Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  A dog was spooked somewhere – no doubt it had sensed him creeping along the overgrown path at the back of the cottages. He kept calm because the place had to have regular visits from foxes, which meant the natives wouldn’t get too fussed when their dogs got a bit excited about something out there in the night. The couple of dog walkers he’d seen earlier had nice cuddly pets, and there were no signs of Dobermans or Rottweilers in the area, so that gave him some peace of mind.

  He stood motionless in the garden at the back of Brenda’s address, puzzling over why he could hear The Proclaimers belting it out when there were no lights on in her house and no signs of movement. It was good practice to wait and get the feel of your surroundings before making a move, yet after twenty minutes still nothing had happened, and as his eyes adjusted to the light he could see that all the windows were slightly open. He was puzzled – she had to know there was a target on her back, and even in ordinary circumstances, why would she do this?

  He decided to give it a bit more time. Why is she listening to music in the dark? he wondered. He considered it might be a trap, but it was all a bit obvious.

  The minutes passed and still there was nothing moving, and apart from the music there was hee-haw from inside the house. He had to make his move or call the whole thing off, and that wasn’t an option for someone with his attitude to dangerous situations.

  He got in below the bedroom window and waited for a couple of minutes but still there was nothing. He looked in through the glass and saw the room was in near darkness, but a door to the hall was open and there was enough light coming in to see there was no one in the bed. He pushed the window up slowly, stopped to check the long knife in its sheath and patted the handle of the shooter. He already had his gloves on, but he was as aware as anyone of the problems of DNA, and falling hairs could be a particular hazard. When he was done he’d burn everything he was wearing.

  He pulled the balaclava over his face before easing himself over the window ledge and into the room, still trying to hear through Craig and Charlie Reid singing a song about Jean. The room was cool, and from what he could see it was well decorated and seemed cared for. He couldn’t connect it to the crazy woman he’d fought and pulverised in Leith way back when.

  He moved soundlessly into the hall and looked round into the lounge.

  Brenda was asleep in an old armchair so he waited again, making sure he had all his bearings in the house. He could see the front door, the stairs and that the curtains were almost closed in the front, but he could see the front window was open as well. He shook his head and his nose twitched with the reek of stale booze being exhaled from someone who’d taken far too much on board. He noticed the two bottles; if she was pissed that was a bonus.

  Another couple of steps to the middle of the room and he drew the knife. The shooter was out of the question with every window in the place open, so he moved forward with the knife at the ready.

  Brenda McMartin had brute strength in abundance and more than almost any man. She’d been pissed when she sat back in her favourite chair, but she’d known exactly what she was doing. She could handle drink like a true pro, and before she’d settled down she’d taken the sawn-off they’d used in Edinburgh and placed it back on the low stool beside her chair.

  Brenda’s eye snapped open and Cue Ball stopped for no more than a couple of seconds. It was his only mistake that night, but it gave Brenda the moment she needed. His surprise at seeing her awake bought her that precious time. All Brenda had hoped for was to look into the eyes of the man who came for her – and here he was. She grabbed the sawn-off at the same moment he realised he’d fucked it up and launched forward with the knife. It was too late for the shooter anyway so he just had to go for it.

  The knife drove in hard just below Brenda’s ribcage and she groaned with the shock. Cue Ball had pushed forward and downward hard because she was sitting. He ended up on top of Brenda, whose face was almost touching his. He caught the rank stink of her breath as she shoved the working end of the shotgun into his side and blew half his gut away. Cue Ball died almost instantly, and although Brenda was bleeding to death and hardly able to move, she had enough strength to drop the gun and pull his balaclava up.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ was all she managed to say when she recognised the remains of the man sprawled on top of her. She died less than a minute later.

  The noise of the shotgun was enough to alert a neighbour, who thought it might be a good idea to call the police.

  That’s how the local law found Big Brenda McMartin and Cue Ball Ross – still locked together in an awful blood-and-guts-covered embrace. It was a horror, but for the old PC who was first on the scene it was a perfect opportunity to display to the young probationer accompanying him the black humour that keeps some cops sane when they have to clean up humanity’s mess.

