Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘It’s slightly complicated. He was on his own so it wasn’t murder. However, they found that he’d suffered serious sexual assaults, probably on a number of occasions, and there was significant evidence of that.’ Tenant squirmed; she’d never been involved in investigation and had never been hardened by exposure to years of attending crime scenes. ‘To cap it all, the senior detective who attended was lifted after being caught up in a sting run by Europol’s child-porn operation. Can you believe it?’

  Macallan could believe it. The capacity for men and women who should know better to completely screw up their lives was endless.

  ‘Jacquie Bell seems to have latched on to the story and has claimed there was an organised conspiracy against McMartin and that he was driven to suicide. She’s running some campaign through her column about suicides in custody. So this needs to be done right.’

  Tenant sat back and waited for a reaction. Macallan took a moment before treading the next few steps carefully. Jacquie Bell was a reporter who tended to frighten whichever part of the establishment she was after, but she was also a close friend of Macallan, and relationships with the press were a minefield for senior cops.

  ‘Who would I see as the next of kin?’ Macallan’s mind was already moving into gear and it would have been impossible to row back. This was what she had wanted. As Tenant filled her in with some background, she tried to bury the thought that she would later have to face up to the problem of what this meant for the future, not least what Jack would say.

  ‘Tommy’s father was a well-known Glasgow villain who died years ago, so I understand his closest relative is his Uncle Benny, otherwise known as “Slab” McMartin. I say uncle, but according to the files his father was actually Slab’s cousin. As a boy Tommy was always treated like a nephew and was apparently his favourite. Old Slab has been bed-bound for some time now, and we’ve been told he’s not long for this world. He was it as far as next of kin was concerned because the boy’s mother died years ago and there were no siblings. It’s all in the intelligence brief I have for you.’ She pushed the file, marked ‘Secret’, over the table to Macallan – who immediately realised that secret meant some of the intel must have come from a sensitive source.

  The penny didn’t just drop for Macallan, it clattered. The name McMartin should have rung the alarm at first mention. ‘Is this Big Brenda McMartin’s tribe?’ She didn’t know whether to laugh or run from the room to the nearest boozer at the name of the woman who bulldozed into her thoughts and dreams every so often.

  ‘I’m aware you had dealings with her on the Handyside case. She’s an unpleasant character, Grace.’

  Macallan wanted to say, ‘Unpleasant? You haven’t met the woman!’ but let Tenant continue as the image of Big Brenda re-formed in her imagination.

  ‘I’ve read the file and you have my assurance that if you don’t want this it goes to someone else. Bad as the McMartins are, they appear to have washed their hands of the deceased when it was disclosed that he was bisexual. The family aren’t going to shed many tears. Anyway, from what’s in the intel brief they’re in terminal decline as a business and some of their competitors smell blood.’

  Macallan sat back in her chair, took a moment to gather her thoughts and let her pulse rate calm down a few notches. She had indeed come across Big Brenda – aka The Bitch – during what had been her last major case before Kate was born, although it seemed like something that had happened a long time ago. A walking, breathing nightmare who looked like she’d been crafted to appear as the monster in an old Hammer horror film, Brenda was Slab McMartin’s only daughter, although the intelligence was that they barely communicated. Her brother, Crazy Horse McMartin, had been killed in Edinburgh on the same night and in the same place that the Fleming twins from Leith had met their maker. It had gone down in police legend as the Gunfight at Ricky’s Corral because it had all taken place in and near Ricky Swan’s front garden. He was a pimp and sauna owner who’d scandalised the good people in the Ravelston area of Edinburgh, firstly by moving in and then by showing his lack of class by calling his smart five-bedroomed house ‘The Corral’ from his love of western movies. That small part of Edinburgh had then turned into the Wild West, and there had been chaos all over the city on that fateful night. At about the same time, Big Brenda had been seriously injured in a brawl in Leith, and Macallan had had her one and only meeting with her at that time. It was fair to say they hadn’t got along.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ Macallan said. ‘I’ll need someone to work with me on it though.’ She felt a slight tremor in her hands as an adrenalin surge began to waken her senses, dulled by days of watching that clock in her office. She’d surprised herself by taking the job without too much convincing and she felt a tingle of anticipation at getting somewhere near the real game again. She could dress it up to Jack as not much more than routine (which was, after all, pretty much how Tenant had described it), an interlude before the next miserable project or divisional post. He was no fool though, and she knew she’d have to put on a performance to convince him. She didn’t want to deceive him; she just didn’t want to worry him.

  ‘We’re struggling to find enough detectives to cover the cases we have at the moment, but Jimmy McGovern has put a request in to go back on the front line, although I was minded to talk him out of that if possible. But this should keep him happy for a bit and he’s not far off retirement. There shouldn’t be too much stress, and I know you’re friends.’

  ‘Jimmy would be perfect. When do I start?’ Macallan said it in too much of a rush and wondered again what Jack’s reaction would be if he was in the room with them. She wanted to run from the office and be anywhere but staring at the clock on her wall.

  ‘Now’s as good a time as any, and you can work from the office you have. Although, having said that, Glasgow should give you full cooperation because it’s on what was their patch originally.’

