Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Superintendent MacKay and I don’t get on that well, boss, so better I’m not there anyway. As for Big Brenda . . . are we wearing body armour for that one?’ He smiled and Macallan was glad he was there.

  ‘What’s the problem with Charlie MacKay and you then?’ Macallan didn’t want to hang about. She was close to putting a lid on Tommy McMartin’s suicide and there was no time for polite ‘getting to know you’ patter.

  ‘It’s simple really. I don’t like or trust him, and the feeling’s mutual. He tried to do my legs a couple of times for no other reason than that.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it’s unusual for someone at your rank to be so candid about one super to another?’

  ‘My feeling is you’re of the same mind as me, and given what you said at Slab’s place I think I’m in the right territory? As for Brenda, I haven’t seen her in a long time. From what I hear that team’s fallen off a cliff and there’s an awful lot of villains out there would love to give her a red card.’

  Macallan told him just enough but not too much. When it came to it, Dunbar was only there because if Macallan tried to see Brenda on her own and anything went wrong, there would be career-ending fallout.

  ‘By the way, Mark, has anything turned up at the PM for Slab?’ She knew there couldn’t be because that would have been headline news, but she had to ask because the feeling was still there.

  ‘Nothing as far as the pathologist is concerned. Natural causes. Christ, the man had an encyclopaedia full of medical problems. The thing is, I don’t think you were convinced, boss. Just call it one of those old-fashioned feelings.’

  He smiled when she looked sideways at him but ignored the observation. ‘I get the picture.’

  When Macallan walked into MacKay’s office he hardly made any attempt at warmth but at least tried for cordial. She hoped that would do. It was all a sham anyway, an act to buy time so that Cosgrove and his team could try to find enough links to corruption to make a case, or at least a credible allegation.

  He invited Macallan to sit down and she saw the tension flicker across the muscles in his face. He made a pretence at looking through some notes, but it was obviously just a way to avoid eye contact with her.

  When MacKay finally ran out of diversions he looked up at her and put his palms on the desktop before speaking.

  ‘So tell me, how is your review going? Is there anything I can help you with?’ He was wound tight and Macallan wondered why that was; he seemed spooked. She couldn’t know that he was only doing that human thing of running endless scenarios on what might go wrong. He was a man carrying more than his own share of sin, but up to that point he’d always believed he was fireproof.

  The Tommy McMartin thing should have been straightforward. Mickey Dalton and Tommy were both doing the big sleep so what was the problem? It was Macallan and the suggestion that someone thought the murder was a fit-up. It was history, but it had come up out of the ground like the hand of a corpse in a far too shallow grave. Nothing substantial had been put to him, but he was human and had started to worry. Christ, even Slab was bye-byes and he’d been the man who’d made the call that night to go to Dalton’s flat. It had been a strange one, finding Tommy, the young prince and Slab’s favourite. He’d never made sense of it, and when he’d asked Slab about it later he’d been told to keep his fuckin’ nose out of the business.

  A smell had developed around MacKay and his team when people noticed they kept taking out Slab’s rivals but no one with the name McMartin. Wrapping up young Tommy had put all the sanctimonious bastards out of the game, though, and got the rubber heels off his arse. He had no idea who’d actually killed Mickey Dalton, but it was a set-up, no doubt about it.

  That would have been it had he not seen, weeks later, a routine intel report from a beat cop saying he’d spotted Big Brenda, Crazy Horse and an unidentified male driving in the area that night. It was nothing on its own, and those kinds of reports came in every day, but it clicked with MacKay. Big Brenda and her lunatic brother were more than capable, and he was aware that both she and the late and unlamented Crazy Horse hated Tommy. It made sense. Most of the links were dead, but Brenda was still alive, and if she’d been there that night and Macallan was going to see her . . . It was hard to believe that Brenda would talk to the police though, and she was as good as dead anyway: it was only a matter of time.

