Snared

by Ed James

  Nelson-Caird’s nostrils twitched as her gaze shifted to her client.

  Marianne rubbed at her eyes, tears welling up. “No comment.”

  “Did you record this act with a video camera and subsequently post the video online?”

  Marianne stared at the ceiling. “No comment.”

  “Ms Smith, did you break into Hunter’s Farm in Barry and forcibly entrap Mr Graeme Hunter, Mrs Rhona Hunter, Miss Amelie Hunter and Miss Grace Hunter in a steel cage?”

  Tears slid down Marianne’s face. “No comment.”

  “Ms Smith, did you forcibly apply a hot knife machine to Mr Hunter’s nose?”

  “My God.” Marianne tugged at the collar of her t-shirt, eyes wide. “No comment.”

  Vicky checked her notebook. Only one avenue of questioning remained. “Ms Smith, do you know one Brian Morton of Ann Street, Hilltown, Dundee?”

  “No comment.”

  Nelson-Caird tapped her thumb on the tabletop three times. “Mr Morton’s my client.”

  “I’m aware of that. I haven’t made any comment on the fact you represent two suspects in the same case.”

  “Do you really wish to have this on the record, Sergeant?”

  Vicky folded her arms. “Do you?”

  “My firm has a wide range of clients. Some are fee-paying, like Ms Smith here, while others are legal aid, like Mr Morton. My client base isn’t pertinent to your investigation.”

  “Very well.” Vicky leaned over the machine. “Interview terminated at nine sixteen.” She got to her feet and stormed out of the room, waiting in the corridor for MacDonald with his evidence. “She’s definitely involved in this.”

  “Agreed.” MacDonald nodded at the paper, shifting the weight in his arms. “Any chance you could take a couple of books for me?”

  Vicky picked up the topmost three. “I still don’t like how Nelson-Caird is representing multiple suspects.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Vicky stared at her email inbox — over two hundred unread. A quick glance showed nothing particularly pertinent to the case. She clicked on the first one, a calendar invite to her media training course. Her mobile rang. “Hello?”

  “Is that Vicky Dodds?” Male. English accent, maybe London.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Andy Salewicz.”

  Vicky frowned as she tried to recall the name. “I met you yesterday at Phorever Love, didn’t I?”

  “Correct.”

  Vicky switched her mobile to her right hand so she could log the call in her notebook. “Are you going to threaten me on behalf of Mr Simmers again?”

  “This isn’t about that.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “My boss asked me to call you or DS Euan MacDonald. I work for the Domestic Extremist Team in the Met.”

  “You’re working undercover?”

  “I am. DI Andy Salewicz.”

  “You use your real name?”

  “Saves hassle with the cover. My cover story’s got military service in it — I was in Iraq for three tours. Besides, I don’t want Someone I know in Tesco’s saying `Hello, Jock Wilson’, do I?”

  “Suppose not. Well, that was an impressive display yesterday. I had you tagged as hired muscle.”

  “It’s tough, don’t get me wrong. Thanks for not blowing my cover.”

  “I didn’t know you were on my side.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you free to talk, then?”

  “I just gave my rank, didn’t I? I’m sitting in a garden centre in Brechin. Supposed to be collecting ten wheelbarrows but I’ve got peckish and have gone for some soup, if you know what I mean. I spoke to my DCI and I got a message to call you guys.”

  “Okay. Basically, I want to check the intel we’ve received is sound. We were told Phorever Love might be linked to these abductions or to the xbeast forum. Based on what you said yesterday, it looks like a load of bollocks.”

  Salewicz sighed down the line. “What, because local police were monitoring us during that week-long rave we had?”

  “Yes, that.”

  “It’s sound. Nobody here is directly involved with your cases.”

  “Indirectly would help.”

  A pause. “They’re up to something here — drugs, though, not terror. I’ve been in deep cover just over six months. Simmers is only just starting to trust me now.”

  “Why are the Domestic Extremist Squad interested?”

  “We got wind of a plot to poison a reservoir near Edinburgh, which made us think there was some environmental terror angle here, hence me being shoved up here. This lot aren’t involved in that sort of thing.” Salewicz sniffed. “They are involved in drugs, though. I think they know someone who’s got a meth lab up in the Highlands.”

  “Like in Breaking Bad?”

  “Exactly.” Salewicz laughed. “I was halfway through the fifth series before I got put on this so please don’t spoil the end for me.”

  “I’m just at the one where the fly gets stuck in the lab myself.”

  “That’s a classic.” Salewicz chuckled. “Anyway, the bottom line is they seem to be more into drugs than terrorism. My handler wants me to stay here and help the NCA. It’s like a double secondment.”

  “So, it’s a dead end for us?”

  “Not quite. I keep hearing they’ve got a Tetra scanner but I’ve not seen anything with my own eyes.”

  “You mean an Airwave scanner?”

  “Yeah. Supposed to be speaking to some guy in Dundee about it after I’m off with you. Same surname as you, as it happens.”

  “That’ll be my brother, Andrew.” Vicky stared at her blank notebook for a few seconds — it might just fit. “Do you have any idea why they’d want one?”