  ‘Now I was with the CID at one stage, laddie,’ he said, ‘and my guess is that they shagged themselves to death and the man on top exploded with the intensity of it all.’ He shook his head at the innocence of youth as the probationer rushed outside and threw up over the front garden, which in technical terms was part of a crime scene.

  59

  Two days after Brenda McMartin and Cue Ball Ross died together, Macallan walked into Elaine Tenant’s office and took a seat. Grant Cosgrove was already there but Macallan could barely force a smile. She was tired, and she’d torn herself apart wondering if she could have done anything differently. She kept true to her deal with Jack and didn’t discuss it at home, but he was annoyed because he knew she was on the same old roundabout of self-doubt that tended to be her way of responding to events that were usually out of her control anyway. She kept thinking about the look of disappointment on his face that she could be so unhappy such a short time before their wedding. Jack had gone quiet on her; it was the first time that had happened between them and it frightened her.

  Cosgrove seemed okay, and Tenant was positively glowing. It wasn’t what she’d expected, and if nothing else it helped to ease her own mood a little.

  Tenant walked over to her with some fresh coffee and spoke while she was still on her feet. ‘Grant wanted to sit in and have a quick run over things and see where we go. Do you want to say anything first, Grant?’

  He had a mouthful of coffee and just shook his head. Tenant glanced at her notes for a moment. ‘The forensic work has been more or less completed at the locus, and as far as we can tell the story is straightforward . . . if that’s the correct term in such circumstances. The boys are pretty sure that this man Cue Ball had been given the contract to kill Brenda McMartin. There’s a pile of intel that he was working for a Liverpool villain, Terry Norman. As you know, the original information came from a source run by Charlie MacKay’s team and was then followed by a source close to Terry Norman with the info that the Logans had asked him to take on the job – because there was too much attention on the Logans after the Bellshill situation. Okay so far?’

  Cosgrove and Macallan nodded so Tenant carried on. ‘As far as we’re concerned the threat-to-life warning was delivered and, as usually happens with the villains, she didn’t want anything to do with us. I’ve read your report, Grace, and that’s about it. She said nothing else of importance.’

  Tenant looked at Macallan and noted the dark shadows under her eyes, the tight lips and wondered again what was behind it. She knew the detective well enough to know that she had a habit of storing her troubles inside, but she’d never seen her like this before and could see no obvious reason for it. The events at Brenda McMartin’s home were terrible but not of Macallan’s making.

  ‘That’s it really,’ Macallan said and glanced out of the window at a beautiful cloud-free sky. ‘I asked Brenda about Mickey Dalton and she denied it all. There was nothing more I could do. She wouldn’t speak to me about anything. It was a waste of time.’ She looked directly at Tenant. ‘Not much more we can do with this.’

  Mickey Dalton, Slab, Tommy McMartin, Brenda and Crazy Horse were all
dead. Macallan had decided that the truth could stay with the dead. Trying to make sense of it was impossible, and Macallan knew that Brenda McMartin had wanted to die. She’d wanted it to be over, so that was a resolution of sorts. The woman had received a death sentence that had been carried out. It was nothing to do with justice, but it made sense. Macallan had been tormented for years by her own demons; it made her wonder what Brenda had suffered in her own dreams and nightmares. Macallan knew she would carry her decision for the rest of her life, but it was enough that she knew what had happened. Nothing they could do now would make any difference.

  Tenant took over again. ‘So, Grant, it’s over to you.’

  ‘Well, first of all I want to thank you for the help you’ve given us. As for Charlie MacKay . . . well, there was circumstantial evidence but he had wiggle room if he’d been clever about it, and of course Slab’s dead now.’

  Macallan sat up and forgot about Brenda. She knew where this was going – a bad couple of days was about to get worse. ‘But what about the failure to investigate the original case properly? The missing phone records?’ Some colour had come back into her face.

