All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  He closed his eyes as the memories crowded in on him. The sudden, panicked barks as the floor-to-ceiling window shattered behind Greig, the arc of blood exploding from his throat as the bullet tore at his flesh and spun him round…

  Doug took a hitching breath, realised he was holding the coffee cup tight enough to burn his hand. He glared at the phone in his other hand, focused on it, forcing himself not to remember that morning, seizing the thought and using it as a shield against the memories.

  The phone. According to Susie, Redmonds’ call to Doug hadn’t shown up on his home or mobile phone. So what did that mean? Two obvious answers: either he phoned him from somewhere else or he had another phone. Doug scrolled through his call history, found the number with the date and time stamp. Took a photo of the screen, committed the number to memory to be safe. He considered calling it for a moment, thought better of it. If it was a burner phone that Redmonds had used to make private calls, then it would ring out. If it was someone else’s phone, someone who knew why Redmonds had come to him, and with what, then…

  Doug’s head whipped up as the realisation hit him. If it was someone else’s number, then presumably they knew about the flash drive. And its contents. Would they want it back? He set his jaw, feeling the rage that had erupted onto Redmonds beginning to snarl and writhe. Fine. If there was someone else involved, and if they did know about the contents of the flash drive, let them come. If they wanted it back, let them try.

  Doug glanced at his phone again, willing a reply to the second text he had sent at Fettes to flash up. It did just as Becky walked into the Garden and headed for him. The text was the answer he’d been hoping for and, for the first time in what felt like a very long while, Doug gave a smile that could almost pass as genuine.

  12

  They walked deeper into the Garden, following a tarmac path washed a dull grey by the passage of time and thousands of visitors. It was early September; the trees still lush and green, rich with the promise of life and vitality. They passed the Victorian palm house, a massive sculpture of sandstone, glass and white-washed steel that dated back to the 1840s. When they found a relatively quiet section of path Rebecca took a half step back and slipped round to Doug’s right, taking his hand in hers. She didn’t like holding his left anymore, not after what had happened.

  He smiled, and it struck her again how tired he looked. He had always been wiry and, being tall, he always had a slight stoop, but before now it had always seemed natural on him, and there had been a strength to his grip and a warmth to his touch. Now though, his hand was all hard angles and bone, the gentle strength replaced by something more desperate, the heat from his body a more urgent, feverish thing. He moved differently as well, the quiet grace and keen gaze replaced by a choppy, disrupted stride, eyes jerking around as he tried to take everything in at once.

  She took a sip of her mocha to play for time. Grimaced. Far too sweet.

  “So, how you doing?” she asked, wincing internally at how contrived it sounded.

  “I’m fine.” His gaze skated away from hers. “Just tired. I was working late, then Susie turned up early, and I couldn’t sleep after she left, thought I might as well get the jump on the story.”

  The sudden flare of resentful anger surprised her. She thought, That the only reason you called me? She forced it down, nodded. Pulled them to a slow halt and tried to find his gaze with hers. “That’s not what I meant, Doug, and you know it. It’s me, remember? You weren’t yourself on the phone this morning, and you sure as hell aren’t looking any better now.” She took a step towards him, placed a hand on his chest. “I’m here, okay? If your hand is giving you problems, or the nightmares are getting worse again, tell me. I want to help.”

  He looked at her face for a moment, the shimmering of the wind in the trees filling the silence. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, as though he was swallowing something rancid. He looked up, over her head, searching for an answer.

  “Becky, I’m sorry,” he said. “Not being much of a boyfriend, am I? I’m fine, honest. The hand…” – he raised it to chest level – “well, it’s not great, but I’m fine. Promise. It’s just I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, and Susie turning up threw me off balance a little.”

  She nodded slowly. Threw me off balance. It was ridiculous to be jealous of her own friend, she knew. But there it was. She had spoken to Susie about this when she and Doug had first started seeing each other; got the scoffing, incredulous assurance that there was “absolutely nothing there, never would be. I mean, God, Rebecca, Doug?”

  But still…

  She focused back on him. “So, did you get what you needed straightened out, or is there something still bothering you?”

  He blinked at her, confusion and what could almost have been panic flitting across his eyes. And there it was again, that ability to throw him off his stride with one simple question.

  “I, ah…” he fumbled.

  “Susie,” Rebecca said. “When you called me, you said something Susie told you didn’t make sense. Have you sorted it out, or is there something you’re still working on?”

  He gulped at his coffee quickly. “Oh, that. Sorry. Yeah, it’s fine. I spoke to Susie. Seems like they’re in the dark on what Redmonds was doing out last night and a motive for the attack. No calls in or out, so the thinking is he met someone and they attacked him. Question is who – and why? I take it you’re making the usual CCTV checks, trying to trace his movements?”

  Same old Doug. When in doubt, dive right back into the story. “We’re checking the CCTV cameras closest to his home from last night through until his body was discovered, yes. Problem is there aren’t a lot of cameras in that part of town, and any pick-ups we get would only give an indication of where he was heading. So not too much to go on.”

