by Ed James
Here we go, heavy foot and I hoor it around the bend on the wrong side of the road, getting the finger off the old dear in the Corsa as I blast past. Sorry, love, police business and all that jazz.
Obviously Leonard is taking the back road instead of going into Gorebridge, avoiding any roadblocks. Like I’ve had time to call anyone and get them to set up a roadblock or any of that nonsense.
But this is how I like it, hammering along the road now, just me and him. Past the new houses, looking across the wide plain to the Pentlands in the distance.
He’s got a lead on me, as I don’t know this exact stretch of road as intimately as the one back there, and I’m not driving the Duchess. This used to be a backroad, but now it’s full of cars, and CHRIST some prick’s pulled in, between me and Leonard.
Fuck sake!
Why is it arseholes always do that at the worst possible time?
I pull out to round him, but there’s a bus coming the other way so I have to brake and pull back in. Christ!
But then he’s staying on this road, and I start to recognise bits. Weaving around the more-familiar bends, the muscle memory’s coming back.
Up ahead, Leonard’s not slowing much at the thirty sign. Driving like a dickhead’s not on the charge sheet these days, sadly. He shoots left into the belly of Gorebridge, still hammering it way faster than he should through the outskirts.
Wilson Road it’s called, a winding drive through ex-council houses.
But by the third turning, there’s no sign of Leonard.
Shite!
Oh no. There he is, down at the junction, indicating right.
By the time I’ve got over, he’s at the next one, indicating left. Bareyknowe Lane sounds like it should be cute walls and hedges, but it’s a straight run down past the new school and, of course, the kids aren’t in, so it’s dead and Leonard’s hammering down.
I’m following as fast as this piece of shite will let me, battering over the speed bumps, knocking me up and down like a bastard.
And there’s no trace of him at the end. The main road. Shite!
Can see better to the left, and it looks all calm. Serene. Not exactly the wake of a daftie running from the law doing sixty in a thirty.
Right, though, is bedlam. A couple of cars pulled onto the pavement, probably to let that weapon past.
So I swing round and another heavy boot. This thing’s actually pretty fast. There’s a wee sweet spot between fifteen and thirty on this bad boy where it jerks forward like a cougar. Oh, I’m growing to like it.
And, aye, there’s Leonard up ahead, stopped at the lights. Thinks he’s in the clear, thinks he’s lost us.
But I’ve got him.
I should get out, run after him, but with these bloody knees, he’ll have shot off before I’ve got my right foot down on the road.
I could try and ram him from behind, but it’s pretty busy. That’s the A7 up ahead, lorries and tractors and God knows what.
So I wait and, bingo, he’s turning left.
I can take it a bit slower, ease off a few car lengths behind him, keep an eye on him naturally, make him think he’s won, that this daft cop has fallen for it and is headed for Galashiels.
I drive on, past the new houses, then past the old farm buildings at the edge of town and out into open countryside on the main road north.
But no sign of Leonard.
Shite. There’s a turning to the left, down towards Gore Glen, but he’s not that daft.
So I head up to the roundabout, just in time to see him swinging round. Don’t think he’s clocked us as I follow the same manoeuvre, but I keep an eye on him.
Bingo, he’s heading right down the narrow road to Gore Glen. Daft sod.
So I batter round the circle, as they’d say in bonnie Dundee, and swing back, then follow him down the country lane.
And the road is seriously awful, more potholes than tarmac. Rocking backwards and forwards, must be obvious that he’s being followed from all the clanking and grinding this thing’s doing.
But the sneaky sod is easing into the car park. Buggery, it’s quiet now. No cop cars about.
So I take it really slowly, not least because that big bastard who maintains the cars won’t be happy with us again, but also to figure out what Leonard’s up to here.
And if I’m heading into a firefight here, I need to know.
I stop and take in the scene again. Start from first principles. Three cars, plus mine, plus Leonard’s. A bridge leading to some fancy estate, or just a farm. God knows. A green gate blocks the way for cars, but an old retired couple are walking a clapped-out lab around it, heading away. And the dog hunkers down to do a big jobbie, oblivious to his owners. Other cars are empty.