  The other problem as MacKay saw it was that Macallan’s team had been looking at the HOLMES system. His man had told him they were fishing among the phone records, which made his skin freeze because he knew he was exposed there. He could easily have explained it away before as just cutting down on the number of enquiries in a case that was already solved, but now there were just so many ifs and too many fucking buts.

  ‘You okay?’ he heard Macallan say and realised that his mind had drifted. She’d been talking to him and he’d been staring into the shadows as he struggled with his fears.

  ‘You look pale. Look, I can come back – I just need to take a routine statement to wrap up the work I’ve been doing. I’m going to see Brenda, so we can do it next week if that’s okay?’

  He stared at her and the consequences of his past broke into his mind like flashlights going off. He was a senior cop, but senior cops could go to prison. The woman sitting opposite him had done it to another cop before.

  ‘Where the fuck did you get Brenda’s address?’ He had no control over what he said and it burst through his lips as if he’d lost control of his breakfast. His breathing was unsteady, and there were dark stains under the armpits of his expensive Italian shirt.

  Macallan was taken by surprise – she hadn’t expected any of this. MacKay was regarded as Mr Cool and they were a long way off proving anything against him. In fact, she knew it might well go unresolved – it wouldn’t be the first time some bent bastard kept climbing up the greasy pole despite their past. She tried to stay calm but she was watching a man come apart in front of her.

  ‘I got the address and phone number from a new source.’ It was only partly true but would do. ‘Where’s the problem? We’ve put it on the system.’

  ‘The threat to Brenda. How did that come about?’

  His face was heart-attack red and Macallan tried to think of a way to make a dignified exit, but her own emotions were taking over. She realised what was happening. Every good detective had seen it a hundred times. He was riven with guilt and couldn’t control the fear of being caught.

  ‘You know what? Just get the fuck out of here,’ he said, no longer interested in her answer. ‘I’m doing my job keeping a lid on all those scumbags out there while you fuck about with an open and shut case from years ago. Hassling me like some half-baked PC. Your problem is you don’t know what it’s like trying to keep it all under control!’

  Macallan’s anger began to rise because she no longer needed evidence. The bastard was dirty. ‘What do you mean by control?’ She was being confronted, and despite what Cosgrove had said she couldn’t walk away from the challenge.

  ‘It’s people like me that stop it all going off.’ There were white flecks of spit at the corners of MacKay’s mouth. ‘You just don’t get it. We’ve got Triads, Yardies, Poles and horrible bastards from all over Europe. The old days are gone. We can’t get into these gangs so we have to keep our own on top of the pile. We can work them, control them and that way we keep order.’ He blinked a few times but the outburst had said so much.

  Macallan looked at him and tried to grasp it. Cosgrove was right. It was about power – the classic case of villains controlling the story through people like MacKay.

  ‘You think you’re the only one who ever dealt with this stuff?’ she asked him. ‘RUC, my friend. The Troubles, that’s where I learned my trade. Scraped up the pieces after bomb blasts, slept with a gun next to my pillow and lost some fine men and women along the way. Who the fuck do you think you are, the Glasgow branch of UKIP?’ Macallan, struggling to keep a hold of her own feelings, almost matched MacKay’
s level of anger.

  MacKay had to release the nervous energy flooding his system. He had to get her out of the office before he lost it completely. He stood up, strode round the desk, shoved his face too close and started jabbing her arm while he growled, ‘Stay the fuck out of my way.’

  It had gone too far, and he’d underestimated her once again. In the first meeting, he’d written her off as someone who’d made her name off other people’s work; now he thought she was no more than a physically weak female, no match for a guy who did weights four times a week.

  Macallan let her training take over and she acted instinctively. She was still seated but pushed her left hand up and gripped the inside of his wrist, twisting it against the joint. He hissed with pain – it felt like his elbow was cracking.

