by Ed James
“I’m just saying, that’s all. If that place gets blown up, we need to cover our arses.”
“We are, Stephen. Believe me, we are.”
Considine pulled up on the double yellows in front of the Fixit headquarters, a galvanised steel construction just off Dunsinane Road. “This it here?”
“Think so.”
A dark SUV in the car park held Considine’s interest. “Porsche Cayenne. Nice. Know how much that’s worth?”
“No.”
“Best part of fifty grand.”
“Great. Come on.” Vicky got out and entered the reception, holding up her warrant card to the middle-aged woman at the desk. “We’re looking for a Willis Stewart.”
The receptionist kept staring at the card. “I’ll just see if he’s available.” She faced away from them and spoke quietly into a telephone extension.
Vicky took in the office space, the sort of grey that had been popular for a week or two in the mid-eighties and had largely died out, save for a few isolated pockets.
The receptionist smiled. “Mr Stewart can see you now. I’ll just show you through.”
Vicky followed her into the depths of the building. At the end of the long corridor, light streamed through a clear glass door. Willis Stewart, Group CEO was etched on it, aligned to the right.
The receptionist knocked before popping her head round the door. “That’s the police for you now, sir.”
“Send them in.” Stewart’s voice was deep and loud. Skinny, glasses, wearing the sort of suit a Savile Row tailor would charge a couple of grand for. His watch looked heavier than he did.
She showed him her warrant card before pocketing it and taking a seat in front of his desk. “It’s quite some building you’ve got.”
Stewart shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. We’re rapidly expanding just now. The store I believe you’ve just left is our flagship. It used to be a B&Q but I took over the lease when they opened their Warehouse on the Kingsway. Over the last few years, I’ve managed to swing deals for a few of their leases in Edinburgh, Dunfermline and Aberdeen.”
Vicky nodded, clocking the moody photos of stores similar to the one they’d just visited — night shots with cars and lights blurring in front of the buildings. “You’re growing a rival chain?”
“I’m trying to.” Stewart smiled. “How can I help?”
“I understand you’re aware of what happened at your ‘flagship store’?”
“Ah, the letter.” Stewart swung round in his chair to look out of the window running the full width of the room. “I plan to ignore it.”
“I’d advise against doing that, sir.”
“Why?”
Vicky produced a copy of the note from Hunter’s Farm. “This was obtained on Monday at a battery hen farm near Carnoustie. The family had been trapped inside a cage overnight. The farmer has lost most of his nose.”
“So?”
Vicky felt the throb in her neck. “So, Mr Stewart, this threat needs to be taken seriously.”
Stewart leaned over his desk. “Sergeant, my family has a long history of falconry. I refuse to listen to some cranks and throw it all away just like that.” He clicked his fingers.
“We’re not asking for you to cease indefinitely. You can surely stop the display for a week or so, can’t you?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Vicky got to her feet, the nerve thumping. Arrest him. She clenched her jaw. “I’m sorry you see it that way, Mr Stewart. I’ll have to escalate this matter to my superior officers. Your actions are potentially endangering members of the public.”
“And they’re potentially not. As a corporate policy, we do not negotiate with terrorists.” Stewart looked at a laptop on his desk. “Shut the door behind you, please.”
Vicky almost knocked it off its hinges as they left.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Considine pulled into the space next to Vicky’s car and turned off the engine. West Bell Street station loomed over them. “That trip was completely pointless.”
“Agreed. I’m going to have to speak to Forrester about escalating it.”
“Reckon he’ll go for it?”
“Here’s hoping.” Vicky shrugged. “I’d half a mind to arrest him there and then.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Way things’ve been going today, I’d probably get my ovaries kicked for it.”
Considine laughed. “It’s a load of nonsense, this case.”
“In what way?”
“Animal cruelty. Complete bollocks.”
Vicky glowered at him. “People are being kidnapped, disfigured and possibly murdered, Stephen.”
“I know. Don’t get me wrong — I want to catch these fuckers. I just don’t get why they’re doing it. Animals are just food.”
“Just food?”
Considine patted the steering wheel. “We haven’t exactly needed carthorses since the invention of the internal combustion engine, have we?”
The nerve in Vicky’s neck tightened its knot. “Don’t you want the animal in your sandwich to have had a nice life?”
“It’s just a beast.”
“Aren’t we beasts?”
“We’re better than animals, Sarge. Come on.”
“What about that taxi driver you went all hero cop on?”
“Now he was an animal. Nothing more than a beast. The way you’re talking, sounds like you might be involved.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“Christ, Sarge, I’m just pulling your leg.” Considine waved at a passing car as it headed for a vacant space. “What do you want me to do?”
“I need the alibis on the Muirheads verified, okay?”
“Sure thing. Who do I get to accompany me?”
“Whoever’s least busy.” Vicky got out and crossed the car park, her pace quick enough to keep Considine at a distance. Her nerve was agony — ibuprofen level.
Sergeant Tommy Davies nodded recognition as she passed through reception. “Afternoon. Seen Charlie?”