  Cosgrove put his cup down and nodded. ‘Ian Moore can’t talk to us and Mickey Dalton certainly can’t help us. I know and you know exactly what happened, but if he played the plausible deniability card and stuck to his guns then we’d have toiled.’

  Macallan was about to say something she’d regret, but Cosgrove was a real operator, saw it coming and put his hand up. ‘If you wait a moment. Please note I’ve been using the past tense in relation to what our Charlie could have done to save his neck. I don’t think you realise that your last visit to his office had unforeseen consequences, apart from the fact that he needed painkillers after the event.’

  Tenant looked puzzled, but Cosgrove didn’t let her in on that particular part of the story yet. Macallan blinked a couple of times and realised that there had to be some technical job on MacKay’s office or phone and so the knee to the balls would have been picked up in all its glory. She watched the edges of Cosgrove’s eyes crimp and a barely suppressed smile break out on his face. ‘When you left him he lost it completely and made a call to a high-level source inside the Logan team. Gave the source Brenda’s address, told him that the police had picked up the threat from the Liverpool team and that you were on your way there. He’s hung, Grace. My team are on their way to his office as we speak. I don’t know if kneeing a superintendent in the groin is recommended practice, but let’s say that in this case it worked.’

  Understanding gleamed in Tenant’s eyes, but she looked pleased at the same time.

  Macallan felt her shoulders ease off and she sat back in her chair with her mouth slightly open. ‘We got him then?’

  ‘We got him,’ Cosgrove confirmed. ‘Now I need to go. But one last thing – we’ve been looking at you for a while and there’s a post coming up in our team. Why don’t you apply? Anyway, think about it.’

  He picked up his briefcase and offered his hand to Macallan, who hadn’t replied. She took it, still not knowing what to say. ‘See you at the wedding,’ he said.

  ‘The wedding?’ Macallan had no idea what he meant.

  ‘You gave me a partner’s invitation, Grace,’ Tenant said, looking ever so slightly embarrassed but more than ever so slightly pleased.

  ‘Jesus,’ was all Macallan managed to say before Cosgrove smiled broadly, winked at Tenant and left the office.

  ‘That’ll be that then,’ Tenant said and shrugged her shoulders innocently.

  60

  Macallan hardly slept the night before the wedding. They were in a lovely old room overlooking the beautiful undulating coastline of East Lothian. Jack and the children were still asleep. He’d taken one too many in the bar with his family and friends from Northern Ireland. Harkins and Young had arrived early on and by 9 p.m. the manager had had to warn him about his language and the nature of the jokes he insisted on telling anyone who’d listen. Young had managed to get him to his room by midnight but Mick being Mick . . . he’d do it all again at the reception. She shook her head at the thought that Tenant and Cosgrove had hooked up so quickly. She was glad, and happy for Tenant, who’d turned into a human being.

  Macallan stared out at a glorious morning and realised they would be able to get married in the gardens. She still couldn’t get used to the idea that the day had actually arrived. Sometimes she worried that being married would change things and maybe for the worse. Life for them together had been good, and more than she ever could have hoped for in the years before she came to Scotland. Darker images, however, kept intruding – the look on Big Brenda’s face as she’d told Macallan about her child would stay with her for the rest of her life. Her depressed mood had passed quickly though, and she knew that sometimes the past was better left undisturbed.

  Later, the piper led Macallan along the path through the gardens towards Jack, who looked like a male model the way he carried off the kilt. She gave one of her rare smiles when he turned to her, and although she felt a bit uncomfortable in the simple wedding dress, she was happy. The children, unusually quiet and a bit overawed by what their parents were up to, were in the safe hands of Jack’s mother, who adored them. McGovern gave her a big thumbs-up as she passed the guests lining the route.

  The celebrant kept it short and sweet. They’d spent a lot of time on the vows, and when Jack was saying his part a fat tear rolled down Macallan’s cheek, which alarmed Adam, who started to cry for his mother. It got a laugh from the guests, and Macallan broke off from the ceremony, picked him up and resumed. Jack’s mother brought Kate over to him and they completed the ceremony each with a child in their arms.

