‘God willing?’ The DS sent it back as a question that really asked: are you taking the piss on my territory?
‘God willing.’ McCartney batted it back and nodded sagely. The DS finally got it; McCartney wasn’t taking the piss.
‘Look, son. Nice that you’ve brought God into the room, but correct me if I’m wrong here . . . You are admitting to being part of a gang that carried out armed robberies on other equally nasty bastards?’ He raised his eyebrows to stress the question. He wished it was the old days and he could have given McCartney a knuckle sandwich just for the hell of it.
‘I’ve done bad things, Sergeant, but I’ve found peace and want to start a new life with Jesus.’ He did the wise nodding thing again, and the DS unconsciously mimicked McCartney till he caught himself at it and reverted to his normal persona of a cynical bastard.
‘Look, son. Find Jesus once we’ve done the business, or rather when you’ve done the business and told us all about these robberies and anything else Big Brenda’s been up to.’ He slapped the palm of his hand on the table to reinforce the fact that God was off the agenda for the time being.
‘I’ll do whatever you need, Sergeant. And do I get witness protection?’
The DS told him he’d be handed over to another team who’d take care of all that side of the business.
‘I was hoping to go to Australia, right, and start a new life.’ McCartney still had that serious face and the DS sighed in exasperation.
‘Look, son. This is Govan fuckin’ polis, no Thomson’s holidays. Now let’s get to work.’
McCartney realised again that he was in a difficult position, but such was his life, and as long as he could keep clear of Brenda and McManus that would do for now.
29
The private detective was the best money could buy and he seemed to be just about as heartless a bastard as was possible. Ex-CID, sharp suit, sharp line in patter and utterly devoid of any principles, which was the clincher. He was paid over the odds and, in the best traditions of film noir, told there was a bonus for success. It seemed like the thing to do and the PI almost quivered at the figure, which would be kept well away from the Revenue’s grasping reach. It would never be paid of course.
He was good and came back in no time with a nicely presented file containing more than enough about where Macallan lived. He’d included a report on her work, but that wasn’t really necessary given the circumstances – although the PI didn’t need to know that. The photographs were well-produced black and whites and his breath shortened at seeing her again. There was nothing about her private life and the PI said that would take time to build up. He didn’t need that; her home was what he wanted to see. He never expected the bonus of her telephone number. The PI just leered, pleased with himself, and said he still had his contacts in the job. It was proof enough that the world stank and those sanctimonious bastards who hid behind their badge were no exception.
He spent two days before he got his break, waiting near the house while worrying that he would attract local attention and, worse still, the police. Fortunately, the townhouse was near Stockbridge in Edinburgh, which had become an upmarket hotspot over the years, and people swarmed around the area all day. The detective had told him that she left the house at almost the same time every day but there was no way of predicting when she would arrive back at night. No matter – he knew where her office was and there were options. The break came when he saw her leaving the house carrying luggage. It wasn’t a big case but at least an overnighter. He was just taking the first sip of an overpriced takeaway coffee when she opened the door and stood on the steps for a moment as if she was testing the morning air. She still had that air of cool reserve – he’d never seen her smile – and seemed to keep so much back. He remembered that even when he was in the interview room with her and his life was imploding, he’d felt a pulse of attraction for her. But he could never have her, and she could never want him; that was the simple truth. However, for someone obsessed with control it mattered. More than that, she had style and his chest gripped with nervous tension. He blinked rapidly, feeling the rims of his eyes fill and sting, and confusion as he wondered what had taken hold of that empty place that had been his soul.
He watched her pull her hair back from her forehead and step into a taxi that had pulled into the kerb beside her. There was no point in following.
The previous evening he’d come back after dark and struggled over an old stone wall into the garden at the back of her home. That side of the house was still in darkness and he saw that the garden was carefully manicured, the borders and shrubs beautifully kept. Could she have done all this herself? He’d smiled and settled into the dark space between the shrubs, directly opposite what looked like the sitting-room window. It wasn’t cold and he’d felt almost comfortable being so close to where she lived and dreamed. He wondered whether she ever thought about him.
When the lights clicked on he had seen her with a phone to her ear as she took off her jacket, gesturing as she spoke to whoever was on the other end of the line. He’d pulled further into the darkness as she stood at the window and stared out into the night, still talking, and imagined what it would have been like to be that close to her. He guessed her friends would be like her: talented and with everything to live for.
When she moved away from the window he’d had to resist the temptation to move closer, because he hadn’t wanted to spoil what was to come.
After an hour, she’d come back into view wearing a bathrobe and drinking a glass of wine. She’d dimmed the lights, and although he couldn’t see her he’d noticed the flickering shadows on the wall that meant she was watching the box. Another hour passed then the lights in the sitting room had gone out and what he guessed was her bedroom lit up. He’d imagined that in another life he could have been that person on the other end of the phone saying goodnight and that he was there for her anytime she needed him.
Time seemed to drift and then he’d realised the house was in darkness.
As he moved off into the shadow below the perimeter wall and then back into the street, he put his earlier thoughts out of his head, because he was there for his daughter and that was the least a loving father could do.