“Who’s Charlie?” Vicky swiped through the security door.
“Never mind.”
Vicky headed down the hallway.
MacDonald thumped a vending machine halfway down the corridor, his fingers rattling the change door. He locked eyes with her. “You got any idea how to fix this? I just want a can of juice.”
“What’re you after?” Vicky stepped forward to let Considine pass behind them, a smirk on his face.
MacDonald pointed at a can at a diagonal on the second bottom row. “Red Bull.”
Vicky checked the usual pitfalls — bags of crisps blocking the fall of a can, an errant empty space in the shelf. Nothing. She looked around. The corridor was now empty. “You didn’t see this.” She gripped the edges of the machine and gave it a shake, the metal rattling. The can popped down into the funnel in the middle. “There you go.”
“Cheers.” MacDonald knelt down to retrieve it, bending at the knees. He cracked it open as he rose and took a slurp. “How did you manage that?”
“When you drink as much Diet Coke as I do, you get used to this machine.” She tapped at it with her foot then started off down the corridor.
MacDonald held open the door to the stairwell, grinning over the lid of the small can as he sipped. “How did it go out at that DIY store?”
Vicky sighed as she climbed the stairs. “It’s the sort of nightmare I want to burden on Forrester.”
“That bad?”
“Oh aye.” Vicky pushed open the door and entered their office space.
Forrester was halfway across the quiet room, carrying the jug of his coffee machine, water swilling over the sides. He clenched his jaw. “Afternoon.”
“You got a minute, sir?”<
br />
“Aye, go on.”
MacDonald crumpled his can. “Need me there, sir?”
“Aye, the more the merrier.” Forrester dumped the jug on the table by his coffee machine and started fiddling with his filter papers. “How did it go, Vicky?”
“Got nowhere with it, sir.” Vicky rested against the back of the chair she usually sat in, fingers tight against the fabric. “I had to visit the CEO.”
Forrester let his head drop. “The CEO?”
“Aye. The manager wasn’t going to do anything about it. Company policy, apparently. So I headed up to head office just by Camperdown. He’s a belligerent sod, sir.”
“Great.” Forrester tipped ground coffee into the filter paper. “Did you get him to budge?”
“Afraid not. I need you to escalate it, sir. We need someone senior to go there and have a word with him. Stewart’s being pigheaded — some nonsense about falconry being in his family since the Domesday Book, if they even had that up here. At the moment, they’ve received a warning. We don’t want it to become something worse.”
“Right, right. I’ll speak to Raven about it. Helen Queensberry loves this sort of thing.”
“That sounds like the right course of action. If someone detonates a bomb near the shop, who knows who it could harm?”
Forrester started pouring water into the machine. “They’ve not mentioned a bomb, though, have they?”
Vicky got the note out of her bag and held it up. “Not on this, sir. Just an ‘or else’.”
“Still, it’s a valid point.” Forrester stared into space for a few seconds before looking back at MacDonald. “Got something for you, Mac. It’s probably nothing, but young Summers found an old case going back to last summer. Might be linked, might not.”
“What is it?”
“Some farmer up Edzell way got stuck in a snare last summer. Our lot could’ve been at it a while.”
“Think this could link all of the cases together?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll get out there, sir.” MacDonald pocketed his notebook and got to his feet. He nodded at Vicky, then left.
Forrester stared at the closing door and then glanced at Vicky. “He doesn’t seem too bad, you know?”
“He seems okay.” Vicky tried to click her jaw to ease the pressure on her neck. “What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Raven’s been badgering me. ‘There’s a whole heap of paperwork needed here, David. Where’s yours?’ I know Mac’s on top of his because I’ve seen it.”
“And you’re saying I’m not on top of mine?”
“I’m saying nothing of the sort, Vicky.” Forrester went over to the spitting coffee machine, poured a fresh cup from the steaming jug. “I need you to use that giant brain of yours to think who the hell is behind all of this.”
Chapter Eighty-Four
Considine joined Vicky at the window. “That’s me just back from Mr Muirhead’s place of work, Sarge.”
Vicky put two capsules in her hand, swallowing them back with a glug of Diet Coke. She took in the evening skyline, streetlights and taillights pointing west to the sun setting just over Perth and its surrounding hills. “Did you get anything?”
“Nothing that made me think they’re behind it.”
“What about anything that made you think they’re not?”
“Well, the boy was there. His secretary showed me his diary.” He held up a sheet of prints from a calendar. “I was a bit of an arse and got to see the CCTV — all time-stamped, of course.”
“Get it in the case file.”
“Will do.” Considine leaned back against the glass, arms folded. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking. Got a briefing with Forrester and MacDonald in five minutes.”
“This how a DS works?”
“It is, yes.”
Considine pointed back into the office space. “What’s that wanker’s name again?”
Vicky followed his gesture and groaned. “DS Johnny Laing. And you’re right — he is a wanker. Never play pool with him.” She smiled at Laing’s approach. “Johnny Laing, we meet again.”
“We do, indeed.” Laing nodded. “You guys seen Big Time Charlie? Supposed to have a meeting with him.”
