The Interpretations Read online

  There were four other police vehicles parked close by, their alarms flashing silently. Three more squad cars were parked at the far end of the street.

  Several large floodlights had been manoeuvred into place to illuminate the scene. But the light produced by them was nothing soft and natural; it was hard. It was hard and edged and edgy and its predominant quality was glare.

  ‘Christmas, eh?’ McCall suggested, pointing to the floodlights.

  ‘Any contact yet?’ Crathie asked.

  ‘No. We’ve tried but he’s not in the mood for conversation. McAllister had a go with the loud hailer and got shot at.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He’s fine. But the car he was standing behind is a wee bit second-hand now.’

  ‘What about those two jokers, Sutherland and . . . what’s his name?’

  ‘Campbell.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Between them they’ve got sore balls, a perforated eardrum and a few cracked ribs.’

  ‘Wankers,’ Crathie said with disgust. ‘Could’ve had him, eh? There for the taking. But oh no. And now we’ve got all this shite.’ He gestured to the scene before them.

  ‘We rang Gilfedder’s brother,’ McCall said.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Well, he’s only got two and one of them’s in Barlinnie.’

  ‘Oh aye, Archie. I thought he was out.’

  ‘Not yet. A few weeks to go.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘His other one. Hugh. Lives over by Sheeppark.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Told us to clear off. Can’t say I blame him either. Case like Gilfedder . . . just as likely to blow his own brother’s head off as anyone else’s.’

  ‘What’s the news about the lad at WattWays?’ Crathie asked. ‘The one that big boy here smacked in the head.’

  ‘They took him to the Royal,’ McCall said. ‘But it’s not looking that good. He was still unconscious when they arrived.’

  ‘Who was it, anyway?’

  ‘Man by the name of Kingsmill.’

  ‘Tom Kingsmill?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Crathie replied. ‘Certainly. You’ve probably seen him yourself. Very fit bastard. Always running.’

  ‘There’s a few of them about,’ McCall said.

  ‘Yes, but you’d recognise this lad. Late twenties, black hair, tall. Always wears a club top. Red it is. Dalmore Dashers or some shite like that.’

  McCall shook his head. ‘No, I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘He’s the lad that wants to organise a race across the new bridge.’

  ‘Oh him. Yes, he came down to the station . . .’

  ‘Bugger of an idea,’ Crathie put in. ‘I told the Super to turn him down. I mean, they take years to build the thing and then someone asks us to close it. Anyway . . . Let me have a go, will you?’ He reached for the binoculars. McCall handed them over. ‘So he’s upstairs at the moment, is he?’ Crathie asked as he scanned Gilfedder’s house.

  ‘It’s not that easy to tell, actually. He’s got all the lights off and the curtains drawn.’

  ‘Aye, well, I can see that. Just him and the wife inside?’

  ‘We’re not a hundred percent sure. They’ve no bairns so there’s no problem there. I don’t know . . . a lodger? Visitors? Unlikely.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Crathie looked through the binoculars again. ‘Featherstone and Andrews been called?’ he asked.

  ‘Already authorised and already here.’

  ‘And in position?’

  ‘In a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Be nice to get this over quickly,’ Crathie said, handing the binoculars back to McCall.

  ‘Wouldn’t it just.’

  ‘I’m off to Orkney tomorrow.’

  ‘Orkney?’

  ‘A wee holiday. My daughter’s moved up there. Any-way . . . not much chance, I know.’ He opened the van door. ‘So . . . just him and his wife, then, you reckon?’

  ‘Yes. Just the two of them.’

  ‘I wonder what they’re talking about,’ Crathie said as he pushed the door wide. ‘Interesting conversation, I’d imagine.’ He smiled as he stepped down onto the street.

  ‘They say I’m no right in the head.’

  ‘Who? Who says that?’

  ‘Some of the lads at the plant.’

  Gilfedder and his wife were sitting in their bedroom on the first floor, she on the bed itself, he in a chair to one side. The shotgun lay across his knees. The lights were off and the curtains drawn but the room was not in darkness. The glare from the floodlights was so intense that it penetrated even the thick weave of the heavy blue curtains. They sat in the diffuse light of an interrupted artificial sun.

