Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

She knocked politely on the door to the sitting room and was beckoned in to see Deans sitting in the armchair, a pile of books by his side and his left hand running fretfully through his reddish hair. He looked up expectantly at her entrance.

  ‘DC Corrieri. Do you have any news?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. There’s nothing happening.’

  The man’s face fell and he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘I was just hoping . . . Your colleague refuses to tell me anything. But I need to know what’s happening with Bradley. Surely you people must be closer to finding him by now.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, Mr Deans. We’ll find Peter Bradley sooner rather than later.’

  Deans’ fist pounded into the arm of his chair.

  ‘That’s not good enough. Two people are dead. I’m . . . I’m scared.’

  Three people are dead, Corrieri thought. And perhaps if you hadn’t been a coward and an arsehole, then all three deaths could have been avoided, starting with the girl on the lake. However, she knew her opinions didn’t matter and they were certainly not what Deans wanted to hear. She had, she reminded herself, at least to appear to be neutral.

  ‘I understand that, Mr Deans. You have round-the-clock protection. Your family has been moved. Peter Bradley is being pursued. We are doing all we can after a . . . late start in trying to find him.’

  Deans’ mouth opened, then reluctantly closed again.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right but I’m still worried. I think Paddy Bradley knew my sister lived in Aberdeen. I know it was a long time ago but if he remembers . . .’

  ‘Mr Deans. I know you’re anxious but I really don’t think Bradley, even if it is him behind this, will think they’ve gone to Aberdeen.’

  ‘Anxious? I’m absolutely terrified,’ he shouted, his composure gone again. ‘It’s all very well for you to say he won’t know they’ve gone there but they’re not your family; they’re mine and it is my duty to protect them from all this.’

  Corrieri just looked back at Deans, anxious not to agitate him any further. She reached for her usual mantra in situations where she struggled for answers, the one the CID room laughed at her for: What Would Narey Do? Keep him calm, feed him any old baloney – whatever it took to stop him from losing control.

  ‘Mr Deans, if it puts your mind at rest, I will speak to the officers from Grampian and get them to increase their tours past your sister’s house. I will also speak to DS Narey and get a progress report on Bradley. Will that help?’

  Deans smiled weakly and let his head fall briefly into his hands. ‘Yes. Thank you. It’s a weight off my mind. I know you and your colleagues don’t approve of me but I’ve only ever done what I thought was right for my family.’

  Corrieri nodded at him. ‘I’ll call my sergeant now.’

  She ducked out of the room, wondering whether to go ahead with a call to Narey or not. The DS might not thank her for a call that was pandering to Deans’ insecurities. On the other hand, pretending to call her would leave Corrieri a hostage to fortune if something went wrong and she had given Deans false information. She’d make the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  The echo on the line and the repetitive rush of passing traffic made it obvious that Narey was driving. Corrieri’s guilt at phoning her immediately doubled.

  ‘Oh sorry, Sarge. I didn’t realise you were on the road.’

  ‘It’s okay; I’m hands free. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m with Deans and he wants to know what’s happening with Bradley. Deans is terrified he’s going to go after his wife and daughter. I wanted to give him something to put his mind at rest.’

  A rumble of passing thunder suggested something large, maybe an articulated lorry, had gone by Narey’s car. The line was crammed with the din and it took a few seconds longer before Narey could make herself heard above the noise.

  ‘Well, either he or you must be psychic. We’ve got something on Bradley at last. He’s at a travellers’ camp in Dumbarton and we’re going to try to pick him up from there. He knows we’ve been asking about him though, so I’m just hoping to Christ he hasn’t gone on the run.’

  Another artic rumbled by, causing Narey to pause and repeat herself.

  ‘I’m taking a team over there when I get back to Glasgow. Shouldn’t be much more than an hour. Meantime you sit tight on Deans . . . I said, sit tight on Deans . . . Don’t give him details; just tell him we are on to Bradley. Any worries, then get McCaughey back out of his bed and tell him I said he has to be there too. And tell him . . . I said, tell him I don’t want to hear any of his whining.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘And Julia? Keep an eye and an ear on that creep Deans. I’ve got a feeling there are still things he hasn’t told us. Let him think you’re on his side. Okay?’

  ‘Sarge.’

  When Corrieri got back to the living room, she found Deans pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, obviously anxious to hear the result of her call to Narey.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s some good news, Mr Deans. I spoke to DS Narey and she says they have a definite lead on Bradley.’

  ‘Well, that’s fantastic. When are they picking him up?’

  ‘Soon, hopefully. But there’s no guarantee, Mr Deans. There’s a chance Bradley knows we’re on to him and he may yet do a runner.’

  ‘What? How can he know? Where is he? Is he anywhere near my family?’

  ‘No, sir. We think he’s at a gypsy traveller site at Dumbarton – nowhere near Aberdeen.’

