All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  15

  The text Doug had received just before he met Rebecca was simple and direct: Your parking space will be ready. And, sure enough, as he drove on to Forth Street he spotted a space just outside the offices of Capital Events Management, a single bollard reserving it. Doug hopped out, lifted the bollard onto the pavement then reversed into the space, being very careful not to get near the flame-red Audi TT that was parked in front of him. It looked so new that the tyres still had the glossy garage sheen to them, and the personalised number plate told him that Janet had been splurging again.

  He picked up the bollard and headed for the stone stairs that led down to the basement offices of Capital Events Management. He dropped the bollard into a stack that sat in the small, enclosed courtyard then stepped into the office.

  Janet MacFarlane looked up from the desk in the main reception area, mouth splitting into a smile that spread across her face like a fracture, crumpling and scoring it with creases so deep they could have been ravines. She was a short woman, surely in her late fifties or sixties now, trying to hide the fact with skin dyed the colour of stained teak by weekly sunbed sessions, hair bleached blonde and styled to perfection and whitened teeth which were already starting to dull and take on the cold tea hue associated with chain-smoking.

  “Douglas!” she said, voice as Lanarkshire as the Falls of Clyde, as she stood up from the desk and walked towards him, arms outstretched. “It’s been an age, son. Where you been? And what you been doing to yersel’? Ye look way too skinny!”

  She seized him in a rough, surprisingly tight hug, doughy arms wrapping around him and crushing him into her ample chest. She smelled of cigarettes and cloying perfume.

  “And ye feel like a bag o’ bones.” She let him go, held him at arm’s length, looked into his eyes. “Ye’ve been through the wars, son. If there’s anything Rab and I can do, you just let us ken, okay?”

  Doug smiled, bent down to place a kiss on her cheek. Her skin was cold and slack, caked with make-up. It reminded him of his gran. “Thanks. Janet, but I’m fine. Just a few too many late nights, is all. And you and Rab are helping me, that’s why I’m here.”

  She held his gaze for a minute, something hard and unforgiving flitting across the motherly concern. She and her husband, Rab, had started CEM back in the 1970s, moving from the West Coast to escape the gang violence and the razor gangs. They quickly grew and, by the mid-1980s, CEM was the biggest private security operation on the East Coast, the company logo almost as much a part of doormen’s uniform as the black T-shirts and unsmiling eyes.

  Which was how Doug had met Rab. He’d initially approached him for comment on a story about the licensing of doormen in the city, and they had quickly formed a bond, Doug instinctively responding to Rab’s natural good humour, while Janet had fallen into the role of over-protective mother hen. But Doug was under no illusions. Rab’s good humour was matched by a fearsome reputation, and he was known as a man who was not afraid to resort to violence when the need arose. But Janet was the real power behind the throne. She marshalled their door staff with military precision and watched over them personally.

  A few years ago, one of their doormen had been knifed while working close protection for a B-rate actor who was in town to promote a straight-to-DVD movie. The doorman, a slab of muscle who answered to the nickname Johnny 300 because of what he could lift in the gym, was stitched up and sent home to recover from the eight-inch gash that had been carved across his stomach. The rumour was that, a week after he got out of hospital, Janet paid him a home visit with three gifts: a pot of her homemade soup, an envelope stuffed with £20 and £50 notes to “tide him over until he was on his feet again”, and a Jiffy bag filled with his attacker’s teeth.

  Doug didn’t think it was just a rumour.

  He nodded towards a door at the opposite side of the room. “I got a text from Rab, saying he had a little time to see me. Okay to go in?”

  She released her hold on him, the gaze warming up again like a dying fire getting another gasp of air. “Aye,” she said, “he’s been waitin’ for ye. Go on in.”

  Rab MacFarlane was on his feet and striding across the office as Doug stepped inside, arm outstretched. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, which accentuated his wide shoulders and thin waist. His thinning, iron-grey hair was swept back from his forehead, showing off the small, silvery scar that cut through the frown lines. Doug held out his own hand and let Rab engulf it with a massive paw, suddenly glad that handshakes were right-handed.