  Twenty minutes later Macallan walked out of the front door of Fettes and stood for a moment in the glow of the public entrance. The city was dark, cold and the lights flickered off the damp streets around Comely Bank. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment. She felt a lightness in spirit and realised that the time spent grinding through the intelligence project had weighed her down. A traffic patrol car burst out of the main gates with its blues and twos warning the good citizens of Edinburgh that the police were on their way to some new drama.

  ‘I just love this job,’ Macallan said to herself, wondering where the emergency was and what it would involve. She always wanted to be there; it would always be that way. It was a moment of truth at last after the weeks of denial. She’d tried for Jack and the children to prove that there was another way to have a police career, without being a detective. Jack would understand; he always did and she loved him for that – for putting up with a woman who didn’t always deserve what he gave her. He was over in Antrim at the cottage with the children and dog for a couple of weeks, making sure the builders were on the job with their extension. She would join them for the weekend.

  She ached at the thought of them, that physical contact like a warm blanket, protecting her from the demons that would lie dormant deep inside her then slither into her mind and remind her that they’d always be there . . . waiting.

  Fumbling around in her pocket she pulled out her iPhone, tapped in a quick ‘I love you’ to Jack and added a smiley just to prove to him it was true. She grinned at the small, insignificant act that made her feel close to them at least for a moment.

  Fat raindrops started to pat her shoulders and head, but she hardly noticed and couldn’t stop thinking about the job she’d been given. Routine or not (she thought probably not), she couldn’t wait – and working with Jimmy would be a bonus. She wasn’t sure that he should be anywhere near the front line again, but this case shouldn’t be a problem. Routine. She thought about that description over and over again and stood it alongside the picture of Big Brenda she had in her imagination.

 
‘How can something anywhere near that woman be routine?’

  The couple who walked past her when she mumbled the question decided she must be pissed and disappeared into the night.

  13

  Macallan stepped down the old worn stairs to the Bailie and felt the rush of warm beer-scented air envelop her as she opened the door. Mick Harkins was at the bar arguing with one of the punters about independence and why Joe Public had got it absolutely fucking wrong in the referendum. She hadn’t seen him for weeks but shook her head and thanked God that some things, and especially her friend Harkins, never changed, including his topics for arguments. She could see that he was on the verge of headbutting the pinstriped suit who was trying vainly to defend the Unionist position. She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s find a seat, Mick, before you get us barred from the place. I like it here.’

  He turned and smiled when he heard her voice. Mick looked well, and life away from the job seemed to be agreeing with him. More likely it was the fact that Felicity Young lived with him now and kept at least a partial rein on the man who’d made a career out of refusing good advice. Felicity, a senior analyst and a friend of Macallan’s, was the complete opposite of the man, but for better or worse she seemed to care deeply about Harkins, who’d had his share of problems and had nearly died at the hands – or, rather, under the wheels – of a serial killer. Against the odds he’d lived but his career was over.

  She saw the pinstripe breathe a sigh of relief that he’d survived the encounter with Harkins, who he’d initially taken for some loser and made the terrible mistake of trying to show him how clever he was. Harkins loved it when tossers did that, unleashing all his best lines and watching their expression turn from superior being to nervous wanker in a matter of minutes.

  She got the drinks in. A pint and a nip brought a smile to his face and they settled in for the catch-up. ‘How’s you then?’ she asked him.

  ‘Tell you the truth – I’m bored to the tits and need to get a job or a hobby. My life is becoming the same story every day and I’m even getting pissed off with the bookies.’ He slugged back a third of the pint and pulled off his damp jacket, which meant they were in for a session.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t use the word tits like that. Makes you sound like a sexist.’ She said it with a grin because she knew he did it just to wind her up. He was playing his favourite role and they ran the same script every time.

  ‘You know I’m a sexist and proud, Grace. Men were put on this earth to hunt and drink, and women are here to gather twigs for the fire and serve our every whim.’ They clinked glasses. The piss-take formalities were past and they held up their drinks to the barman to get the tab building.

  She told him about the project and the job looking into McMartin’s suicide. Harkins went from slugging the drinks to sipping, a sure sign he was interested. Macallan saw there was more in his expression than passing curiosity. ‘You’re giving me the look. What does that mean? It’s the “I know stuff because I’m Mick Harkins” look.’

  ‘The McMartins are bad news. But then you know that. Thing is that when I was in the major crime team before they decided to let Strathclyde swallow the rest of the country and call it Police Scotland, I had some dealings with that family of fucking pond life. They’re the worst of the worst – but then you’ve met Big Brenda so you’ve had a taste.’ He gulped another third of his pint in one go and Macallan marvelled at his ability to slug booze like that.

  ‘You could say that. If you remember, even with cracked ribs and enough injuries to kill a normal human being she wanted to get out of her hospital bed and do me.’ She shook her head at the memory and couldn’t hide her smile when she remembered Brenda McMartin getting so angry she managed to tip herself out of the bed. Macallan had enjoyed winding her up to the point where she’d lost it completely and lay cursing on the hospital floor.