Okay.
Leonard’s talking to someone on his phone.
If there’s a firefight, then it’s not here yet.
I’ve got time.
I can do this.
So I nudge this beast of a car into neutral and let the handbrake go, then let the hill do the work, slowly then faster, then I tap the brake behind him. I’ve blocked him in.
Now for the hard part. I get out and walk fast over the ground, reaching for his door handle.
He looks out as I’m about to touch it. And he shites it, eyes wide. The ignition growls, and he crunches back into my motor.
But I’ve got the door open and I grab his arm, down at the wrist, digging the thumb into the bone just like my old buddy in Dundee used to. Never fails, despite the fact this bugger’s just beaten up at least three cops. Belt’s off, so he tumbles out onto the mud.
‘You’re under arrest.’
‘What for?’
‘The assault of two police officers. I’m sure there’s others.’ Shite, I’ve not got my mask on and this boy’s got Covid. Shite, shite, shite.
Ach well. Small price to pay.
I tighten my grip on. ‘Come on, son, you’d better have a good lawyer.’
‘The best.’ His head’s bowed as I frogmarch him over to my motor.
I’ll call Control later to get someone to pick up his motor. Someone who can’t drive, who might bump it off a lamppost. Nice piece, though, might drive it myself.
He lurches to the side, but I tighten my grip to let him know who’s in charge here.
And shite, he goes down like a sack of spuds, sliding in that lab’s jobbie. Fresh and reeking. And he pulls us down with him, and my hand lands in fresh dog keech, splatting up over my watch and up my wrist. Up my fuckin’ sleeve.
Fuck sake!
I punch the cunt in the balls. Hard. No fuckin’ mercy!
He screams and I’m standing over him and the old me would be booting him hard in the plums and just keep on kicking. Harder and harder and harder!
‘Please!’
‘Please?’ I tower over him. ‘Please?! I’ve got dog shite up my arm! And you’re a killer! You don’t get to say please!’
‘I can make it worth your while.’
That stops us.
‘Let me go and I’ll pay you. Whatever it takes. Just, please.’
Sneaky prick thinks he can get away with this, doesn’t he? See these pricks with money, it’s always the same with them, isn’t it?
I sniff. ‘How much we talking here?’
19
One thing Cullen had definitely forgotten over the years was Shepherd’s driving ability. While Cullen was in front, Shepherd was tearing along behind him, impatient to get ahead.
Cullen picked up his radio and put it to his head as he steered around the bend. ‘Luke, you can overtake if you want.’
‘Sure, I know that.’ Cullen caught his broad grin in the rear-view. ‘But I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.’
Shepherd hauled his pool Saab right, crossing almost in front of a tractor, and winding off up into Gorebridge.
‘Luke?’
But he was gone.
Cullen picked up his mobile and checked he was still on with Elvis. ‘You there?’
&nbs
p; ‘Aye, sir!’ A military shout, but laden with cheek and sarcasm.
‘You got an update on Bain’s location?’
‘Aye, sir!’
‘You want to tell me it?’
‘Aye, sir!’
‘Elvis, what the—’
‘Take your next left, Scott.’
Cullen almost missed it. A narrow country lane, signposted for Gore Glen Country Park. The same one as that morning.
Where the body was, where it had lain at rest since Friday.
Why was Bain heading here?
Why was Leonard heading back there?
Cullen powered on, sliding downhill, then weaving under the old railway bridge, just like he did that morning, and still had no idea if the trains used it. He rocked over the potholes as he rounded the final bend.
Bain’s car sat in the car park.
Cullen hammered the brakes and jumped out with the engine still running. He raced across the mud, but stopped at the back of the car.
Someone was groaning.
He snapped out his baton and eased forward, taking it one slow step at a time.
The groaning got louder.
Bain was kneeling by the open door, his face screwed up tight. He opened his eyes and looked at Cullen. ‘Scott?’ He winced again. ‘Prick battered us in the goolies.’
