Castle Killings: A DCI Keane Scottish Crime Thriller (Deadly Highlands Book 4)

by Oliver Davies

  “I agree,” Shay said calmly. “Good to see we’re on the same page. Can I show you something?”

  “Please do.” I leaned in curiously as he spun around again and pulled up a collection of photographs showing five different men, each with a selection of composites alongside their pictures, providing alternative versions of them, with variations in hair and in eye colour. One of the men vaguely resembled our ‘Anthony’ but the nose and cheekbones were wrong.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Who is he?” he corrected me. “That’s the million-dollar question. Those are all the same man. His DNA has been collected in connection with five murder cases in Europe - France, Monaco, Belgium and two in Germany. All deaths initially thought to be accidental but turning out not to be. Why he always goes to the trouble of creating such elaborate scenarios to be investigated is not clear. Maybe he just enjoys the idea of leaving us all scratching our heads. How many others he’s killed, without any investigation ever happening, is anybody’s guess.” He shrugged minimally. “We both know that with a different pathologist looking at Visser’s body, the chances are that a criminal investigation would never have been opened.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. The same thought had occurred to me more than once over the past few days. Shay wasn’t finished yet, though.

  “The results from the DNA tests on those hairs I got from the Nissan, and any other samples that are found, should clinch it for certain, but the driver’s fingerprints from the Nissan match the ones discovered during the investigations of two of the earlier murders. Anthony doesn’t seem to care about leaving trace evidence behind. Maybe the fingerprints are silicone and fibre prosthetics? A signature of sorts but not actually his? Europol thinks he works for a well-known Russian arms dealer, mainly because of the identities of three of the victims.” So Shay had decided to check Europol’s databases for a match, too, while I’d been busy with Michaelson? I didn’t feel particularly surprised to hear it.

  “Anthony’s had his face surgically altered that many times?” I asked, gesturing to the photographs.

  “Unlikely. He probably usually makes do with top-notch prosthetics if he’s not planning to be around somewhere for long. You’ve seen how realistic a job the make-up and special effects artists in the film industry can do nowadays? Well, they’re not the only experts in the field. Looking at the minimal scarring he does have, I don’t think he’s had any particular feature surgically altered more than once or twice.”

  “You called it in as soon as you found those fingerprint matches?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “I didn’t have much choice, Con. With one thing after another failing to add up, I was thinking everything you just laid out for me. None of it made sense. Once I did find the matches, I knew that this wasn’t something we could handle ourselves or should even try to.” He hunched down in his seat a little. “You know what the Intelligence lot get like about people who sell advanced weapons systems to potentially hostile foreign nationals. I sent off a file with the video footage and the fingerprints to the Glasgow office, flagged as urgent. They called me back minutes later to tell me they were taking over here. We’ve collected a lot of useful material for them to work from, but there are going to be at least a dozen agents and their accompanying support staff in Wick by tomorrow afternoon. The vanguard is flying up from Glasgow today. They’ll probably be here in a couple of hours.”

  The truth was that apart from not having the necessary specialists, equipment or manpower at my disposal to handle the hunt for Anthony, I didn’t have legitimate access to a lot of the databases they could draw upon either. They’d probably bring up a mobile command centre with a fully equipped forensics lab onboard. I knew Shay had done the right thing, but I didn’t have to feel thrilled about it.

  “What about Anderson?”

  “I expect he’ll call you soon enough once he’s been apprised of the situation. Munro, too, to warn him of the storm that’s about to descend on him. I bet he’ll start to think we were really good guests after a day or two of having the Ids infesting his territory, commandeering office space and bossing his officers around. ”

  “Oh, he’ll just love that!” All serving police officers had to be prepared to offer their fullest cooperation and support to other law enforcement agencies whenever required, even if we couldn’t stomach them. Especially the Security Service, more widely and less formally known as MI5. The boys from the box played by a different rule book to the rest of us, even the ones assigned to Scotland, and Munro would probably resent that uncomfortable truth most of all. We all knew what their idea of ‘working closely with police partners on investigations’ and ‘constantly refining how we work together to jointly achieve operational successes’ usually meant. If you weren’t SIS or GCHQ, they just stomped all over you the minute that any hint of a ‘National Security’ issue reared its head.

  “Any idea yet about why Visser was targeted or who ordered the hit?” I asked.

  “None at all. His entire history will need to be raked through with a fine-tooth comb. My initial background check didn’t reveal anything to explain it.” Shay seemed a little less tense, now that he knew I wasn’t mad at him. “Maybe he did sleep with the wrong woman after all, just not anyone he met here? Off the top of my head, I can think of a few Russian mob bosses who’d take that sort of insult badly enough to send a man like Anthony to deal with him.” There was a thought. There were plenty of multimillionaires who wouldn't blink at spending a little ‘pocket change’ on something like that. He shrugged. “Or it could be something else entirely. Something Visser got mixed up in during his navy days, or since. There are numerous possibilities.” He didn’t sound very hopeful about the prospects of anyone getting to the bottom of it in a hurry.

