The Devil Among Us

by Ramsay Sinclair

  Crowds of smokers swarmed the entrance of the station, along with some stony-faced locals. They shouted in irritation when I knocked into them without apology. Their ash filled my lungs and left me spluttering and trying to draw some clean breath. Our Volvo was parked in the yard and had managed to steer clear of the flowerbed recently.

  That was until I accelerated without care and drove straight through the middle of the planted blooms. If the kids hated us already, they’d certainly hate me now. Flowers could be replaced easily but criminals on the run couldn’t. That would be my excuse, should anyone question me on the second daffodil tragedy.

  Single-handedly ripping the tape off my phone torch whilst firmly keeping the other placed on the steering wheel, I punched in McCall’s number on the keypad. Putting the call on speakerphone and dropping the phone into the cup holder, I frantically sped through the winding country roads. My heartbeat thundered in my ears and adrenaline coursed through my veins. It spurred me along.

  “Finlay?”

  “McCall,” I barely gave her any time to respond. “I was right about what I said last night. Daniel Roy is involved in this.” The rubber tyres squealed on the concrete as I sped around a left-hand turn.

  “Calm down,” she urged. “I already know.”

  “You do?” I said confusedly and spoke louder than normal to combat the road noise. “How?”

  McCall sounded preoccupied. “I was doing my research on the names you found last night. Listen to this. The guy you talked to last night, his full name is Judge Jake Ramsey. He’s cleared two criminals in the past few months for no reason whatsoever, but one of the criminals he cleared was arrested for possession of drugs.”

  “Daniel Roy,” I stated grimly, my knuckles turning white from gripping the wheel too hard. “The judge must get a pay-off too.”

  “It makes sense,” McCall tapped on her computer from her end. “DCI Reid gets involved and brings in one of his closest associates, one that can help the operation go flawlessly and ensure none of them can be put into prison. They meet up at the gentleman’s club and put it all into place,” she sounded equally sour.

  “Promise him a fair cut of the profits and they’re good to go,” I yelled frustratedly at a queue of traffic forming and the orange backlights of one too many cars. “How did you find that out?”

  After a moment of hesitation, she reluctantly and sheepishly told me. “The news. All it took was a quick google search into Judge Ramsey and all of his previous history came up fairly easily. It was all a bit of a scandal at the time.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not surprised.” I expired and took the roundabout carefully. “We should really read more newspapers.”

  McCall chuckled. “You’re telling me. Are you driving? There’s a lot of static on your end, it’s hurting my ears,” she complained as I ground the gears. The Forth Bridge towered by in a mountain of steel and crimson, making the Volvo look insignificant in comparison.

  “That’s why I phoned you,” I digressed. “DCI Reid didn’t show up to the office this morning, and he definitely wasn’t ill because I saw him last night,” I explained hurriedly. “When I went to hand back his wallet, his diary was wide open--”

  “And you went snooping,” McCall already knew. “I don’t care how or why. Tell me what you found,” she said firmly. “I know that sound in your voice and it isn’t excitement.”

  Seafield House was drawing closer, and there were only two minutes left until they’d be meeting. Putting my foot down on the accelerator, the Volvo climbed hills and troughs to reach the outskirts of the bay.

  “DCI Reid was hiding meetings inside his diary in invisible ink.”

  “What is he, five or something?” She dryly commented.

  “McCall!” I snapped desperately and squinted to see the road through the curtain of drizzle.

  “Sorry,” she duly apologized and waited to hear the rest. Splatters of rain slowly dripped onto the windscreen and were wiped away by the electronic arms of the Volvo.

  “He had a meeting set up for eleven today with David Roy. Something about getting the job finished, whatever that means. I have to admit it doesn’t sound particularly inviting.” Exhaust fumes filled the car interior as well as the burning smell wafting through from the overworked tyres. “I’m on my way there now. If I can catch them in the act--”

  McCall didn’t sound as excited as I’d expected. “You stupid man. Tell me you called for backup.”

  “No, what was I supposed to say to them? That DCI Reid is actually corrupt and doing dodgy dealings with our decorators, who weren’t really part of the real company?” I scoffed in disbelief. “Do you understand how crazy that would’ve sounded? They would’ve sectioned me rather than calling out the teams.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You can’t go in there by yourself.” McCall must’ve been desperate to help somehow. “These guys are dangerous. God knows what will happen if they catch you doing this.”

  After everything these men had done to us, that seemed the most trivial of our worries. Straightening this mess out without endangering the lives of our team was more important than my safety. I said as much to McCall.

  “If it means sorting this out, I don't care.”

  An elongated sigh echoed across the speakerphone and I could imagine the displeasing face she’d make if she was here now. “Alright,” she gave in reluctantly. “What’s your plan? To blast in there with all guns blazing, as if you had a gun?”

  My mind had wiped blank of all sense or ability to think ahead. “I don’t know.” The road ahead had started to peel off from the main path and led into a beaten up dirt track.

  McCall paused. “That isn’t filling me with confidence. Tell me where you are at least.” I could hear whispering in the background. “I hate that you’re being brave. Brave but absolutely, ridiculously stupid.”

