Buried Secrets (DCI MacBain Scottish Crimes Book 1)

by Oliver Davies

  She could be onto something there. “My mother, former Chief Inspector MacBain, I mean, mentioned that he tried to bribe a city councilman. They never found out what for.”

  “Councilor Rickerson, right?” Dunnel asked, but I shrugged. Eleanor hadn’t mentioned a name. “Let me make a few calls while you speak with O’Connell.”

  Fletcher pursed her lips as she rubbed her temple with two fingers, thinking. “There might be one other thing, actually. It’s a long shot, and if you think a treasure trove is crazy, you’re definitely not going to like this.”

  “What is it?” I asked and spun my hand in a ‘spit it out’ motion.

  “Well, I’ve been doing some digging, and guess who one of Smith, Flynn, and MacDonald’s clients are?”

  I blinked at her. “I don’t like guessing.”

  “You’re no fun.” Fletcher paused for effect. “Allraise Ventures.”

  “You’re right. I don’t like that,” I said. “If our two totally random cases are somehow connected, I’m going to punch you. That’s like something out of a bad 80s pulp thriller. It’s ridiculous.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “That’s what the money said.”

  I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose even as I thought that it made a certain amount of sense. Bateman had mentioned The Confessions of St. Augustine. I was pretty sure that was something similar to The Life of St. Columbo. Haruto’s manuscript was in bad shape. Maybe these people had decided to fund the restoration so they could then steal it back and sell it for a lot more money. It seemed like a very complicated scheme to me, but I supposed some people were just like that.

  “DI Bateman, thank you for coming all the way up here,” I said eventually and shook the blonde Englishman’s hand again. “You’ve been a real help.”

  Bateman smiled, flashing pearly white teeth. “I’m glad. And please, keep me in the loop.” He patted his pockets and then passed me a slightly wrinkled business card. “Best of luck, Inspector.”

  Dunnel left to escort Bateman to the door, shooing Fletcher and me out of his office so he could close the door. I watched the two of them go, still utterly bewildered by the meeting’s revelations.

  “O’Connell?” Fletcher asked, and I nodded.

  We waited by my desk as we had the man moved into the interrogation room by a constable who had paused in her task at just the wrong moment, followed seconds later by a short, black woman in a well-tailored pencil skirt and blazer.

  “The lawyer?” I asked.

  “Smith,” Fletcher replied. “Last I saw she was not in a good mood.”

  Being stuck in traffic would do that to a person. “Well, let’s go see what we can shake loose.”

  I fetched some coffee from the kitchen, and then we braced ourselves and headed into the small room. This would be our last chance at O’Connell. We had enough to charge him personally, what with his attack on Fletcher and me, but we needed more if we were going to nab his entire gang.

  Smith sat beside O’Connell, conferring quietly with him, but she stopped talking as soon as the door opened. She stood, not offering her hand to either of us. “DCI MacBain, I presume?”

  “Yes.” I set my coffee on the table and sat, forcing her to do the same.

  “Regina Smith. Council to Mr O’Connell.”

  “So I assumed,” I said with a smile. “I heard about your troubles with traffic on the way up from Edinburgh, wasn’t it? Quite a long way to come for one man.”

  “Only the best for our clients,” Smith said and matched my tight smile.

  I leaned back in my chair. “And expensive, too. Who pays the bills, Ms Smith? Surely it’s not O’Connell here. Is it Allraise Ventures, by any chance?” I watched their faces as I said the name of the phoney charity. It clearly meant nothing to O’Connell as his expression remained impassively angry, but Smith’s eyes tightened slightly as if she recognized the company but couldn’t place how these two things were connected.

  “My employer is irrelevant, DCI MacBain,” she said.

  “Except they’re not, are they? Since your employer is the one behind Finn Wair’s abduction.”

  “You have no evidence,” Smith began, but I cut her off.