  “I doubt the Ids will care very much about that anyway,” he continued, gaining momentum. “They just want to get hold of Anthony so they can wring him for information on who his boss is selling to. The government disapproves of arms sales they don’t actually benefit from. Did you know the UK has exported military hardware to over fifty countries that are supposedly subject to arms embargoes, trade sanctions or other restrictions in the last few years alone? If they’re that worried about terrorist training camps, why don’t they stop selling weapons to the countries that harbour them?”

  That sarcastic sneer in his voice was a warning bell. If I didn’t stop him, Shay would launch into one of his rants about immoral military interventions achieving nothing but an increase in the number of radicalised youths. Shockingly, people in other countries apparently didn’t like it when their homes and businesses were reduced to rubble, or their families were blown up or shot. Surely the population of Britain would be much more reasonable about it if a foreign army came over here and started levelling our cities. They’d be really happy to see them, right?

  It seemed like a good idea to get out of there before he could really get started. Shay was obviously unhappier than I was about the fact that he’d felt obliged to call in the Security Service. Giving him a few minutes to calm down seemed like a very good idea.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better go and tell the team to hurry up and finish logging all of today’s transcriptions and reports if we’re going to be ready for a handover this evening,” I said briskly before getting up again. “I’ll need time to read through them all and add my own summary before then.”

  He just nodded gloomily and started tapping lethargically at his keyboard again.

  Once I had the team’s attention, I gave them the bare bones of it. The fingerprints found in Anthony’s Nissan had been flagged up by Europol as belonging to a professional hitman currently wanted in four other countries. A strong connection to large-scale international arms dealing could not be ruled out, making him a person of interest to the Security Service. Grateful as they were for our commendable efforts, a larger, better-equipped team from their Glasgow office were coming to take over the investigation. This being the case, I
expected that we’d be free to return to Inverness sometime tomorrow.

  Although surprised and intrigued, none of them seemed particularly upset to hear it. International organised crime was definitely not in our jurisdiction, and we’d certainly done our job. Besides, I think they were all rather looking forward to going home.

  Caitlin got up and trailed after me towards the kettle at the far end of the office after I’d finished my little speech. She put her empty mug down and checked the water level in the kettle before flicking it on. It was still steaming from whoever had used it last.

  “So Visser’s murder had nothing to do with who he’d been sleeping with after all? Any idea what he’d done to draw the attention of an internationally wanted professional killer, or rather the kind of people someone like that would work for?”

  “None at all,” I said, echoing my cousin. “Maybe something from his navy days or something he got involved in before he even came to Scotland.”

  “Or something he saw or did here?”

  “Also possible.” I shrugged. “It’s not really our concern anymore, though, is it? We caught the local connection and identified the main culprit.” I popped a fresh pod into my coffee maker and unscrewed the top. “Someone else can figure the rest of it out and deal with launching the hunt for Anthony. Hopefully, that will speed up the effort to find Nicholas Albert too.”

  Chloe Albert had seemed like a nice girl. I didn’t like the thought of her being left to worry about what had happened to her brother for much longer. Better to know, either way. Maybe he really was okay and just hiding somewhere. Anthony had left Michaelson alive. Why not Nicholas too?

  “Will Shay stay to help them?” she asked, and I stifled a snort. Not a chance in hell!

  “No, he won’t be willing to do that. He may or may not agree to assist from the comfort of home, but those guys make his skin crawl. He can’t stand being in the same room as any of them.”

  “Ah. Daniel did sort of hint last year that they might not be Shay’s favourite people.”

  “When did that conversation happen?” I asked as I poured a careful trickle of water into my machine. She threw a teabag into her mug and pushed it my way to be filled.

  “The morning I came to visit you in hospital when your dad took me off to the canteen for a chat.”

  Oh? That was alright then.

  “Do me a favour, will you, Caitlin? Get that last transcription typed up immediately and send a copy to Munro marked for his urgent attention. I’d like to do him the courtesy of making him aware of sergeant Malcolm’s unfortunate tendency to tittle-tattle before anyone else does.”

  “Want me to highlight that bit for him?” she asked with a little smile.

  Our cool reception here hadn’t gone unnoticed. I’d witnessed Caitlin’s friendly ‘good mornings’ and other attempts to be polite to people in passing, being met with some very surly responses from the locals during our time here. The word was out. The boss didn’t want us here. We were persona non grata.

  “No,” I said after enjoying the idea for a moment. “Let’s not overstate things. If he can’t be bothered to read the whole thing, at least he can’t complain that we didn’t try to do the civil thing.”

  The other three were all industriously typing away at their best speeds as I headed back to my office. Two hours, Shay had said. Well, if we weren’t finished by then, they’d just have to take what we had ready and wait a bit longer for the rest of it.

  Epilogue

  Conall found his cousin holed up in his room when he went looking for him on Saturday morning. Shay was lounging on his bed propped up by pillows with his laptop tray swung across his legs.