  “It’s a bit heavy duty for a load of drugs smugglers, to be honest.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, maybe just a bit stupid. You’d use one for a broad brush search of what’s going on in a city. It’s labour intensive. Drugs guys tend to rely on paying people off, not on scanning the airwaves.”

  “Do you have a list of known affiliates to this group?”

  Salewicz exhaled. “I need to check with my superiors about whether I can get you that. It’s ultra-sensitive and it’ll be a bit of a bugger to get access to it.”

  “When will you be contactable again?”

  “I might need to come buy a load of dung tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Vicky was on her feet before she ended the call.

  Considine leaned against the wall in Forrester’s office, phone clamped to his head. He made a winding motion with his finger. “Sorry, I’ll need to call you back. Yeah, we should.” He smiled at her. “Landlord. Forrester’s still upstairs with Raven and Pask, if you’re looking for him.”

  “It’s you I need to speak to.” Vicky shut the door behind her. “I just got off the phone with your undercover guy in Phorever Love.”

  “Phoned you, did he? Interesting.” MacDonald folded his arms. “What did he have to say for himself?”

  “There might be something in it. It’s not as good as you were initially led to believe but he’s going to get back to me tomorrow with a list of known associates.”

  “Right. What do you reckon he’ll come up with?”

  “Phorever Love are linked to this Airwave scanner. That makes him think it’s not exclusively drugs they’re up to.”

  “Okay.” MacDonald frowned. “While you’re here, did we speak to the Rep about the Muirheads’ alibi?”

  “No, I think Considine just checked with the friends and got the ticket stubs.”

  MacDonald got to his feet. “We need to get someone out there.”

  Vicky looked up at him. “You think they’re lying?”

  “We’re just doing
a bit of due diligence, shall we say.”

  An Airwave buzzed on Forrester’s desk. “Control to DS Euan MacDonald. Over.”

  He grabbed it, scowling at the machine as he stabbed a finger at it. “Receiving.”

  “Sarge, we’ve got another possible case for you. A greyhound trainer in Montrose has been murdered.”

  Chapter Seventy

  Considine pulled a left off the main road through Montrose, heading away from the town along the northern shore of the tidal basin they’d just crossed, trees to the right opposite a new housing estate. “So you reckon it’s another one for us?”

  Vicky shook her head. “Control pushed it to MacDonald. Whether it’s connected remains to be seen, but all animal-related crimes are being shoved to us now.”

  “It’s a greyhound trainer, right?”

  “It is.”

  “My granda used to take me to Dens Park to see the dogs.”

  “You’ve been to greyhound racing?”

  “Aye, Sarge. It’s magic.”

  “It’s barbaric.”

  “I loved it. Been down to Newcastle a few times with my mates.” Considine chuckled. “The trick is to watch for the one doing a big jobbie before they go in the traps then fire a load of cash on that.”

  “You said you went to Dens Park? That’s where Dundee FC play, right?”

  “Aye. They shut it when I was still at school. Late nineties? Granda died not long after.” Considine turned his Subaru up a long farm lane.

  The greyhound traps were visible as they approached — twelve long strips of grass surrounded by chicken wire, a small kennel at the end of each one. A couple of dogs paced around one in the middle, but the rest seemed empty. The house behind the kennels was typical of the area — multiple extensions quadrupling the size of an old stone cottage, now all a uniform white.

  Vicky felt the twang in her neck — Robert and his retired greyhounds, taking the dogs away from the cruelty and exploitation. She got out of the car, meeting MacDonald and Karen in front.

  Forrester appeared at the same time, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. “Raven’s brought Greig over.”

  MacDonald sniffed. “He’s the other DI, right?”

  “Aye. Keith Greig.” Forrester squinted into the distance — Raven and Greig were chatting casually at the far side of the house. “This is our bloody case.”

  “Least it gets you out of that four-hour meeting, sir.”

  “True. But I fear it’s merely postponed.”

  “What do you want us to do, sir?”

  “I don’t know, Mac. Try and find out what’s happened.” Forrester marched off towards Raven.

  MacDonald watched him go for a few seconds. “Think we’ll lose his case?”

  “No idea.” Vicky led them over to the house. “Morning, Johnny.”

  DS Johnny Laing stood at the entrance, manning access to the crime scene. Big, like he worked on a farm, his suit stretched at the buttons. He tugged at his curly locks, which were almost resting on his eyebrows. He nodded. “Vicks.”

  “What’s happened here?”

  “This is my gaffer’s case. Better take it up with him.”

  “Come on, Johnny. We’ve been told to get out here and help. Let’s leave that to them to discuss.”

  Laing nodded off away from the house to where Forrester and Greig were getting in each other’s face. Raven was speaking into an Airwave. “That’ll be them coming to an amicable agreement now, I suppose?”

  “Most likely. Come on, what’s happened?”

  Laing sighed. “Right. Bloke called Micky Scott was found dead by his son, handcuffed to a treadmill.”

  “Does it look like anything sexual?”

  “I know your love life’s a bit racier than mine, Vicks, but handcuffed to a treadmill? Really?”

  “I meant, does it look like a sex game gone wrong?”