  “I get that it’s your job to protect your clients, I really do. I respect that. You’re obviously very good at what you do since you’re wearing such a nice suit, but I’m asking you to help me find a child. A seven-year-old boy.” I slid Finn’s picture across the table to her so he could grin up at her while I spoke. I let her look at it for a moment. “A seven-year-old boy who was abducted off the street and is now being held captive somewhere, scared and alone, with no idea why this is happening to him. His mother is a wreck. We found a scarf with his blood on it outside the school where he was taken, so he’s hurt, too. Ms Smith, I just want to bring him home. Surely you can understand that?”

  She picked up the photograph and stared at it as I turned my attention to O’Connell.

  “We know about the scheme to find artefacts and sell them for a profit. We know that’s what you wanted from the Castle of Old Wick, and we know you had Alec MacGowan steal the castle’s deed to cover all your legal angles. Well, not your angles, since we all know you aren’t the brains behind the operation. We honestly don’t care much about that. We just want to find Finn.” I was going to use Finn’s name as much as possible so that hopefully O’Connell would be forced to face the fact that Finn was a child, not an object. “You tell us where we can find the kid, and maybe we can cut some kind of deal with you.”

  O’Connell glanced at the photo as Smith set it down. I wondered how much of it she was in on. Did the law firm partake in these sales, or were they simply employed by the head of this organization? Who would they want to protect more: the client in front of them or the one who paid the bills?

  “I’m sure you could exploit some kind of technicality to get O’Connell out of here,” I said to Smith, “but I sincerely hope you choose to help us find Finn Wair.”

  “Could I have a minute alone with my client?” Smith asked.

  “Of course. Please let us know when you’ve come to a decision.”

  Fletcher and I stood, and I left the photo on the table as we walked out the door. My hands began to shake as soon as we left the interrogation room, and I shoved them in my trouser pockets to try to cover it up.

  “That was some speech,” Fletcher said. She perched on the edge of my desk as I collapsed into my chair. “Do you think it will work?”

  “I have no idea. I hope so.” I was so tired. I just wanted to close my eyes and disappear into the oblivion of sleep right then and there, but we were so close now, and I had to keep my foot on the accelerator until the end.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about the daddy issues joke I made earlier.” Fletcher rubbed at the short hairs of her undercut and grimaced sheepishly. “Dunnel mentioned how your dad left. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not sure I like the term ‘daddy issues,’ but I’ve definitely got… stuff wrapped up in it. You know, MacGowan had a chance to be there for his son, but he chose thieving instead.” I shrugged awkwardly. “Makes me wonder what my dad chose instead of us.”

  Fletcher snagged a nearby empty chair and pulled it close, so we were on the same level.

  “I spoke to him the night before he left. You think he would have said… something.” I trailed off. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter right now. We’ve got a case to solve.” Two cases, actually, though they were quickly blending into one. We needed to get to Haruto at some point and tell him what we learned. Maybe if we could cut off the head of the snake, we could solve both problems, but I wasn’t optimistic.

  As I finished speaking, Smith stepped out of the interrogation room, looked around for us, and motioned for us to return. Her face was serious. Fletcher and I stood up as one and hurried to rejoin her and O’Connell. I got the mounting sense that this was it. This was our make it or break it moment.

&n
bsp; We sat back down across from O’Connell and Smith. O’Connell looked like we’d asked him to kick a dog. He folded his arms and refused to acknowledge us, and there was an angry cast to his shoulders.

  “Mr O’Connell does not want to give up his employer, nor does he have to,” Smith began, and I almost leapt to my feet and started yelling, but I sensed Fletcher’s hand on the back of my hair and forced myself to remain calm.

  “And why’s that?” I asked as calmly as I could.

  “Why, police brutality, of course,” she replied and looked right at me.

  “I shot him in self-defence,” I said. “He was attacking my partner and myself.”

  I did not like the smile Smith gave me. It was like ice falling off a roof to strike a passerby in the head. “Perhaps. But he wasn’t attacking you when you ground your thumb into the wound you gave him, was he? Were you instead trying to coerce a confession?”

