Framed

Book 4: Kerry Casey

by Anna Smith

Genres: Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A gripping gangland thriller that sees heroine crime boss Kerry Casey in jail - for fans of Kimberley Chambers, Martina Cole and Jessie Keane 'MARTINA COLE FANS WILL LOVE THIS' DAILY MIRROR Kerry Casey is still reeling from the bombshell that her lover, undercover cop Vinny Burns, has gone missing in Spain. She's pregnant with his baby and will do anything to find him. One night, driving along a country road, Kerry and her Uncle Danny are ambushed by gunmen. In the confusion that follows, shots are fired and two men are murdered. Kerry and Danny can only look on as the bodies are dragged from their assailant's car and placed in their own. The police arrive in minutes. With cocaine, dead bodies and guns in the car, it looks like an open-and-shut case. Kerry's been framed. She is forced to wait out her fate inside a women's prison, still not knowing what has happened to Vinnie. On the outside the Casey gang are hunting down the men who did this to her and they will stop at nothing to find them.

Release date: February 4, 2021

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Kerry Casey felt sick, a mixture of nerves, exhaustion and dread, as she was escorted in handcuffs by two female guards to the reception area of the prison entrance. From the corner of her eye, she could see the male officers looking at her from behind the glass reception. She tried to keep her eyes straight ahead, the tangle in her gut tightening, as she stood waiting for a few seconds. Then she heard a loud clunk and a low buzz as the door of the prison opened and she saw daylight, the rain coming down in sheets, bouncing off the steps and the ground beyond. She shivered, the icy blast slicing through the polo-neck sweater and jacket she was wearing. She felt grubby and unwashed, in the same clothes she’d slept in, her skin dry and irritated after splashing some water on it from the sink in the cell where she’d spent a sleepless night at Cornton Vale Women’s Prison.

When they’d brought her here last night in the dark she had almost been on the point of collapse, still in shock from what had happened just a couple of hours earlier. It was like being in the grip of some terrifying nightmare where you kept flailing around in the bed, trying to wake yourself to consciousness, but the hellish dream kept pulling you back in. At one point, as she was being registered at the reception area, Kerry’s legs had buckled, and the two female police officers, who’d accompanied her from Stewart Street police station in Glasgow, helped her to a chair. A doctor was summoned, and she was taken to a side room. The middle-aged Asian woman GP sat next to her in the chair and spoke softly, asking her how far along she was in her pregnancy, and whether she had any history of fainting episodes or blood pressure issues. Kerry had struggled to speak. She was on the verge of tears and her throat was so tight with emotion that she kept halting and tightening her lips to stop herself from breaking down. She was aware of the two police officers glancing at each other and then at her. They’d have seen this before. She wouldn’t be the first pregnant woman they’d brought in to face a night in the cells before appearing in court the following morning. Kerry might have looked and dressed better than some of the suspects brought in here, but right now she was no different, just another custody case awaiting her first appearance in court. The doctor had told her to lie on the narrow iron bed. And as she gently pressed the stethoscope onto her swelling stomach, again, Kerry filled up, her chest aching, thinking of the heartbeat inside her, ashamed and terrified that she had brought her unborn baby to this. Even though she was completely innocent of what she was being accused, she wouldn’t have been targeted if she wasn’t who she was. The doctor had smiled at her and told her the baby’s heartbeat was strong and that she had to try as far as she could to relax and get some sleep overnight. Once the doctor had left, the officers helped her to her feet, then the door opened and a female prison guard came in and relieved the cops of their charge.

Kerry was told to follow her, and she walked behind her, handcuffs off as they went through the automatic door and through to an open area, with a staircase going up to a long row of cells above. The place was dimly lit and she assumed all the prisoners were sleeping as there wasn’t a single sound.

‘You’re on the ground floor,’ the officer said to her, pointing vaguely to a row of blue-painted cell doors. ‘You’ll be sharing with Natalie tonight, but you might be moved tomorrow.’

‘Sharing?’ The word was out before Kerry could stop it.

The officer glared at her and simpered a little.

‘Did you think you were getting the presidential suite?’

Kerry cursed herself for being so naive, and despite her rage that she shouldn’t be here, she knew it wouldn’t be smart to argue. Self-preservation, she told herself.

‘Of course not. I . . . I just wasn’t sure if it was single cells.’ She looked at the officer, then at the floor.

The officer walked on towards the last door on the corridor.

‘As you’re pregnant, you’ll probably get moved to a different cell tomorrow, though you’ll still be sharing. But tonight this is the only one free.’ She was about to put the key in the door when she glanced over her shoulder at Kerry. ‘Natalie is a bit of a handful, but just ignore her. Try to get some sleep.’

