Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  A mug of black coffee and a couple of tabs later she sat back in the chair and tried to settle down till she felt it again – a cold rush of air, but this time running across the left side of her face.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  She stood up again, peering into the darkness, but once again there was nothing, and she wondered if she was becoming delirious with the pile of highs she was forcing into her system. She realised she had to get out of the house, even if only for a short time, or she’d end up howling at the moon. It was time to take care of one last piece of business, which she’d do in the morning, and then she hoped the man selected to come for her wouldn’t hang around. She was exhausted and had carried her burden far too long.

  46

  Jack drove Macallan to the airport for her flight to Glasgow in the morning and she sat in the back with the little ones on either side of her. They were wide awake but subdued because they knew she was leaving them. When they said their goodbyes, Jack held her close. ‘I love you, you know. We’ll be over in a couple of days and then there’s lots to do to get this wedding off the ground.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ she said. ‘These two are going to steal the show, not their old mum and dad.’ She leaned down and pulled the two small faces into her and breathed them in as if she needed it to live.

  As the plane lifted off and bumped through the turbulence, Macallan peered out at the city fading below the spots of cloud and sighed as she thought what a long trail it had been to where she was now. The wedding was rushing towards her, and she wanted to put the Tommy McMartin thing to bed. She was confident that was possible because this wasn’t a needle-in-the-haystack job. The players were all there, and somewhere in the evidence she might find the lies. All she had to do was keep pushing and something would give, she was sure of it. She yawned and managed to drop off for twenty minutes.

  The appointment with Macallan was fixed for 10 a.m. so MacKay could take care of the morning nonsense and calls that had to be made to senior officers to make them feel wanted and important. Most of them were a complete waste of time, but he was a master at massaging the egos of nonentities and did it on autopilot. The call he received at 9.30 a.m., though, pissed him off, and he felt as if someone had reached around his guard and landed one.

  ‘They’re what?’ he said back down the phone, though he’d heard it perfectly the first time.

  Slaven knew what the effect of this news would be and was glad he wasn’t in the office with MacKay. ‘They’ve got permission to look at the HOLMES system for the Dalton murder, boss. Doing it this morning, and Jimmy McGovern has an analyst with him. Just thought you’d want to know.’

  MacKay put the phone down, tried to keep it together and wasn’t quite sure why he was so pissed off. He worked hard on the image of being super cool, but this manoeuvre had scratched some nerves. The woman hadn’t even bothered to give him the courtesy of a personal call to look at the case he’d overseen. Not any case – the Tommy McMartin case. Getting McGovern to do it showed a lack of respect for the rank. It hadn’t bothered him at the time, but the pressure was building and he was creating areas of blame.

  He made a couple of calls to executive-level tossers who he could beat up because he had the goods on them. It was closed doors and bad excuses all the way, which meant she had at least as much clout as he did. He called Slaven back, told him to make sure they looked like they were giving every cooperation but that one of their own operators from the investigation was there to ‘help’ them look at the system. ‘I want to know what they look at. Every detail. You hear me?’

  Slaven put the phone down and had that gut feeling again that the more he saw of MacKay the more he saw too much ambition. He’d only worked for him for a while but had picked up whispers that there were a couple of rotting skeletons lurking in his particular cupboard. Not dirty money but favours for favours from all the wrong people. Slaven was a practical detective, quite happy to alter the facts where necessary, but there were boundaries, and he had no love for MacKay. If there was a sniff of anything approaching a train crash then he’d stick him in and watch him burn. As far as he was concerned it would create a vacancy at Super level; Slaven was every bit as ambitious as his boss and had his own career path to navigate.

  It took the intervening period for MacKay to get a grip on himself, and he spent a few minutes in the washroom adjusting his tie, smoothing his hair, removing small imaginary flecks from his suit and applying just a splash too much of the expensive cologne he kept in the office for special visitors. When he got the message that she was waiting downstairs he called through to one of his DCs to bring her up.

  MacKay changed his position a couple of times in the chair, trying to create as casual an impression as possible. He looked up at the knock on the door and hadn’t really thought what to expect because he rarely considered that other people could match what he offered. He’d seen a couple of grainy shots of her plus a few where he’d googled her name to study her background but that was all. The woman who walked in the door and smiled looked a little plain at first glance, and that had been his impression from his research. When he stood up and walked round the desk to her he felt that knot in his stomach that tended to tighten when he was reminded that he was human and flawed. In his case the flaws were deep and poisoned.

  MacKay realised that his initial impression of a plain woman could not have been more wrong. Certainly the clothes were more businesslike than plain, but not unattractive; the hair was short and the only style was an almost male side parting that looked like it required little maintenance. She even had the confidence to allow a few grey strands to stand out as proof that she didn’t care what her appearance said to other people.

  Close up he felt almost betrayed by what he saw in her face. The eyes sparkled sea green with an almost imperceptible slant upwards that must have been introduced to her genes from somewhere in the furthest eastern edges of Europe. Her skin was pale, almost cold looking, but the smile – the smile was that of a confident woman who knew exactly why she was there.

