Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  No more than twenty-five feet from Abe Logan, McManus squatted in front of Woods and took his confession, which was given up in no more than a whisper.

  ‘Story . . . from your burd . . . Bobo’s half-sister or somethin’.’ Woods was weak but he was still able to see the effect of his words and the confusion in his tormentor’s eyes. He was a young man, desperate to live, but sometimes suffering can become too much and holding on to life no longer seems like the best option. The fear dropped from Woods like a coat falling off his shoulders. Somehow he managed a grin and sniggered like a child. ‘You’ve no fuckin’ idea. Jesus, the big-time operator done up like a fuckin’ turkey.’ Woods’ voice had gained a bit of strength.

  McManus stood up and let it all sink in. He looked down at Woods, who was still sniggering, so he sliced off a piece of the other ear. Same angle so now Woods had a matching pair. The captive moaned and his head dropped as he drifted somewhere between conscious and unconscious.

  The door ground open over the worn runners. Logan stood in the doorway and couldn’t make the step inside. ‘We need him alive. We want to find out how the Edinburgh thing happened.’

  McManus had already found out that it was all down to his big fuckin’ gob and couldn’t let Abe Logan, of all people, know. He had to find this Bobo McCartney and take him out of the scene. But first he had to put this to sleep – including Logan.

  He lifted Woods’ head up by the hair and sliced the boy’s neck open almost halfway through. Blood exploded from Woods’ open throat, and McManus let it spray over him. He locked his stare into Logan’s terrified eyes and held him like a frightened animal. That’s when Logan’s phone rang and saved his life.

  ‘Is this Abe Logan?’

  He said a dry yes and couldn’t draw his gaze free of McManus’s. The lunatic’s chest was heaving with the release of adrenalin after slaughtering Woods, whose head had tipped backwards with the weight, drawing open the massive, almost pornographic wound that was now exposed to the light.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Charlie MacKay. We met a few years ago. Don’t know if you remember?’

  Logan’s mind was swamped with information overload and he couldn’t quite cope. He said yes like a robot although he really couldn’t remember MacKay at that moment. He had to keep his eyes on McManus to see what came next, because everything in the mad bastard’s eyes said his throat was next for a bit of fresh air. McManus took six steps forward and was in striking distance of Logan, but he wanted to know what the call was before he made his next move.

  ‘It’s the polis.’ Logan was drawing in deep breaths as he tried to control his fear but failed badly. He had a madman a few feet away from him with a cut-throat razor covered in blood and the bizzies on the blower. What he needed was help.

  ‘What the fuck do they want then?’ McManus dropped the hand gripping the razor to his side and waited for more information.

  Logan asked MacKay what he wanted to talk about and the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. The detective wondered what was spooking a man who liked to project the image of top Glasgow hard man. MacKay explained in brief but clear detail what the situation was: the law was all around them, including firearms, and unless they could find a battle tank there was no way out. It was a complete lockdown.

  ‘Gimme that fuckin’ thing.’ McManus grabbed the phone from Logan’s shaking hand and turned his back on him. All his anger spilled out, all his intense sense of betrayal, the grinding confusion trying to compute an idea to take him out of there. But McManus’s mind was a small but intense electric storm, utter chaos, and all he wanted to do was scream and take on anyone who came near him.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ he screamed down the phone and MacKay pulled his phone away from his ear but kept his cool – that was the training. He knew this had to be McManus, and his gut told him it was not going to end well. So be it, he thought – if it was to be a bad ending then he would make fucking sure it was Psycho who was on the losing side.

  He’d deployed a small army of firearms officers so they were covered if it needed some flying metal. Although at this point he had no indication there were firearms, with this mob it was a possibility.

  Logan had already broken into a sprint away from the slaughterhouse – for the first time in his life he wanted to be in the arms of the law.

  MacKay was starting to explain who he was and that there was no way out when McManus put the phone down and the only words the detective heard were, ‘Fuck you. Come in and get me.’

  McManus threw the phone on the floor and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. He sat down, fired up a Lucky Strike and got himself ready for whatever came next.

  36

  ‘That’s target one away from the main building and trying to break the world speed record on two legs. He’s coming straight up the road towards you so beware. I can’t see any weapon in his hands.’

  Logan ran as if he were being pursued by the hounds of hell until the firearms team appeared out of the hedgerow in front, behind and to the side, at which point he stopped dead. He put his hands up and, lungs burning with the effort, managed to say, ‘Thank fuck for that.’

  ‘He’s done the boy in. Fuckin’ mess, chief.’ All he wanted was to please his rescuers and prove that he was cooperating all the way, and that the bleeding mess that used to be Gordon Woods was nothing to do with him.

  The lead firearms officers tried to calm him down as they cuffed him but got the story that not only was McManus in there on his own with the recently departed but it seemed there was a fully loaded equaliser in the nutter’s hands. This information was relayed back to MacKay and the team on the ground. The Ops Comm manoeuvred the teams in closer and made sure that if McManus showed his face there was nowhere for him to run.