Kerry stood behind the officer, filled with dread as she eased open the door. Then, as soon as the light from the hall shone into the darkened room, there was an almighty roar from inside.

‘Fuck is this! I haven’t done anything. Fuck off!’

The officer opened the door wide and walked in, turning to beckon Kerry. She followed, her eyes adjusting to the dark. Jesus! There was a ghostly, skinny figure upright on the top bunk bed, clutching a bed sheet to her as though her life depended on it.

‘It’s okay, Natalie. Just calm down, now,’ the officer said, firm but reassuring. ‘This is Kerry. She’ll be your cellmate for tonight. Just arrived. So just relax and go back to sleep.’

Natalie sat wide-eyed and scowling.

‘She’d better no’ touch my fucking stuff! Fucking tea leaves everywhere in here!’

‘She’s not interested in your stuff, Nat, now play nice and get back to sleep while I get Kerry settled.’ She turned to Kerry. ‘Right. You’re in the bottom bunk. There’s a nightdress on the chair and some juice and a snack if you want.’

‘That’s my fucking snack! My nightdress!’ Nat snapped.

‘No, it’s not, Natalie. You know that. You were told earlier you’d have a guest tonight. So button your lip and go to sleep. Be nice to Kerry. She’s pregnant.’

Nat’s eyes flicked Kerry up and down and rested briefly on her bump. She said nothing, then lay back down and turned to face the wall.

‘Doors will click open at seven,’ the officer said. ‘If you need the toilet during the night just bang on the door and someone will come and take you.’

Then the officer turned and left, closing the door softly behind her, plunging Kerry into darkness, and leaving her standing in the middle of the stuffy, dingy room that smelled of sweat and something like very stale, cheap perfume. Kerry glanced around her, and from the window she could see nothing but the blackness outside. Her eyes tuned to the dark and now she could make out a chest of drawers across the room and on it were a couple of photos – one a framed picture of a little baby. Kerry softly picked her way across to the bottom bunk and sat down. She didn’t even want to take her clothes off, to strip in this grim hole of a place and lie down. But she couldn’t sleep in the clothes she had on as she’d been told she was going to have to appear in the custody court in the morning. Silently, she took off her sweater and folded it on the chair, then her bra, and her trousers. In the dark she could make out the silhouette of her swelling tummy and she touched it gently. She pulled on the nightdress which smelled clean and fresh, and then lay down on the bed, staring at the mattress on the bunk above. She was frozen with fear, barely breathing, listening to her heartbeat in her chest. Then the silence was broken by an anguished voice from the top bunk.

‘I’ve got a wean, you know. They took him off me. The social work. Cunts!’

Kerry lay still, not sure whether to engage or stay quiet. She said nothing and the silence seemed to go on for ever, until from above she heard sniffing and heaving.

‘Cunts took my wee laddie!’ Nat sobbed.

Kerry held her breath, then she spoke. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said softly.

For a long moment there was nothing, no sound from above, then soon there was the sound of her cellmate breathing deeply in slumber. Kerry turned on her side, curled up into a ball and wept.

*

Now, she was being nudged forward by the guards and they stepped outside into the rain. There was a large, dark blue van, like the ones Kerry had seen countless times on TV or when she had been a young lawyer, arriving or pulling away from court, transporting prisoners to and from jail. The windows were high and tiny with bars on them; a man in the passenger seat jumped out and dragged open the heavy door.

‘On you go, Kerry.’ The prison guard gave her a look and jerked her head towards the van.

The prison officer walked ahead and Kerry followed alongside the officer she was handcuffed to.

‘You all right?’ The guard turned to look at her, from dark brown, tired eyes.

Kerry nodded, swallowing hard again at the briefest touch of kindness. She took a breath as she stepped forward and into the van. You can do this, she told herself. You have to. Inside, she was plonked onto the thin plastic seats and the guard put her seatbelt on. Kerry expected the door to be slammed shut by the man who stood outside, the rain soaking his face, but it wasn’t. She sat for a couple of minutes, shivering, then the prison doors opened again, and another two officers came out with a woman, handcuffed just as she had been. Kerry watched the scrawny dishevelled woman. She looked to be in her early thirties, and her dyed hair was matted and hanging like rats’ tails. Her short denim skirt barely covered the tops of her thighs, and her black tights were laddered right down to her red sling-back shoes. She trembled in her tiny bomber jacket and plunging black T-shirt. She looked like a prostitute and teetered as she walked, jerking her arm away from the guard who was holding her. She stopped in her tracks as though she was refusing to go any further.

