Lethal Intent

Thirty-seven

Willie Haggerty liked being home. As he drove along Argyle Street the old song rang out in his head: 'I belong to Glasgow, dear old Glasgow town…' He did too. He had been born in Rotten Row, the city's bizarrely named maternity unit, and brought up in a council house in the Garngad, a part of the city that spawned few policeman.

Leaving the place had been a wrench, but he had spent his career waiting for an offer he could not refuse, and when the ACC job in Edinburgh had been offered to him on a plate, he had gone for it in an instant. Truth be told, it was not the attraction of working with Jimmy Proud and Bob Skinner that had lured him across the country. No, it was the fact that service at command rank in another force would make it easier for him to achieve his dream, his ultimate ambition, to command the Strathclyde Police Force, Britain's second largest after the Met. It was still a long shot, he knew, but the Dumfries and Galloway post, if it came off, would take him one step closer. Service at chief constable rank was a prerequisite for the top job, and with a couple of years under his belt…

Haggerty thought through his rivals and came up with only two names, both of whom he knew well: Skinner himself, and Andy Martin. Yet he had heard Bob mutter often enough that he had no ambition to be sidelined, as he put it, into a chief's office. As for Andy, if he was ever to land the Strathclyde job, given his age it would almost certainly be after his own turn had come and gone.

There was something else. He had been sanguine about his chances of landing the post… two of them, slim and none, as Muhammad Ali had said famously… but the events of the current week had made him think again. At first he had been as outraged as Skinner and the chief when he had been told, in confidence, of Tommy Murtagh's plan to take effective control of the police, until another thought had come to him.

Was the First Minister a politician? Yes. Did politicians, by the very nature of the word, love populist gestures? Yes. So how much more populist could you get than by appointing a boy who had escaped from the war-torn Glasgow housing schemes as head of the city's police force?

It was a thought that he had kept to himself, yet it was preying on his mind.

He pushed it away as he swung into Kelvinhaugh Street, then took another turn to his left a little further along. It was still there, and as he had suspected it had not seen a lick of paint in the three years since his last visit. The Argyle Kebab Parlour stuck out on the corner of its neglected street like the last tooth in a derelict's mouth. Haggerty wondered if the doners were still as good as he remembered.

He parked his car directly outside the scruffy shop… so that it would always be in his sight… and walked inside. He smiled as he looked at the posters on the wall; they were a mix of Galatasaray and the Turkish national squad, revered in some parts of Scotland since their baiting of the English side in a European qualifier. It was well before noon and so there were no customers, just a young man behind the counter firing up the gas jets below the great roll of meat, on its vertical spit, the trademark of Turkish takeaways. The boy, who was no more than seventeen, turned and stared at Haggerty, as if he resented his intrusion. 'Can ye no' read?' he asked. 'It says on the door we're no' open till twelve.'

'I can read, Bulent,' the police officer replied. 'That's why I'm here now. Is your father in?'

The question was barely finished before a bead curtain at the end of the counter was roughly parted; an older man appeared, shaking off its fronds as he stepped into the front shop. 'I thought it was you,' he said. He was built like a beer barrel with short limbs and a round head. In contrast to his son, who spoke pure Glaswegian, his accent was still heavy and redolent of his native land.

'How goes it, Rusty?' Haggerty greeted him, as the two shook hands.

'Same as ever, as you can see,' replied Rustu Kerimoglu. 'How goes it with you? I thought we'd seen the last of you, since you became a great man in Edinburgh.'

'You thought wrong, then. You know what they say: they can take the man out of Glasgow. .'

The Turk finished the homily for him. '… but they can't take Glasgow out of the man. No, they can't, can they? Someone should develop a vaccine, maybe.'

'None of us would take it.' He glanced at the younger Kerimoglu. isn't that right, Bulent? Once a Weegie, always a Weegie.'

The boy gave him a small grin. 'Maybe,' he murmured.

'So what brings you back?' asked Rusty. 'Don't tell me you missed our kebabs: they're not so good that a man would drive fifty miles for one.'

'They're not bad, though. You get that spit fired up, son; I'll maybe have one before I leave.'

'Come on through the back,' said the older Kerimoglu, turning and parting the curtain. 'Bulent,' he called back over his shoulder, 'you keep an eye on Mr Haggerty's car, now.'

The two men stepped into a back room that was part store, part kitchen, part sitting room. Rusty had been preparing salads on a big well-scrubbed table. This struck Haggerty as odd. 'Where's Esra?' he asked. For as long as he had known the Turk, in all the twenty-five years and more since he had opened his shop, his wife had done that job.

