Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  Macallan looked at McGovern and winked. He grinned back because it could be infuriating but this was part of what made Young the character she was and it was all just part of the show.

  ‘The team did check some of the numbers and requested subscribers . . . but not all of them. I thought at first that it might just be that the murder was solved right away and so they thought: why bother when there’s such a weight of evidence? I’ve told you this already.’

  She stopped again, sipped the water and looked at Macallan for a response.

  ‘Yes, okay . . . and?’

  ‘As I said earlier, there’s a pattern in the omissions. There’s one number that either contacts Mickey Dalton roughly once a month or he contacts the number. It seems stable for a while and then there’s an increase up to about a month before the murder and then nothing. The sheets for the period in those next few weeks prior to the murder are definitely missing. Might have been a coincidence, but of course we have the material Danny Goldstein gave us, and we’ve now had a chance to look at those.’

  She sipped her water again, waiting till Macallan realised it was time for another prompt.

  ‘Right, got that.’

  ‘The sheets that Goldstein gave us cover that final period. The thing is that in the couple of weeks before the murder there’s a flurry of activity between Mickey Dalton and the subscriber.’

  ‘Do we have the subscriber?’ Macallan asked, hoping there’d be an affirmative that was a straight arrow pointing at the answer.

  ‘No, we don’t, but I think it’s relevant. The missing sheet makes no sense.’

  ‘Get onto that one as soon as, Jimmy, and see what we can come up with.’ Macallan sat back slightly disappointed, because nine times out of ten what seemed like a clue was nothing of the sort and cost effort for no result.

  ‘There’s more,’ McGovern said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Always save the best for last. Given what we thought we might be looking at, I had a look through the original intel from the murder. Most of it was okay, but there’s something interesting in the train of events.’

  ‘Go on.’ Macallan let the remains of her breakfast congeal on the plate.

  ‘The police attending the locus were responding to an anonymous call about a serious disturbance. That’s why the cavalry piled in. Thing is that when I thought about it, well . . . Mickey was potted and Tommy was out for the count, so where was the noise? And there’s no record of them getting a story from a neighbour that there was a rammy in progress. I checked the origin of the call and it went straight to the CID, who got the uniforms to go along, and they weren’t far behind.’ He paused to let it make a picture in her mind.

  ‘So what we need to flesh out is this question: why would the CID be interested in a rammy?’ Macallan saw the direction of travel. ‘Keep digging.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The colour was back in Jimmy’s cheeks and he was enjoying himself again. ‘They got the call, walked in behind the uniforms and got themselves a top skull. Thing is, the person who took the “anonymous” call was Charlie MacKay. I got in touch with an old mate in the rubber heels and the suspicion up to that point was that the McMartins were getting a free run from the suits. Tommy’s arrest meant that theory was out of the window and everyone was a winner, except the boy himself.’

  Macallan glanced at Young and noted her look – it said that they’d found the key. There hadn’t just been a series of coincidences – the raw stink of corruption was there now, still in the shadows, but Macallan would shine a light on it and see what it all meant.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked. She was excited and revolted by it at the same time; they heard it in her voice and felt exactly the same.

  McGovern was worried because he knew there was no holding Macallan back now – she’d walk into those dark places, and do it alone if necessary. There was no point in arguing – she wouldn’t change her position. He knew her well enough to know that this one wasn’t up for further debate. In any case he’d had to slip a couple of tabs from his prescription to ease the tightness in his chest. He’d had the warning and it was enough. He was risking it all, and he couldn’t do that to Sheena and the children. His wife had invested so much in the lonely years waiting for him to come home, and she deserved the pay-off, which meant crossing the line together. He finished his summing up. ‘That’s what there is at the moment. We’ve started the ball rolling on Brenda’s safe phone, tracing the calls, but the problem is we can’t say it’s a priority, because it’s an old case and we’re not reinvestigating, just filling in some background to Tommy’s suicide.’

  ‘I know.’ Macallan bit her bottom lip, recognising that the implied warning was fair, but there was something that needed exposure and she wouldn’t be stopped. ‘I’ll take responsibility, and we need to keep it tight for the moment. I’m going to see Elaine Tenant tomorrow and put it in front of her. Let her chew it over.’

  McGovern nodded. He didn’t want to say anything more at that point in case they ran ahead of themselves. ‘Only other thing is that we should have Brenda’s exact address and any other intel sometime today. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem if Jimmy Adams is on the money.’

  ‘Good.’ Macallan seemed to drift for a moment then said it again. ‘Right, you guys finish your breakfast. I’m going to see Slab McMartin. Think I’m safe enough – from what I hear his fighting days are all in his dreams. Probably looks completely routine if I go there, take a few notes and leave. He’s still next of kin so on safe ground.’

  ‘Do you have to see him?’ McGovern asked, though he already knew what her answer would be.