‘Just fucking get your hands off,’ the woman spat.

‘Come on, Ash,’ the guard said. ‘Don’t start with your crap now. You know how it ended the last time.’

The woman turned to her, defiant.

‘Aye. But I shouldn’t even be here,’ she protested. ‘This is all a fucking fit-up. That cunt of a cop.’

‘Come on,’ the guard said as she nudged her forward. ‘Save it for your lawyer.’

The woman said nothing and walked on, climbing into the van. She stood for a moment as the door slammed shut, and gave Kerry a long hard look.

‘Did they give you your glass of prosecco, hen?’

She might have been trying to smile but it was more of a snarl. Despite herself, in spite of the terror and anguish tearing at her insides, Kerry made eye contact with the woman and gave her a sympathetic smile, which she seemed to acknowledge, blinking smudged mascara eyelashes to reveal bright blue eyes full of rage and hurt.

They drove from Cornton Vale to the motorway in silence. From where she was sitting, Kerry could see through a small space to the windscreen. They went past fields and cows and farmhouses, then onto the M8 motorway, rain lashing all the way towards the city centre. She thought of last night and of Natalie, and how this morning when the doors buzzed open, she had climbed down the ladder quietly, then had turned to her and said nothing, just stared blankly from eyes that seemed dead. Nat had been dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and Kerry had glimpsed the slash marks on both wrists and forearms – some old, some recent – that made her look as though she was a self-harmer. When she’d left, Kerry had got dressed quickly but sat on her bunk as the corridor filled with the noisy chatter of women. From the vague smell of food coming from somewhere downstairs she’d assumed they were going to breakfast. Kerry hadn’t followed Nat out of the cell, and when a prison guard stuck her head around a few minutes later, asking if she wanted breakfast, she’d declined, saying she would just wait and eat the snack. The guard had shrugged and left her, the cell door open, so she could later peek outside and see prisoners moving around the communal area. In the weirdest way, it looked like business as usual.

The van weaved its way down to Clyde Street then across the Jamaica Bridge and on towards Glasgow Sheriff Court. She’d been told that her lawyer would meet her inside the court and she’d be taken downstairs. The officer who had been slightly pleasant turned to her.

‘I don’t know if you’ll have been here before, Kerry, but you’ll be taken to a holding cell, and your lawyer will come and talk to you. Then you’ll go up for your appearance in front of the sheriff. Your brief will give you all the details.’

Kerry nodded as the van turned off the road and into what appeared to be the back of the Sheriff Court. It crossed her mind that there might be photographers outside, if the news of the arrest of the head of a notorious Glasgow crime family had leaked out through the police. It didn’t take her long to find out. The van pulled up, and they sat for a few moments. Then she heard the sound of locks sliding and door opening.

‘Okay, ladies,’ the other guard said. ‘Showtime!’ She ushered Ash to her feet and marched her out of the van.

Kerry stood up, the nausea rising in her. She tried to breathe slowly as she was helped down the stairs out of the van. Then, in the drizzle, she heard the whirr of cameras and blinked as the flashes went off. Instinctively, she put her head down, as she’d seen prisoners do on news footage of them arriving in court. She was one of them now, whether she was guilty or not. The papers would be full of it in the morning. Christ! This was really happening.

‘Fuck me, man!’ Ash turned to her. ‘Are you some kind of fucking celeb?’

‘No,’ Kerry said. ‘I shouldn’t even be here. I’ve done nothing.’

‘Aye. Join the fucking club, mate. We all say that.’

‘No. But really. I’m innocent.’

‘Sure. But why are all these cameras here? Taking pictures of you? You famous or what?’

‘No,’ Kerry said. ‘I’m a businesswoman.’

‘Oh, right,’ Ash said. ‘A gangster?’

Kerry glanced at her but didn’t answer. She went past the throng quickly and in through the back entrance, onto the charcoal-grey tiled floors and downstairs into the cells. Her senses were shocked and prickled by the noise, the smells of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes, the stench of fear and anger and shouts. Cloaked lawyers in smart suits walked briskly, clutching folders, rushing between clients who waited in cells. Kerry looked along the row of cells, some with two or three prisoners inside them, each cell guarded by a prison officer. Then she saw Marty Kane striding towards her like a vision of hope in all the gloom. It was all she could do to keep herself from bursting into tears.

‘Kerry!’ Marty said, as he reached her.

