Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

  Taylor and his men entered, the sergeant repeating his imperative for a third time: ‘Armed officers! Stay where you are and keep your hands in view!’

  He and the others stormed inside, then a couple of minutes passed and Taylor emerged and beckoned to the detectives. Hathaway and Mason left the Vectra and went to the scene.

  ‘We’ve checked the property,’ Taylor said when they arrived. ‘A one-room office and back room below, a two-room flat above. Both floors are clear.’

  ‘Russell’s done a bunk?’ Hathaway said.

  ‘Either that or he doesn’t know we’re after him yet,’ Mason said.

  Taylor was joined by his colleagues, then a Ford Transit entered the street and headed towards the office. Its driver, seeing the armed officers, drew to a standstill some twenty feet away.

  Taylor and his men shouldered and aimed their weapons. The driver, a man in his early twenties, stared like a rabbit caught in the headlights, wide-eyed and ashen-faced.

  ‘Keep your hands in view and exit the vehicle,’ Taylor said. ‘Slowly, so we can see your every move.’

  The man complied, and Mason could see he was shaking.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘T– Todd Mackenzie. I’m a driver with Bluebird Courier Services.’

  ‘You work for Russell?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘With him, yes. I’m one of his contracted couriers.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Mackenzie shook his head. ‘Out on a delivery, I think.’

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘No,’ Mackenzie replied. ‘When he phoned me earlier, he said he had a couple of deliveries to make. One in Abington, the other in Thornhill.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘He called me about eleven this morning,’ Mackenzie said. ‘I think he was leaving then.’

  ‘Why did he call you?’

  ‘To let me know an urgent parcel had arrived for one of my clients. It’s to be delivered this afternoon. Which is why I’m here.’

  ‘Have you any ID?’ Taylor asked.

  Mackenzie pointed to the van. ‘My driving licence. It’s in my wallet in the glovebox.’

  Taylor waved the muzzle of his weapon towards the van. ‘Go and get it. Slow movements only.’

  Mackenzie, still visibly nervous, complied. He opened the nearside door, flipped open the glovebox and took out a plastic wallet, which he proffered to Taylor.

  Taylor nodded to his men, who went over and searched the van. The sergeant clicked on his weapon’s safety catch, then glanced at Mackenzie’s licence. ‘What’s your address?’ he said.

  ‘44 Chandler Street, Leith. I live there with my mum and dad.’

  Taylor handed him back the licence, then one of the officers who’d examined the van gave a nod. ‘Clear, Sarge.’

  The sergeant turned to Hathaway and Mason. ‘I’ll let you talk to Mr Mackenzie,’ he said. ‘See if you can get a fix on Russell’s exact whereabouts. I’ll get onto HQ meantime and update them.’

  As he and his team went back to the Range Rover, Hathaway gestured to the office. ‘Would you care to come inside and speak to me and my colleague?’

  Mackenzie glanced at the splintered doorframe. ‘Okay,’ he replied. ‘Doesn’t look as though I’ll be needing a key, after all.’

  ‘You have one?’ Mason asked.

  Mackenzie bent down and lifted up the corner of a rubber doormat, under which was a key. ‘Not normally,’ he replied. ‘Russell said he’d leave it for me.’

  Hathaway nodded to Taylor and his men, who were back in the ARV. ‘Pity we hadn’t known that a few minutes ago.’

  They went into the office, then Mason said, ‘You told us Russell was going to Dumfriesshire. Is that something he normally does? Drop off orders himself, I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mackenzie replied. ‘He makes a number of the firm’s deliveries.’

  ‘He has a van?’ Hathaway asked.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Mackenzie replied. ‘He has a lock-up around the corner in Merchiston Mews. Keeps his van there.’

  ‘What type of van does he drive?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Currently it’s a Mercedes Sprinter, rented from Silverton Vehicle Hire. Usually it’s a Ford Transit. He’s not had the Transit long, though. It could be in for repair.’

  ‘What colour is the Ford?’

  ‘Dark-blue.’

  ‘Which type of van did he drive before that?’

  ‘Up to five weeks ago it was a VW Caddy. Ran it for a couple of years.’