  ‘Keep it peaceful if possible.’ That was MacKay’s last instruction to the firearms team.

  ‘As long as he does the same, boss,’ was the reply, and that was fair enough.

  The fact that it was the pigs who had penned him in only increased the urge in McManus to fight and fuck the consequences. He’d intended taking Abe Logan but hadn’t even noticed the bastard legging it. It didn’t really matter – he was calm now, and he grinned at the thought that people would be talking about this for years to come. The big Hollywood exit had always appealed to him, and dying peacefully as an old man surrounded by his loving family had never really been a likely option. Anyway, he thought, where the fuck will I get a loving family? Just in case it was some twat playing games, he picked up the shooter in one hand, stuck the clean razor in his pocket and went for a deek outside.

  ‘That’s target two from the description in the operational order. Standby.’ Fitzgerald took a moment to be sure she was seeing what she thought she saw. ‘It’s him and beware, he’s covered in what looks like blood, firearm in his right hand and a cigarette in the other. Picture on its way. He’s looking around and seems to be shouting something. Wait one – I’ll try and catch what he’s saying.’

  MacKay, like the Ops Comm and all the troops at the site, could hear every word the CROPs officer was saying. It went quiet, but they knew this was about to become headline news and for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘To the Ops Comm, he’s shouting “fuck you”. Just saying it over and over again, then “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes”. He’s back in the main building.’

  The Ops Comm moved everyone in even closer but still far enough away to keep them safe. They’d hold it there for as long as it took to negotiate and he prayed that MacKay could talk the man out.

  McManus sat down again and lit up another Lucky. He pulled off the soaked vest and wiped himself down as best he could, then pulled on his shirt and jacket and ran his hands through his hair, hoping he looked smart enough for the big finale. He enjoyed the cigarette and waited patiently till it was burned down to the point it was burning his fingers.

  He stood up again and stared for a moment at what used to be Woods.

  ‘
Sorry, son. Pity you ever met me, eh?’

  Woods didn’t answer him back.

  He picked up the shooter and threw the razor back on the table. There was an axe lying next to the door and he decided that really would give him the charisma required for the occasion.

  He stepped outside again, looked up at the sky and felt the cool rain wash his face. He sucked a few deep lungfuls of air and smiled. ‘I’ve been in worse situations.’ He said it even though it wasn’t quite the truth, but he felt like he was the anti-hero in the big climax of a violent gangster movie and he had to say something with a bit of grim irony wound into the scene.

  ‘That’s the target out, out, out. Shirt and jacket on now; firearm in right hand and an axe in the other. He’s starting to jog up the road.’

  MacKay swore at almost exactly the same time as the Ops Comm and firearms leader – they all knew where this was going.

  ‘Come on, ya bastards!’ McManus knew the pigs had to be close and it was just a case of finding some of them. He stopped every so often, went off the road then backtracked until he was about twenty-five yards from the firearms leader and one of his team, who were behind the remains of an old brick wall that had once formed the perimeter of the site. They saw McManus closing on their position and there seemed to be only two options. First, they could try and run to avoid conflict, but McManus would be at their backs with his firearm. Not an option then.

  The firearms leader raised himself up to full height, aimed his weapon and called the official warning. The other officer followed his boss and within seconds the two weapons were ready to do whatever was required.

  McManus stopped, took it all in and let both hands fall to his sides while still holding the weapons.

  ‘Don’t do it, pal. Lay the weapons down and we’ll work this out. Okay?’

  McManus was breathing heavily so he said and did nothing as he watched other firearms officers move into different positions near him where they could engage without hitting each other in crossfire. In the distance, he saw an unmarked car and van pull into view and halt. He turned round in a circle and took one last look at the world.

  ‘The weather’s shit anyway,’ he shouted, and spat towards the firearms team leader. ‘Fancy droppin’ the shooters an’ havin’ a square go, pal?’ He laughed quietly to himself.

  The firearms officer heard it and handed out another warning that he knew the mad bastard was about to ignore.

  McManus raised the axe and threw it for all he was worth but missed his target by a mile. ‘Bastard.’ He was genuinely disappointed by the effort and it would have been the ‘bizo’ if he could have landed the axe in the uniform’s napper. Ah well. Worth a try, he thought.

  He lifted the gun to a straight-arm position, and as he started to walk forward he opened fire. The first bullet hit him in the middle of his second step towards the cops. It was almost a perfect shot and took him in the centre of the breastbone, splintering bone and flesh. McManus felt like he’d been hit with a mash hammer, and all the breath seemed to disappear from his lungs. He was a powerful man though, and somehow managed to squeeze the trigger again – for the last time. As his legs wobbled into the third step the second bullet hit him near the abdomen. The firearms officers watched him half double up with the blow, his legs developing weird and separate lives of their own. He began to perform an almost clownish little dance, then his back arched in agony and he fell backwards. The police team moved in carefully, even though they knew he was a goner. They were trained to expect the unexpected, and there was ample history of apparently dead shooters getting off one last round.