  He nodded. “And no other possible motives at this stage?” he asked, eyes finding hers for the first time. “No money problems, old enemies recently released from prison?”

  “Oh, come on, Doug,” she said, surprised by her own impatience. “I’m the PR on this, not the investigating officer. They tell me what they’re doing when they think I need to know it – and that’s usually thirty seconds before I get a call from someone like you.”

  He held up his free hand in apology, gave the one holding hers a gentle squeeze. “Sorry, force of habit. Always thinking. You’re right, you’ve already given me more than enough. I’m sorry I’m turning this into another media briefing, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, her tone telling him she didn’t quite believe it.

  “So how about I make it up to you?” he said, his voice warming. “Dinner tonight when you get done? Who knows, I might even cook.”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Thought you were trying to get back into my good books? I’ve no idea how long I’ll be working, depends on what, if anything, breaks on the case. But I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Fine,” he agreed, voice cooling again. “It’s not as if I’m likely to be sleeping anyway.”

  They shared a brief kiss, little more than lips touching, then headed back towards the main gates. They tried for small talk and let it die out, walking in silence, dropping hands on instinct as they approached the more crowded paths. They said their goodbyes at the gate and Doug ducked into his car and drove away, waving as he did.

  She returned his wave, watched the car dwindle into the distance. Considered for a moment. The coldness in his voice. The way she had been able to throw him off balance. Nodded to herself as she made a decision. She dumped the too-sweet mocha into a bin then flicked through her contacts, finding the number she wanted. She dialled it and listened to it buzz in her ear as she started the walk back towards Fettes, knowing that her first call when she got there would be to Susie.

  13

  Mark called back less than an hour after he had conveyed his displeasure at his earlier sloppiness to
him. The speed of his return call both pleased and concerned him. Obviously, he had delivered his message eloquently, spurring Mark into such quick, decisive action. But had this haste driven him to make another mistake, another omission that endangered them all? Only one way to find out.

  “Mark, thank you for calling back so promptly, did you carry out the necessary checks as discussed?”

  The voice at the other end of the phone was cracked glass, brittle and ready to shatter. He cursed himself quietly. He had pushed the boy too hard: now he was a sliver away from panic. And panic could be fatal.

  “Ah, yes. Yes, sir. I did. I carried out a full inventory. As you’ve already been told, the key is not among Mr Redmonds’ effects, either from his home, person or car, or been logged into police evidence anywhere so far.”

  He nodded to himself. He had expected that much. “Has the key been used?”

  “Well, ah, yes, sir. There was one use and withdrawal at 12.37am last night. Since then, no activity.”

  He reached for his coffee mug. Squeezed it hard to bleach his knuckles white. “A withdrawal,” he said, jaw tight. “And yet, when we spoke earlier, you told me there had been no withdrawals. How is that possible, Mark?”

  A harsh, panicked gulp of air down the line. “I, ah, well, ah...” A nervous cough. “I’m sorry, Mr James, I am. There was so much to check, in so little time, and it was only one withdrawal. I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “And are you absolutely certain that you’ve missed nothing else? No other withdrawals or activity? You understand the paramount importance of this, don’t you Mark?” He let the fury bleed into his voice. Just a little. Just enough.

  “Yes. Yes, sir. Yes, I do. I’ve checked everything. Other than the withdrawal, there has been no other unexpected activity. And Mr Redmonds’ key has not been used again.”

  “I have your word on this?”

  Mark’s voice was a whisper. “Ah, yes sir. I checked thoroughly.”

  He forced himself to let go of the coffee cup, flexed his hand. “Good Mark, very good. Because we cannot afford any further mistakes. Further mistakes could be, well, fatal. Mark. Do you understand me?”

  A murmur of agreement came down the line. He knew the boy was stifling tears on the other end of the phone. Found he didn’t care.

  “Very good. In that case, Mark, keep monitoring for further withdrawals or activity and let me know if anyone attempts to use Redmonds’ key.”

  Another sniffled agreement down the line. Tears now, no doubt.

  He leant forward in his chair, hunching his shoulders, his shadow engulfing the coffee cup. “And Mark? One last thing. I understand that you are being put under significant pressure, and the temptation to do something rash, or talk to someone about this situation, must be great. But I can trust you, can’t I, Mark? You know that any rash action would be unhelpful for everyone involved?”

  The answer came in a rush. “Yes, sir. Of course, I would never. Never…”

  “Good,” he said, cutting the babbling off, the discordant mewling an insult to his ears. “Keep me appraised.”

  “Okay,” Mark said, the conviction in his voice all show. “But, sir. What about the key? If McGregor does have it…?”

  “That’s not your concern, Mark. I’ll deal with that. You just do what we pay you for, understood?”

  He got a reply and cut the line. Stared at the phone for a minute. The boy had the two most valuable traits he needed for this – skill and greed. But he also, judging from the call, lacked a backbone or the strength of character to do what needed to be done. And he had made a slip. Missed something vital. Something that he would have been in the dark about if not for the contingencies he had put in place.