  Before they’d even spoken a word to each other MacKay struggled to equate this woman, who looked like she would crumble if enough force was applied, with the stories of the SB officer who’d fought the paramilitaries during the dark days of the Troubles. She’d made high-profile arrests in Scotland, and he made up his mind that she must have achieved it all off other people’s backs. After all, that’s how he did it.

  Macallan gave MacKay the benefit of the doubt, even though it was clear that McGovern had his concerns about the man – and he was usually a decent judge of these things, despite his tendency to look for straight lines. McGovern only saw good guys and bad guys, whereas she saw the world in more shades of grey, which was perhaps a reflection of her own flaws and weaknesses. She knew more than anyone that there had been moments when she’d wanted to commit her own crimes, when she was close to and witnessed what other people were capable of.

  ‘So far this is all routine, and I just want to make sure we’ve covered all the angles. It’s the age we live in I suppose. Jacquie Bell’s story has added a bit of edge to it all, and of course the reference to Tommy McMartin in the weekend story makes it all the more important we can answer anything that comes our way.’

  MacKay relaxed slightly and was even more convinced that this was a female who’d created a big reputation based on what she could take from other people’s efforts. He was certain her move from investigation meant she was just another desk jockey dotting the is and crossing the ts. He could control it, so there was probably nothing to fear.

  She pulled out a notepad and laid it on the table as she scrabbled about in her bag for a pen. ‘If it’s okay, Charlie,’ (they’d reached first names by this time, although there was little warmth developing between them) ‘I’ll take a few notes about the original investigation because, to be quite honest’ – she paused and locked her eyes with his – ‘we’ve had a suggestion that Tommy wasn’t the person who killed Mic
key Dalton!’ Then Macallan did the smile, all eyes, teeth and warmth.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He’d been suckered by the timing, weight and delivery of the question; the measure of inner calm he’d almost regained while he was waiting for her was shattered. MacKay struggled for the right answer, knowing that straightforward anger would put him at a disadvantage.

  Macallan watched as if she’d just delivered an unreturnable shot right at the beginning of a game. She’d knocked him off balance, and in these kinds of mind games it was hard to recover if the first shot found its mark. ‘Oh, it’ll probably turn out to be a dead end, and as far as I’m aware the evidence was overwhelming. I take it you were satisfied with it?’

  He tried to work out whether she was playing a game or genuinely covering the bases on something that was nothing. Normally he would have gone for the latter, but he was no fool. Thinking she might be more of a good actress than a detective had been plain wrong, and he already had that one registered. He reminded himself that this woman had been trained to fight against paramilitaries and would be skilled in all the dark arts. He tried to play it safe, doing the best he could with a returned smile plus the assurance that he’d do anything to help and that of course the evidence was watertight.

  ‘I wish every case was that clear, Grace. If there had been any doubt I’d have been the first to consider it.’ He tried to act relaxed but no one can when a lie is partially exposed. She saw it in the shape of his mouth, the eyes that didn’t quite open enough and how he flicked his hand to his face. There was tension there, but she didn’t want to overwork it so eased off and ran into some routine questions that would let him relax for a few minutes.

  As they proceeded Macallan started to press again, asked him whether any lines had not been followed and watched him lie through his clenched teeth. It was all there in his face: something from the original investigation – maybe just some corners cut, maybe human error – but it was there, and she knew the bastard had thought it would never see the light of day again because the case was ‘watertight’.

  The atmosphere in the office had chilled, and any pretence that they were two senior officers trying to do the right thing for God and the law was dropped altogether. His phone went a couple of times and he’d had enough – he needed to think and get Macallan out of his office. But she stubbornly refused to move and did a neat line in Lieutenant Columbo quotes with several ‘just one more thing’ questions she was able to keep pulling out of a hat. His nerves had been barely holding and eventually unravelled completely.

  ‘Look, Superintendent, unlike you I’m busy. That’s enough of these questions that have wasted my time. And while we’re at it, I wish you’d come through me to look at my HOLMES system for the Dalton murder.’ He stood, trying to take control and dominate a situation he’d already lost.

  Macallan sat back calmly and looked up at him for a moment. She could smell corruption even under the eighty-quid-a-bottle cologne. ‘We haven’t wasted a moment here, Charlie – quite the reverse. I’ve found it very revealing. Second point is that it’s not your HOLMES system, and I don’t need your permission to look at it. I thought you would have worked that one out for yourself. We both have friends at the top table.’

  She was satisfied, realising that she was moving into those dark places again and wanted to see what was there in the past, concealed by lies. She stood up, gathered her papers and nodded to MacKay, whose colour had deepened. He knew he’d underestimated the woman opposite and that she wouldn’t let it go; she’d sensed the lies and had an insatiable appetite to find the source.

  ‘I’ll see you again,’ she told him. ‘By the way, I’m going to see Slab McMartin at some point. Just to show that I’m being open about what I’m doing. The other thing is, if you happen to have an address for Big Brenda McMartin, do let me know.’

  She watched a small flicker in his cheeks and wondered what it meant. The threads would come together – she was sure of it.