  The sun baked the sheltered gardens at the back of the hotel, and it meant that as the day and alcohol wore on, more and more of the guests spilled out to sit in the late-afternoon heat. Macallan was happier than she had been in a long time, and for once she put all her cares to the side, because of all people Jack deserved this day more than anyone. He’d been all she could have asked for in a man: he was patient, kind and accepted all her sides – and there were a few.

  She had a couple of glasses of champagne and the more she looked at him in his kilt, the more she realised what a prize he was. He looked fit, no doubt about it.

  They were sitting round a wooden table strewn with empty glasses, and Jack took off his dress jacket, which was just too warm in the heat of the day. Everyone was relaxed and laughing, and the children were away with their grandmother to play on the beach for an hour. Macallan closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky. She prayed that the moment would last as long as possible, and she wondered if they could all be this happy again.

  Harkins was standing at the doorway to the hotel, where there was a bit of shade, because like a true Scotsman he’d turned into a tomato after half an hour in the sun. He’d suffered a bit of a hangover that morning and was trying to be sensible, but after his second drink he’d felt the old magic returning and was now just getting into gear. He was leaning against the doorway while Young dropped strong hints about getting married, which he was batting away as diplomatically as possible.

  Harkins saw it first – those old instincts that made him what he was. He looked over to the gardens and it was as if all other sound and movement had frozen apart from the man striding towards the huddle of guests. He turned away from Young, who was still talking, and for a brief second tried to work out if he was pissed or imagining it. It was real enough and it was trouble; he just hadn’t worked out what kind. The man wouldn’t have meant much to most of the guests besides Macallan and him. Harkins knew him better than anyone and had cause to curse their relationship. Jonathon Barclay looked a bit wasted now, but it was him, and he was definitely in the wrong place.

  Barclay had been a leading Edinburgh QC and Mick’s informant. He’d been wrongly accused of killing prostitutes when in fact it had been his loopy son who was the serial killer. The son had nearly killed Harkins, and the whole
episode had cost him his career and full health.

  Harkins looked over to Macallan, who was sitting next to Jack with her face up to the sun and her eyes closed. He looked back again to find Barclay was closing on her. He moved towards Macallan as fast as he could and screamed, ‘Grace!’ It was loud enough to make an impact and every head turned.

  Macallan snapped open her eyes and tried to adjust to the light again. She lost precious seconds as Barclay closed on her, and Harkins saw the knife ready in his hand and screamed again.

  ‘Grace!’

  She was too slow to react, but Jack was fit enough and quick enough to see the danger looming towards her. He acted instinctively and was close enough to Macallan to push up onto his feet and get between Barclay and his wife of a few hours. He wasn’t quick enough to stop Barclay reacting and driving the knife up between his lower ribs and into his left lung. Jack didn’t feel any instant pain – more like heat in his lower chest. He reacted only an instant after Barclay and hit him with a right hook that broke his jaw and left him twitching on the slabs in front of him. Jack turned to Macallan, who was on her feet.

  ‘Grace.’ He was gasping and saw Macallan put her hand to her mouth as she looked down. He dropped his head and saw the front of his shirt was turning red.

  ‘Oh, Jack. Jack!’

  He collapsed in front of her as she dropped to her knees and pleaded with him to live.

  61

  The cemetery and old kirk at Inveresk was one of the most scenic resting places in Scotland. An impressive site, it stood on the ridge that overlooked Musselburgh and a large part of the Forth shoreline. Any visitor could stand in the old part of the cemetery and see why the Romans had used it as a stronghold. Protected on one side by the River Esk, they’d built the ancient bridge that was the only route north and south for centuries in the east of Scotland. Invading and retreating armies had used it, and the doomed Scottish army had left their positions on the other side of the river to charge to their deaths at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh, one of the darkest days of many in old Scotland’s history.