Cause of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  By most standards, Pauline hadn’t had a bad start in life; her parents were true working class and just wanted their only child to have a bit more than they did. Her father had worked long, hard hours labouring, never complained once, and always managed to put food on the table and clothes on their backs. They were only able to have one child although they had wanted more, but at least the budget hadn’t been strained by numbers.

  Pauline’s mother had worked for years as a school dinner lady and the extra money had given them the chance of the odd small luxury and bargain summer holiday.

  Pauline had been brought up in the heart of Leith when it had still regarded itself as separate from Edinburgh; for all its faults this ancient port had a unique sense of itself and the people took pride in being its sons and daughters. At school she’d been an outstanding pupil, so her father had saved a small amount of money every month for what he dreamed would be a place at university and a profession. He would happily settle for that.

  Pauline was tall and athletic, with classic Nordic blue eyes and blonde hair, which echoed the seafaring tradition of the port where so many foreign sailors had come and, in many cases, settled. Like most of the young women from that part of town, her dreams were to escape; it was an age where television and magazines seemed to suggest that a perfect life inhabited by perfect people wasn’t that far away – all you needed was money, and stacks of it. Easy.

  When she was sixteen, everything had been on track; for her teachers and family it had been a formality that her grades would take her to the next natural step on the higher-education ladder. Then she’d met Danny Fleming, who, like most of the young men around at that time, was hooked on the sight of her long legs, blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. He would try and chat her up on the street, but everyone knew he was bad news, headed for a career in prison just like his father and most of the male members of the Flemings. However, they counted in Leith and the name Fleming, even for someone still young, demanded a degree of respect.

  Danny was a couple of years older than Pauline and had started his career as a shoplifter or doing occasional drug deliveries for the family business. He was a Fleming in looks as well as career choice, touching six feet by the time he was eighteen. His shoulders were filling out and he walked like someone who owned the streets – or at least would do some day. Cocky and hard, he wore his hair marine short over a good-looking face that few of the women in his world could ignore.

  The problem with Danny Fleming was that he didn’t give a fuck for anyone but himself, and that was typed into his DNA so no one was going to change or save him; his sole aim in life was to get as much as he could as quickly as he could.

  He’d persisted with Pauline, but she’d managed to pretend that she wasn’t interested; it was pretence because, despite what she’d known and what everyone had told her, Danny Fleming had stirred something in her that she couldn’t quite explain. When he’d tried to chat her up, giving her that sardonic grin he practised in the mirror, she had felt her legs shake; it had frightened and intrigued her at the same time. He was a predator and had read her body language perfectly. He’d known he could wait and his chance would come.

  When he was with his team, he’d promised them it was only a matter of time. ‘Just wait, it’ll happen. I’ll make that stuck-up bitch regret knocking a Fleming back.’

  He was patient, and when the time came he was as good as his word. Pauline’s friends had arranged a party for the end of term and, better still, there was an empty flat where one set of parents were away for the night. Some beers had been arranged, nothing too dangerous, but the problem was that Danny boy got to hear about it and decided to invite himself. Who was going to stop him?

  It had only taken a couple of drinks and all of Pauline’s defences had come down. Danny had introduced her to vodka and she’d never been able to make much sense of the rest of the night. She’d woken up the next morning as if she’d burst through the surface of a dark pool, her heart banging against her chest.

  It was the first of many panic attacks, and when she’d looked round she’d found Danny Fleming lying next to her, both of them naked. She’d been sore and worried about her mother and father, who would be frantic and probably walking the streets looking for her, and she’d realised that whatever she did – even if she tried to lie – they would know that something bad had walked into the life of their only child.

  Fleming had woken up and grinned. ‘What a fuckin’ night! You were away with it.’

  He’d known she probably remembered nothing, and his grin had widened at the thought of what he’d done to her. He couldn’t wait to meet up with the team, give them the full story, all his little moves included. Naturally he’d add a bit on that she loved it and couldn’t get enough, but that’s how it was with women. She’d seemed upset, but he’d supposed that was natural and he’d decided to give her another turn before he pushed off to the streets. She’d tried to stop him but he’d been having none of that. She just hadn’t the will to fight, too weakened by alcohol and shame, so she could only lie back as Danny Fleming groaned on top of her and started the process of destroying her future and her dreams.

  As she lifted herself from the toilet, Pauline thought back to how quickly she’d self-destructed. After that first morning, she’d gone back to her parents, and although they’d been frightened and upset, they’d forgiven her – but that had been the easy part. When they’d found out where she’d been and whom she’d been with, the certainty that had always been Pauline’s future, and theirs, seemed threatened for the first time. She’d been fine for a few days, but it was as if Danny himself was a drug – selfish and dangerous – and when she’d realised that she’d survived that night, she’d become excited at the thought of what had happened. She would have to go back and try a bit more, see what it was like to break the rules that had bound her life so tightly.