  Shit. I really screwed up with that one.

  “What about Finn Wair?” I demanded.

  “My client didn’t kidnap anyone,” Smith said simply. Her professional mask slipped for a second, and I saw beneath it to her person. “I am sorry we couldn’t help you. Truly. Please believe me when I say that if my client knew anything about the child’s location, I would urge him to tell you, but he assures me he doesn’t. I hope you find him.” She sounded sincere, remorseful, even, that she wasn’t able to help. O’Connell, on the other hand… With Smith’s back to him, he had a small, knowing smirk on his face and a hard glint in his eyes.

  “Fine,” I snapped a bit more forcefully than I intended to. “Just know that once we prove your client’s involvement, we’ll come after him hard.

  “Understood. Best of luck, DCI MacBain.” She held out her hand for me to shake, and I did so, giving her a nod of farewell. I didn’t begrudge her for doing her job.

  Then Fletcher and I left her to confer a while longer with her client and retreated to my desk empty-handed. Fletcher swore and kicked at a nearby chair, knocking it over with a crash that made the entire station pause what it was doing and look over at her. She turned red and quickly righted it, plopping into its seat with a huff.

  “Well, what now?” she asked.

  I was at a loss. It felt like we had the pieces but not the strings to connect them with. Our time was ticking away, flowing through our fingers like golden sand. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.”

  I sat down. We could stake out Haruto and hope his stalkers showed back up so we could get them to lead us to Finn and their leader, but they no doubt knew we were onto them and would have called their surveillance off. We could try to bargain with them. We had the deed to the Castle of Old Wick as well as Haruto’s manuscript, after all, but I had no idea who we would even make the offer to. Finn was counting on me, and I was letting him down.

  Dunnel walked up to us, straightening the hem of his jacket, and I sighed as I looked up at him. “I hope you have good news for us,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he replied, though I couldn’t bring myself to sit up a little straighter in my chair. No doubt he would just have another dead end for us to chase down. “I couldn’t get a hold of Councilor Rickerman himself. He retired and sequestered himself after whatever it was that went down between him and O’Connell.”

  “Great,” I groaned.

  “But.” Dunnel held up a finger to forestall my descent into hopelessness. “When I threatened his former assistant with obstruction of justice, she gave up his current address. It’s just outside of town.”

  I perked up. “If we leaned on him, maybe we could get him to give these people up.” If he didn’t know something substantial, he wouldn’t have tried to disappear so thoroughly.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Dunnel said. He didn’t smile, but he definitely seemed pleased with himself.

  I stood swiftly and started gathering my things. “Up for one more interview, Fletcher?” I asked.

  She grinned fiercely. “You know I am.”

  That was what I liked to hear.

  Eighteen

  It was nearing dinner time when Fletcher and I reached Rickerman’s house just a couple of kilometres outside of Inverness. It was a modest estate, considering his position as a former politician. A paved drive led us past a low stone fence towards a single-story building at the top of a hill. It was rather long and narrow, but it had a lot of windows to let in as much sun as possible during the day. The lawn looked well maintained, though a large swatch of it appeared to be wildflowers and prairie grass which swayed in the cool evening wind.

  Light spilt through the windows as Fletcher parked, though the blinds were pulled down so I couldn’t see inside. I rang the doorbell, feeling jittery even as a wave of exhaustion passed over me. I would sleep for a week once these two cases were wrapped up.

  A balding, middle-aged man answered the door, peering cautiously out at us. His skin was rather sallow, and he had bags under his eyes and a bit of paunch around the waist. He wore a cosy-looking jumper and jeans, his feet clad in slippers. The smell of roast meat and warm bread slipped out from behind him. My stomach rumbled. Lunch had been a long time ago.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. He had a reedy, whiny voice.

