must.’
Kelbie glared back incredulously, eyes bulging. He began to answer but Addison continued, seemingly oblivious to the DCI’s indignant fury but, in fact, simply talking over it.
‘Two women from Langside Avenue, a carpet manufacturer’s wife and her housekeeper. They were coming back from church in the pouring rain. Chucking it down it was, so they had their umbrella up and crossed the road straight into the path of a tram. The wife, Magdalene, died before she got to hospital and the housekeeper, Mrs McNaughton, followed two weeks later. A terrible thing. Local legend has it that, when you walk past the White Lady, her head turns and follows you. But if you look her in the eye then you’ll turn to stone.’
‘Look, Addison . . .’ Kelbie’s fury was rising.
‘But you can guard against that by running round her three times, shouting “White Lady, White Lady”. Think you should maybe give it a go to be on the safe side, sir?’
Kelbie, his cheeks flushing, marched right up to Addison until his head was, almost comically, level with the DI’s chin. Winter knew there was no love between the two men and had heard there had been a falling-out a few years before, when they were both detective sergeants. Addison had never talked to him about it but the word was that punches had been thrown – although, as they now faced each other, it struck Winter that Kelbie would have had to stand on a box to land one on Addison’s chin.
‘Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?’ Kelbie demanded.
Addison made a poor attempt at innocence. ‘No, sir, not at all. What makes you think that? How is your wife, anyway?’
‘I asked you a question already, dickhead. What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Deid body, sir. It’s my job.’
‘Not in New Gorbals, it isn’t. And how did you know about it?’ With that, Kelbie turned his head to fire a look at Winter, knowing full well that he and Addison were mates.
‘Not guilty,’ Winter protested. ‘I jumped in the car and headed straight here without calling anyone.’
‘Aye, and about that,’ Addison replied, without taking his eyes off Kelbie. ‘Why the hell didn’t you call me? You must have seen the connection to the other girl right away.’
‘Christ, I can’t win,’ Winter groaned. ‘Look, why don’t you two argue about it while I take some photographs.’
‘What connection?’ Kelbie interrupted, sneering. ‘You’ve been watching too much television, Addison. You have a murder vic and I have a murder vic. That’s it. Stewart Street isn’t hijacking this case.’
Addison lowered his head and his voice. ‘You sure about that? Sir .’
The DI was looking down at his superior officer, nearly a foot below him and smiling, fully knowing the risk and reward of doing so. The reward was immediate. Kelbie’s lips curled back behind his incisors and he snarled again as both of them moved even closer until each could feel the other man’s breath on his face.
‘I’m going to do what I should have done years ago,’ Kelbie growled. Addison smiled again.
‘What are you two muppets frigging playing at?’ barked a voice from farther down the path. The wide, muscular frame of Detective Superintendent Alex Shirley was bearing down on them, his close-cropped, steel-grey hair worn like a halo in the early-morning mist. ‘Do I need to remind you there’s a dead girl at the foot of that statue?’
Kelbie groaned at the sight of the Stewart Street Detective Super, known to all and sundry as the Temple. He glared again at Addison’s taunting face before turning to Shirley.
‘Sir?’
‘This is our case now, Denny. I know you’re not going to like it but I’ve already spoken to your guvnor and it’s been sorted. Phone Billy Devlin and he’ll fill you in.’
‘ What ?’ The exclamation came not from Kelbie but his DS, a moaning, nasally, ginger named Ferry. ‘That’s not on.’
‘Too fucking right it isn’t,’ Kelbie howled. ‘It’s
Kelbie glared back incredulously, eyes bulging. He began to answer but Addison continued, seemingly oblivious to the DCI’s indignant fury but, in fact, simply talking over it.
‘Two women from Langside Avenue, a carpet manufacturer’s wife and her housekeeper. They were coming back from church in the pouring rain. Chucking it down it was, so they had their umbrella up and crossed the road straight into the path of a tram. The wife, Magdalene, died before she got to hospital and the housekeeper, Mrs McNaughton, followed two weeks later. A terrible thing. Local legend has it that, when you walk past the White Lady, her head turns and follows you. But if you look her in the eye then you’ll turn to stone.’
‘Look, Addison . . .’ Kelbie’s fury was rising.
‘But you can guard against that by running round her three times, shouting “White Lady, White Lady”. Think you should maybe give it a go to be on the safe side, sir?’
Kelbie, his cheeks flushing, marched right up to Addison until his head was, almost comically, level with the DI’s chin. Winter knew there was no love between the two men and had heard there had been a falling-out a few years before, when they were both detective sergeants. Addison had never talked to him about it but the word was that punches had been thrown – although, as they now faced each other, it struck Winter that Kelbie would have had to stand on a box to land one on Addison’s chin.
‘Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?’ Kelbie demanded.
Addison made a poor attempt at innocence. ‘No, sir, not at all. What makes you think that? How is your wife, anyway?’
‘I asked you a question already, dickhead. What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Deid body, sir. It’s my job.’
‘Not in New Gorbals, it isn’t. And how did you know about it?’ With that, Kelbie turned his head to fire a look at Winter, knowing full well that he and Addison were mates.
‘Not guilty,’ Winter protested. ‘I jumped in the car and headed straight here without calling anyone.’
‘Aye, and about that,’ Addison replied, without taking his eyes off Kelbie. ‘Why the hell didn’t you call me? You must have seen the connection to the other girl right away.’
‘Christ, I can’t win,’ Winter groaned. ‘Look, why don’t you two argue about it while I take some photographs.’
‘What connection?’ Kelbie interrupted, sneering. ‘You’ve been watching too much television, Addison. You have a murder vic and I have a murder vic. That’s it. Stewart Street isn’t hijacking this case.’
Addison lowered his head and his voice. ‘You sure about that? Sir .’
The DI was looking down at his superior officer, nearly a foot below him and smiling, fully knowing the risk and reward of doing so. The reward was immediate. Kelbie’s lips curled back behind his incisors and he snarled again as both of them moved even closer until each could feel the other man’s breath on his face.
‘I’m going to do what I should have done years ago,’ Kelbie growled. Addison smiled again.
‘What are you two muppets frigging playing at?’ barked a voice from farther down the path. The wide, muscular frame of Detective Superintendent Alex Shirley was bearing down on them, his close-cropped, steel-grey hair worn like a halo in the early-morning mist. ‘Do I need to remind you there’s a dead girl at the foot of that statue?’
Kelbie groaned at the sight of the Stewart Street Detective Super, known to all and sundry as the Temple. He glared again at Addison’s taunting face before turning to Shirley.
‘Sir?’
‘This is our case now, Denny. I know you’re not going to like it but I’ve already spoken to your guvnor and it’s been sorted. Phone Billy Devlin and he’ll fill you in.’
‘ What ?’ The exclamation came not from Kelbie but his DS, a moaning, nasally, ginger named Ferry. ‘That’s not on.’
‘Too fucking right it isn’t,’ Kelbie howled. ‘It’s
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