glasgow City Mortuary, but never at the expense of a dead person’s dignity. Once the body bag was opened and the corpse laid across her stainless-steel examination table, an atmosphere of intense concentration descended and any lighthearted comments disappeared like burst bubbles from a child’s plastic wand.

  Now she wouldn’t even have time to shower and change before heading off to the scene of this most recent atrocity. A shooting: that was all the voice on the telephone had told her. Somewhere up in Lorimer’s neck of the woods. Rosie had the satisfaction of knowing that someone else’s Saturday evening was about to be ruined. At least if the DCI was there she could hope to salvage something of her plans with her fiancé, Dr Solomon Brightman. Solly had been a part of Lorimer’s cases before, in his capacity as a behavioural psychologist. In fact, it had been a particularly grisly murder that had brought Solly and Rosie together. A little smile played around the pathologist’s mouth as she conjured up Solly’s image in her head. The dark eyes behind those horn-rimmed glasses could be solemn and pensive while he considered something in his work, but the moment he caught her glance they softened, making Rosie feel ridiculously girlish. She gave a delicious shiver then chuckled to herself. Behave yourself, woman, she scolded, concentrate on what’s going on across the city.

  Lorimer didn’t muck about. He’d be thorough but he’d leave the messy bits to a whole team of dedicated officers who were at the crime scene already. And let me get on with my job, Rosie thought grimly as she gunned the BMW out of the mortuary car park. She had a good working relationship with the Detective Chief Inspector and even met up socially whenever the opportunity allowed. Maggie would be on holiday from school, lucky devil, Rosie thought. Maybe they could make a foursome some evening. Have a barbecue in the Lorimers’ garden if this weather continued.

  Thoughts of relaxed summer evenings disappeared the moment Rosie Fergusson stepped out of the car. The path leading to the semi-detached house was cordoned off with police tape, several vehicles were parked nearby and the pathologist identified the scene-of-crime officers’ official van and Lorimer’s ancient, dark blue Lexus. A uniformed officer stood on the pavement as if shielding the scene from prying eyes. But there was no need for that; the victim was still in his car but protected from view by a white scene-of-crime tent. Rosie turned around. Yes, there were several people staring from their open windows, she could see one at least trying to get a closer view, the sunshine glinting off a pair of binoculars. At least the police cordon had kept other passers-by at bay.

 
Rosie slipped on her white boiler suit and regulation overshoes, donned a mask and gloves, then, grabbing her medical bag, stepped carefully on to the metal treads that made a path towards the white tent. So many precautions were taken to avoid disturbing the scene and Rosie was as grimly vigilant as the rest of the team.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Fergusson.’ A familiar voice made Rosie look up. Lorimer nodded to her, his eyes shifting immediately to the man in the car.

  ‘Here he is,’ Lorimer murmured, pulling the flap aside, revealing the dust-covered Volkswagen and the body of Norman Cartwright. With gloved hands she opened the passenger door, careful not to touch anything on the upholstery, and looked at the victim. His head was turned slightly away from her but she could see the entry mark quite clearly, a large reddened hole a few centimetres from his left ear. Rosie would take exact measurements of the wound in time, but just looking at its size showed it had been made by a shotgun. Right now she wanted an overview of the whole scene. Carefully she stood up and edged around the vehicle, exclaiming as she bumped her upper thighs against the radiator grille. Reaching the driver’s side, she saw that the door had been left open and the pathologist examined the body within the car, not yet touching it but taking note of every detail. The victim was still upright, held by the seat belt that now cut a groove into his neck.

  ‘See that? I’ll need to check for any post-mortem abrasion,’ Rosie said, indicating the webbing that now supported the weight of the dead man’s head. ‘No exit wound so we will expect the pellets to have lodged within the cranial area. No excessive bleeding. Some powder residue scatters across the face. What are we looking at, I wonder?’ she asked quietly. ‘Something discharged from between two and three metres?’

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows and gave a slight nod. ‘The gunman must have been within shouting distance of his victim, don’t you think?’ he replied. Rosie nodded, concentrating on the size of the gaping hole in Cartwright’s head. It was about two inches wide, surrounded by a periphery of scattered pellet holes. ‘Unburnt propellant by the looks of this,’ she murmured. ‘Think we’re looking at a sawn-off shotgun here,’ she added, nodding almost to herself. They’d know more after the post-mortem and have a ballistics report on hand to aid the police investigation. But one thing was certain from this scene-of-crime examination: whoever had fired the shot that killed Norman Cartwright had done so in broad daylight, only yards from the man’s own front door.