All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  Ironic, Burns thought, that a heartless bastard like that would be killed by a broken heart.

  He divided up duties for the day, made sure everyone was co-ordinating through him. He nodded his approval at an update from Drummond, telling him that she and Eddie had a strong lead on the identity of the body from Leith: Brian Coulter, who ran the graphic design company that had been burgled. It was an interesting link, and Burns made sure Eddie and Susie would follow it up. If there was something there, they would find it. They had the makings of a good team.

  The only piece of new business was the attack on Rab MacFarlane. Officers who attended the scene at Forth Street had described it as being like “something out of a horror film”, blood pooled on the floors and spattered up the walls, MacFarlane lying draped over his desk, mangled like a discarded chew toy. Burns had seen the SOCO pictures from the scene – from the damage to the room, the owner of the chew toy must have been somewhere between Cujo and the Hound of the Baskervilles. Glass glittered on the floor in the glare from the flash, legs and supports from pulverised pieces of furniture littered the ground like pieces of flotsam left on the beach by a retreating tide. And the blood. Jesus, the blood. But the picture Burns kept returning to was the last one – a smeared, bloody handprint trailing down a cream wall, no doubt where MacFarlane had propped himself up before staggering to his desk and collapsing.

  Burns wondered briefly who would do that to MacFarlane, and why. Pushed the thought aside, resigned himself to the knowledge that the Major Investigations Unit would be looking into it. A team had been investigating MacFarlane for years, trying to get a handle on his more illicit practices and his role in punishment beatings of low-level drug dealers across Edinburgh. It wasn’t out of any concern for the scum he was targeting, but there was a feeling that the fragile peace between Dessie Banks and MacFarlane might be about to crack. And a gang war on the streets of Edinburgh was something no one wanted to see.

  Satisfied that the bases were covered, Burns dismissed the meeting and retreated to his office, the print-outs he had made the previous evening when he got home from the shop waiting for him.

  He settled into his chair, gave the door another quick glance. The lock may have been broken, but he had folded up a few old cigarette packets and wedged them in door. If the chief came knocking, Burns wanted a few moments to get what he was working on out of sight. It may be something, it may be nothing. Either way, the powers that be weren’t going to be pleased with his line of inquiry.

  It had been back in 2008, the length of time just long enough to blur the memory in Burns’ mind and make it a persistent nag rather than an instant recognition. He hadn’t worked on the case, but he remembered it – everyone in the force at the time did. It was one of the few occasions when there had been an almost tacit approval for what had happened, and a certain reluctance to find whoever was responsible.

  His name was Greg Davidson, a former teacher in Newcastle who had been imprisoned for luring a fifteen-year-old pupil into his home and then his bed. The story had come to light when she had fallen pregnant and his response had been, “Get rid of it.” In that moment, his victim saw Davidson for what he was: not the sophisticated older man who had seen beyond her youth to the woman she really was, but a craven little shit who was after only one thing and not interested in the repercussions.

  Maybe that was why she had lunged at him with a pair of sewing scissors.

  The judge had, stupidly, taken the attack into account and given Davidson a reduced sentence. Some of the tabloids followed the story for a while, Gemma’s brave decision to have the baby, Davidson’s cushy life in prison, his new identity on release, before the story petered out and they moved onto the next scandal.

  That was until Davidson turned up in the village of Glenview, wrapped in the swings of a playpark. He had been badly beaten, a small placard hanging from his neck with the word Paedo scrawled across it in Davidson’s own blood, a crumpled-up piece of paper stuffed into his mouth as a gag.

  It didn’t take local police long to fill in the blanks, the local community eager to decry the “filthy wee bastard”. Davidson had been drawn to the area by the promise of work, project managing a new housing and leisure development that was being built on the outskirts of the village. As his previous life in Newcastle prevented him from working as a teacher or with children, it made sense to Burns. New start. New life.

  Problem was, the old urges remained.