  Mason and Hathaway exchanged glances, then Mason said, ‘You told us Russell had a couple of deliveries. One at Abington and the other at Thornhill. You’re sure he had only the two?’

  Mackenzie indicated the computer on the desk. ‘You can check,’ he said. ‘He keeps all his current jobs filed under “Outgoing”.’

  Hathaway went to the other side of the desk and switched on the computer. The machine booted up and the screen blinked into life. The detective clicked on an icon entitled “Outgoing”, then a spreadsheet opened. At the top of the document an entry read: AH Gently Pharmaceuticals, Abington. Tel 018642-3856476. 1 parcel/deliver 15 August, 2.45pm/status: out for delivery/courier: D. Russell.

  Underneath this was a second entry, which read: Andrew Logan Engineering, Thornhill. Tel 018482-568456. 1 parcel/deliver 15 August, 3.45pm/status: out for delivery/courier: D. Russell.

  Hathaway glanced at his watch and saw it was 2.55pm. ‘These delivery times,’ he asked Mackenzie. ‘How accurate are they?’

  ‘We try to deliver by the time stated,’ Mackenzie replied. ‘Russell’s lost a few contracts due to late deliveries. He’s insistent on keeping to schedule.’

  Hathaway acknowledged this with a nod, then took his phone from his pocket and dialled the first number. A couple of seconds later, a woman’s voice answered, ‘AH Gently Pharmaceuticals. How can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, I’m phoning to ask if you’ve received your parcel from Bluebird Courier Services yet. It was scheduled to arrive at 2.45pm,’ Hathaway said.

  The woman replied, ‘Wait a moment and I’ll check.’ Hathaway held, and a few moments later she came back on the line. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, yes,’ Hathaway said.

  ‘The package was delivered ten minutes ago.’

  Hathaway thanked her, ended the call, then checked his watch again. ‘Russell’s just left Abington,’ he told Mason. ‘He’s on his way to Thornhill.’

  * * *

  ‘I think you know why we’ve arrested you, Mr Smeaton,’ Knox said. He and Fulton were sitting opposite the ex-paratrooper in the same room they had interviewed him a day earlier, and Naismith was again monitoring the exchange from the adjoining room.

  ‘You understand the charge?’ Knox continued. ‘Aiding and abetting your brother, Donald Russell, who we suspect of carrying out two murders, one serious assault, and possession of a handgun, contrary to the Firearms Act of 1968.’

  Smeaton nodded.

  ‘You declined legal counsel? You know you’re entitled to a solicitor, or to have one appointed for you?’

  Smeaton shrugged. ‘I lied,’ he said. ‘What’s the point of denying it?’

  ‘Okay,’ Knox said. ‘I’d like to go over several points we touched on the last time we spoke. You told us that after your brother was fostered at the Glenlee Care Home in 2002, you never saw him again, and that access was denied to you. Yet Mrs Grant, the woman who fostered him, told us it was you who declined to see him.’

  ‘I was angry at the home for splitting us up,’ Smeaton said. ‘To be honest, I had a bit of a tantrum over it. I got into a fight with Mr Jenkins, the supervisor. I even trashed my room. The home thought it better if I didn’t see my brother for a while after that. When Jack’s foster parents got in touch a few months later, I was still angry. I decided I didn’t want to speak to him again.’

  ‘When did that change?’

  ‘Soon after I came out of the army.�
� Smeaton shook his head. ‘I was in Afghanistan. Helmand Province. A small village called Almalla. An IED went off about thirty feet in front of me. The two troopers nearest were literally blown apart; legs, arms, bloody pieces of kit flying everywhere.

  ‘The incident happened only a month before I’d completed my stint and was due for demob. I was discharged with a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder. I was in and out of God knows how many psychiatric units over the next six months.

  ‘When I came to Edinburgh, I had a few jobs, but couldn’t hold on to any of them. I was having so many bloody nightmares. It got so bad I was afraid of going to sleep.

  ‘The only good thing in my life was Linda, who I met shortly before my final time abroad. She stood by me when I came out, saw me through the worst of the PTSD.’