Vicky frowned. “Excuse me?”
“New boy who’s looking into the links between the crimes?”
“DS MacDonald?”
Laing shrugged. “Aye, that’s just what we call him. That boy fancies himself.”
“I like it.” Vicky laughed. “Last I heard, he was out in rural Angus. What were you wanting to speak to him about?”
“This sighting he was looking at in Montrose.”
“Thought he was in Edzell?”
“Aye, well, Raven got him to head over to Montrose after. Supposed to be updating me as soon as he’s back.”
“Right. I’ll tell him.”
“Cheers.” Laing sighed as he stared out of the window.
Vicky grinned. “Take it the dream team are getting nowhere with this?”
“Kind of. Other than the vaguest of all sightings, we’ve got nothing. Forensics are taking forever to wave their magic wand. Still got a couple of people to speak to, mind.” Laing looked around the room. “Being stuck here isn’t helping.”
“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”
“You do that.” Laing nodded at Considine before sauntering off.
Vicky smirked. “Big Time Charlie?”
“Cracking, eh?” Considine drummed at the windowsill. “Boy’s a bit of a wanker.”
“Keep that to yourself.” Vicky spotted Forrester crossing the office space. He pointed at her then his office. “Duty calls.” She crossed the office, shutting the door behind her.
Forrester hung his jacket on his coat rack and flicked on the coffee machine before slumping in his seat. “What a bloody day.”
Vicky rested her elbows on the chair’s armrests. “Having fun, sir?”
“Something like that.” Forrester switched his focus to the door. “Evening, Mac.”
MacDonald sat next to Vicky, crossing his ankles and slouching back. “Sorry I’m late, sir. DCI Raven had me out in Montrose.”
“So I gather.”
“Just got collared by that Laing guy. What a charmer.”
“He’s the least worst, trust me.” Forrester let out a breath. His eyes danced over to the coffee machine in the corner before settling on Vicky. “Anyway, DI Greig and I have just had an enjoyable hour going through our strategy for the cases with Raven and Superintendent Pask. They don’t seem to be getting anywhere out in Montrose.”
MacDonald scowled. “More chance of getting blood out of a stone than info out of that lot. Thick as thieves.”
Vicky frowned at him. “Have they really got nothing?”
MacDonald shrugged. “Nothing more than the news conference fallout.”
“The post mortem on Micky Scott’s being done this evening. They’ll hopefully get a report back first thing tomorrow morning.” Forrester checked the inside of his mug. “Look, Mac, just play a waiting game with this, okay? We’ve been told to focus on this, so we’ll focus on this.”
MacDonald folded his arms. “Fine.”
Forrester got up and messed about with the coffee machine, shaking some part of it, hitting another. “You sure you don’t want one, Mac?”
“I’ve had plenty today, sir.”
Forrester went to his machine and poured a coffee before returning to his seat. “Can never get enough of this stuff.”
The bitter smell of the coffee made Vicky’s stomach churn. She nodded at MacDonald. “How did it go in Edzell?”
“This Cameron Lethnot character got stuck in one of his own snare traps. Showed us his injury — a deep gash just below his left knee. Still got th
e marks.”
“Out in the woods?”
“Right by his house. Someone chucked a stone through the front window. He gave chase but got trapped in the snare. Didn’t see it. Reckons he was lying there for hours until his wife got back from her sister’s.”
Forrester blew on his coffee before taking a sip and grimacing. “Any conclusions?”
“Got another one, sir. Saw a black car, obviously didn’t get a good look at it. Reckons it could’ve been a Lexus or a Mercedes. Maybe a BMW or an Audi. Three people in it — two in the front, one in the back. Man and a woman. Wasn’t sure who was driving.”
Forrester took a slurp then dumped the mug on the desk. Coffee swilled over the edge. “Sounds like our lot.”
“Plus, he received a note.”
“Shite.”
MacDonald held up an evidence bag. There was a note inside, weather-beaten and creased. “Snares are death. You were lucky.”
Vicky snatched it off him. “Where was it?”
“Lying on the mat by his front door. Reckons it must’ve been put through just before they tanned his window in. Didn’t notice it when he ran after them. Wife spotted it the next morning, kept it in a book.”
Forrester finished his coffee. “And he never gave it to us?”
“Checked with the investigating officers.” MacDonald stared down at his notebook, flicking through the pages. “Reckon the questioning was done in the hospital, sir. Didn’t hear from him again, didn’t find any leads.”
“So, has he put snares out?”
“Aye. Reckons they were ‘fully compliant’. Used them for the deer eating his lettuces in the summer.”
Vicky licked her dry lips, her throat suddenly tight. She coughed. “Was this in the papers?”
MacDonald nodded. “Someone wrote a letter to The Courier a while back. Lethnot sent one back and they exchanged a few more. Why?”
Vicky took a deep breath and set the note on the desk. “This is related, right? The note, the car with three people in it. Also, this Cameron Lethnot guy was in the papers.” She nodded at Forrester. “Fits like a glove, sir.”
“When was this?”