  He took a half-step back and tried to push away from Macallan so he could extend his arm and relieve the pressure. It meant he was off balance for a moment and he stumbled back, the top half of his body hitting his desk so his legs were splayed, his toes just off the floor. If Macallan had had time to think she would never have done it, but she was still running on instinct so she drove her knee up into the exposed groin of the helpless superintendent. Then she let his wrist go, stood back and asked herself what she’d just done. She spent a moment heaving in air and then the doubt passed and she smiled. It reminded her of the moment Big Brenda had landed on the floor.

  MacKay, who had made the same mistake of underestimating her, slid to the floor clutching his balls and the pain that had made him forget about his wrist.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ he wheezed. It was all he got out before she turned for the door then stopped.

  ‘You’re done, Charlie boy. Just hope you know that.’

  When she got outside Slaven was on his way in. ‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed for a bit,’ she told him.

  Slaven turned away and Macallan headed back to meet Mark Dunbar.

  Once MacKay had managed to get himself together, he picked up his phone and called Jigsaw to tell him where Brenda McMartin was and that they’d need to hold back for a little while because she was getting a routine visit from the law. ‘By the way, they know there’s a contract so you’d better get your arse into gear.’

  He put the phone down and stared at the qualifications, commendations and photographs on the walls of his office. A senior officer had once described his career as glittering, and it was only days and hours since it had seemed that nothing could touch him, that he had control over people inside the job and on the other side of the fence. It had all been an illusion. All the photographs and framed citations were no more than a testament to the fragility of what he thought he possessed.

  He sat back behind his desk and ignored the phone ringing, hardly moving a muscle for several minutes. The receding pain was the least of his worries. Through his rage, humiliation and weakness as a human being he’d reacted to Macallan like a child. And he’d used his own phone to call Jigsaw. As a detective, he knew what that would mean if Macallan or anyone else looked at what had just taken place, or rather after what was planned for Big Brenda.

  ‘God.’ He only said the one word, but unfortunately for him God wasn’t listening.

  Jigsaw smiled quietly to himself, pleased with the call from MacKay. It always looked good when you could go to the boss with a nice piece of inside info. He’d claim it was from some bent DC who owed him money, because a relationship with someone in MacKay’s position and rank would spook Frankie Logan.

  Jigsaw had worked quietly in the background for MacKay for a couple of years and it was a good deal. The name Jigsaw only existed in the secret CHIS file and was only used by MacKay and his handlers, including Tony Slaven. To everyone else he was Alan, the Quiet Man and youngest of the three Logan brothers. A couple of years earlier he’d been pulled for a serious assault and MacKay had used the opportunity to recruit him. It was easier than he’d expected, and it had quickly become clear that Alan resented his elder siblings, who took him for granted. Sometimes it was just that simple.

  ‘Play the long game with us, Alan,’ MacKay had told him at that first meeting. ‘You move up the ladder and we put you in control someday. First chance we get, we take out Abe when the time’s right. How does that sound?’

  Alan had liked the sound of that a lot, and MacKay loved it when they took the bait with so little effort. ‘Sounds good to me, Mr MacKay, and this assault charge?’

  ‘What assault charge, Alan? The fucker had it coming . . . right?’

  They’d shaken hands and laughed at the same time. As far as Alan had been concerned it was a good deal for him, and they’d parted ways with both of them thinking they were the one in control.

  When Macallan stepped out onto the street and waved to Dunbar, who was parked about a hundred yards away, she was still pumping high levels of adrenalin though her veins. She raked through her bag, grabbed her phone and got Jacquie Bell’s number.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous, how’s things and do you have any inside info? I need a good story.’ The reporter did nothing that was just plain and simply normal, and that included answering her phone.

  Macallan couldn’t find the humour button – she was wound up too tight, but she knew exactly what she was doing. ‘You still working the prison story?’

  ‘Definitely. And forgive me if I’m wrong, honey, but is Grace not a happy bunny today?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Sorry, but this McMartin thing is turning into a mess and heading in too many directions. I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Bell put down her gin and tonic to pick up her pen.