She wanted him to embrace her, this stalwart family friend, this uncle figure who had been her rock and her shoulder, especially in recent months. But he didn’t. Here, Marty was her brief – no more. He shook her hand and held it for a long moment, but his eyes looked anguished behind his rimless glasses.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘Come on. Let’s have a chat before you go upstairs.’

He led her and the officers to a cell and Kerry was ushered in and sat on a tubular plastic chair, the officer behind her.

‘Do you mind taking the cuffs off?’ Marty asked.

The guard stood for a moment, glanced around.

‘I’m not supposed to.’

‘Look. She’s not going anywhere. You can see that.’ He gave her a pleading look.

The guard said nothing, came across and unlocked the cuffs. Kerry rubbed her wrists and put her hands on the table. Marty put his briefcase to one side and reached across and held her hand.

‘Are you bearing up, Kerry?’

She swallowed.

‘I’m trying to, Marty.’ She felt her lip trembling. ‘But Christ! What the hell happened? Where’s Danny?’

Marty jerked his head.

‘He’s down the line a bit. I’ve already seen him. A good friend of mine will appear for Danny, as I’ll be representing you. But we are working together. Danny is fine, but he’s worried sick about you. Did the doctor come last night? I told them they had to get someone to see you.’

Kerry nodded. ‘Yes. She examined me. Everything’s fine.’ She bit her lip. ‘Well, I mean, as fine as it can be. I shared a cell last night with some girl who scared the living shit out of me. You’ve got to get me out of here, Marty.’

‘Okay. I’ll do everything in my power. Right. You’ll know the sketch here, from your early days as a lawyer. You’ll be taken up for a first appearance, they’ll read the charges. We’ll move for bail, obviously.’

Kerry watched as he looked away from her to his briefcase.

‘Will you get bail, Marty?’

She’d been read the charges last night: murder, cocaine and possession of arms. Bail was at best a remote possibility.

‘I hope so. It’ll be difficult, given the charges, but it depends on who the custody sheriff is. The procurator fiscal who’s taking custodies this morning is a bit of tough nut, making a name for himself. So it’ll be a struggle.’

‘Christ!’ Kerry said. ‘What if I don’t get bail? I can’t do a long wait in jail for a trial. I . . . I can’t.’

Marty said nothing for a few beats. She knew he wouldn’t lie to her, that he would have to lay it on the line.

‘As I said, I’m hopeful. But if you don’t get bail today, then we’ll keep at it over the next few days. I’ll move for it on health grounds, you being pregnant. You’ll be back in Cornton Vale while I fight it, and while I move for an early pleading diet. But the most important thing is that I want to get these charges dropped. They’re utterly ridiculous.’

Kerry was hearing it, but as if it was coming from a distance. A pleading diet. She knew what it was all right. She’d have to make a plea at some stage and then await trial. It could be anything up to one hundred and ten days that they could hold her. More than three months. Her mind raced and she felt nausea again. Her baby might even be born in jail.

‘Jesus, Marty!’

‘Let’s keep it in perspective at the moment, Kerry,’ Marty said. ‘I’m not expecting this case even to go to trial. It will get ditched once they take a long hard look at the evidence and forensics. Even if you do get sent back to Cornton Vale, I don’t expect you to be there long, before the charges are dropped.’

Kerry nodded. She had to stop herself being frustrated at Marty’s calmness. This was his job. He was practical and pragmatic, while she was on the verge of hysteria.

‘I have to believe that, Marty. But you make it sound as though it’s easy.’

‘I know it’s not, sweetheart,’ he said softly. ‘Right.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going upstairs now to the court to see how far away your place is. When you go up, I’ll be there. Just take it easy, try and stay calm. I know it’s difficult.’

‘Will Danny be there?’

‘Yes,’ Marty said. ‘You’ll be in the dock together.’

‘Jesus.’ Kerry shook her head. ‘It’s unreal.’

Marty pulled his lips to a sympathetic smile. Then he left.

The shriek of the flutes and thunder of the Lambeg drum at band practice upstairs was loud enough to hear at the far end of the White Horse pub. They were playing ‘Derry’s Walls’, the anthem that celebrates the siege of Derry when the Irish rebels were defeated. The customers tapping their feet to the sounds of sectarian hate were happy enough though, and that’s all that mattered. This pub was their spiritual home as much as Ibrox Stadium was on a Saturday afternoon. And it wasn’t as if many tourists ventured down to Bridgeton looking for a bit of real Glasgow. If they did happen to wander in here, the death stares of the customers hugging the bar would make them swiftly turn on their heels.