  The rumours soon began about the well-dressed guy who would always just happen to be checking the site’s perimeter – with a camera – when the schoolkids from the local high school were filing past at the end of the day. Officers who searched his home found the camera, along with a neat bundle of print-outs that had been cropped to focus in on the girls. They also found evidence that he was using chat rooms to contact a range of kids in the area, posing as a gangling, smiling teenager called Matthew. The profile image he used was ripped straight from Google Images.

  Though no one in the village would say what happened, it was pretty clear that Davidson had pushed it too far, and a relative of one of the girls confronted him. Given that the piece of paper stuffed into his mouth was a newspaper spread on his Newcastle conviction, it was clear that the locals had recognised him and decided to dish out some punitive action.

  Enquiries were made, and while the police investigation stumbled to a halt, the press, sensing a moral outrage story that had a way to run, went looking for other targets, in this case, the owner of the home and leisure development.

  Paradigm Investment Solutions.

  Burns flicked to a newspaper article from the time. The company faced some fairly sharp questioning about its employment and vetting practices, while local MSPs eager to jump on the bandwagon called for greater regulation and scrutiny of those working near schools. It was a potentially damaging story for Paradigm, and they fell back on the tried and tested PR formula often employed by big firms: throw money at the problem.

  The company sent a senior director to Glenview, armed with a fat cheque that was to be split between Glenview High School and Kidsnet, a charity set up to curb online grooming and abuse of children. The picture accompanying the story featured the local MSP, sporting an epic combover, and the director from Paradigm. The director who lived in a gated estate in Inveresk and served them coffee yesterday.

  Michael Leonard.

  Burns studied the picture for a moment longer, then put it aside, picking up the investigation reports and interview transcripts from the Davidson beating. All present and correct, properly filed and signed by the investigating officer.

  DI Alicia Redmonds.

  So did Leonard and Alicia cross paths at the time? Burns remembered Michael Leonard’s words just yesterday: Alicia and I only met after Paul had filed for divorce. There was the problem, wasn’t it? The newspaper article was dated August 2008, but Redmonds hadn’t filed for divorce until 2009. Maybe an innocent mistake. Or maybe the truth: perhaps he and Alicia hadn’t met in Glenview. But it was a hell of a coincidence, and Burns had a copper’s natural disdain for coincidence.

  And then there was Alicia Leonard’s reaction to him pushing her on the last time she had seen Redmonds alive. That hard, bright anger snarling beneath her veneer of sophisticated control.

  The image of John Wallace reared up in Burns’ mind: his massive hand held up in a fist, thumb and pinkie jabbing out.

  Call me.

  Burns reached into his desk drawer and grabbed a handful of tobacco from the small tin he kept there and started chewing slowly. The bitterness helped him think, and it was easier than trying to hang out of the window for a puff.

  There was something here that didn’t add up. He had been lied to or misled, both about when Michael met Alicia, and about what happened the last time Alicia saw Redmonds alive. There was no escaping it, no avoiding it. No matter how thin the ice he was on, no matter how
pissed off the top brass would be, he would have to speak to Alicia Leonard again.

  He just hoped the ice didn’t crack under him when he did.

  44

  Chris was waiting at the front door of the hospital as agreed. He was leaning against Doug’s car, massive arms crossed on the roof. Doug was sure he could see the metal bow a little.

  “Here she is, Mr McGregor,” he said slowly, hefting his massive bulk off the car, one hand trailing gently over the roof as he did, as though reluctant to break the connection. “Keys are in the ignition. Oh, and I ran the engine up, so she’ll have spun, nae risk o’ the rotary flooding.”

  Doug nodded as he took a step closer, Chris slowly stepping back and opening the driver’s door for him, the world’s most grotesque parking assistant. “Cheers, Chris,” he said as he slid into the seat. Chris slammed the driver’s door shut, the car juddering sideways with the force. Then he leant down, massive face taking up the entire driver’s side window, which he’d left open. In the distance, Doug heard the kids starting to scream again.