  Danny had enjoyed breaking her up bit by bit, and of course part of it was that she had something he could never have, and his natural desire was to take it away. When he was bored with the sex, he’d introduced her to her first experience of smack. That initial rush that took her somewhere Danny’s rough fumbling never could, and she wanted more. Once she’d stolen the money that her parents had saved, Danny had explained to her why her only option was the street if she wanted to pay off her drug debts.

  She looked in the mirror at the face that was ten years older than her age; the eyes that had once sparkled with light were dull and the whites tinged with a yellow edge. Her hair was darker and the sharp edges of her face had blurred, but despite all that she still had a look, faded though it might be, and some of the punters kept coming back to her. What she needed was a fix to keep the nausea at bay for a while. First things first, she had to spend time cleaning herself up. She did the occasional freebie for a guy who worked at the local swimming pool and would wash and shower there before tracking down her dealer. Eighty notes from the previous night would keep her going for a couple of days, as long as some horrible fucker didn’t rip her off, but that was a risk of the trade.

  Pauline thought briefly about her parents. Sometimes she would wait until it was dark and just watch the light in their windows. She never saw them; she lived most of her life in the night. Going back was impossible now – she’d taken all they had but would die rather than let them see how far she’d fallen.

  She knew that they would have loved grandchildren but couldn’t even do that for them: she’d aborted twice and was no longer capable. During the brief moments she did consider her life or what it meant, she realised that she was completely alone, and would stay that way until she injected a bad deal or some half-mad punter decided on the ultimate sanction.

  Dressing quickly, she pulled the door behind her as she headed for the pool and decided she’d go out on the street as soon as it got dark.

  At the same time Pauline Johansson was washing the previous night’s misery from her body, the man who would beat her unconscious later that nigh
t was at his gym, working hard on his arms and shoulders. He’d always liked to work out, was proud of his shape and liked the vain atmosphere of the most expensive gym in the city. He caught a thirty-something woman giving him the look – and why not? Everything about him spoke of vanity, down to the trainers that he’d bought because they were the most expensive rather than the most practical.

  As he pushed the barbell over his head he smiled back at the woman, who wore a wedding ring but gave off all the right signals. However, he would not make any moves here – he wanted to get onto the streets and find someone to entertain. He’d travelled the country for months picking up girls from the street and getting used to inflicting pain. He’d done enough to be sure of his next actions; it was time to step up the game. Some lucky girl was going to meet him tonight and life would never be quite the same for her.

  After his shower and sauna, he pulled on a crisp new shirt, then an Armani suit and admired his reflection in the full-length mirror. What surprised him was that he enjoyed what he was doing to the women he pulled off the street. That hadn’t been the reason behind the plan, but he was good at it and knew exactly what he was doing. There were still those flashbulb moments of reality, when he remembered that in almost all other things he was a failure. He had money, all the chances in life, but his plan was helping to block out the truth. Everything was set; but first he would have dinner.

  10

  The winter sun was just struggling above the city skyline as the MCT gathered for their morning conference. The buzz increased; as always, the banter would start, and there would be the outbreaks of laughter at the stories of overnight drinks or the latest rumour on who was doing what to who. In other rooms, analysts and intelligence officers had been putting together summaries of events from across the force, and where they were of interest from further afield.

  Harkins looked round at the faces filling the room and wondered which ones would emerge as stars. They would rise to the top quickly, and he’d be there to put a hand on their shoulder before they made the same mistakes he had. In his day he had got away with stretching the rules to breaking point, but the world had changed and the days of closed ranks were over. This was his last job, and he was going to do all he could to leave something behind that would be worth remembering.

  He smiled, thinking of his early days, where the morning conferences had been carried out in a fog of smoke and hangovers. This new breed were a lot fitter and subject to more control, but they were human and still capable of making the mistakes that had gone before. He remembered his first sergeant doling out words of wisdom: ‘Drink, women and mishandling other people’s property are what’ll cause you the biggest problems, son. The first two will only cost your health and marriage. The third one will cost your job.’

  He was right, and Harkins had taken his share of the first two but took pride in the fact that he’d never taken a penny that wasn’t his. He lived under the code of ‘noble cause’, which meant that there were certain areas where you could commit wrongdoing or break the law to get the right people put away. However, taking money or property was still a crime. It was just doing what had to be done. That was the code and that’s how he played it.

  He really needed a cigarette and wished the conference was over, but it was part of modern policing and everyone had to be kept in some kind of corporate loop – which he thought was just a form of thick make-up to keep the image makers happy.

  He looked round and watched Grace Macallan sip her coffee while she skimmed through reports from the previous night. She looked like she was settling in, and although this was just the start, the team were taking to her, and he liked the way she carried off the role. She had a reserve and would never be one of the ‘boys’, but whenever someone wanted to speak to her, she had time, and a half-smile that warmed her face when it happened. Being good in her role was a constant balancing act, and the trick was to keep some space so that if arses had to be kicked then she was entitled to do it.