Gimpy McGarvie was polishing tumblers behind the bar. He watched the swing doors as Gordy Thomson and a couple of his sidekicks walked in. One of the doors was held open and Dick Lambie entered, standing for a moment to soak up the atmosphere, like a general surveying his troops. Gimpy stared at this so-called band of brothers, a ruthless bunch of thugs who would pull out the lungs of anyone who dared cross them. Not that many did. It was unspoken in the White Horse that the UVF Glasgow section met here as they’d done all through the years of the Troubles. It was here in the back room that the flute bands practised, and later trained in weapons, assembling guns and taking instructions from uniformed UVF officers who led silent, double lives. The customers who were simply Rangers fans with no Loyalist connections may have known all of this, but if they did, they never spoke of it, because walls have ears, and if they were heard whispering in corners about the UVF or criticising them, then they would be history. Gimpy McGarvie hated the whole fucking lot of them. He hated football and everything that it meant in Glasgow, where you were on one side or the other. But he was trapped. He had nowhere to go, and he was paying off a hefty debt that right now felt like it would never come to an end.

‘Awright, Gimpy?’ Thomson said as he got to the bar. ‘Cheer up, for fuck’s sake. It might never happen.’

Gimpy snorted and managed as close to a smile as he could get with this wanker. His name was Steven, but they called him Gimpy on account of his right leg being shorter than his left, after having polio as a child.

‘An’ then again it might.’ Gimpy shrugged.

He wasn’t afraid of Thomson or the two pricks at his side now leaning on the bar hoping for a floor show. Lambie scared him though.

‘You know what you need, Gimpy,’ Thomson said, stabbing a finger at him. ‘A right good ride. That would sort you out, big time.’

‘Aye,’ Billy Black chimed in, his skinny face and tongue darting out like a reptile. ‘You’d need to get somebody to help you get your dodgy leg over though.’

‘Fuck off!’ Gimpy spat at Black. ‘Enough of your shite. Drinks. What you want?’ He glared at each of them, his expression flat, hoping the flush of rage he felt rising in his chest wouldn’t reach his face.

Dick Lambie was already sitting in the corner where he could see who was coming through the doors and who was leaving. That kind of thing was important in any bar if you were Dick Lambie, drug dealer, loan shark, UVF Loyalist commander and feared killer.

Thomson sneered. He’d had his fun for the moment.

‘Two vodkas with soda and lime for this pair of pussies, and Jack Daniel’s and a dash of Coke for me and Dick.’

Gimpy didn’t answer and was glad to turn away from them and face the gantry. As he picked up glasses and pushed them under the optics, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was raging that his face was red. He stood for a moment, chipping lumps out of the ice in the bucket, imagining it was the face of Gordy Thomson or any of these useless fuckers. But he knew he had to compose himself, and he did. He turned, added the mixers to the drinks and placed them on the bar. Thomson handed him a twenty pound note. He turned to the till and keyed in the order and took out six pounds change. He went to hand it to Thomson who had a Jack Daniel’s in each hand.

‘Keep it, son. You’ll be able to get a hand job down at Glasgow Green for a fiver.’ Thomson grinned.

The two picked up their drinks and sniggered as they turned their backs and headed across to where Lambie was sitting with his arms folded, his face serious, as though he hadn’t heard any of the bullying.

Gimpy wiped the top of the bar and served another couple of customers, then sat down on a bar stool and looked up at the big-screen television mounted on the wall. He turned up the volume a little as the nine o’clock news came on, recognising the lead item showing images of Glasgow Sheriff Court. The strap headline at the bottom of the screen read, ‘TWO IN COURT ON MURDER AND DRUGS CHARGES’.

Gimpy watched as the report followed.

‘A Glasgow businesswoman and her uncle appeared in court today charged with the murders of two men who died yesterday. Thomas Lumsden and Peter Hawkins were found last night near the switchback road on the outskirts of the city. Both had sustained gunshot wounds to the head and were pronounced dead at the scene. Kerry Casey and Daniel McGowan were arrested later by police and have been accused of the murders. They face additional charges relating to the possession of drugs and firearms. Both appeared in Glasgow Sheriff Court today and made no plea or declaration. They were remanded in custody.’

Gimpy turned down the volume as the news moved on to another story. He glanced down the length of the bar to where a group of customers had been watching the news in silence. The flutes upstairs struck up ‘The Billy Boys’, breaking the eerie quietness that had suddenly filled the bar. He knew that nobody would be talking about these murders – at least not in here. Most people in the bar would know the dead men, both customers, who worked for Dick Lambie. Gimpy knew them by name and reputation. They had shifted La. . .