  Deans hands flew to his head again and his anxiety was clearly greater than ever. He paced more quickly and scrabbled at his hair.

  ‘That’s not good enough. Not good enough. I can’t believe you people have let him know you’re coming after him. I want officers at my sister’s house. Do you hear me? Once every few hours isn’t good enough. Phone her back. Phone her back – now!’

  ‘Sit down, sir,’ Corrieri ordered him. ‘If you sit down and show me you can be calm, then I’ll phone DS Narey again.’

  Deans stopped still in his tracks, retreated to his armchair and forced himself into it.

  ‘Please,’ he begged her.

  Corrieri closed the door behind her and made her way into the other front room, where she drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer that Narey wouldn’t think her completely useless for not being able to keep the man under control.

  ‘Yes?’ her voice sounded impatient.

  ‘Sorry, Sarge, it’s . . .’

  ‘Yes, Julia? What now?’

  ‘It’s Deans again, Sarge. I’m sorry but he’s insisting that we up the patrols round his sister’s house in Aberdeen. He wants you to guarantee it personally.’

  ‘Chrissake. That man has got a bloody cheek.’

  ‘I know, Sarge, but he’s bricking it. I think he’s becoming paranoid. And you did say I should let him think I was on his side.’

  Narey sighed.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Okay, tell him . . .’

  ‘What the hell?’

  Narey could hear the sound of breaking glass in the Deans house even from her end of the receiver.

  ‘What was that Julia?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sarge. I’ll need to go . . .’

  Her reply was cut off by a muffled banging, swiftly followed by a scream and a roar of pain that came from a man’s voice further inside the house.

  ‘Julia,’ Narey shouted down the phone. ‘What the hell is happening there? Julia?’

  ‘It’s Deans. He’s being attacked. I’m going . . .’

  The next thing Narey could hear was the noise of a door being kicked open and slamming against a wall. She heard Corrieri call out twice.

  ‘No. No!’

  Then Narey was subjected to the sickening sound of something heavy and hard being battered against DC Julia Corrieri.

  Then, worse still, she heard nothing.

  CHAPTER 51

  The line went dead a
nd all Narey could do was pray the connection was the only thing that had done so. She took a quick look in her mirrors and flung the car across two lanes onto the hard shoulder. Horns blared and brakes screeched but she didn’t have time to care.

  She punched the numbers she needed into the handset and drummed her fingers impatiently, waiting for someone to pick up. Anyone would have done but she was still relieved to hear DI Addison’s voice. He began to speak but she shouted over him.

  ‘It’s Narey. You need to get as many cars as you can to Deans’ house in Vancouver Road – now. And a couple of ambulances as well. Deans has been attacked . . . and so has Julia Corrieri.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. How do you know this?’

  ‘I was on the phone to her when she was hit. Look, it doesn’t matter now, Addy. Time for that later. Just get people over there. Please.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way back down the road from Dundee. I’m a bit north of Stirling. Let me know as soon as you know anything.’

  ‘Will do. Get here when you can but keep your car on the road.’

  Addison hung up the phone and immediately dialled Control to get the nearest cars on their way to Scotstoun, closely followed by ambulances and as many CID, uniforms and support staff as he could raise. He bolted from his office, stopping just long enough to tell his startled secretary where he was going.

  ‘Get a hold of Detective Superintendent Temple and let him know that an officer has been seriously injured in an incident in Vancouver Road. Tell him the incident is ongoing and I’m on my way there now.’

  ‘But sir,’ she protested. ‘Your injury. You’re not supposed to . . .’

  ‘To hell with that. Just tell him where I’ve gone.’

  Addison was halfway to Deans’ house when the first call from the scene came through on his Airwave terminal. The note of tension in the caller’s voice put him on edge immediately.

  ‘Sir. It’s PC Whitfield. I’m in the premises at Vancouver Road. I was told to call you when . . .’

  ‘Yes. What’s happening? How is Corrieri?’

  ‘DC Corrieri is unconscious, sir. She has been beaten over the head and there’s a lot of blood. We’re still waiting on the ambulance.’

  ‘What about Deans?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The householder. How is he?’

  ‘There’s no one else here, sir. There are signs of a break-in in the kitchen, glass all over the floor and footprints round the back door. There’s blood there too, sir. And a trail of it leading towards the front door.’

  ‘Shit. What about Deans’ car? It’s a blue . . .’ Addison struggled to remember what Narey had told him. He was rusty after so many bloody hours spent writing damn reports. ‘A blue Focus. It should be parked outside.’

  ‘No, sir. There’s nothing there except DC Corrieri’s pool car. Although . . . there is a clear patch of ground suggesting something has driven off recently.’

