Cold Death by Michael Fowler Page A

thought Fraser:  Though his appearance had. The hair had been ravaged by grey and he couldn’t help but notice the flash of the scar that ran from the bridge of his nose down towards his jaw. The occupant of the front seat had been a hard bastard when he known him thirty odd years ago now he looked even harder.
    “What have you got for me then Fraser?”
    Fraser lowered himself, resting a hand on the car door, levelling his eyes and meeting the gaze of the front passenger. “I found him Billy. It wasn’t easy mind,” he replied in his broad Glaswegian dialect. “You’ll find him drinking regularly in Lauders on Sauchiehall Street. He’s there most days. Goes in about four in the afternoon, and usually leaves about half seven. He comes down this way to get to the subway off Bath Street. I’ve followed him three times now without him knowing. And there’s nae CCTV,” he said darting his eyes around the high buildings which lined both sides of the narrow lane.
    Billy smiled, reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a handful of Scottish notes. “There’s a ton Fraser. Now piss off and don’t tell anyone we’ve met.”
    Before Fraser could even reply the smoke glass window was sliding up and the rear wheels were spinning and chewing up the loose gravel as the BMW lurched towards the main road.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Alistair McPherson stood at the front steps of Lauders bar tapping the filter of his cigarette on its packet before popping it into his mouth. He lit it in cupped hands; it was an old habit from his army days. He inhaled deeply and his chest shook sending out a spluttering cough. It lasted several seconds before he banged his chest and brought it under control.
    Jesus these things are going to kill me one day .
    He stood for a good minute taking in the sights and sounds of Sauchiehall Street; how it had changed over the years. It had gone upmarket since his time of working here. It was now a busy thoroughfare full of high-class shops and many of the gracious houses had been converted into offices. He stepped onto the pavement and began his steady meander home. He would pick up his fish supper on the way back he told himself. He turned the corner into Sauchiehall Lane, heading for the subway which would take him towards his home. As he did so he heard the car pulling up behind him; guessed it would be someone wanting directions; lots of tourists got confused by the traffic system. He stepped to one side, waiting whilst it drew level and removing the cigarette from his mouth he held it in one cupped hand. The electric window coasted down. Alistair turned sideways to talk to the driver but could only see his chest and shoulders. He slowly bent down to get a better view only to be met by a piercing stare from the scar-faced passenger leaning across the shaven-headed driver. There was something about that face that registered.
    “Remember me Mr McPherson?” said scar-face.
    The voice was deep and menacing and a wave of panic shot through Alistair.
     
    * * * * *
     
    The DOA – ‘dead on arrival’ call was logged at seven-fifty pm; discovered by a young waiter who had slipped out through the rear emergency doors of the restaurant into the derelict car park for a ‘smoke-break.’  He’d had the shock of his life when he had tripped over the crumpled mess. He thought at first it had just been a pile of rags; people were always dumping their rubbish here, but then he’d spotted the thick congealed blood beneath his feet. The sight of the mush, which had once been a head, had almost made him sick.
    He had immediately dialled 999 on his mobile and asked for the ambulance service; because the body was close to the fire stairwell he had assumed that the dead guy had accidently fallen. Then he’d fled back inside the restaurant and dragged out his boss to bear witness to what he had found.
    The ambulance crew who turned up, knew, from a brief examination of the deceased, that the horrific injuries