  MacKay never answered and watched her walk calmly out of his office. He sat down, and for a man who tended to avoid company away from the job (indeed almost relished the lack of it), he felt lonely. It was one of those rare occasions he couldn’t work out a plan, because he didn’t quite know what Macallan would be coming back with the next time.

  But there would be a next time – that was a no-brainer.

  47

  Jimmy Adams didn’t want to go near Glasgow so had agreed to meet Macallan in Perth, and she’d arranged an office in the local station. The old HQ building looked like it had been designed as a celebration of unimaginative blandness and made of grey Lego. It would do the job though, and Macallan had time to think on the hour-plus drive from Glasgow. There was a lot to consider, and she called McGovern to see how he was faring.

  ‘Good so far but a lot to do. As usual Felicity seems to know exactly where she’s going. Think we’ll stay overnight if that’s okay, so we can work late and get an early start here again.’

  ‘Any problems?’ Her gut told her that MacKay would make some attempt to keep eyes and ears on what they were doing. Especially if the bastard was dirty.

  ‘There’s a DC who was on the original HOLMES team here to help us out if we need to know anything from the investigation. Apparently Charlie MacKay wanted to give us as much help as possible.’

  Macallan paused for a moment and a grim smile tightened her lips. ‘Watch that one. You were right about MacKay, and there’s something wrong with this one. We just need to find it.’

  ‘We always just need to find it. But Felicity loves this stuff, and if it’s there she’ll do the business.’ He said he’d get back to her if they hit something.

  When Macallan arrived at Perth, Adams was waiting in the reception area. As far as the locals were concerned he was a routine witness and there to give a statement.

  Adams stood up. He looked nervous and not the image of a man who’d worked as an enforcer for Slab in his day. His hair was razored, but what was visible was white, and although the face below was blurring with the years, she thought he’d probably been an attractive guy in his day, if you were into hard men. Even though he wasn’t tall, his shoulders were wide, and he didn’t carry any weight. When she stuck out her hand he looked down and seemed surprised that a detective would want to shake – the ones he’d met in the past had tended to batter his ribs, and that was on a good day.

  They settled into the office and when Macallan asked him if he wanted anything he said no; his voice was quiet and again not what she would have expected. He’d asked for the meeting, but she had no idea what he wanted to say, so she tried to open it up.

  ‘You asked for this meeting, Jimmy. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘First things first, Superintendent. I want to make things right for Tommy McMartin. No way I give evidence in court though, doesn’t matter what you do. I tell you this story then it’s up to you.’ Adams had found his confidence again – his voice had gained in strength and he began to talk like the man he’d once been.

  Macallan considered his words and decided that if that’s what he wanted then fair enough, and she sensed something in his tone that made her decide there was no way she would refuse the offer. She’d seen it so often: that need to unload the burden of guilt. Macallan had been in rooms with men who’d filled graveyards with bombs and guns, and watched them sob like children as they tried to undo terrible events with the truth.

  ‘That’s okay with me. There’s no tape machine in here and my notebook’s still in my bag, but you have to realise it depends what you have to say, and if there’s something said that needs me to intervene then I’ll do it. You understand?’

  Adams thought for a moment and nodded. ‘What happens if I tell you what really happened to Mickey Dalton?’

  Macallan tried not to show the impact of his words, but it was impossible. She shifted in her seat, trying to suppress her interest, and wondered if this was the moment the lies would come out into the light. It happened
every now and again, but often enough gangsters would come forward with what seemed like red-hot information only for it to dissolve when it was exposed to examination. They did it for all sorts of reasons – getting even, removing opposition, women, an endless array of petty grievances – and Macallan had seen many of them herself. She had to be careful, because she was in a room on her own with him, and if what he said was any form of admission she would have difficult choices to make. It was a gamble, but she needed the truth, and no one could prove or disprove what had gone on in the room.

  ‘Why, Jimmy? Why do you want to tell me this? Why are you here? I need that first.’

  ‘Truth is that there’s a good chance someone might kill me. May be hard to believe but I need to clean the slate.’ He stopped and waited for a reaction.

  Macallan was experienced enough and had seen her share of liars to treat what he’d said with care, but the tears welling up in his eyes changed that, and again was something she’d seen only on rare occasions. Some old gangsters, like many old men, spent a lot of what was left of their lives looking back. After a life of crime and violence those retrospections could jolt the souls of the hardest men into confessing what poisoned their memories.

  ‘Who wants to kill you?’

  ‘Well, it can’t be Psycho from what I’ve seen in the news. I was working with Big Brenda an’ we’ve been rippin’ off the other teams for months. We tried to take one of Frankie Logan’s deliveries in Edinburgh but trouble was it was McManus carryin’ the bag. It was a giant fuck-up.’ He paused and looked embarrassed by his language.

  ‘It’s alright.’ Macallan knew that by the book she should have stopped him, called in a second witness and started throwing cautions at him, but it wasn’t going to happen, because when he’d said he would deny it later, she’d believed him, and every so often detectives were faced with the same problem. It was a matter of choice, and she wanted to hear his story.