  He thumbed down the phone, found the number he needed. A number he had not used in a very long time. He got a reply on the third ring and dispensed with pleasantries quickly. Outlined what he needed, the message to be sent, and gave the relevant details. As he spoke, he stared at the image on his computer screen. The image he had kept there since this morning.

  The byline picture of Doug McGregor.

  14

  Susie was in the canteen at Gayfield Police Station, one of the three CID hubs in Edinburgh along with Corstorphine and Craigmillar. The place was quietening down after the commotion of shift change, officers grabbing coffees and teas to fortify themselves for the hours ahead. For detectives, the shift started with a case briefing: the senior officer bringing the team up to date then giving out assignments. She knew the Redmonds case was being led by Burns, also knew she wasn’t going to get near it after he had called her into his office earlier in the day.

  “You know I can’t put you on this, Susie,” he had said. “Given your, ah, history with the deceased, can you imagine what the rest of the team would say, and what the press would do with it if it got out? Last thing I need is to be fielding questions from your pal McGregor about how the death of a former copper is being handled by the girl who ended his marriage.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, felt embarrassment and rage burn her cheeks as her chest prickled with the stress rash she always got at moments like this. “Sir, I really don’t…”

  Burns held up his hand, shook his head. He suddenly seemed tired, almost vulnerable, Third Degree gone, replaced by an overworked man who had a family he never saw and a job that was threatening to break him.

  “Before you say it, I know, I know. It’s shit. You did nothing wrong, and it’s not fair that you’re being sidelined from another major case because of one stupid office party fumble. But Susie, you’ve got to understand. After the kicking we’ve been taking and some of the mistakes that have been made recently, I just can’t run the risk of this turning into a story that makes us look bad.”

  “Look bad?” she said, her voice chilled by rage. “You mean worse than leaving two people to die in a crashed car because we missed the call? Worse than officers being pinballed around the country to cover staff shortages? Worse than us spying on reporters and fellow officers? Sorry, sir, but I really don’t think this is in the same league.”

  He shook his head again and reached for a pen on his desk, engulfing it with one massive hand. “You’re right, it’s not. But that’s the point. There’s been enough shit written about us recently, this case can’t be seen to be adding to that. And, besides,” – his chair creaked as he sat back – “I really don’t want to give the bastards out there any more ammo to throw at you.”

  Susie blinked at him, stunned. Thought back to the shower, the promise she had made to herself. “Sir, I can assure you I’m more than capable of handling any puerile jibes that may be directed at me in the course of the investigation.”

  “I’m sure you could, Susie, I’m sure you could. But could your career? This is the type of shit that sticks, Susie. The last thing you need is to be branded as a disruptive influence, especially at the moment with staffing being the way it is. Please. Trust me. I’m keeping you off the Redmonds case for your good as well as mine.”

  She didn’t like to admit it, but he had a point. Being seen as a problem in a tight investigating unit wouldn’t do her prospects any good at all. Not that they were looking particularly bright at the moment anyway. Again, she thought of Doug. Wondered if the benefits of having him as a contact and friend outweighed the damage it seemed to be doing to her career. Burns knew of their relationship and made no effort to disguise his disgust for McGregor, and he had hinted that the big bosses were no fans of Doug’s either. She wondered what would happen if they found out about him and Rebecca.

  “So, if you’re not putting me on the Redmonds case, can I ask what you are assigning me to?”

  Burns pressed the pen against his cheek, then slid an A4 folder across the desk to her. “Theft in Leith,” he said. “A high-end graphic design firm has been broken into over the last couple of weeks, had expensive equipment stolen. Probably a gr
ab and reset job, but they’ve got some big-name clients, so see what you can find.”

  Susie felt the rage snarl behind her eyes again. This? This is what she was reduced to? Chasing up computer thefts while a major murder investigation was going on around her? And why? Because of one stupid mistake, one worthless shag.

  Fucking brilliant.

  She got out of the office before she said something they would both regret, something that would put the final nail into the coffin of her career. Headed for the canteen and pretended to read the file in front of her as uniforms and CID officers milled around, the crowd slowly thinning out. She spotted DC Eddie King, nodded to him as he made his way to the coffee machine. He gave her the briefest of nods back as she pointed to the tabletop. She had worked with Eddie last year on the Pearson case, found him more competent than others had given him credit for. She smiled at that: she was the last person who should be paying attention to office gossip.

  After the case, she had mentioned Eddie’s performance to Burns who had, in turn, told King. Since then, Eddie had been like an over-loyal puppy, always willing to help Susie out on a case or do the routine legwork that drove other detectives to distraction.

  She watched Eddie go, heading for the CID suite and the briefing, sat quietly as the canteen grew still around her. When it was almost deserted she got a coffee then headed back to the table and waited. Eddie had understood. He would come and find her after the briefing, tell her what he knew.

  Burns may be keeping her away from the case, and though she hated to admit it, he may even be right in doing so. But there was no way it was going to run without her.