‘Leonard?’
‘Aye. Shiiiiite.’ He splashed vomit into the door pocket. ‘Christ on a bike.’
Cullen held out a hand. ‘Come on, let’s get you upright.’
Bain grabbed it and let himself be helped up. A waft of dog mess followed him.
Bain sat on the passenger seat, fiddling with his groin. ‘I lost him.’
Cullen checked his hand, but the gloves still looked box fresh. ‘What happened?’
‘What do you think happened? Chased him, caught him, prick tried to bribe us, I called in back-up, and he caught us right in the swingers.’
Cullen didn’t know how much to believe of it. Bain had a tendency for being extremely untrustworthy, not to mention a reputation for it. Maybe he took that bribe, maybe there was money in his account, or even his wallet. ‘Why didn’t you stay with him?’
‘Because the bastard nailed us in the goolies!’
Gravel crunched behind.
Cullen swung round.
A white work van sat there, engine running. Big Rob was behind the wheel, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He pulled the van back, arcing round in a three-point turn. As he shot off back to Gorebridge, a pool car burst into the car park and boxed him in.
Hunter was behind the wheel.
Cullen’s phone blasted out. He checked the display. Elvis had left the building, or at least the call.
Shepherd calling…
‘Cullen.’
‘Scott, is your radio off or something?’
‘Sorry, I’ve recovered Bain.’
‘Get out of the bloody way!’ Horns blared in the background. ‘Scott, I’m not ordering you, but get your car back on the road, I’ve got sights on Leonard!’
‘Right.’ Cullen jabbed a finger at Bain. ‘Stay here!’
‘Aye, like I’m going anywhere. Balls are in my ribcage.’
Cullen raced over to his Golf and waved at Hunter to stay with them. He got in, and the engine was still running, so he slid back, then arced round and darted the way he’d come, climbing the hill under the old bridge.
Then out into the open, ploughing down the country lane towards the A7. He could see in both directions for miles, but Gorebridge blocked the view ahead.
He spotted a dark-grey Saab on the roundabout to the left, looking like it was trailing a BMW.
‘Luke, are you at the rou—’
‘Yes!’
Cullen was at the junction. Just a few seconds and Leonard would shoot past. He pushed his Golf onto the road and clipped Leonard’s BMW.
Cullen’s airbag puffed out and almost smothered him.
Grinding and tearing, then a loud thud, followed by squeals.
Cullen batted the airbag away and tried to look along the road.
Leonard’s car was at right angles to the roundabout, the front mounting the kerb. The driver door opened and Leonard flopped onto the pavement. His face was a bloody mess, covered in wild slashes like someone had attacked him with a machete.
Cullen put his foot down on the tarmac, but couldn’t find his baton. Must’ve left it back at the park.
A blur of energy raced over and pinned Leonard to the ground.
Shepherd, uncut and unscratched, shaking his head at Cullen. ‘And you say I’m a dangerous driver?’
20
I can’t stand up. These plums of mine, well, if feels like they’re no longer attached. That prick hit us so hard. That drive back from the arse end of Midlothian was painful, I tell you. Aside from being covered in dog shite, I should really be at the doctor’s, but I’ve got to watch to see how this plays out, don’t I?
And they’re in the worst room in St Leonard’s, too. Cullen and Shepherd are interviewing Leonard. Ha, the stupid prick’s hardly a saint and, what’s worse, he refused to bring a lawyer in. I mean, good way to implicate yourself, isn’t it? Good way to bugger everything up.
‘I wasn’t even home at the time in question.’
No sooner have I sat down, but the door opens and wee Eva pops her head through. Doesn’t look like it’s me she wants to see, mind.
‘How’s it going, Eva?’
‘How do you think? That arsehole Cullen has got me doing the ANPR shite instead of Elvis.’
‘Well, the lad’s done more than his share of it.’
‘Aye, but—’
‘Anyway, you find anything?’
She passes over the usual ANPR output. Long list of hits from Wayne Leonard’s beemer. ‘Have a look at this.’ She passes another one.