  ‘When did you see Jack again?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Three and a half years ago, at the beginning of 2015. I ran into a guy I’d known at the Glenlee Care Home. He told me he’d met Jack at a pub in Tollcross and they got talking. Turned out Jack had his own business. The guy told me what it was called, but I did nothing about it for a week or two.

  ‘Linda and I were living in a real dump at the time. Two rooms, peeling wallpaper, no hot water. I was still in and out of work. Menial jobs; kitchen porter, brickie’s labourer, that sort of thing. I decided for her sake it was time I got a grip, found something else. I remembered my brother and his business; thought he might be able to give me a job. I rang him, we met and he was delighted to see me. Gave me the start that turned my life around.’

  ‘I thought he only took on self-employed drivers with their own transport?’ Fulton said.

  Smeaton nodded. ‘He does. He bought me a second-hand van and gave me all the work I could handle. Over the next six months, I was able to repay the van and put a deposit on our house in Livingston.’

  ‘Okay,’ Knox said. ‘I’d like to talk about the handgun. How you brought it into the country and, more importantly, where it is now.’

  Smeaton studied Knox for a long moment, then said, ‘After the IED incident I became paranoid. I became convinced ISIS was everywhere, watching my every move. Just waiting for an opportunity to finish the job.

  ‘The prospect of going back to civvy street without protection terrified me. Soon after the IED attack, I persuaded the lance corporal in charge of armaments to register my pistol with a faulty recoil mechanism – a result of the blast. I got him to record it as returned. He issued me a new one, which I returned when I was demobbed.

  ‘The first Glock I hid at the bottom of my kitbag in a box of smellies I’d received from Linda. I dumped the aftershaves and put the gun and a couple of ammo clips in the deodorant box just in case it was inspected. It wasn’t. I was waved through customs.

  ‘I kept the pistol on me during the first few months back in civvy street. Nobody noticed, and I was never challenged. When we moved to Livingston, I hid it and the clips in a hall cupboard.’

  ‘But your brother knew you had the gun, didn’t he?’ Knox said. ‘And at some point, you gave it to him. Or he took it.’

  Smeaton shook his head. ‘I made the mistake of telling him where I’d hidden it,’ he said. ‘Soon after I bought the house, I invited him to dinner. Afterward we’d had a few – Linda was in the kitchen at the time, she never knew about the pistol – and I told him about the sidearm and where I’d hidden it. It was only a couple of days ago I realised it was missing.’

  ‘How did he get into the house?’ Knox asked.

  ‘He drove through on Monday. Waited until Linda left to do some shopping, then let himself in and took it.’

  ‘He has a key?’ Knox said.

  ‘I keep a spare under a plant pot near the door. I made the mistake of telling him that, too,’ Smeaton replied.

  ‘So, when you spoke to us yesterday, you knew Donald had shot McGeevor?’

  Smeaton nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You also knew he’d murdered Connie Fairbairn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’d admitted it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Smeaton shrugged. ‘It began back when I started working with him three years ago. When I told him about my PTSD nightmares, he became interested, told me he suffered from nightmares, too. More, he said there were times when he felt he was being possessed. Said he heard voices. Later, six months or so back, he told me that he’d been experiencing unusual urges.’

  ‘What kind of urges?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Like he wanted to kill somebody.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Knox said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I said he should seek professional help. I told him I’d seen any number of shrinks with my PTSD. That latterly I’d found them helpful.’

  ‘But he didn’t see anyone, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He told you he had an urge to kill,’ Knox said. ‘When did you suspect he’d acted on it? That he’d committed the Longniddry murder?’

  ‘When I heard the Broxburn van dealer had been shot.’

  ‘You tackled him about it?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Smeaton replied. ‘I rang him on Monday afternoon and arranged to meet him at the office. He apologised for taking the pistol, then told me about a girl he’d almost strangled about a month ago in his VW Caddy. He said he’d traded it in with McGeevor, who had promised to sell it on to a dealer in Newcastle. He feared you might be able to trace it and charge him with attempted murder.

  ‘He told me he traded it for the Transit and all seemed okay at first. Then McGeevor rang him at the weekend; he hinted that if he didn’t pay an extra £1,000, he would contact the police.’

  ‘He told you McGeevor attempted to blackmail him?’