  “Thanks,” I said sincerely, knowing this was her way of telling me she cared. “It's Seafield House.” The tyres struggled to grip against the churned mud and the four damp walls of the old house came into view.

  “The abandoned one?” she hissed. “This gets better all the time.”

  A swell steadily built above the crumbling chimneys of Seafield House that might have churned out smoke once upon a time. They’d been out of use for years and reached as tall as the thicket of trees that had grown wild and unkempt. The almost derelict building dripped from the damp, mould and moss. There were no streetlights here so I could barely see anything in the downpour.

  “McCall, I’m going to have to go on foot,” I shared and fumbled with my seat belt. “Their meeting’s happening now and I can see their van outside. I’ll speak to you soon.”

  “Finlay--!” she protested, but I had already hung up and shoved the phone into a random pocket. My heels dug and got stuck in the dirt as I followed the track without the car. Our Volvo was nearly sinking into the ground as I left it stranded. My already sodden hair hung limp and obstructed the view of Seafield house until I slicked it backwards. A powerful, howling wind caught my ears and nose and turned them a vivid red.

  Sneaking up towards the building, I could see the decorating van clearer now. No wonder they got past the borders so easily, nobody would suspect small-time decorators like they were pretending to be, to transport major shipments of drugs.

  Someone was sitting inside and reading a paper. At least one of us was staying warm and dry. I’d catch pneumonia soon enough if I carried on doing so much walking in this weather. On closer inspection, I saw that he was the fake police guard that had been posted outside of Flynn’s ward. The one that supposedly slipped him the poison. He started to look up towards me, but I ducked behind a stack of discarded building bricks. Their headlights were on a constant full beam and cut through the hazed rainwater to illuminate the areas surrounding Seafield house.

  A faintly familiar scent of petrichor rose from the layer of storm clouds, replacing the prominent burning of rubber tyres. Lurking behind the stack of brick
s, I had to peek out every now and again to assess the situation. There was a huge open gap of grass which I had to cover before being able to reach the building, with every chance that the guy in the van could catch me during the act.

  He seemed to glance towards the abandoned building at approximately thirty-second intervals, which equated to exactly one page of his newspaper. If I calculated and timed the sprint correctly, to start mid-way through his page-turning, the distance could be covered with a full-scale pelt, providing that I didn’t slip on the slimy floor or that the man didn’t get bored with his article.

  It was a risk that had to be taken.

  Salt from the waterfront coated my tongue and the chilled air filled my lungs painfully. A sandy type of grit coated my smart shoes, and I stayed crouched low. The guy in the driving seat finally turned a page, and the countdown had begun.

  Squelching noises integrated with the rhythm of the falling rain as I stalked across the open space. It was how no-man's-land would have felt during the war. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine the copper bullets tearing my body apart; being gunned down in the most vulnerable position that a person could be in.

  There’s a moment when you’re frightened when all the places you could have been instead flashed before you, a sort of palpable and fearful nostalgia. The image of Abbey lying in bed this morning came into my mind. What I would have given to have stayed at home and entwined my legs with hers. Anything would beat being sodden to the bone.

  Heartbeat hammering in my ribcage, I heaved a sigh of relief when my hands finally made contact with the slick brickwork of Seafield House. The house covered any sight of me from their van. A smashed-in, ground-floor window was situated directly in front. I had to hide below the window ledge to ensure I wasn’t visible to the people on the inside. Squeezing my eyes shut, my butt hit contact with the grassy turf.

  I’d nicked my fingertips, and the blood washed out with the water. With a dry throat and sore hands, I sat and listened intently to the grave voices echoing out of the empty building.

  27

  DCI Reid’s voice escaped between the walls that divided us. Although out of sight, his mellow vocals carried across the empty rooms of Seafield House. Scuffles from numerous feet also joined in the concoction of resounding sounds.

  “I’ve got them here.” He rattled an object that sounded heavy. “Take these.”

  Who was taking what? There came a couple of clinks that followed suit, an unmistakable sound of guns loading.

  “Straight from our storage again. In case you need them,” he continued abrasively, and I unmistakably heard the sound of one of their guns clicking. “That’s it now, yes? My part’s over, and you can move onto the next station.”

  My body froze in shock and fear.

  “The money’s all been transferred to my account, I trust,” he continued and waited for the reply that followed. A ball of clouded confusion weaved itself into my brain, fogging up even the simplest thought that tried to breakthrough. What were his plans with this pay-off?

  This second man was gruff and croaky in comparison. “All there. We’re heading for the next hit now. Straight there, as we said.”

  There were choruses of agreement. These guys severely outnumbered me, and they all had weapons on them.

  “I mean it. All the money goes straight to me, as arranged, or so help me, God…” DCI Reid warned and I recognised that vexed tone all too well. My curiosity got the best of me and I dared to peer over the broken window. They must’ve moved further away from sight for I couldn’t see a single person from this angle.

  “Crap,” I swore to myself and made a rash decision to enter the building and obtain the evidence we needed to charge them with.