  She could see that Gilfedder was smiling.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe you’re what?’

  ‘No right in the head. Here I am, I’ve smacked that cunt Kingsmill – hard, too, I can tell you. He’ll no be lifting a matchbox, far less a fish box. Not for a while, anyway. And I’ve . . . let’s see . . . knocked down a couple of polis and taken a pot shot at two more. Not exactly intelligent behaviour, is it, eh? Eh?’

  ‘Oh, Donnie,’ she said quietly. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘And I don’t regret any of it,’ he went on. ‘No, fuck it, I don’t. Except . . . no, I shouldn’t have hit you. No, I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I really am.’ He reached forward and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  After a few moments he released her hand and sat back in the chair. ‘Keepin’ you in business, though, eh? All those guys in the Royal . . .’

  ‘God, you’re not actually enjoying this, are you, Donnie? For God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Enjoying it?’ He considered this for a moment. ‘Maybe I am,’ he said. He stood up, taking care to keep the shotgun pointed at the ceiling. ‘Maybe I am, yes. Them out there wondering what I’m going to do next and me in here waiting to find out what they’re going to do next. Interesting, don’t you think?’ He smiled.

  ‘Oh, Donnie.’ She struggled against it but she began to cry again. ‘Give it up, Donnie, please.’

  ‘Never.’

  He stepped carefully to one side of the window. Pressed against the wall, he took hold of the curtain edge and moved it back no more than a couple of inches. ‘Quite a few of them out there,’ he said, looking along the street. Then he ducked down and moved round to the other side of the window. He peeked out again. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if the whole force was out there,’ he said. ‘God, think of all the burglaries that’ll be going on in Dalmore tonight.’

  ‘Please give it up, Donnie. Please.’

  ‘No. Not a chance.’

  ‘I’m really scared.’

  ‘What?’ He turned to look at her. She was shaking.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, nothing’s going to happen to you, that’s for sure. They’re not going to shoot you. They’ll most likely try and shoot me but not you. You’re right in the head and I’m not. Remember?’

  She put a hand to her face and winced as she accidentally touched the swelling on her right cheek.

  He saw this and said to her, ‘I’m sorry about that. I truly am.’

  ‘GILFEDDER!’

  ‘Oh, aye. What’s this?’ He came away from the window and sat down again.

  ‘GILFEDDER. THIS IS ALEX . . .

  . . . CRATHIE OF THE DALMORE CONSTABULARY. I NEED TO HAVE A TALK WITH YOU, DONNIE. NEED TO GET THIS WHOLE THING SORTED OUT. YOU JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT AND WE CAN MAKE A START. I’LL MEET YOU AT THE FRONT DOOR IF YOU LIKE. I’M NOT ARMED. I’LL COME OVER TO YOU. WHAT DO YOU SAY? CAN YOU HEAR ME?’

  Crathie lowered the loud hailer. He turned to McCall who was beside him. They were both crouching down behind a Volvo estate that was parked almost directly opposite Gilfedder’s house. They were no more than twenty yards from his front door.

  ‘What do you think?’ Crathie
asked.

  McCall shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. You’re not serious, though, are you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Going to the front door. The man’s got a shotgun.’

  ‘I was planning to wear a tank,’ Crathie said. Then he raised the loud hailer again. ‘CAN YOU HEAR ME, DONNIE? CAN YOU HEAR ME?’

  On the first floor, there was movement by the bedroom window which was pushed open quickly. Gilfedder fired twice at the nearest of the floodlights, blowing it to pieces. Sparks and splinters of glass and metal fell on Crathie and McCall who were only a few yards away.

  When the little snowstorm of shards of floodlight had ceased, McCall wiped clean his shoulders and sleeves and said, ‘Well, I think he can hear you.’

