PROLOGUE
Glasgow. 1998. Film Premiere
Some were at the premiere to watch the film. Others to see and be seen. MacRath was there for a different reason entirely.
Lean as a razor and immaculate in a grey silk suit, he was out of his back row seat and heading for the cinema foyer before the final words of the film were uttered, wrapped solely within his own thoughts and intentions. Unaware of his departure, the audience remained in their seats, watching the end of the film.
Once in the foyer, MacRath leaned against a marble pillar and waited. He glanced at his watch. Any minute now the lights would go up and the guests would tumble through the exit and sweep past him into the street.
Through a round, frosted window in one of the exit doors, he saw the cinema lights turn up. The babble of the audience rose from the auditorium, growing louder, until someone pushed open one of the swing doors, and the noise swelled to a cackling crescendo, flying beyond him and out of the building, to be caught on the breeze of the evening.
The well–dressed guests began to filter out. He observed their faces as they walked by, mentally pushing their sycophantic chatter aside.
In a sea of strangers, only one man interested him, and when his target came into view, MacRath made his move.
Tristrem Weaver, Member of Parliament, appeared from the opening, sauntering with an arrogant gait, proud to be seen where it mattered. For once, there was no young woman on his arm. This made him a clean target, exactly what MacRath wanted.
As Weaver approached, MacRath entered the gush of people and maneuvered the last few yards against the flow until he was just beyond his victim. Turning swiftly, he joined the movement of the crowd and quickened his pace until he was directly behind the pompous figure of the middle–aged MP.
He removed a small explosive charge concealed within a pen from his pocket, and slipped it into the pocket of Weaver. Without faltering, he continued his quickened pace and left the cinema.
He stood outside and observed the scene from the top of the steps leading to the street.
Media cameras flashed as the premiere audience spilled out of the building. Two barriers split the stairs into an alleyway. The guests walked down it towards their cars. A crowd had gathered — a variegated mass of activity and noise, jostling behind security barriers, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favourite film stars. The celebrity audience waved to their fans, who cheered enthusiastically in the mellow September sun.
Television cameras poked their lenses into the faces of a chosen few celebrities, while interviewers asked banal questions only to receive sugary answers, before moving on to the next star or politician who walked down the red carpet.
MacRath held the explosive’s remote control in his pocket. It felt cool in his hand against the warmth of the evening. Waiting patiently, he watched the display before him. It’s like the old Roman arenas, he thought, where the crowds bayed for blood. Any minute now they would get it.
A stream of limos halted in turn, while an usher opened doors for the passengers to enter. Their destination was a special film premiere dinner party in a prestigious Glasgow hotel.
Weaver’s limousine glided into the vacant space. Finishing his conversation with the news reporters, he walked down the last few stairs. Before stepping into the car, he turned to the crowd, smiled the smile of a politician, and entered the rear of the limo.
From his vantage point at the top of the stairs, MacRath pressed the detonator on his remote. A muffled bang sounded from inside the limo, immediately followed by the screams of the dying politician, lying across the rear seat with half his left side blown away. The limo’s windows looked like they’d been splattered with thick, red paint.
There was a split second of stunned disbelief before anyone moved. The first to react was a photographer, who sprinted to the car and began taking photographs. A policeman ran towards him, pulling him away, but he continued to take pictures, his camera whirring as he walked backwards from the scene, snapping the bloodied car, then the distraught crowd.
The hit complete, MacRath’s cold grey eyes took a final look before turning to walk away. His satisfied smile was captured by the photographer as a face in the crowd.
Extract from the newspaper. September.
Headline — Reel World Killing. Report by Rochelle. Photographs by Muir.
The film world became reality yesterday at the Glasgow premiere. Crowds outside the cinema watched in horror as Tristrem Weaver died from the injuries he sustained from an explosion inside his car minutes after leaving the cinema.
Panic broke out as many of the star–studded guests attending the premiere of Hollywood’s latest political thriller witnessed the killing.
The area was cordoned–off while a search was carried out by an Army bomb disposal unit. No other explosives were found. As yet, no arrests have been made. Police are continuing their enquiries into this public and highly unusual copycat killing.
An eyewitness at the scene last night said: ‘We’d just watched an MP being blown to bits in his car in the film. It was hard to believe that just after the film was over we were watching an identical killing for real.’
CHAPTER ONE
January. Four months later.
Green. Amber. Red. The change of lights slowed the Glasgow city centre traffic to a grudging halt.
Muir dashed from the Chamber of Commerce building, having completed another hurried photographic assignment. Late as usual, he knew Dalhousie, his editor, would tear a new hole in him if he wasn’t in the newspaper office by 10am.
He’d parked his car illegally on the other side of the street, straddled across the road and the pavement, the hazard lights blinking. In the window he’d stuck a handwritten sign — broken down. There was nothing wrong with his car. It was a ruse the thirty–one year old freelance photographer used regularly.
Carrying a bag full of camera equipment, he stepped on to the road, ignoring the crossing to his right. As he began to weave his way through the river of frozen cars, the lights changed and the traffic started to move again. His timing was out. Now he was stranded in a jaywalking no–man’s land without a gap in sight to exploit.
He wasn’t the only one. A man, early twenties, stood to his left, concentrating on the traffic. He appeared to be freezing.
The man was poorly dressed for the weather in jeans, a white shirt and cropped leather jacket which he wore with the collar up. His face was red, savaged by the biting wind. Muir wore a thick sweater, corduroys and a heavy wool coat. He thought this other man deserved to catch a cold.
Muir turned his attention back to the traffic. Amid the chaos, a saloon car began to slow down. From one of the windows, a wiry, weasel–faced man leaned out and pointed a threatening finger at the stranger. ‘You,’ he shouted. ‘You’re a dead man.’
Against his better judgment, Muir turned to glance at the man beside him. The look of concentration had gone. The man now wore an expression of terror, his eyes following the receding car as it sped away. Muir imagined the occupants laughing viciously. The stranger, however, was definitely not laughing. He was in shock. His breathing increased sharply; his mouth sucked in the cold air and breathed it out again immediately, forming white clouds in the icy air.
It was easy to see he believed the threat. The man standing beside Muir was a man who knew he was about to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.
The man suddenly stepped forward, bringing the traffic to a screeching halt. Drivers jabbed their car horns, seething at his stupidity. He ignored them and continued walking towards the pavement, unaware of the chaos he’d caused.
Muir seized the opportunity to cross, following in his wake, having already made up his mind to tail him and see what happened. He was overwhelmed by the hunch something newsworthy was about to take place. And he would be there to photograph it.
For once, his car had no parking ticket. He pressed the remote to open the doors and got in. Without taking his eyes off the man, he started the engine and carelessly entered the flow of traffic, narrowly avoiding a smash. He didn’t notice. His attention focussed on the young man walking along the street with his head down and hands tucked deep in his jacket pockets. There walked a man who had a date with vengeance, and Muir wasn’t going to miss it for the world.