30
Macallan’s taxi dropped her outside the bar in George Street and she struggled through the doors with her suitcase. She scanned the few early-morning feeders and saw Jacquie Bell sitting at the back of the restaurant. It was light, cool and one of Macallan’s favourite stop-offs when she was shopping.
Bell saw Macallan approaching, got up, squeezed her and whispered in her ear, ‘Want one on the lips?’ It was the usual wind-up and related to the one-night stand they’d had not long after Macallan had joined Lothian and Borders after leaving the PSNI. Macallan had still been low at the time and had never been able to explain why it had happened. What had really confused her, and still did, was that it came back to her from time to time and brought a smile to her face. Bell looked like a star but was a hard case who could slug it out with the best of them. She’d been threatened by some serious criminals and high-profile public figures in her time but took it all in her stride. She loved Macallan, which was something she’d never told her because she knew it would have caused more problems than her friend deserved. ‘Bit early for a drink but never mind, it’ll soon be eleven o’clock and I can get my starters then.’
‘How’s life then, Jacquie? Still slaying the high and mighty?’ Macallan waved to one of the girls serving, who was clearly rushed off her feet. She ordered poached eggs, fruit juice and toast, while Bell asked for black coffee and cursed the fact she couldn’t have a smoke with it, which was her normal first meal of the day.
The bar had windows all round and in the ceiling, the light was clear and for a boozer there were few shadows. Macallan studied Bell and marvelled that someone who had the appearance of a Hollywood A-lister could keep her looks on a diet that consisted mainly of caffeine and alcohol. Despite a few grey strands and the finest of
lines that seemed to have clustered around Bell’s eyes since Macallan had last seen her, she was still a most striking woman – a younger Sophia Loren, who was just going to age like a fine wine.
‘I’m meeting the Sturgeonator this afternoon. My God, that woman has turned from nippy sweetie to a political dragon slayer. She tramples all before her.’
‘Don’t try anything with her. I think she’d scratch your eyes out.’
‘Not my type, honey. I like them obsessed with work and totally confused by their Presbyterian guilt.’ She winked, grinned and enjoyed watching Macallan flush at the neck. ‘Okay, let’s get to work. What you up to? And I’ll quote nothing unless you tell me to.’
Macallan told Bell exactly what she was doing because she knew the reporter would know anyway – she always did. She was bound to have one or two of her bosses in her pocket.
‘That’s interesting, Macallan,’ she said and called to the waitress for more coffee.
‘No, it’s not. You know it already.’ She raised her eyebrows and Bell shrugged as an admission. ‘What about you? Anything I can do to help? Job is all routine so far.’
‘This little crusade of mine about conditions in the prison service? It’s really not an attack on the men and women who work in it – I’m sure they’re having a hell of a time . . . it’s the lack of resources that’s creating a dangerous situation inside that’s concerning. And I’m sure I’m not the only person to be thinking this, but perhaps I’m the one who can give it more of an airing and bring it to more people’s attention? Everybody knows there’s chronic overcrowding but I don’t think they really understand the implications.’ Jacquie’s sources had told her that the increasing numbers of ethnic prisoners and suspected terrorists being locked up, plus the drive against paedophiles that was filling up the protection units, meant that prisoners had to be kept behind the doors more than was healthy. The lid was kept firmly bolted down, but there were side effects. The last thing the prison authorities needed was a kicking from the press, but that’s not what Bell was after.
‘I’ve started to run stories about the problems, and at the moment I’m looking at different aspects from a number of angles. Tommy McMartin is a perfect case. I know he was getting a hard time in there so no wonder he committed suicide. Christ, I would. I’m putting something out tomorrow about suicides and just want to mention you’re on this case. Nothing more, but you’re a celeb and will put a little bit of sauce on the story. Other than that, I’ll keep in touch and you let me know if you need anything.’
Macallan thought about it for a moment and decided it couldn’t do any real harm. ‘Will do. Anyway, I need to go or I’ll miss my flight.’ They agreed to meet again, and when they stopped at the door after paying the bill, there was another squeeze.
‘By the way . . . the way I heard it, our boy Tommy never did it.’
‘How?’ was all Macallan got out before Bell stepped forward and jumped in a taxi.
Macallan was in her own taxi heading for the airport when she received a text. ‘Nothing I can prove but police source told me original investigation was manipulated to cover lines of enquiry that were buried. That’s all.’ That was Jacquie Bell: the all-knowing reporter.
Macallan called up Jimmy McGovern, who was spending the day in the office putting what they had so far into statement form and dealing with some admin. That way he could get an early finish and prove to his ever-loving wife that the job was all routine and he didn’t even have to work at the weekend. ‘Jimmy, could you get a hold of the SIO on Tommy’s case and make an appointment with him, for Monday if possible? The other thing is: find out what permission we need to look at the HOLMES system that was run at the time, or rather who we approach to get it.’
‘No problem, and I know the SIO. Not that well but we were on the newly promoted inspectors course together. The most boring few weeks of my life, learning how to talk business speak.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘Super smooth, sharp as a needle and big on ambition. Not liked by the pack, and to be honest he didn’t give a toss. I’m told that our female colleagues and one of the guys on the course thought he was Scotland’s answer to George Clooney. Not my type, mind you, and don’t think I was his either.’