  ‘No, Donnie, no! No more shooting! Please!’ she screamed at him. ‘No!’ She was at his side, by the window and she made a grab for the shotgun. For a few moments they wrestled with the weapon but the result of this contest was never in doubt. His grip was tighter, his strength much greater. He wrenched the shotgun from her and, as he did so, the stock hit her hard on the chin. She went down and lay on the carpet crying.

  Gilfedder ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded. He made sure the safety catch was on. Calmly, he sat down again and placed the shotgun across his knees as before. ‘Now you’re getting in the way,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you got hurt but you got in the way. You shouldn’t do that. I’m going through with this. All the way. Whatever it is, it’s got to be done. Got to be done. And you’re not going to stop me.’ He looked across at her. She was kneeling on the floor now, hunched over, her face in her hands.

  He stood up. ‘You can go if you want. Aye, just go. I’ll shout to them. They’ll let you out. You’re getting in the way here. So, be safe, eh? Be safe.’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘No, I think it’s best after all. Yes.’ With the shotgun held in his left hand he reached down with his right and took hold of her arm. He dragged her up to her feet. Her face was red and puffy. Her jaw was now bruised but not bleeding. She took a tissue from her sleeve and wiped her eyes and nose.

  ‘You’ll no persuade me. No. Just going to finish it myself. I’m . . .’ Gently he took her chin in his hand, avoiding contact with the bruise. She refused to look at him. After a few seconds he allowed his hand to fall away.

  ‘Down the stair, then,’ he said and he sounded almost bright. ‘Unlock the front door but don’t go out till I tell you. OK?’

  She wiped her eyes again.

  ‘OK?’ he repeated.

  ‘OK,’ she said and her tone was sullen, defeated. But she managed one more effort: ‘Donnie, why don’t you . . .’

  ‘No, no, no.’ He waved her into silence. ‘I’m staying here. I’ll be fine. Really. But it’s best if you go. Go on. Go.’

  She turned and opened the bedroom door. Then she stopped.

  His voice was behind her, insistent. ‘No, don’t say a word. Don’t turn round. Just go.’

  She stepped through the doorway onto the landing.

  By the side of the now open window, he shouted, ‘Coming out! My wife’s coming out! Not me! Just my wife! Front door! She’s coming out!’

  Five minutes later, Gilfedder’s wife was in the back of an ambulance. She was sitting on a stretcher-trolley with a blanket round her shoulders. On her left sat a woman police constable; on her right, Crathie arranged his considerable bulk on a pillow at the head of the stretcher. He poured some tea from a flask and offered it to her.

  ‘Station issue,’ he said. ‘Usually pretty bad but I think you need something. It’s Avril, isn’t it?’

  She nodded and sipped at the tea.

  ‘Well, Avril,’ Crathie began, but she interrupted him.

  ‘What did he do?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Something about hitting someone at WattWays.’

  ‘That’s more or less it, yes.’

  ‘Is he bad?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, he’s quite bad,’ Crathie said and regretted this immediately as Avril Gilfedder began to cry.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ Crathie said quickly, looking round for some tissues. The cramped interior of the ambulance was full of equipment he couldn’t have put a name to, but he didn’t manage to locate any tissues. The wpc did and handed some to Avril Gilfedder.

  ‘Don’t worry about the lad at WattWays,’ he said as her sobbing quietened down and then ceased. ‘He’ll be OK. No, really. It’s your husband we’re worried about. And yourself, of course. Did he hit you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What about that bruise then? And that one there, on your chin?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

  ‘No? Well, we’ll get you checked out, anyway.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘I’m sure you are but it’s the rules, I’m afraid. We’ve got to send you to the Royal and get you checked out.’

  She blew her nose. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘I’m a nurse, remember.’

  ‘Are you?’ Crathie said in surprise. ‘Oh aye, of course you are. Anyway, same difference. You know yourself it’s got to be done. More tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Crathie took the now empty cup and screwed it back on to the top of the flask. ‘There’s something it would help us to know,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Has he many cartridges?’

  ‘A couple of boxes, I think. One, certainly.’

  ‘Ah.’ Crathie managed a weak smile. ‘Pity.’