  “Did da ask if you wanted anything picking up before he went into town?” Conall asked from the doorway.

  “Yeah. I gave him a little list. Lost Jen for a bit, have you? Rather them than me, braving the Easter weekend crowds. Everywhere will be swarming with trippers.”

  “Swings and roundabouts. Working yesterday got her Monday off instead, so she won’t have to rush off tomorrow afternoon like she usually does. An extra night here makes for a nice, long weekend. Fancy a tea break?” Shay obligingly swung the tray out of the way and bounced up in his usual springy fashion.

  “Sure, why not.” He plucked his empty mug from the nightstand and picked up his trainers before padding barefoot across the floor to follow Conall down to the kitchen. “Have the girls decided where they’re going while we’re off on our trip to the Hebrides next month?”

  “Malta’s the current favourite if they can find a nice place, but they’re waiting to see what the best deal they can get is. I don’t think they’re fussed, as long as it’s somewhere warm and sunny.” He sounded a little wistful to Shay’s ear.

  “You can go with them instead if you prefer, you know. Liam won’t mind.”

  “No way! Three against one? You know what they’re like when they outnumber you. It’d be all lounging by the pool and poking around the shops for hours. We wouldn’t get to do anything fun. None of them even like diving.” His cousin grinned.

  “No need to make it sound like your worst nightmare. It was only a suggestion. Not that it’s worth getting on a plane for such a short break anyway, even if you do offset your carbon emissions.” Kettle on, he opened ‘his’ fridge, the one they never put any meat or fish in. “Fancy a light snack?” Conall glanced at the clock. It was only a little after ten. Why not? Lunch wouldn’t happen before one.

  “You got any of that fresh goat’s cheese left?”

  “Just what I was thinking.” Only when they were settled with their drinks did Conall casually broach the question he’d been burning to ask.

  “So?” he said as he sprinkled a little salt onto the soft, white cylinder Shay had plated for him. “Any new progress?”

  Conall’s team had finally been given permission to leave Wick after a gruelling debriefing on Wednesday morning. That would have happened on Tuesday night if Shay hadn’t put his foot down. Were they really expected to hang around for half the night while their replacements read through everything they’d amassed before questioning them all? Wouldn’t it be far more sensible to do that when they were all fresh after a proper night’s rest? Area Commander Munro, gracing their offices for only the first time since they’d arrived on Friday, had looked rather taken aback by the way Shay had spoken to the five-man ‘vanguard’ sent up from Glasgow. It wasn’t that he’d been impolite or raised his voice or anything like that. It was the deference with which he was treated. Conall had rather enjoyed the way the Ids had all tried to keep as much distance between themselves and ‘Mr Keane’ as they possibly could in the enclosed space. He might as well have had ‘do not touch’ or ‘ Danger UXB’ signs plastered all over him.

  “Some,” Shay told him, passing over the pepper grinder and taking a bite of the one slice of bread he’d cut himself. “They found another body last night.”

  Not Nicholas Albert’s, at least. Conall knew he’d been tracked down the day before that. Nick was fine, or at least as fine as anyone could be after spending hours being grilled by the Security Service. He wasn’t going to be charged with anything. Running away on the advice of a man you’d just discovered worked for people who had no compunction about disposing of loose ends must have seemed like a really sensible thing to do. Another time-wasting distraction, but that was hardly Nick’s fault. He hadn’t had a clue what was going on.

  “The victim’s prints were a match for the mysterious third set I found in the Nissan. We think he must have been Albert’s temporary accomplice for the Visser job.” He shrugged. “I guess he knew too much to be left alive.”

  “Any idea who he was?” Conall asked, adding some cheese to a crust of his own.

  “Not yet. The DNA will tell us his ethnicity, at least, but unless he’s got close relatives in the system, we might never know who he was. Anthony dumped him near Old Keiss Castle. Dodgy place that. Bits of it keep crumbling away. Not easy to get to either.�
� He took another bite and chewed appreciatively before continuing. “They don’t encourage visitors to get too close to the ruin, it’s too unstable, but our man seems to have a bit of a thing for historical sites. The theory is that they were meeting there on the pretext of him being paid off before Anthony scarpered. It’s likely he was the one who did all the prep work before Anthony even went up there - running surveillance on Visser, researching potential local contacts to confuse us with and all that.”

  Shay was still calling ‘not-Anthony’ Anthony because: a). He’d got used to it, and b). He didn’t like using stupid code names unless he absolutely had to. What the French police had first decided to dub the mysterious hitman was their business.

  “Everyone’s really happy with those recordings he left us, by the way. They were very impressed with his Scottish accent and his fluent grasp of English. Anthony’s turning out to be quite the polyglot wherever he’s from.”

  “Will that help to narrow the search?” Conall asked.

  “I shouldn’t think so. It’s not like you need to sign up for a course or anything to learn a language well. But the voice itself? That certainly will, if they come across any matches for it on any of the lines that are being monitored around Europe. Their voice identification software should show up anything close.”