  “Doug, how you doing, son?” Rab asked. “I’m assuming Janet already said you look like shite, so we don’t need to go over that again?”

  Doug surprised himself with a laugh. “Yeah, Rab, we’ve already been over that. Thanks for seeing me at short notice.”

  Rab released his grip on Doug’s hand and waved aside the thanks. “No bother,” he said, gesturing for Doug to sit down. Rab busied himself at the drinks cabinet that sat behind the desk, producing two crystal tumblers and filling them with a generous amount of malt whisky. He never asked Doug if he wanted a drink, and Doug never refused. He had learned early on that, to Rab, drinking was as much a part of business as pen, paper and contract clauses. In this office, he was the host, you were the guest. And the last thing Doug wanted was to be an unwelcome guest of Rab MacFarlane.

  Rab handed him one of the glasses, clinked his own off it then settled into his chair. Watched as Doug took a deep drink from the glass, nodded as though confirming something to himself.

  “Joking aside, son,” he said after he took a sip of his own drink, “you’ve looked better. Something wrong?”

  Doug bit back a sudden urge to laugh and the answer that played dangerously close to his lips. Wrong? Naw, Rab, I’m great. I’m implicated in a murder, I’m going to break my friend’s heart, my arm’s numb and I can’t get the image of a man being shot in front of me out of my head, but other than that, I’m great. You?

  Instead, he lifted his glass. “No, I’m fine Rab, thanks. Just a few too many late nights recently, too many stories to write, not enough hacks to write them. Which is why I’m here actually…”

  Rab grunted a laugh. “Aye, I guessed as much. This about that ex-copper getting killed in Trinity? Not sure what help I can be though, Doug, didn’t know the man, hadnae really heard of him before today.”

  “Actually, it’s not him I’m interested in, Rab. Well, not directly anyway. It’s the Falcon’s Rest brothel in Morningside, and its owner.”

  Rab nodded. “Dessie Banks,” he said slowly. “Aye, I heard Dessie wasn’t too happy about that.” He nodded towards Doug’s glass. “You want another one?”

  Doug looked at the glass, surprised to see it was almost empty. He hesitated for a moment, torn. He could feel the whisky coursing through him, wrapping itself around the pain in his hand and arm, soothing it. One more wouldn’t hurt. But…

  He shook his head. “Better not, Rab, I’ve got the car. Thanks though. Anyway, as I was saying, everyone knows about the raid on the Rest, but what’s not commonly known is that Redmonds was there that night.”

  Rab leant back in his chair, tapping his glass gently against his lips. “So he liked to get blown by hookers, so what? What’s that to do with Dessie? And what do you want from me?”

  “There’s a rumour,” he said slowly, “that Redmonds may have been linked to Banks, and that he was at the Rest that night at the invitation of the management. If so, and Redmonds was getting worried that someone, say a certain crime reporter, was digging into the Rest and Dessie and was getting close to something, then that might be a pretty strong motive to shut him up, permanently.”

  Rab nodded agreement. “Aye, I see that, but what makes you think that Redmonds was getting nervous? One of your polis pals say he was getting ready to make a statement or something?”

  The image from the flash drive darted across Doug’s mind, sea
ring away the pleasant whisky fog. “No, it’s not that, but I know he was keen to stop me looking into him for some reason. I’m wondering if that’s got anything to do with Banks, and I’m hoping –”

  “That I would ask around quietly, see if there were any rumours that Banks had a former copper in his pocket?” Rab finished for him. “Christ, Doug, you never ask for the easy stuff, do you? You know Dessie’s reputation, how he’d react if he knew someone was poking the hornet’s nest.”

  “I know, Rab, and if it’s too much to ask, then I’m sorry. But it’s important. I need to know why Redmonds was killed. At the moment, the possibility of Banks’ involvement is all I’ve got. I’m just asking for a few discreet questions to people who won’t talk to me. Please?” He heard the pleading in his voice, hated it. He had heard it in his own father’s voice too many times. The weakness, the mewling.

  Rab finished his whisky. “Okay, I’ll ask around for you. Quietly. But Doug, if I find anything that’s going to lead to trouble for either of us, this is over, got it?”