  When I showed him my badge, he turned white as a ghost and gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing. He opened the door wider, and I could see his hand tremble as he raised it into the air to usher us inside. While the exterior of the house was a lot of glass and rather boring off-white siding, the interior looked like it belonged within a log cabin. A rich maroon carpet covered much of the floor, and where there weren’t windows, the walls were covered in wood panelling and covered in pictures of the wilderness outside. It looked like Rickerson had taken many of them himself. The leather couches and chairs were draped with wool throws and plush pillows, sitting invitingly in front of a large television.

  Rickerson had just sat down to dinner if the untouched plate and wine glass on the table was anything to go by. Hopefully, our interruption would put him off and make him more likely to give something up to us.

  “What’s this about?” he asked as Fletcher closed the door behind us. He sounded distinctly nervous. I wondered if he’d heard about Dunnel trying to call him or if he was just naturally twitchy.

  “Do you mind if we sit?” I asked, gesturing at the table.

  “No, please.” Rickerson jerked his hands awkwardly at two empty chairs and sat down in front of his meal, staring at his wine glass as if he longed to drink all in one draught.

  I took my duster off and hung it over the back of one chair before I sat down, making myself right at home in order to make Rickerson even more ill at ease. “Please, don’t stop eating on our account,” I said and nodded at his food.

  Rickerson didn’t touch his knife or fork. He actually looked a little ill, a faint green tint to his skin.

  “Do you live alone?” Fletcher asked as she looked around the room. I’d pegged Rickerson as a bachelor the moment we walked in. There was only one pair of shoes by the door, the table was set for one despite the extra chairs, and the scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air.

  “Yes,” Rickerson said. “What can I do for you, Inspectors?” He clearly wanted us out of his house as quickly as possible.

  “We need to hear about what happened between you and Seamus O’Connell,” I said, and I honestly thought Rickerson was going to throw up.

  He tried to recover and act naturally but failed spectacularly. The jitter of his leg, pallor of his skin, and sudden sheen of sweat across his face gave him away. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He smiled, but it was a sickly thing and quickly fell away.

  “Unfortunately for you, I’m not in the mood for bullshit.” I gave him my own smile, one that was sharp and angry and perhaps a bit dangerous. “I’ve got a missing kid and a frightened scholar who are somehow both tangled up with the same nasty people. I’ve got Seamus O’Connell in custody, but he’s lawyered up and won�
��t give us anything. I’ve got a phoney charity and people who are apparently willing to kill for ancient cultural artefacts, and now, I’ve got you. A former councillor who took a bribe or did something so shameful he had to leave the public eye forever. What exactly did they want from you?”

  “You know about Allraise Ventures?” Rickerson asked, voice shaking.

  I nodded. “We know they’re some kind of front for this… Tomb Raider business. They kidnapped Finn Wair in order to get at the deed to the Castle of Old Wick, and they paid for the restoration of a newly discovered Life of St. Columbo manuscript. They’ve been keeping a watchful eye on the leader of the project, no doubt so they can steal it back when he’s done. What we don’t know is who’s in charge and where their base is. I was hoping you could tell us.”

  Rickerson fidgeted beneath my stare. “These are not people you want to mess with,” he said as if that would get him out of telling us what he knew.

  “We’re well aware,” Fletcher informed him, winking.

  “Yes, they’ve already tried to kill us once,” I agreed.

  Rickerson picked up his fork, but he didn’t do anything with it other than twirl it over and over in his fingers, the overhead light reflecting off the silver. “He reacts violently to people who come in between him and his money, and he only hires those who are… willing to send a message.”

  “Who’s he?” I asked, but Rickerson was gearing up for a story.

  “I suppose there’s not much more he can take from me.” Rickerson took a deep breath. “Seamus O’Connell came to see me in my office. He wanted me to sign a customs form and waive the taxes for a shipment of wool leaving the country. He offered me money. I smelled something rotten, and I refused.” Rickerson sighed and set his phone down. “That was a mistake. They took my wife and son, just like they took your missing child. Then Seamus offered me the deal again, this time in exchange for their lives.”