  He rose carefully and, crouching, took a couple of paces towards the back of the ambulance. As he opened the doors he said, ‘Cathy here’ll look after you. She’ll have a few more questions too, no doubt.’ With some difficulty he let himself down the two metal steps to the tarmac. As he turned round to look into the ambulance again, Avril Gilfedder said to him, ‘Please don’t hurt him.’

  ‘We’ll do everything possible,’ Crathie said. ‘Everything to sort it out peacefully.’ He reached for the ambulance doors, right and left.

  ‘I tried to persuade him, you know. I tried hard but he wouldn’t listen. He gets that way, you know . . .’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘But give him an hour or two,’ she added. ‘He’ll think it through. He will. He always does. He’s not daft.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Just give him time . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. Don’t you worry.’

  He closed the doors of the ambulance and stepped to the side to wave to the driver.

  As the ambulance reached the end of the street and turned, McCall joined Crathie.

  ‘Well, it makes it a bit easier,’ McCall said. ‘No one in the house but himself. Just wait till he gets tired, I suppose.’

  Crathie shrugged. ‘Wish I had a hand grenade,’ he said.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Toss it in, blow the fucker to smithereens. End of story.’

  McCall smiled. ‘I’m not sure we’d be allowed to do that.’

  ‘No? Pity.’ Crathie shook his head. ‘I’d rather do that than wait. We could be here for fucking days. The bastard’s determined to ruin my holiday. No . . .’ He straightened up. ‘No, I want this finished right now.’

  ‘How’re you going to do that, then?’

  ‘I think there’s a way,’ Crathie said. ‘Yes, I think there’s definitely a way. You stay here,’ he added. ‘I need to speak to Featherstone and Andrews.’

  Ten minutes later Crathie and McCall were together again, standing behind a police van seventy yards from Gilfedder’s house. But they were at the other end of Proby Street, having driven round adjacent streets to take up their new position.

  ‘Why here?’ McCall asked.

  ‘Windows open the other way,’ Crathie said. ‘Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘What do you mean, the other way?’

  Crathie shook his head. ‘I don’t know . . . and y
ou’re the one with the binoculars. If someone’s coming from that side over there . . .’ He pointed. ‘. . . he only has to open the window a couple of inches to poke the gun out and fire. From here it’s more difficult. He’s got to manoeuvre the gun round the window. Or smash it. Takes time.’

  McCall said, ‘Are you setting him up? Is that it?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly. Hand me that vest.’

  ‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ McCall asked, without conviction.

  ‘Now look here,’ Crathie said, turning to face his sergeant. ‘You keep your fucking opinions to yourself, all right? That bastard over there’s put more men in hospital than you can count without taking your socks off. And if you think I’m going to piss about all night with shite like that, well just think again. Is that clear?’

  McCall had not expected quite such an outburst of anger. For a moment he said nothing.

  ‘Is that clear?’ Crathie repeated.

  ‘Perfectly,’ McCall said at last, adding, a second or two later, ‘sir.’

  ‘Right.’ Crathie fixed the last buckle on his body armour. ‘Now hand me the loud hailer.’

  McCall held it out.

  Crathie took it, examined it for a moment then switched it on. ‘Anyway,’ he said, and his anger seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, ‘just have faith.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In Featherstone and Andrews, of course. They’re good shots. They’ll just wing him.’

  He stepped away from the van and began to walk in a long diagonal across the road towards Gilfedder’s house. As he came within twenty yards of the wooden paling and gate that separated the small patch of front garden from the street, he raised the loud hailer and called out,

  ‘GILFEDDER! ALEX CRATHIE HERE. I’VE COME TO SPEAK TO YOU. I’M NOT ARMED. THERE’S NO TRICKS, OK? WE JUST NEED TO TALK. GET THIS OVER WITH. I NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOU WANT, SO I’M HERE TO TALK. I’M HERE TO LISTEN. WHAT DO YOU SAY?’

  He lowered the loud hailer for a moment then raised it again. ‘DONNIE, CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHAT DO YOU SAY?’