  ‘Yes, he told me he panicked. Said he knew if McGeevor did that–’ Smeaton hesitated. ‘It was then he told me about the Fairbairn girl. How they’d driven down the coast. He said he never intended her harm; he was only interested in sex. He didn’t remember killing her, just that he had some sort of black out. When he came to, she was dead.’

  ‘He believed McGeevor suspected him of the killing?’ Fulton said.

  Smeaton nodded. ‘Apparently McGeevor said as much when he phoned. Don took the gun to Broxburn with the intention of frightening him. But then they argued, and he shot him.’

  ‘You were with him when he torched the van?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Yes. He thought there might be DNA somewhere. He asked me to help him get rid of it.’

  ‘You never thought of the possibility he might turn on you?’

  Smeaton shook his head. ‘Never,’ he said emphatically. ‘Maybe because of our childhood trauma, maybe because we both have psychological troubles, and maybe because we’re flesh and blood.’ He shook his head again. ‘No, I never felt that.’

  ‘The pistol,’ Knox said. ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘Don told me that when he left McGeevor’s place he wiped it down with an oily rag, stuck it in a plastic bag, and chucked it down a drain.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  Smeaton shrugged. ‘He was anxious to get rid of the Transit. I reasoned he’d be equally anxious to get rid of the gun.’

  * * *

  ‘Hathaway’s just been in touch from Merchiston,’ Naismith was saying. Smeaton had been escorted back to his cell and Knox and Fulton had joined the DCI in his office a few minutes later. ‘One of Russell’s couriers turned up at the office. He gave Hathaway Russell’s delivery schedule. He just dropped off a parcel in Abington and is currently on his way to make a second delivery in Thornhill.’

  ‘You’ve set up an intercept?’ Knox asked.

  Naismith nodded. ‘Aye, I’ve asked Dumfries and Galloway Police to collar him and take him to Dumfries nick. We’ll head down there now and pick him up.’

  ‘I take it they’ve an ARV unit with them?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Jack. Why?’

  ‘I think there’s a strong possibility Russell might still be armed.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

/>   The driver told them he was headed for Carlisle, and dropped them off at the Leadhills Road junction of the A74 and B797. When he drew to a halt, he gestured to the junction and glanced at his watch. ‘Almost half past two, girls,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have long to wait until someone stops and gives you a lift. I hope you enjoy your visit to Drumlanrig Castle.’

  Weber and Fischer thanked him and crossed to Leadhills Road, walking a short distance to a straight stretch where they took up position and stuck out their thumbs.

  The first few vehicles, mainly cars, drove on; then a white Mercedes van slowed and came to a stop.

  When Fischer approached the passenger door, the driver, a good-looking man in his late twenties, wound down the window.

  ‘We’re going to Drumlanrig Castle,’ she told him. ‘It’s near Thornhill?’

  ‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘Jump in.’ As the girls settled into the passenger seats, he asked, ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Germany,’ Fischer replied. ‘Stuttgart.’

  The man nodded. ‘I thought you had a bit of an accent,’ he said. ‘What are your names?’

  ‘I’m Imke,’ she replied. ‘My friend’s name is Lena.’

  He checked his door mirror and pulled away. ‘My name’s John,’ he replied. ‘John Masters.’

  * * *

  Naismith had notified Dumfries and Galloway Police of the likelihood that Russell was armed and the inspector who took the call advised that an ARV team had been alerted. It was on its way to Thornhill where it would join local officers.

  The DCI, Knox and McCann had been on the road for thirty-five minutes, and were passing through Biggar with Fulton and Herkiss following in the Corsa.

  ‘I asked Hathaway and Mason to stay put at Russell’s office,’ Knox said. ‘Taylor, the sergeant in charge of the ARV team, is going to remain in place, too. In case Russell gets back early.’

  ‘But Hathaway phoned the pharmaceutical company at 2.45pm,’ Naismith said. ‘Russell’s got another delivery in Thornhill. You think he might not follow through?’

  Knox shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know, Alan,’ he said. ‘Russell lied to his brother about the circumstances of McGeevor’s murder. He claimed it was the result of an argument, when in fact ballistics has suggested it was premeditated. He’s unstable and unpredictable. I just want to make sure we’re covering all the bases.’