  ‘Listen. The problem is that old Slab has been dying for years, and from what I’ve heard his one-way ticket might be needed quite soon. I was involved in the investigation into the death of the boy Tommy McMartin carved up. We were roped in because the victim travelled through to Edinburgh a couple of times a month to put a smile on the faces of a few very well-connected people here. Needless to say, there were denials all round and a few top lawyers shouting about harassment of their clients. To be fair, it was a side issue to the murder itself and wouldn’t have made a difference to the verdict, so it slipped off the radar. We just had more important things to do. A couple of married politicians paying for a man romance wasn’t going to be anything that new even back then. And any leak to the press would have been blamed on us so it wasn’t worth the hassle of an internal investigation.’

  Macallan nodded slowly and waited for the punchline but Harkins just stared across his drink at her till she gave in to impatience. He did it all the time but didn’t seem to be enjoying this one. ‘Okay, that’s all very interesting,’ she said, ‘but it makes no difference to anything – and you still have that all-knowing look on your face. Give.’

  ‘Let’s put it this way: I wasn’t at the heart of the investigation, but the vibes and rumours were that they didn’t exactly break a leg with this one. Okay, Tommy was bang to rights, but it was all closed off just too quickly. What I heard was that there were DOs in the McMartins’ pocket, but don’t ask me who was who; I just don’t know any more than that. The strange thing is there were standard lines of investigation that were never followed, and again I wasn’t close to the gaffers so I don’t know more than that . . . Look, I was involved with one of the female Weegie detectives on the case and this came out on the pillow if you know what I mean?’

  He shuffled uncomfortably and Macallan noted that even a man who’d committed as many sins as Harkins could still be slightly embarrassed. It was a rare occasion and she couldn’t hide her grin. But then who was she to judge?

  Harkins nodded to the barman for refills and she took the opening he’d left her. ‘You don’t have to explain it was a female. But naturally, if it was one of the men then that’s okay as well.’

  Harkins narrowed his eyes for a moment before recognising the piss-take and putting his hands palms out in submission. ‘Very clever . . . for a wee girlie.’ He lifted his glass, grinned back and continued with the serious business. ‘None of that made sense. Given that young Tommy was fucked anyway, why not do it properly so nothing could be pointed at them if there were questions asked later? What didn’t they want to find?’

  ‘I’m sorry? As usual you’re way ahead of me and I’m still not getting it.’

  Harkins shook his head and waited till the barman put the fresh drinks on the table. ‘Call yourself a detective? The thing is that the McMartins are a big gang of fucking nutters, right?’

  She nodded and ignored the dig.

  ‘Slab was the man who held them together as a force. Everyone – and certainly every detective in Scotland – knew that. He was in decline even back then, and although he’s managed to hang on, the last I heard he’s nearing the root-vegetable stage.’ He saw the lines crinkle on Macallan’s forehead – she was still struggling and getting fed up waiting for the pay-off.

  ‘Tommy was the red-hot favourite to take over. When he was done for murder the field opened up to the rest of the lunatics in the family who might want the top job.’ He saw her finally get it. ‘Look, the evidence was more than enough to convict. Tommy boy couldn’t remember a thing, and there wasn’t a shred to say that the verdict wasn’t the right one. Thing is, it was all just too safe. No loose ends. Most importantly . . . and you know what I’m going to say . . . the lower-rank detectives on the team, including the girl I was involved with, picked up a bad smell the way it was run and closed off so quickly. It’s always the same – the bent bastards always give off signals. They can hide it from most but not from their own. That’s it. There was nothing to go on and no more than that. I may be completely wrong or was blinded by love at the time, but I’ve told you what I know. Thing is that i
f someone wanted their hands on the crown, old Slab has fucked it up for them by refusing to die.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Just one more thing . . .’

  ‘Okay. I’m all ears.’

  ‘Slab has taken years to get to death’s door. He’d no time for Crazy Horse, but I heard the shock that his boy had been snuffed just about killed him, and he’s been a broken man since then. Sees all he built up going to rat shit. You’ll know as well as I do that the McMartins are falling apart as a team, and it’s only a matter of time before people make a move on them, if it’s not happening already. Collapsing empires generate chaos, it’s always the way. Last I heard Big Brenda is running what’s left of the show and it’s a shambles. So you’ve got people who you might have to go to for help who are up to their armpits, and then there’s Big Brenda, who won’t give you a hug if and when you start knocking on their doors.’ He sat back and sighed before picking up his beer and drinking as he waited for Macallan to digest what he’d said.

  ‘How in the name of God do you always know so much?’ Macallan said it with a smile but knew he could only know some of the stuff he did because he got it from inside the job. It was sad but all too familiar, and like the common cold would always be there. Some retired and near-retired detectives (and especially the fanatics like Mick who’d lived for the job) would keep in touch and rerun the old days, forgetting that the world had changed, and they’d feed out intelligence to men like Harkins. They just couldn’t let it go, and there was a legend that old detectives were condemned to have three dreams a week where they were in their mid-thirties, wearing the sharp suits again and putting the neds away. It was their curse to be reminded of what they’d once had – the cross they’d bear till the grave.