  ‘This is for all intents and purposes still a review of Tommy’s death, and he’s the closest relative we can find. I’m not going to say or do anything to raise his blood pressure at this point, and from what we’ve been told he doesn’t care about Tommy anyway. After that I really need to sit down with Elaine and run this stuff past her before the next move. Hopefully you guys will get me a bit more ammunition.’

  She stood up and raised her coffee cup in a mock toast to what they done, before heading out the door.

  Macallan got into her car, tapped Slab’s address into the satnav and waited for a couple of minutes till her mind settled down and she could concentrate on the road. The wedding was another day closer. She had to force the pace, all too aware that in other places people would know she was coming and be making their own plans. That was the game: moves were being made on the chessboard and someone would win and someone would lose, though half the time everyone lost something.

  There was no answer but she decided to head Slab’s way anyway. She expected nothing special from him, but at least she could say she’d tried.

  That assumption was on the money, because he’d been dead for several hours and wouldn’t be talking to anyone this side of heaven or hell.

  50

  Macallan almost enjoyed the drive to Slab’s house and felt relieved that McGovern’s situation had been taken care of without too much grief. Her only concern was that he’d gone almost too easily, and if nothing else that confirmed he must have felt pretty washed out. It had been a bad oversight on her part, and she vowed to check on her friend at every opportunity until the job was finished.

  Her train of thought was interrupted by the phone and even though she had hands-free she ignored nine calls out of ten, but it was Jack’s name on the screen and she needed to hear his voice.

  ‘How’s my girl?’ He sounded good, happy and she’d been surprised how excited he was about the wedding, expecting him to do the man thing of being slightly bored of the whole drama and horrified by the expense. There was none of that, and if anything, he was the one who wanted it to be a special day with bells and whistles added on. It was Macallan who wanted everything low key; it was her nature.

  ‘Busy but getting there. How’s my babies and poor old dog?’

  ‘All good. The builders finished up early so we’re heading back today. We have the car so won’t arri
ve till later this afternoon. Is that okay? And how’s work?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Just can’t wait to get a hold of you guys. We’re still pretty busy, but I think a few days will wrap it up one way or the other.’ She stuck to their agreement to keep the details well away from the family.

  ‘One way or the other can mean a lot of things,’ he said. ‘As long as it’s all wrapped up before the wedding.’

  ‘God, Jack! Still sounds strange when you say it. After the wedding we’ll be married.’

  ‘That’s the general idea, or else the celebrant will have really messed up and we’ll have spent a fortune for nothing.’

  ‘Okay, big man, I’ll see you later then. Kiss the weans and clap the dog for me in the meantime.’

  She finished the call and was trying to get used to the idea of being married as she turned into the street she had as the address for Slab McMartin. When she saw the patrol car and unmarked wheels she felt a knot wind tight in her stomach. It was fated: the job she’d been given was poisoned, not remotely straightforward, like looking for a clear image in a hall of mirrors. All she could see was distortion – shapes of things that barely made sense and never would unless she could find the meeting points, the places where the truth could let her see into the past. She was forming ideas but knew they could all be wrong.

  When the young PC stopped her at the gate she pulled out her card and asked him who was in charge. He explained there was a CID officer still there and called him on his radio. A couple of minutes later an old suit came out of the front door and pulled off a pair of gloves before offering his hand.

  ‘I’m DS Mark Dunbar, boss. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to attend. We’re more or less finished here. Is there a problem?’

  Dunbar had a warm smile for an old soldier, and she thought he must have been one of the lucky few who’d managed to survive without despising the world. Mick Harkins said that if you could still smile at the end of your service you were either very sick or God loved you. Dunbar looked fit for a guy clearly round the half-century mark, and his suit was immaculate, another good sign that he still cared. She liked him and just knew he’d be good at his job.

  He told her to come into the hall area and she explained as far as she could why she was there.

  ‘What happened here then?’ she asked when she was done. She already knew it was going to cause her problems.

  ‘Well, maybe saved you a bit of work, boss. Old Slab finally cashed out sometime last night. I’ve known him for years and had a few run-ins with the family so I’m not their favourite DO.’

  Macallan saw he was exactly what she’d thought and liked him all the more.

  ‘As far as we can see it was probably natural causes, and the doc seemed satisfied. In any case, he was on his own although his sister-in-law was supposed to be there, but that’s another story and there’ll be a PM. There was no sign of any disturbance or forced entry, although the balcony windows were open. But apparently he insisted on that. Have a look round if you want. We’re finished examining the room.’

  Macallan said she’d just have a quick look, walked up to the bedroom and stood inside the door for a couple of minutes. The room seemed to be holding back on what had happened within its four walls.

  Moving to the middle of the room she remained motionless for another few minutes, waiting for some inanimate object to speak to her, tell her that this wasn’t just a sick old man going on his way. She’d expected nothing from the visit to Slab’s home but here it was again – Sod’s Law. Or was it no more than an illusion concealing something else?

  The curtains moved with an almost imperceptible whooshing sound in the fresh wind that had been increasing all morning.

