Black Mail (2012) by Bill Daly Page A

like a bat out of hell. Didny even finish his breakfast.’
    ‘Do you know who was on the phone?’
    Tollin shrugged. ‘Might have a wee idea.’ Renton fished a twenty-pound note out of his wallet and slipped it into Tollin’s waiting fist. ‘Shuggie shouted after Fraser as he was runnin’ out the door. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to McAteer?”’
    Renton caught his breath. ‘That wouldn’t happen to be Billy McAteer by any chance?’
    ‘If I was a bettin’ man, Mr Renton, I’d be prepared to risk a few quid on that one.’
    ‘That would explain a lot. You wouldn’t happen to know where Fraser lives?’
    ‘It’s not far from here. I don’t know the address but I could show you where his flat is.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Follow me – but not too close, mind. I’ve got my reputation to think of.’
    Renton gave Tollin a fifty-yard start before following him along the Gallowgate and into Whitevale Road. Turning into Fraser’s close, Tollin waited for Renton to catch up before leading the way up the staircase to the second floor.
    ‘It looks like McAteer might’ve caught up with him already,’ Tollin said, pointing towards the splintered door lock. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he added, turning round and plodding back down the staircase.
    Renton nudged the front door open with his toe cap. When he stepped into the hall he was greeted by a strong smell of dampness and stale tobacco. He eased open the door off the hall and saw the splintered chair and bloodstained linoleum. The stench of excrement permeated the room. Whipping out his handkerchief he used it to cover his nose and mouth. His eyes caught sight of four tobacco-stained teeth, their bloody roots still attached, neatly arranged on the threadbare carpet. Feeling his stomach starting to heave he turned around quickly and ran out of the door and down the stone staircase, gulping for air.
     
    Tony O’Sullivan showed his warrant card to the security guard at the entrance to the St Enoch’s Shopping Centre. ‘How many sandwich bars are there in there?’ he asked.
    ‘Sandwich bars?’ The guard looked perplexed. ‘Christ, let me think.’ Easing back his peaked cap, he scratched at his forehead. ‘Just two, as far as I know. Both on the ground floor. One half-way along,’ he said, pointing. ‘And the other one down the far end.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    O’Sullivan walked past the first sandwich bar which wasstaffed by three young girls. The small, grey-bearded man behind the counter at the second one was looking harassed. O’Sullivan waited until he’d finished serving his customer before flashing his ID. ‘I’m looking for Ted Wilson,’ he said.
    ‘You and me both, pal,’ he growled.
    ‘Meaning what?’
    ‘You try to give these people a break – and this is the thanks you get,’ he complained. ‘I got the old sob story from the probation services lassie last week. The guy’s just out of jail. He’s done his time, paid his debt to society. All the usual guff. I normally tell them to get stuffed – I’ve got enough misfits in my own family without taking on the rest of the world’s. But it’s Christmas, I could use an assistant, so I agreed to take Wilson on part time. I do the morning shift, eight to two – and he’s supposed to do two to eight. What time is it? Half-past fucking five,’ he said, answering his own question, ‘and no fucking sign of him. I tried calling his mobile but he’s not answering and when I phoned his digs his landlady told me he’d done a runner last night without paying the rent. I’m knackered. I’ve been on my feet since half-past seven this morning. Where am I going to find someone else in the week before Christmas? The next time I see that wee lassie from the probation I’m going to tell her to go and take a running jump.’
    Having asked for Wilson’s address and phone number, O’Sullivan extracted himself from the conversation as quickly as he could.
Friday 17 December
    Simon Ramsay