  “Drive safe, Mr McGregor,” he said, his breath rich and sour with something Doug didn’t want to think about. “She’s a real beauty. If you ever want shot of her, let me know, I’ll give you a fair price.”

  Doug ran his hand over the steering wheel. It was still warm from Chris’s touch. “Thanks, but I think I’ll hold onto her for a while,” he said. “Kind of attached to her.”

  Chris nodded as though this made perfect sense, but there was a childish disappointment in his gaze. And something darker too. Something that told Doug this wasn’t a man used to hearing the word no. A man who was only on his best behaviour at the behest of his boss. But who, Doug thought suddenly, was that? Rab? Or Janet?

  He started the engine, gave Chris a wave and drove away slowly, easing in behind a double-decker that was queuing at the traffic lights at the exit of the hospital. He jacked his seat in, glanced up and started to adjust the rear-view mirror back to a useful position after Chris had used it.

  Froze when he saw the silver Ford behind him, the man in the light grey suit sitting in the driver’s seat.

  He tried to ignore the sour thrill of adrenalin telling him to floor the accelerator. Looked again. It was the same man who he had bumped into at London City Airport, he was sure. Same wide shoulders, close-cropped grey hair. That same purpose in his eyes, which were nothing more than dark, empty pools fixed on him. And now he was here, following him again. Why? The answer was obvious: the laptop and the flash drive, both of which were safely with Colin and Hal in London. But what was this guy’s plan? Tail Doug then grab him, or engineer an accident on the road? What should Doug do?

  He shifted his gaze forward, locked them on the brake lights of the double-decker as he gently hit the central locking control on the door panel. Watched the traffic lights turn from red to amber then green, the bus pulling away in a rising diesel growl.

  Doug eased the handbrake off. Waited. Heard the impatient blare of a horn from a few cars back, glanced in the mirror. Saw nothing but the same dull glare back at him, two hands strangling the steering wheel. Looked back at the lights. Waited. Licked his lips.

  Show time.

  The RX-8’s engine gave its high-pitched whine, the rotary engine spinning into life as the car shot forward, back end wiggling with the sudden acceleration. The engine warning started to blare and he shifted into second as the Mazda hit 60mph, pulling out and shooting past the bus as it laboured its way up a steep hill. He overtook another two cars, then jerked back into the left again and hammered on the brakes, ignoring the flashing and gesticulating from the driver behind him. Flicked his gaze to the rear-view, waiting for the Ford to appear. But he couldn’t pass the bus now because of the oncoming traffic. Trapped. Perfect.

  Doug thought fast. Where to go? If this was the same guy who had broken into his flat, then he would know where he lived. But if that was the case, why follow him here? Why not just wait for him at the flat, get him there? He couldn’t go to the Tribune – there was nowhere to park and with Redmonds’ bag in the boot he didn’t want to be exposed. So where could he go? Where could he…?

  He was snapped out of his thoughts by the sudden blare of horns behind him, the silver nose of the Ford pushing out from behind the bus.

  Shit.

  Doug glanced up, gauging the road in front of him. Not ideal, but traffic was light, and he was in his car.

  Fuck it.

  He downshifted back into second and hammered the accelerator, the Mazda surging forward. He swung out, dodging the central reservation bollard by inches and powered up the hill, not sure if the sudden appearance of blue lights in front or behind him would be the worst or best news of the day.

  He got to the next junction and saw traffic snarled up on the main road ahead. Doug hauled the wheel right and feathered the accelerator, drifting the car around the junction and narrowly missing a Fiesta that was about to merge into the road from the opposite lane. He flew along a smaller road, driving deeper into the thicket of red-brick maisonettes and former council houses that stood like sentries on either side of the street. He glanced in his mirror, saw no sign of the Ford. Made a quick left into a cul-de-sac and doubled back, pulling in behind a small Asda van and poking the nose out just enough so he could see the road he had just pulled off.

  The wait was almost as excruciating as the pain in his arm, seconds dragging past as he felt sweat cool on his back. After a minute, the Ford gunned its way past, the driver leaning forward in his seat, grimly intent on the road in front of him.