  The team was brought to attention when O’Connor burst into the room. He didn’t do ‘quietly entering’ and true to form he walked in and controlled the place immediately. Harkins and Macallan looked across at each other and smiled in silent applause at the way O’Connor projected his image to both the high and low in the world he owned.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I know you all want to get out and about so let’s keep this to the point. We’ll try and keep these conferences short and relevant and the form will be that DCI Macallan will present the relevant information prepared by the intelligence office. If there are requests for assistance or updates from our own jobs, that’ll be done once the DCI has done her part. Any questions?’

  Only a fool would have asked a question at that point, and Harkins had already warned a few suspects to shut the fuck up till the adults were finished. Macallan ran through the bread and butter then the more unusual incidents or crimes. She had marked up the ones that might need a bit of extra attention and Pauline Johansson was near the top.

  ‘There was a serious attack on a known prostitute last night down in Leith. We’re still waiting on the full extent of her injuries but it looks like a punter worked her over with some form of blunt instrument. This is more than a simple beating – the medics said she looked like she’d been through a grinder, and at the very least we’re talking about lifelong disfigurement and who knows what damage to the brain.’

  Macallan looked round the office; she had their attention and most of the men and women in the room could visualise what exactly this meant. They’d all been up close and personal with wrecked human bodies.

  ‘Hopefully, this’ll be cleared up quickly by the local CID. There’s a team working on it at the moment, and although it’s unlikely she’ll prove fatal, it’s as bad as it can be. We’ll keep an eye on it and if there’s any request for assistance that’ll need to be put through to Mr O’Connor.’ O’Connor nodded and let Macallan carry on.

  ‘It may be pure coincidence but the intelligence office has picked up reports that there seem to have been a number of serious attacks on prostitutes in other parts of the country, although not on this scale. However, there are some features that look similar and this’ll be researched just in case there’s a pattern forming. None of the attacks have been fatal.’

  She ran through the other matters of interest then came to the highlights from other areas of the country. ‘There is one that may well involve us at some stage and I think Mick will comment when I’m finished. An ethnic Chinese couple were killed during a tie-up job in Glasgow. The murder squad aren’t sure why it went as far as it did but the couple involved were almost unrecognisable. Now I can run through the script but I’ve just joined the force and don’t know the history that might involve us in this case, so I’ll hand over to Mick.’

  Harkins shuffled some papers in front of him but didn’t need a script – he knew the history quite well. It had been a long-running sore in the force.

  ‘It’s possible that there’s no connection but I doubt that. For years we’ve had a team working from this force specialising in break-ins and the occasional home-invasion job, usually on restaurateurs and in a number of cases from the Chinese community. It’s been happening for around fifteen years, and there’s never been a conviction.’

  Harkins had O’Connor’s full attention. He could spot an opportunity when it came and this story had all the ingredients he needed.

  ‘The main guy is Billy Drew and a few of you will have come across him over the years. I’ve known Billy since he left the army, where he’d a good service record in the Paras, and to be fair he was a likeable character in his own way. He went back to his roots and ended up as part of a housebreaking team and they were good, very professional, and Billy made them even more so. However, he learned a hard lesson because I ran a good informant at the time, and eventually we rounded them up. I remember him telling me that was the last time he’d take a fall because of a grass. He did his time and he was righ
t – he’s never been caught again. He worked on his own when he came out and never went in with a big team again. After a few years he brought in Colin Jack, who was part of his old team and big mates with Billy. We’ve never been able to lay a glove on them since, and they do the jobs like a military operation. Over the years Bill’s turned into a nutjob, and his father went the same way. Runs in the family.’

  O’Connor interrupted. ‘Mick, can you do me a summary of this when we finish the conference.’

  Harkins’ brow lowered at thought of more paperwork but he continued, ‘We don’t know how Billy targets his victims but he seems to spend a lot of time researching the jobs concerned. What he does to beat us seems remarkably simple, but he leaves a bit of time between jobs and never does more than one operation in the same region, at least not for a considerable time. In other words, he’ll wait till we’ve moved on to the next problem and then he’ll travel to the other end of the country to do the next one. He leaves almost nothing on forensics and no DNA. He studies police methods and is ultra careful. He only goes for cash, which we can do almost nothing with if we recover any, and only occasionally will he take jewellery, which he moves on within twenty-four hours.’

  O’Connor interrupted again. ‘So how do we know it’s him, Mick? Surely there must be more than one team doing this. I remember him myself but never dealt with him personally.’

  Harkins continued without answering. ‘What we have is enough to say it’s down to him but not enough for an arrest and conviction. He’s been pulled in a few times but he looks at the wall and won’t even give his name. As I said, he knows how we work. What we do know is that he’s been spotted near a number of the jobs before they happen – but that’s not evidence on its own. The other thing we have is he has a brother who’s basically a halfwit and likes a drink. He’s opened his mouth to informants but again not enough to get us an arrest. So the problem’s been that he targets restaurateurs who in some cases don’t like to report what’s been stolen in case their friendly IR officer takes an interest. The forces, including ourselves, do a cursory investigation, move on and forget.’