Fatal Last Words

Seventy-five

‘He must be in.’ Ray Wilding pointed to a motorcycle, sitting by the kerb, secured by a heavy chain which tethered its front wheel. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s his: a Triumph Tiger. I noticed one parked at Carol Glover’s and they’re pretty scarce machines.’

‘Great job being a football reporter, isn’t it?’ Sammy Pye remarked as he pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment block. It was a modest building, in the west of the city, close to a railway line. ‘Hibs have a midweek game so he doesn’t have to go into the office at all today. And you have enough spare time to earn some extra money by spying on cops.’

‘And maybe more,’ said the sergeant. ‘The images in his folder were all timed. He snapped Andy leaving the ACPOS dinner, getting into a taxi at ten thirty and going into Alex’s at ten forty-five. Nothing after that till the stuff through the curtains, next morning. He had plenty of time to get back up to Charlotte Square and kill Glover. There was nobody better placed to know how he dosed himself, or to swap the insulin capsule for one with the drug.’

‘That’s true, but be honest, Ray; you’ve met Collins. Is he a methodical, cold-blooded killer?’

‘I wouldn’t rule it out. He was good enough to trail an experienced police officer for months until he caught him dipping his wick were he shouldn’t have.’ He whistled. ‘Lucky man that he is.’

His colleague grinned as they climbed the stairs. ‘I’ll tell the new chief you said that,’ he joked. ‘Worse still, I’ll tell DI Stallings.’

‘Ah,’ Wilding countered, ‘I didn’t say he was as lucky as me, though.’

‘Slippery bastard.’ Pye stopped on the second-floor landing, facing a blue-painted door. A nameplate read ‘E. Collins’. Wilding reached out and rang the bell. The detectives waited, listening for footfalls inside the flat but hearing nothing. ‘I hope this place doesn’t have a back door, like fucking Darnaway Street,’ Pye muttered. ‘Or maybe the sports editor broke his word and called him to warn him we were coming.’›

‘Want the door kicked in?’

‘Let’s not go that far just yet.’ The DI reached out, turned the handle and pushed. The door opened. ‘Your way looks great, my way’s easier.’

They stepped into a small hallway; its only pieces of furniture were a coat stand, on which hung two jackets and a grey metallic crash helmet, and a telephone table, but the walls were festooned with football posters, all of them featuring the same club. ‘There’s no such team as Glasgow Rangers, you know,’ said Wilding. ‘It’s just Rangers FC; that’s the proper name.’

‘Bluenose,’ Pye grunted.

‘Aye, and so’s this boy. Hardly your impartial sports journalist, is he?’

Ally McCoist, aged twenty-something, smiled at them, larger than life, from a facing door; from the layout of the block they guessed it was the living room.

‘Mr Collins,’ the sergeant shouted. ‘Police.’

But there was no sound within the flat. ‘Excuse me, Coisty,’ said Pye, as he opened the door and stepped into the room. ‘Oh shit,’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, I can smell it,’ Wilding murmured as he stood beside him and looked down at the body of Ed Collins, clad in a Rangers replica top, lying in the centre of what a less experienced witness might have taken for a red rug. His eyes were only half open as they gazed lifelessly at the ceiling. There was a cut on his forehead, and a lump. But those wounds were superficial. Collins had been nailed to the floor, through the centre of his chest, by a short samurai sword, a souvenir, the sergeant imagined as he surveyed the scene, from a foreign holiday. He glanced to his right and nodded, indicating its scabbard, which sat on top of a television set in a corner of the room.

‘Somebody’s been taking precautions.’

‘No, Ray, not just somebody; Coben has.’

‘And there’s nothing subtle about this one, it’s not an imaginative death like Glover’s or Mount’s.’

‘No,’ the DI agreed. ‘This one’s from the Fred Noble school. What was it he said? “Sharp objects, at close range”, or words to that effect.’ He paused, pointing to the floor. ‘But maybe there is some subtlety here. Look what’s lying beside him; it’s a ballpoint.’

‘So?’›

Pye shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing, except there’s a line somewhere, at the back of my mind.’ He nodded. ‘I remember now: “They may say” he quoted, ‘“that the pen is mightier than the sword, but when it comes down to it, that’s never the way to bet.” It’s from a book called The Sharp End, and yes, it’s by Fred Noble.’