  I couldn’t move left or right of the wall I was hiding behind, for the man still reading in the van would spot me. The window height was near my hips, nothing which my legs couldn’t swing over easily. There was barely a proper light source to illuminate my movements as I scuffled through the open gap. I landed with a soft thud inside the deserted building and hid behind a large, stone pillar.

  A faint drop of water leaked above my head. It smelled of damp and festered mould in here, how I expected Cillian’s desk to smell after the aged sandwich. The floor was made of industrial stone and I stood flush to the pillar in the main opening of the ground floor. A few larger rooms lead off from here and it sounded as if the group were in a room directly ahead.

  “Crossing the borders again won’t be easy,” the gruff voice reached my ears again.

  Softly pacing around so that my back was still firmly pressed against the pillar, I stuck my neck out towards their end of the building. A doorway leading to a larger room revealed a group of four men. DCI Reid flanked them and bathed in shadows. I could only differentiate them from their frames and height.

  It didn’t help that they were all dressed in black.

  “You’ve done it once, you can do it again,” DCI Reid replied with a calm certainty and I heard the pacing of his steps. I knew the way he walked off by heart.

  “Let’s test these beauties out. Make sure you’re not setting us up to fail,” a third voice chimed in, the tone riddled with suspicion. I think it was the smallest of the group, for he appeared to twitch and fiddle with the guns.

  “Go ahead,” DCI Reid allowed them to. “I’ve been true to you all this time.”

  I heard them whisper in agreement. What followed was something unexpected. A billowing gunshot echoed from their weapons and I plugged my ears with my fingers. Worried that they’d discovered me lurking and that I was their target practice, I immediately flung myself to the ground.

  “Huh,” the gruff man seemed to approve of his weapon.

  “I told you boys--” DCI Reid began in a suave voice. “I stay true to my words.” To some of us maybe.

  This was what I’d waited patiently for. A moment to catch them in the act, to see it first hand. To have them in a situation that they couldn’t deny or worm their way out of. Doing an army-style crawl from where I’d flung myself down in a hurry, I located the phone which I’d flung into a random pocket.

  Silently opening the camera application, I pointed the phone towards the group and pressed record. Despite the gloom of Seafield house, the men were just about visible, and the outlines of their guns were unmistakable. Patiently letting them continue their deal, I managed to stay behind the pillar as best as possible whilst filming.

  “You’ve still got some left over?” DCI Reid asked, and I presumed he was still talking about the drugs in the van.

  “A bit,” the shortest man replied. He must’ve been the guy DC Taylor had photographed from the hospital visit. “We’ve planned to sell them tonight. One of the deals fell through, but luckily, we had the backup plan ready and waiting.”

  The group of offenders gradually marched as they spoke deals and money, making themselves harder to be seen on my camera recording.

  “You know how these things go. People are unreliable, they get spooked or scared.” The gruff man was of a similar height to me. David Roy. “But your plan to hitch up the prices worked well. We’ve already earned triple the amount of our usual shipments without having to sell it all.”

  DCI Reid chuckled proudly. “I saw a gap in the market. It pays to have distinguished men on your side for once. Speaking of, what are you doing with Judge Ramsey’s cut?”

  “All done and dusted. We owed him big time for getting us off the last charge.” David Roy stroked the body of the gun soothingly, voice barely louder than a grumble.

  “Excellent.” DCI Reid rubbed his hands together to warm them up. “He deserves the appreciation. He’s a good man who hasn’t had the recognition he deserves by being on the straight and narrow.”

  The shortest man piped up again. “This is more than recognition. He could easily leave the country with the amount we’ve earned.”

  “Indeed.” DCI Reid stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  My phone didn’t have muc
h battery left, but I’d gotten more than enough footage on the lawbreaking group. Diverting my attention momentarily to the screen and ending the recording, I tried to send it straight off to McCall through a text message. That way, I’d be sure to have a backup of the video ready and waiting at home. The signal inside here, since we were in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t more than one bar.

  Inwardly cursing the network suppliers and the remoteness of Dalgety Bay itself, I reckoned people working in London never had issues of the technical kind. A failed to send message popped up on my phone screen and a pinging notification alert accompanied it.

  “What was that?” The man I believed to be David Roy shushed the group and fear took its steely grasp upon my soul.

  They were talking about me. They had to be.

  DCI Reid inhaled sharply. “I have no idea,” he muttered darkly.

  “A phone,” the last guy who hadn’t yet uttered a single word confirmed and their guns clicked.

  Any battle of nerves I had left melted away at that precise moment. Tucking my knees below my chin and making myself as compact and unrecognisable as possible, I desperately pressed the try again button. I couldn’t have done all of this in vain.

  Why did I have to be so stubborn and deny backup? Was it some sort of heroic narcissism that I couldn’t help, a type of self-obsessive hubris I’d inherited from our family? Or was it a will for revenge of my own, to prove myself?

  Whichever it was, McCall was right. Ironically, I’d jumped the gun.

  I doubted they’d let me go if they found me. How could they? I was like Flynn Jones, an expendable person who knew far too much about them. I’d seen their faces, heard their voices and knew their plan.

  “I’ll take this room,” I heard David Roy whisper. “Mick, you’re on the left. Ron, take the front.”