The man smiled. 'She's retired, Willie,' he replied. 'When the boy left school a year ago, I decided that she'd spent long enough cooped up in here. It only takes the two of us to run this place, so now, with our Mata coming in to help out when I want a break, she's completely a lady of leisure. It's great, I tell you; for the first time in our married life I get something other than kebab or pizza for my dinner. She's been going to cookery classes. And,' he added with pride, 'she's learned to drive. We even went up to Oban last weekend.'

'Was there anything to do there?'

Kerimoglu's face split into a broad smile. 'As it happens, no, but it was a nice drive.'

Haggerty gave a small shudder. 'You'll not be doing that this weekend,' he muttered. 'From the look of the weather we're in for snow.'

'Good. It'll keep our customers here.' The Turk paused. 'So, my old friend, what can I do for you?'

Haggerty grinned. 'Probably nothing, Rusty,' he said. 'Remember a few years back, when I was in Special Branch, and I used to pick your brains about things that were happening in the Muslim community? Well, it's a bit like that again.'

A look of alarm crossed Rusty's face. 'Al Qaeda? You don't suspect that those guys are still active here, do you?'

'No, we're pretty confident that we've seen them off. But there's more than them in the field. For example, there are Albanians.'

'More's the pity.'

'You don't like Albanians?'

'I don't like any I've ever met. Why? Are you looking for some?'

Haggerty nodded. 'As it happens I am. A guy in Edinburgh said I should look among the Turkish community: you know more about that than anyone else, hence this visit.'

'Any names?'

'None they'll be using. Are there any around in Glasgow that you know of?'

'There are some who made their way over among the Kosovar refugees, but very few. Most of them are old, or they're professional people looking to retrain over here. But you're an Edinburgh policeman now. Why do you come looking in Glasgow?'

'We're looking for these people everywhere.'

'Are they very bad?'

Haggerty took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Kerimoglu; he watched as he slid it open and looked at each of the four photographs inside. The Turk winced as he finished. 'They look bad, that's for sure. Can I keep these?'

'No, I can't let you. It wouldn't be wise, or safe.'

Rusty held out a hand. 'Let's have another look, then.' He took the envelope as it was handed back and spread the images on his table. He was standing over them, peering intently, when Bulent pushed his way through the curtain.

'Who are those guys?' he asked. Instinctively, his father tried to put his body between him and the table, but the young man shouldered past him.

'You don't need to know,' said Haggerty. 'Just…'

'Aye, but I do know him,' Bulent exclaimed, pointing eagerly at one of the photographs.

The stocky policeman's eyes narrowed. 'Are you serious?' he snapped.

'Sure, Ah'm serious.' The boy picked up the print and held it up: it showed the smiling face of Samir Bajram. 'He was in here the other day with two other guys; they bought four doners and a pizza.'

'You're certain it was him.'

'Dead certain. He was wearing an Ajax baseball cap… you know, the Dutch fitba' team… and he still had thon earring in. He's got a fair, fuzzy beard now, like bum fluff, but it was him, Ah'm telling ye.'

'Okay, I believe you, son,' said Haggerty. 'Now, what about the people he was with? Do you recognise any of them there?'

Bulent leaned over the table, and looked at the three remaining photographs for around half a minute, before glancing up at Haggerty and shaking his head. 'Naw,' he announced, 'they're no' there. But I knew one of them, mind. We call him Frankie Jakes, but he's a Macedonian. He's a hood; he deals smack and tabs in Partick; drinks in a pub called the Johnny Groat.'

His father stared at him, appalled. 'How do you know these things?'

The boy smiled indulgently. 'Ah went tae school in Partick, Dad, remember? Plus Frankie's brother, wee Bobby, plays fitba' wi' us in the Tuesday half-day league.'

Rusty turned to Haggerty; the policeman could see the concern on his face, and knew why it was there. 'Okay, Bulent,' he said. 'Now listen to me. You've never seen that man before in your life. You've never heard of him, you've never heard of me, and I was never here. Understood?'

The smile was gone. 'Clear as day.'

'Next time you see wee Bobby, you do not go and ask him about his brother or his mates. Understood?'

'I get the picture.'

'No, you don't, and you don't want to know what's in it.' Haggerty turned to his friend. 'Rusty, I'm out of here. I'm sorry I parked my car outside. What I just said to Bulent… it goes for you too.'

The Turk nodded. 'Sure, Willie. And not for the first time either: it's been a long twenty-five years. Next time, just come for a take-away.'