  Doug couldn’t help but smile. He waited for a few more seconds, wanting to make sure Mr Grey Suit wasn’t going to double-back, then inched the car back out to the junction. He paused for a moment, seriously considering turning the game around and following whoever it was that was after him. Then he remembered Redmonds’ bag, and Colin’s insistence that he must have missed something.

  No. He had to look at the bag. And losing Mr Grey Suit had bought him time. He would head to the flat, lock the door, see what he could find. Call Susie for back-up.

  • • •

  Doug headed back the way he had come then out on to the bypass that led to East Lothian, red-lining through the gears, revelling in the simple joy of driving too fast. At this speed, he could forget the pain, the shame, the mistakes he had made. At this speed, all he had to focus on was the road in front of him and the next second.

  Pity it couldn’t last.

  He made it back to Musselburgh without incident, amazed to find a space outside the flat. He revved the engine then killed the ignition, listening to the rotary system whine to a halt. He might have to make a quick exit, and the last thing he wanted was to come down to a flooded engine. He moved quickly, jumping out of the car and retrieving Redmonds’ bag, then bounding up the stairs to his front door.

  He got his key in the lock, swung the door open and stepped inside. He was just turning to slide the locks back into place when a warm slab of muscle slid around his neck and jerked him violently backwards and off his feet. Doug’s hand scrabbled for the arm holding him, the laptop bag dropped and forgotten as his lungs screamed for air.

  “Fuckin’ quit it, ya wee shite,” a voice hissed in his ear, the blackness pulsing through his head as the pressure was increased on his neck. He was birled round and marched toward the living room, then dumped roughly at his assailant’s feet. Doug collapsed forward, hands clawing at his throat as he took in gasping gulps of air. It felt as if his throat was on fire, and it sounded as if someone was beating an anvil in his ears.

  Fuck! All for nothing. Fuckers knew you would come here and now they’re going to get whatever’s in the bag and have a nice long chat with you…

  Conscious thought gave way to a flickering slideshow of memories. Diane Pearson, giggling and cackling as she danced around him, kicking and clawing and biting. The whimpering of
Paul Redmonds as Doug had kicked him again and again and again. And now it was going to happen to him, and there was nothing he could do and nothing he could…

  “Mr McGregor?”

  The voice was low and soft, but commanded the attention of the room. It was one of those voices that carried an innate authority with it. A voice you knew to listen to. A voice you knew not to fuck with.

  Doug forced his head up. It felt at though it weighed a tonne. He blinked away the tears in his eyes, focused on the figure standing in the bay window that looked back down onto the street. Felt his bladder spasm as recognition hit him like a hammer. A small, cadaverous-looking man – waxy, jaundiced skin pulled tight over high cheekbones and a skeleton that seemed too angular to be contained – stood before him. He was wearing a black suit, the narrow shoulders flecked with ash from the cigarette that now hung in the air, halfway up to his thin, bloodless lips.

  Dessie Banks.

  Banks shook his head slowly, eyes not leaving Doug. “Phillip, you seem to have been a little too rough with Mr McGregor. Get him a drink, will you?”

  Doug sensed a massive presence behind him lumber off, heard the soft rasp of glass on the coffee table as his whisky bottle was picked up. A huge hand thrust a brimming glass over his shoulder. He wasn’t going to argue. He took the glass. Drank. Blinked back the fire in his guts. It was nothing compared to what Dessie was going to do to him.

  “Better?” Banks asked, thin lips pulling into a contorted leer that was as close to friendly as he got. “Good. Please. Take a seat, Mr McGregor. We need to chat.”

  Before Doug could move, he was grabbed by the shoulders and roughly dumped into his sofa by Phillip, who then retreated to the door to stand guard.

  Banks stared at Doug for a moment, letting the silence draw out. Then he nodded, as if confirming something to himself. “So, Mr McGregor. I understand you’ve just been at the hospital visiting Rab MacFarlane?”