  ‘The next piece you put out, mention that the police are following definite lines of enquiry regarding police corruption in relation to the Tommy McMartin case. Okay? The only thing is, I need it out there as soon as.’

  ‘You sure about this?’

  ‘Definitely. I want someone to know I’m serious. Let him stew a bit.’

  ‘Great. I thought I was going to have to make something up about the Sturgeonator being into devil worship or something. Lot of people who read the Daily Terror would love that one. It’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Jacquie. Drinks on me, and sorry if I sound a bit off, because I am.’ She was about to put the phone down when Bell caught her.

  ‘By the way, a couple of the dailies, but not mine, have mentioned your upcoming wedding. That’s what comes with celebrity: writer husband and famous ex-detective wife.’

  ‘Christ, what next? And by the way: once a detective, always a detective.’ Macallan had lightened up – Jacquie always managed to make her laugh at herself. She was just too serious, unlike Bell, who saw the world for what it was – a big mad pantomime and far too crazy to take seriously.

  When Macallan jumped in the car, she did something almost unknown for her and pulled down the vanity mirror to check her face, which was red and blotchy.

  Dunbar pulled away from the kerb and glanced a couple of times at Macallan, who’d said nothing. ‘I’m a really experienced DO, boss, and with the greatest respect, my assessment is that you and Mr MacKay either suddenly discovered you were crazy about each other or’ – he paused a moment – ‘the exact opposite.’

  Macallan looked round at Dunbar for a second, thinking he was out of order and had forgotten the rank difference, but then she realised there was a touch of Mick Harkins about him – minus the awful health regime and slightly bent morals. She saw his barely contained grin, heard Jacquie Bell’s voice in her head and got the joke.

  ‘Okay smart-arse, let’s get something to eat then we go see Big Brenda.’

  She leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes for a minute and concentrated on Jack and the children. His family were Ulster Scots and he was going to wear the kilt. He wouldn’t let her see the fittings but she imagined that with such a large, powerful frame he would look a bit special on the day.

  She wondered if she should call Elaine Tenant and tell her she’d just kneed a superintendent in t
he balls but decided it probably wasn’t a good idea. MacKay couldn’t make anything of it, and at the very least his credibility would have been down the toilet if he ever admitted what had just happened.

  As Macallan and Dunbar headed south towards Brenda’s safe house, Cue Ball Ross was starting up the engine on his hired car. He’d just taken the call with Big Brenda’s address. He didn’t like the reference to some police team visiting her, but it had been described as ‘routine’ so he’d just watch her place until it was dark and he was sure it was clear to do the job. Cue Ball had been thinking long and hard about the future and figured if the McMartins were out of the way there might be an opening back in Edinburgh for him. The Scousers had been good to him, but he wanted to go home.

  He turned on his radio and pissed himself at the news that the mighty Glasgow Rangers had been gubbed again as Celtic continued to dominate. He knew the Scottish game was shite, but he missed it just the same. He’d been to a few of the big English matches, but the crowds sounded like they’d all been doped up on happy pills. He missed the venom of the Scottish league. It was crap football, but that wasn’t everything.

  56

  They pulled up about a hundred yards from the address and stopped to have a look round. The old cottages were fairly well spread and had been built when people could still have space as well as a roof over their heads. The gardens were all tended, and it had that quietness and feel of a community that was rarely found in a city environment.

  ‘Not what you’d expect for someone called The Bitch,’ Dunbar said just as Macallan had exactly the same thought.

  ‘What do you think? Inside has to be a tip.’

  ‘Has to be. You can take the girl out of the scheme but you can’t take the scheme . . .’

  A hundred yards further back Cue Ball pushed himself up to get a better view and watched them head for Brenda’s place. He’d arrived about fifteen minutes earlier. They were pigs, no doubt about it, and so far that proved the info had been on the money.