I take one look and Leonard is scubbed.
Timestamped screen grab of him sitting in a car, while that Polish lassie gets in. Marta? Maria? Either way, I don’t know if she’s a hooker or what, but his balls are nailed to the wall here.
Saturday morning, too.
After he’d murdered Isobel. Bad, bad boy.
‘Cheers, Eva.’
Looks like she wants to take it back off us, but she’s also smart enough to let it slide. ‘I’ve got more to check, but that seems good.’
‘I’ll make sure Cullen hears all about it.’
‘Thanks.’ And the door slides shut behind her.
Sod this for a game of soldiers. I follow her out, catch a glimpse of her striding away down the corridor.
That big-cocked fanny Buxton slides past her. Christ, imagine him shagging her? He clocks us. ‘Seen Scott, mate?’
‘He’s busy. Why do you need him?’
‘Why do you think?’ Buxton stops just out of swinging distance. ‘Me and Elvis are speaking to Big Rob, but he ain’t playing ball.’
‘And you need Scott Cullen to help out?’
‘He’s the DI, yeah.’
I crack my knuckles. Get a wee twinge in the balls, but it’s nothing. I’ve got this, and got it good. ‘Show me the way.’
Buxton follows Eva down the corridor. ‘He’s in four.’
I open the door and pop my head in. Elvis is sitting there with that big bastard.
Big Rob. What a guy. More muscle than sense, but he’s got way too much bulk, and bugger all smarts.
Not that Elvis is paying us any attention. Gives us one wee look, then away. He got hosed when we came back from America. Feel bad for the boy, a bit, but it’s his fault as much as mine.
So I sit in the seat Buxton’s just vacated. ‘Right, mate.’
Big Rob just narrows his eyes at us.
‘Got a wee puzzle, son. Why your motor just so happened to be pulling up at the same place and time as a lead suspect in a murder investigation. Care to help us with that?’
He shrugs.
‘Like that, is it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Son, you�
��re up to your conkers in your own shite here. Not only did we have to drag you out of a cage, covered in literally your own excrement…’ I get a whiff of dog shite just then, ‘you’re meeting up with Wayne Leonard at the park.’
‘He’s a mate.’
‘A very good one, too.’ I lean over the desk and try to get that right hissing voice. ‘Son, why don’t you just say what’s in your heart? The truth, nothing but it. How about that?’
He looks at Elvis next to me, then Buxton by the door, then back at us. ‘Fine. He asked me to a meeting at the park, but he didn’t show.’
‘He phoned you?’
‘No, it was a prior arrangement.’
‘What for?’
Big Rob grins. ‘Asked me to chop down a tree in his garden.’
‘Bollocks. I’ve been in that garden, not so much as a blade of grass, let alone a tree.’
‘It’s a business thing.’
‘Aye?’
‘I don’t have to say anything, do I?’
‘Nope.’ I put Eva’s printout on the table, face down. ‘But Mr Leonard is in a big heap of trouble. Way I see it, you were there to help him out. That’s trouble with the cops, big time. Now, you’re already a person of interest here, so I suggest you spill. Everything. Now.’
The boy doesn’t need much time to think it through, likes. ‘Fine.’ He swallows down a sigh. ‘We were meeting because… Look, from what I gather, Leonard had to sell Wedale House. Okay? That’s how he met Isobel. Back in 2008. Ran out of money, couldn’t pay the mortgage, had to get out otherwise he’d lose all of his money. Parental inheritance kind of deal. Trouble is, he’d buried something in the garden.’
Elvis leans forward, just like I did. Sorcerer’s apprentice, alright. ‘So, it’s these pills we found, right?’
Pills? What pills?
Rob nods at the boy. ‘Right.’
‘Are they illegal?’
‘Not sure.’
‘That because you don’t know? Or because their legality is yet to be determined?’
‘Bit of both.’
‘But you’ve no idea what they are?’
‘No. None.’
‘Did Mr Leonard tell you how he came to get them?’