  Laing shrugged. “They don’t think so. The pathologist’s already left, reckons it looks like he died of a heart attack sometime last night. He’s not confirming anything till he’s got the body on the slab in Dundee.”

  Vicky looked up at the house, at the eaves hanging over their heads. Handcuffed to a treadmill implied premeditation. “Control said it was murder.”

  “Aye. That’s how the gaffer’s treating it.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “The boy’s son, Alec Scott. Local plod got out here first. Place was deserted. Supposed to be playing snooker with his old boy. PC Dickson entered the house and found the body.”

  “Any chance we can speak to the son, Johnny?”

  “FLO’s with him just now.”

  “Not inside, surely?”

  “Took him up to his house.” Laing shrugged. “Long as I don’t get blamed for you pitching up there, I don’t really care.”

  MacDonald nodded over at the two inspectors, who were now nodding at whatever Raven was telling them, then focused on Vicky. “I’ll see what’s going on over there. You go speak to the son.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Considine swerved out into oncoming traffic before cutting back in, stuck behind the tractor. The sort of angry driving Vicky’s dad used to practise as soon as anything went slightly wrong with the car or his children. “It’s got to be around here somewhere, Sarge.”

  Vicky held up the road atlas. “I told you to take a left about a mile back.”

  “I should be able to get through the back way, though.”

  “If only you had a satnav.”

  Considine glared at her as he pulled in. “I don’t need a satnav. I know where I’m going.”

  “Doesn’t feel like it.”

  Considine did a three-point turn on the main road, making a Range Rover brake sharply, before shooting back the way they’d come. “Left up here?”

  “No, right.”

  Considine turned down a country lane, its single track leading deep into the emerging spring green, passing a farm on the right, a monolithic granite farmhouse sitting beside giant steel silos. “This it?”

  “Next one.”

  Considine ploughed on. The lane lost its tarmac and the car bumped up and down on the wild farm path. A stone cottage sat behind a thick beech hedge, maybe two rooms at most. “This it here?”

  “Think so.”

  Considine pulled into the long drive beside the house. The garden was raised up with a retaining wall placed between the lawn and the pebbles he parked on.

  Vicky got out first, crunched up the path towards the house. She rang the doorbell, an electronic buzz just audible through the door.

  A female uniformed officer pulled open the door. “Yes?”

  “DS Dodds, DC Considine.” Vicky held up her warrant card. “We’ve just come from the crime scene.”

  “Okay.” The officer stepped outside, holding out a hand. “PC Nora Armstrong. I’m the Family Liaison allocated.”

  “Okay. We’d like to speak to PC Dickson.”

  “He’s inside. I’ll warn you now, he’s more shaken up than Mr Scott.”

  “I see.”

  “Come on.” Nora led them inside the house. The door opened into a dark sitting room with thick curtains covering the windows, a couple of sidelights shining up the stone walls.

  A police officer wearing full uniform sat on a sofa, rubbing at his thinning hairline and staring into space. There was a kitchen space behind him, a man in jeans and shirt standing beside another suited figure.

  Vicky stopped at the sofa. “PC Dickson?”

  He nodded, still staring into space. He was young, barely even twenty in her estimation, even though he’d lost almost half of his hair.

  Vicky knelt in front of him, knees straining. “Are you okay?”

  Dickson glanced up. “I found the body.”

  “Haven’t you seen o
ne before?”

  “First time.” Dickson blinked a few times, pupils dilated. “I tried to feel a pulse. I’ve never felt anything so cold in my life.”

  Vicky nodded over to the kitchen space. “Is that the son?”

  “It is, aye. Alec Scott.” Dickson rubbed at his eye. “Seems to be okay, considering.”

  Vicky got up. “I’ll maybe need to speak to you again.” She tugged her warrant card out of her jacket as she walked over, flashing it at the police officer, who looked more seasoned and heavy than Dickson. “DS Dodds and DC Considine. We’ve been assigned this case.”

  “I’ll see how young Stuart’s doing.” The officer went over to the sofa.

  Vicky smiled at Alec Scott. “Are you in a position to answer our questions, Mr Scott?”

  Alec nodded. “Aye. I want you to find whoever did this to Dad.”

  Vicky leaned against the counter and got out her notebook, Considine echoing the motion. “Can you go through what happened at his house this morning?”

  Alec sucked in some air. “I play Dad at snooker every Wednesday. We usually do a best of five then go for something to eat at the Corn Exchange in town.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I train greyhounds as well.”

  “Here?”

  “Aye. Got a much smaller operation than my old man. Six dogs, two bitches.”

  “Are your father’s dogs safe just now?”

  “I spoke to the stable girl who does the horses at the farm next door. She’s going to head over there.”

  “And longer term?”

  Alec shrugged. “Have to see what’s in the old boy’s will, won’t I?”

  “You don’t stand to inherit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, so going back to this morning, then. You were due to play snooker with your father?”

  “Aye. He didn’t show up. I played a frame on my own against myself. If you take it seriously it’s a good laugh.” Alec bit his lip, colour draining from his face. “I called him. No response. I thought it was odd how he’d not pitched up. I drove out there and tried to see what’s what. No answer, so I called the police.”