— Somebody ripped out his kidney. He died from complications resulting from that, Bad Cop snaps. The air in the room seems to lose half of its oxygen.
— I really think I need to wait till my lawyer gets here before answering any more questions, Williamson declares. — I’ve tried to cooperate as a concerned citizen, but –
— You can do that, Bad Cop cuts him off, — but you might find it’s to your advantage to cooperate with us informally if you don’t want to be charged with the murder of Victor Syme, and he takes a photo from the plastic file in front of him, throwing it under Simon Williamson’s nose. He examines the picture in morbid fascination. It shows Syme lying in a pool of blood, which seems to have come from multiple wounds, most of it a gash in his stomach.
Then Bad Cop shows him a closer image, and two maroon bean-shaped things seem to be sticking out the sockets where Syme’s eyes once were. It gives the impression of a comic Photoshopped set-up and Williamson laughs.
— Is this for real?
— Oh, it’s real alright. Those are his kidneys, Bad Cop says.
Williamson lowers the photograph. Feels his hand tremble. Knows Bad Cop has noticed it. — This isnae fucking well on, I know my rights –
— Yes, so you say, Bad Cop mocks. — Okay, come with us.
The officers rise and take him next door into an adjoining anteroom. On one side, through a one-way plate glass, Williamson can see the empty interview room they’ve just vacated. On the other side is an identical room. But there, at the table, sits his brother-in-law, Euan McCorkindale. The disgraced podiatrist seems beyond catatonic; it’s as if he’s been lobotomised.
— He’s basically told us about your part in the removal of Daniel Murphy’s kidney, Good Cop announces in sad compassion. He looks as if he’s genuinely going to burst into tears on Williamson’s behalf.
But Williamson remains composed. — Aw aye, he says disparagingly, — which was?
Good Cop nods in stagy reluctance to Bad Cop, who takes over. — That you removed it, under his supervision, with another man, in unsanitary conditions, at a location in Berlin.
Williamson hits back with a dismissive tirade so contemptuous, the police officers unprofessionally swither between visible anger and embarrassment. — Under his supervision? Williamson thumbs at the man through the mirror. — Is he on fucking drugs? I’m not qualified to remove a kidney! Wouldn’t even know where to fucking find it! Do I look like a surgeon? Simon Williamson tosses his head back, openly revelling in his performance. Then he looks from one cop to the other, sensing their unease. He says softly, — He’s the doctor, and he points back to the glass again, — that fucking balloon there. So work it out for yourselves.
Good Cop slips back into the driving seat. — He said he was being blackmailed by Victor Syme, over a sex tape, into performing this surgery –
— That I can believe –
— But couldn’t go through with the removal of the kidney. He said that you took it out, assisted by a YouTube video and a man named Michael Forrester –
— Now we’re delving into the realms of fantasy, Williamson snorts.
— Are we, Simon? Are we really? Good Cop pleads.
— Mikey Forrester? YouTube kidney-removal videos? What the fuck are youse boys on? Simon Williamson laughs loudly, shaking his head. — That one will amuse the fuck out of the magistrates when this goes to court!
The cops look at each other. To Williamson they now give off the underlying desperation that they are grown men playing a silly child’s game they can no longer believe in. But then another sudden change of tack blindsides him, as Good Cop’s face takes on a cuntish hue. — Can you explain a deposit of ninety-one thousand pounds in cash into your bank account on the 6th of January?
Williamson knows that his face will register little, but he feels something die inside of him. Renton. I’m going to be done by fucking Renton. — How do you know about that money?
— We contacted your bank. You’re part of an investigation, so they were obligated to let us know any substantial recent deposits made.
— This is fucking outrageous, Williamson booms. — Since when did the fucking banks, who have ripped off and exploited every citizen in this country, become… he blusters. — That was a payback from a business deal!
Good Cop delivers the line like a soap-opera actor. — The business of organ harvesting?
— No! It was… Look, talk to Mikey Forrester. He’s Syme’s business partner. They had a bad falling-out.
Both police officers stare at him in silence.
Williamson wonders where the fuck his brief has got to, but in this anteroom no recording device is in evidence, so this is probably off the record. He glances again through the mirror, at the immobile and miserable Euan. He counts to ten slowly in his head, before speaking. — Okay, cards-on-the-table time. I was in Berlin, at Spud’s request, to look after him. I learned that Euan was being blackmailed by Syme, he explains, wondering whether to throw Forrester under the bus, and deciding against it. Mikey would manage that easily enough himself, and it would be far more convincing coming from the horse’s mouth. — I was there to make sure my old mate was okay. A hand-holding exercise. I obviously suspected it was a dodgy deal, but that wasn’t my business. Ask Mikey!
Bad Cop looks to Good Cop. — Mr Forrester has gone to ground; he’s not returning our calls. His phone is switched off, and we’re trying to trace it. I would suspect that it isn’t on his person.
Simon David Williamson decides it’s time to stop busking it. — I’m saying nothing more till my lawyer gets here. He shakes his head. — I have to say I’m very disappointed in the attitude displayed by you officers today. There’s nobody more pro-police and law and order than me. I try to cooperate and assist you and I’m treated like a common criminal, subjected to all sorts of snidey innuendo. So where’s my brief?
— He’s on his way, Good Cop says. — Tell us about Syme.
— No comment.
— You sure you want to do time? For these bams? Syme? Forrester? Not easy at your age, Bad Cop says, then leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper. — Somebody else will be drilling that hot bitch of a fiancée of yours soon, mate.
— Somebody probably already is, Williamson replies.
Good Cop seems to chastise Bad Cop’s crassness with a disagreeable pout. — Go easy on yourself, Simon, he softly urges. — Just tell me, can you think of anybody, other than Forrester, who might have done this to Syme?
Sick Boy couldn’t see Mikey perpetrating such violence on Victor Syme. But he can’t think of anybody else other than diffuse and shadowy East Europeans who must have been his sauna and organ-harvesting associates. — No. I can’t. But Syme was obviously mobbed up with some dodgy people, he states as Bad Cop opens the anteroom door. Williamson immediately sees what looks like a lawyer, coming down the corridor, trying to get his bearings. The man walks past the anteroom, then double-backs and looks in.
— I’m Colin McKerchar, from Donaldson, Farquhar, McKerchar, he says to Good Cop. Then he nods to his client. — Simon David Williamson?
— Yes, Williamson says and looks at the policemen. — So for any future questioning I will have a lawyer present. And I will fucking well exercise my human rights and stand on my feet. But right now, I think I want to leave.
— No charges? McKerchar fixes a searching, professional gaze on the cops. — Then let’s do just that.
— Of course, says Good Cop. — Thank you so much for your assistance, Mr Williamson.
— The pleasure was all yours, Williamson snorts, turning on his heels and exiting, followed by his brief.