  But McManus was dead, and a man who’d caused nothing but pain in his years was just another very ex gangland legend. Few, if any, would mourn his passing, including his own side, and if he even had a family, no one knew who or where they were.

  MacKay went out to the locus and although he would have preferred to catch McManus as a live specimen, it was fair enough, and at least the taxpayer wouldn’t have to pay to keep the bastard inside for the rest of his natural. All in all, it was a good result. There wouldn’t be too many problems with the shooting, though these events were normally a pain in the arse with the media inevitably finding something to criticise. He had also taken Frankie Logan’s brother and second in command out of the game. That was hunky-dory because if he’d found himself having to take Frankie that would have wrecked his master plan. His fear at the start of this job was that it would take him right to the man at the top. So although there might be a few questions for the boss of the team, there was nothing he couldn’t answer.

  After he’d had a look at the site and screwed his face up at poor old Woods, he phoned his DCI. ‘Call Jigsaw and tell him job well done. He’s got nothing to worry about.’

  MacKay had another detective superintendent take over the murder investigation and tidy up. He was too involved in what he liked to call criminal social engineering, and that was going pretty well: the bosses were happy, he was happy, Jigsaw was happy and everyone was a winner. He just had to figure out the best way to finish off Big Brenda . . . wherever she was. It wasn’t much of a problem anymore and could wait because he was going to have a couple of days off for some serious R&R. He was just heading back to Pitt Street to tidy up when he got the call from McGovern.

  ‘Hi, Jimmy. Thought you were retired – ticker problem or something.’

  McGovern told him what he and Macallan wanted and that they’d like to do it on Monday. MacKay really couldn’t be arsed with some half-baked review of a case that no one cared about. It confirmed in his mind that McGovern was just being handed errands to see out his time. He’d never liked the man because he remembered that on the course they’d both attended McGovern was the one person who was obviously not impressed with him. He’d hated that. All his life he’d needed to be openly admired and he’d come to expect it – anything less was an insult. Any other day he’d have made an excuse, but McGovern had told him Macallan was the lead on the review. She was someone he’d never met, a different deal, and he was curious to see how she matched up to her billing: top-drawer career and a bigger celebrity than he was in police terms. He’d heard what she’d achieved and it bothered him, because she’d done things at the front end he could never duplicate. That meant she was well worth meeting. Even if she was back in uniform and by all accounts finished with investigation, apart from the nonsense they were involved with around Tommy McMartin.

  ‘Monday morning it is,’ he told McGovern. ‘Be good to see you.’

  37

  Lying came easily enough to MacKay; indeed a lie detector would probably have failed in his case because they just rolled off his tongue, as his one and only long-term girlfriend had once remarked before she threw a cup of coffee in his face. That had taken place in a smart Edinburgh restaurant and he’d never forgotten the humiliation. It burned, and he’d never got close to a woman again. In fact, he’d never got that close to anyone again. Relationships, apart from the one he had with himself, just got in the way of his career. Even the odd good friend he made in the job was there because of what they might be able to do for him. Anyone who was a real pro could smell trouble where MacKay was concerned and stayed well back.

  MacKay resented people like McGovern because they had the one attribute he could never have and that was raw physical guts. He was a bottler, though few people would ever have known it because he’d crafted a career and legend that was about ninety-five per cent true, five per cent smoke and mirrors. He’d carefully avoided the toughest challenges, but his CV showed the right ticks in the right boxes. When he was promoted to DCI in a tough division, in order to get the appropriate credibility, he managed to spend a large part of that time on the FBI course in Quantico. Over the years a few Scottish officers were gifted the chance to go to Quantico to polish up their CVs. His real forte was intelligence and managing covert operations. That was where he shone – pulling the strings and making other people dance to whatever tunes he had in mind. A
s long as the end result was to his advantage, he didn’t worry too much about ethics. On the surface he was the walking, talking encyclopaedia of modern-day senior management bullshit. He rarely made a promotional interview or presentation to the public or the press without sprinkling the words transparency, accountability and partner organisations all through the text. He knew the executive liked to hear their rising stars talk that kind of mince, and the fact that he didn’t believe a word of it never caused him a minute’s concern.

  He carried a degree of luck, no doubt about it, and when he came back from Quantico the Tommy McMartin thing had fallen right into his lap. He’d known there had to be a God when that one had come off, because he was in the right place at exactly the right time to make the moves that had put young Tommy away for life. The executive had loved him, another gold star was added to his CV and a few months later he was shoved up a rank and safely back into covert ops where he could do what he did best: fuck people without them ever realising what had happened.

  He put the phone down after speaking to McGovern and turned on the news. The top and breaking story was that there had been a hostage situation near Bellshill and shots had been fired. There was no other information available according to the reporter, so he switched it over to his media player and nodded to the heavy beat of Prince giving it laldy to ‘Purple Rain’. He just loved the wee genius.