  Out on the balcony Macallan looked round at the view Slab must have seen thousands of times. He would have planned his moves and sentenced men to death in that same spot.

  She looked over the rail and saw a few ivy leaves scattered round the top of the conservatory roof and trapped just under the ledges. In her imagination, she watched a dark shape clamber onto the roof area then scrabble up the tough branches of the old ivy that had spent its life covering the back of the house. The intruder was careful but couldn’t avoid dislodging those leaves. Get a hold of yourself, Macallan, she thought.

  She shelved the images, acknowledging how easy it was to get carried away with conspiracy theories. Maybe it was Sod’s Law. It happened.

  Back in the hall Dunbar asked her if she wanted to see anything else. Macallan said no, thanked him and took a step towards the door before stopping.

  ‘Do you mind if I go back to the room for another look?’ She again imagined the dark silhouette scrabbling up the ivy to Slab’s bedroom. Two areas of her mind were in conflict. Why kill an old, done man? Why not? Hadn’t he spent his life creating enemies? There had to be people who wanted to look into his eyes and savour his fear. There were no signs of a struggle, but someone that old and sick is easy to kill. Her head swam with conflicting scenarios.

  Macallan stood on the balcony again and looked over to the conservatory roof. She was over in a second, lowered herself down using the ivy to hold her weight but careful to be as quiet as possible and cause no obvious disturbance. There they were round her feet, the result of her short downward climb: four ivy leaves, one slightly torn and the others just dislodged at the base of their stems. There were some paper hankies in her bag; she put them under her knees and got down where she could look under the ledges. There was a mixture of old muck and another three still-fresh ivy leaves trapped under the edges of the roof. It was nothing or something. If she started stirring it up that Slab had been murdered, that would be laying her head on the block and inviting the death blow. The ivy leaves only meant something if you wanted them to, and she’d be dragged off a case she had no right questioning. She’d be set up as the classic case of an investigator obsessed with conspiracies and unable to do the job she’d been tasked for. Slab was dead so who really cared?

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant. That was good of you to give me access. Not really my place but old habits and all that.’

  ‘No problem. Notice anything I’ve missed?’ the DS asked. He would have been annoyed if he had. He was a proud man and always tried to be as thorough as he possibly could. He would never have asked the question in the first place, but he realised she was interested in something and that bothered him. However, even though he liked what he’d seen of Macallan, there was a difference of three ranks and that meant he had no leverage.

  Sometimes the dice have to be thrown. Invariably it happens suddenly, without time to engage the conscious mind and weigh up the risks. It tends to draw nothing but a blank; however, like every gamble, sometimes it just comes off. Not because the player is a genius, just a risk taker who’ll take the game all the way because the prize is to draw the stones back and be God for a moment. The only person who sees it all and why it happened the way it did.

  ‘You ever get the impression old Slab had any of our side in his pocket?’

  As soon as Macallan said it she almost recoiled at the implications of what she’d just done. She was taking the DS at face value, and that had gone wrong in the past.

  Dunbar was a hard man to surprise, but Macallan had managed it. He was old enough and wise enough not to come straight back to her.

  ‘Take a seat, Superintendent. That’s a big question you’ve just asked.’

  His smile had gone and he wondered about taking his own gamble on what she’d said. He decided it was fine, because he could come back at her without saying something that would end up in a libel case.

  Macallan sat down opposite him and tried not to chew the edge of her finger.

  ‘Some people reckon, besides myself I might add, that I was one of the best DOs in Glasgow . . . but look where it got me.’ He pulled out a pack of chewing gum and offered Macallan a piece, which she refused. He was struggling with withdrawals from his lifelong tobacco habit. ‘I don’t know why you’ve asked me that qu
estion. I know you’re not the rubber heels, and as far as I know I’m clean anyway. And I saw the article that said you’re looking at Tommy’s suicide. So I guess you have your reasons for asking that.’

  Macallan nodded and wished she’d just left it alone. ‘I have my reasons, Mark. No problem if you don’t want to answer, but I just had to ask.’ She scraped the ridge of hard skin on her finger with her nail rather than chewing it like someone ready for the happy pills.

  ‘I hassled these bastards for years and it cost me promotions. Someone stuck the knife in, and although I can’t prove it, that’s where I point the finger. Enough about me. The question is, did he have a friendly on our side? You can take it from me that he did. The Tommy McMartin case was a strange one and seemed completely against the grain at the time. What it did do was take the heat out of the suspicions that Slab was getting a free pass from us, or Strathclyde as it was at the time. Does that answer your question, Superintendent?’

  Macallan still regretted it but nodded and thanked the DS, who had a list of questions in the way he was looking at her.

  ‘Would you mind if I came back to you at some point, Mark?’ She held out her hand and he took it.

  ‘Anytime – anytime at all.’

  Macallan headed for the car with more to think about. She was running out of places to go for the job. She could easily sit down and write a report that would close the whole thing down and no one would call it into question. She called Elaine Tenant at Fettes and told her she needed to talk.