  Lead to trouble? I’m already fucking there, Doug thought. “Thanks, Rab. I appreciate it.”

  Rab shook his head, gave an impatient growl. “Aw no, you’re not getting off that easy. I do this for you, you’re going to do something for me, okay?”

  Doug fought to keep his voice even. “What’s that?”

  Rab sat back in his chair again, studied him closely. “Firstly, take another drink and tell me what’s goin’ on with you. Christ knows, you look like you need it. I’ll get Chris to drive you home; he can get a taxi back. Second…” He let the sentence hang for a moment, just long enough for Doug to twist again in his seat. “Second, on the way back, you’re going to get a meal. Something proper. Janet’s right, you look like shite, Doug. And when she’s worried, I’m worried. So you are going to get a meal and look after yourself for once and leave whatever the fuck it is that’s bothering you here. Okay?”

  Doug nodded his agreement. If only it was that fucking easy, he thought.

  If only.

  16

  Susie got back home just after 9pm, eyes burning and body jangling with too much caffeine and too little sleep. But while her body was exhausted, her mind refused to rest. She briefly considered a trip to the gym, but compromised with following a workout DVD she had ordered from a teleshopping channel months ago and had largely ignored. She took a quick shower then flopped onto the couch, considering the takeaway menus strewn across the coffee table. Selected the menu of a nearby Indian, phoned in an order she knew she would only pick at, then went to get a bottle of white from the fridge and poured herself a healthy glass. She rolled her head back, trying to massage the tension of the day that had made a gnarled nest for itself in her neck, then leaned forward slowly, glancing across at the empty couch opposite her.

  Doug’s seat, she thought. Surprised, she pushed the thought away. They had worked hard to maintain their routine of takeouts and wine nights after long days, but with what had happened in the Pearson case, and Doug starting to see Rebecca, it wasn’t as easy as it used to be.

  Rebecca. She had called that afternoon, not long after Eddie had updated her on progress in the Redmonds case. Or rather, the lack of it. They had arranged to get out of the office, heading for a small pub on nearby Comely Bank Road. Susie arrived first and took a table overlooking the door, ordering a vodka and soda for herself and a gin and tonic for Rebecca. Normally she wouldn’t drink on duty but, to hell with it, it wasn’t as though Burns had given her much taxing to do – just the break-in at the graphic design company. Before leaving to meet Rebecca she’d phoned the firm, called the Docking Station, and made an appointment to meet with the owner in the morning, asked him to have a list of the equipment that had been taken ready for her. She listened to the complaints that they had already given these to the officers who had first attended the scene, uttered a reassuring “just to speed this along”, through gritted teeth then hung up. Probably a fucking insurance job anyway. And a total waste of her time.

  And all because she was seen as a disruptive force. She raised her glass, toasting the thought. Fuck it.

  Rebecca arrived just as Susie was considering a top-up. She stepped into the pub tentatively, head moving in a slow, graceful sweep that took in the room and gave everyone just enough time to notice her perfect make-up and camera-ready hair. She was wearing a long, camel-colour jacket over the blue business suit Susie had seen on the press conference footage from earlier. What the TV cameras didn’t pick up were her shoes – designer brand, worth at least four-figures. Rebecca always loved her labels.

  They had met when they were both starting off in what had been the Lothian and Borders Force in Galashiels, Susie a PC and Rebecca a junior press officer. Their careers took them on different paths, until they ran into each other again years later when Rebecca had joined the new media team in Edinburgh. It was, she thought, only natural that Rebecca would meet Doug at some point, and Susie had to admit to feeling a pang of guilty pleasure at watching him squirm his way through their first meeting. But now they were dating. And Susie had found herself reassuring Rebecca on more than one occasion that she and Doug were only friends. Even, she thought, at times when it didn’t seem Rebecca needed the reassurance.

  Rebecca spotted her at the table, nodded her head to the bar in a Want anything? gesture. Susie hesitated for a beat then shook her head, watched Rebecca glide to the bar before returning with a bag of salt and vinegar.