‘Thanks, I get the picture. Seen that type a few times in the job. Anyway, leave it after those calls and see you bright and early Monday.’ She put down the phone, closed her eyes and thought about holding Jack and the kids tight in just a couple of hours.
31
Charlie MacKay followed the book and training for the situation. He knew it like the back of his hand, and as long as he followed the guidance on set-up then that was one less thing he could be criticised for in the aftermath if things went wrong on one of the most difficult types of operations to run. He got Tony Slaven and started the balls rolling into the correct pockets. The DCI had worked with MacKay for years, had his notepad ready and would follow his instructions to the letter. He already knew what they would be because, like his boss, he’d been there before.
MacKay told Slaven to get the green team in place. They were the dedicated intelligence outfit who’d be crucial to the outcome. ‘This is a threat to life so it’s grade one. First job is to get into the intel, and if we can track this Goggsy’s phone we’ll get authority to ping the thing and at least find out where it is.’ Normally there would be a delay in processing a request to trace a phone, owing to the number of similar applications that were submitted every day on serious crime jobs. A clear threat to life, however, gave them almost immediate priority. If they had the number, they’d locate the phone in short time. ‘Get the blue team co-located with the intel boys and make sure they’re the business.’ The blue team were the surveillance unit, who would deploy as soon as the hostage’s location was identified, and they would ensure they got eyes on the site.
There was a firearms team ready to go and MacKay put a hold on them so they were ready to move if and when the hostage was located. They wouldn’t go in all guns blazing. The maxim was ‘locate, contain and neutralise’, which, unlike in popular fiction, did not mean blowing everyone away but controlling the situation to let negotiations take place if possible. They could only shoot where there was a clear and imminent threat and the firearms boys had no choice but kill or be killed. MacKay thought it was a travesty, but that was the modern force and modern thinking. If he could have got away with it he would have put a lid on the situation, but too many people knew he was running a source inside the Logans’ team, and if it came out he’d compromised this job for a CHIS, he’d end up in the High Court as the accused.
The DCI came back into the office fifteen minutes later. ‘Jigsaw’s not involved so that’s a break. Abe Logan is the “hands-on” man but reporting to Frankie. They use a workshop near Bellshill for “interviews” as they like to call them. It’s not far from the built-up area but seems like a rural situation: three disused small farm/industrial buildings, dead end so only one way in and one way out by car. I’ve got one of the intelligence boys working on anything we have on layouts. It looks like they doped the guy up and Psycho McManus is going to work on him this morning.’
‘Psycho? Jesus, that’s just what we need in the mix. Get a team over to his place and see if there’s any sign of him. If it’s possible get the CROPs. I want an eyeball on this site now, so get the blue team leader to get his finger out and deploy as soon as possible. Right, let’s see if we can get this place contained and take it from there. I don’t know who this poor bastard Goggsy is but he’ll last about thirty seconds if it’s Psycho doing the necessary. Let’s get moving.’
The last item on MacKay’s immediate to-do list was to get the team leaders from the blue and green teams with the firearms team leader and warn them that he’d have them issuing parking tickets till they retired if there was any in-fighting. It tended to happen if there was a weak man in charge. He was the man in charge, and it wasn’t going to happen on his watch.
&n
bsp; 32
McManus woke up slowly and thought that Paterson must be making him something to eat. He rolled over and noticed the time on the bedside clock about the same moment that his phone rang. He sat up and tried to figure out why the clock hands were at 8 a.m. He bawled through for Paterson and when he stood up he’d already decided to give her a pasting. This was the last fuck-up he needed. It was straightforward enough to guess who was on the blower.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ Abe Logan now had all the evidence he needed to get shot of McManus.
‘That daft burd never woke me up, an’ I’m still in the flat. Swear to God I’ll fuckin’ mark her this mornin’.’
‘Well, mark her when this is done. Get a move on and I’ll come in the car for you. You’re a fuckin’ waste of space, my friend. Frankie will crack up on this one.’
McManus put the phone down, lifted his leather belt and gave it a couple of turns around his hand, leaving the heavy buckle dangling by his side. He walked through the flat looking for Paterson. It was quiet with not a whiff of cigarette smoke, which meant only one thing – she was offski. He couldn’t make any sense of it. About thirty seconds later the alarm bells went off in his brain and he checked his money stash. When he saw it was gone he grabbed the nearest chair and started to smash up the flat.
By the time he had himself under control again the flat looked like it had been the target of a drone strike. McManus dressed in his best gear and promised himself that he’d make the boy they’d lifted suffer. Someone had to, and he swore that if Abe Logan opened his sneering gob too wide he’d cut him a new smile. He’d spent his life barely controlling the rage that burned in the centre of his being and the situation with Paterson had forced it too close to the surface. If what she’d done got out into his world the humiliation would be too much, and there was always some smart bastard who just had to open their mouth. If they did, he’d be ready.
Where No Shadows Fall Page 17