  “Sorry,” she said as she sat down. “Starving all of a sudden, you know how it is. Missed lunch because of the presser follow-up.”

  “How did it go?” Susie asked.

  “Pretty standard,” Rebecca said, tearing the crisps open and offering them to Susie. “Not much more to be said at the moment. We’re appealing for witnesses, investigating his last movements, picking the house apart. You heard anything else?”

  Susie thought back to what Eddie had told her after the CID briefing. “Not much,” she admitted. “They’ve not found any calls that would explain who he went to see or why, no unusual cash withdrawals. Not a robbery, so whatever caused this, it was personal.” She spotted Rebecca’s quizzical gaze, smiled. “And no, it wasn’t me, Rebecca. Bastard was a stupid drunken mistake I made one night a long time ago, nothing more.”

  “You think you’ll be interviewed as a possible suspect?” Rebecca asked, her tone telling Susie the question wasn’t friend-to-friend but professional. Made sense. Former fuck buddy quizzed in ex-cop slaying was a hell of a headline.

  Susie shrugged. “Doubt it. Like I said, he’s ancient history. Not had any contact with him for years. If I am asked, I’ll tell them that. There’s nothing else to tie me to him. Besides, I’m not the interviewee you should be worried about.”

  Rebecca nodded, grimacing as she took a sip of her gin and tonic. “You mean his ex, Alicia Leonard? Yeah, I heard that too. Burns is handling the interview himself tomorrow, dragging poor Eddie King along as a human shield, I’m told.”

  “She as bad as they say?” Susie asked, staring out the window.

  “I’ve not had any direct dealings with her,” Rebecca replied. “But she sits on the Police Authority Board and I did get a pointed call from their press team, impressing on me the ‘importance of discretion and sensitivity at this distressing time for Mrs Leonard’.”

  Susie thought back to some of the pointed stares and whispered jibes she had been the brunt of after she had spent the night with Redmonds. She likes attack dogs, she thought, taking another sip of her drink.

  “Anyway,” Rebecca said, “Doug told me you saw him early this morning. How you doing, Suse? Bullshit aside, this can’t be easy.”

  Susie took a deep breath, remembered Doug that morning, the way she had fallen into his arms. Felt embarrassment burn her cheeks. And the tang of something else, something deeper.

  Guilt?

  “I�
��m okay,” she said softly. “Just really didn’t need all this shite getting dredged up again. It’s not like I’ve got the best career prospects as it is, but this has cost me another major investigation, which is the last thing I need.”

  Rebecca took another sip from her glass then laid it aside. Too early in the day. “I know,” she said. “Burns told me. But, Suse, it’s the best thing really. You know that. Last thing you, or he, needs is you becoming part of this story. You made a mistake, had a drunken fumble. It helps no one if that gets dragged into the headlines again, and you being part of the investigation would only increase the risk of that.”

  Susie grunted. Rebecca was right, she knew it deep down. Just like she knew Burns was only trying to protect her. But still…

  “… getting everything sorted with Doug’s help?”

  Susie was startled from her thoughts, blinked at Rebecca. “Sorry, what?”

  “Doug. He said there was something this morning that didn’t make sense, but that you’d both managed to straighten it out. I was just wondering if it is something we should be looking at?”

  Susie rubbed at the back of her neck, shaking her head slowly. “Sorry, Rebecca, not sure what you mean.”

  Confusion flitted across Rebecca’s dark brown eyes. “He called me after you left his place this morning, wanting to go over what we knew. Something about the possible motives for Redmonds’ murder.”

  Susie chewed her lip slowly, replayed her early-morning visit to Doug’s flat, the conversation by text before the press conference had started. Shrugged. “You sure it wasn’t another ploy of his to get the drop on you and a quick quote?”

  Rebecca gave a small laugh, mined the crisp bag for the last crumbs. “Hardly,” she said. “He knows me better than that now. Ah well, nothing important, I’ll see him later tonight, ask him then.”

  “You going down to Musselburgh?” Susie asked.

  “Dunno yet,” Rebecca replied. “Have to see how the rest of the day pans out. You want to join us for dinner if the timing works?”