  ‘Shit, shit, shit. Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Get the paramedics to her as soon as they arrive.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Addison switched off the call and booted his foot harder to the floor, his siren demanding a clear path through the mid-afternoon traffic. Being a Saturday in the run-up to Christmas, there was no shortage of people making their way to or from the shops and progress was much slower than he would have liked even once he had bludgeoned his way onto the Clydeside Expressway. What should have been a fifteen-minute drive turned into twenty and he was just hoping the ambulance got there in half that time.

  As he turned off Norse Road into Vancouver Road, he allowed himself to breathe again when he saw uniformed cops already blocking off the access points and a fleet of emergency vehicles on the scene. He parked on the first available bit of road, taking care that he didn’t obstruct the ambulance’s exit, and ran towards the house. He was halfway down the path when he was met by two paramedics in green coveralls coming the other way carrying a stretcher. Corrieri’s head was already in a neck brace, an oxygen mask over her mouth and her face streaked with blood. One eye was closed over and the other was covered in a swathe of bandages.

  ‘How is she?’ Addison demanded from the first of the two paramedics.

  The man shook his head gravely.

  ‘Not good. Severe blunt force trauma. Response signs are poor. We’re taking her to Gartnavel now. We’ve got to go.’

  Addison nodded them on their way and hurried down the path, seeing the bulky, white-suited figure of Campbell Baxter, the scenes of crime manager from the SPSA, standing just inside the doorway.

  ‘Suit up,’ Baxter demanded, holding out a set of white coveralls, shoes and gloves for Addison to put on.

  ‘Jesus, I don’t have time for this shit,’ he complained, putting the gear on anyway. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘We’re not long here,’ Baxter told him, clearly irritated by Addison’s reaction. ‘We managed to get a few positional shots of DC Corrieri before the paramedics removed her. There’s no sign of the object used to strike her and we’re working on the basis that the assailant took it with him.’

  ‘Did the neighbours see anything?’

  ‘You will need to ask your officers that but I believe the answer is no. The houses opposite are gardens rather than front entrances so any witnesses would need to be from the homes on either side.’

  ‘And Deans?’

  ‘The blood in the kitchen is not DC Corrieri’s so we’re working on the basis that it’s the householder’s until we get confirmation. The blood trail that leads to the front door and then along the path you have just contaminated is the same blood as the victim of the kitchen attack.’

  ‘So Deans has been abducted?’

  ‘DI Addison, you know I can’t . . .’

  ‘It looks that way, guv, yes.’

  DC Mike McCaughey, recalled from his bed, had appeared over Baxter’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ve already given his car registration to Control and they’re on the case now. Do you think it’s Peter Bradley?’

  Addison blew out a puff of irritated air.

  ‘He’d have to be favourite. Get cars over to the travellers’ site in Dumbarton and interview every fucker there. Jesus. Okay, show me where this guy broke in and then someone get me Narey on the phone. She’s the one who started this mess.’

  As soon as Narey had ended the call to Addison, she put her foot on the accelerator, bursting down the hard shoulder and pounding her horn until she had enough speed and room to pull back onto the road. She switched to the outside lane at the first opportunity and flattened it.

  Her head was racing, too, with thoughts of Deans, Bradley and, above all, Corrieri. She kept hearing the sickening sound of something heavy being smashed against something fragile, followed by the worrying sound of silence before the call was cut off. Corrieri was her DC, they worked well together and liked each other. Corrieri was her responsibility.

  Narey looked at the clock and the speedometer and pushed her foot harder against the accelerator in a fruitless attempt at more speed. She bashed her fist against the steering wheel in frustration, unintentionally beeping the horn but glad of the noise and the signal of intent to other drivers. Seeing it was nearly half past the hour, she switched on the radio too, seeking Radio Scotland and some news from Scotstoun.

  There was no mention of it, the news being led, as it had been for the past week, by the extreme weather. Road closures, school closures and accidents were the order of the day yet again. There were knee-jerk calls for investment in new machinery to keep the roads clear and opposition politicians demanding the head of the Transport Minister because lorries were being parked up on the M8. There was good news too though, according to the newsreader: the arctic weather had brought an opportunity for skiing to those who could get to the slopes and there was the promise of fun and games on Scotland’s only lake.

  Narey’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the Lake of Menteith and the confirmation that it
had frozen over sufficiently to allow people onto the ice. Apparently the public were descending on the lake from all over central Scotland and impromptu curling matches were already taking place. Narey knew she was breathing heavier and her mind was working overtime.

  She jumped at the sound of her phone and veered slightly across the lane, skirting dangerously into the rutted ice and snow that fringed the road before pulling the car back into a straight line.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Addison. Rachel, Corrieri is in a bad way. She’s being taken to hospital now. I’ll let you know more when I get it.’

  ‘Shit, shit. What about Deans?’

  ‘He’s gone. It looks like he’s been taken in his own car. We’re guessing it’s Bradley. We’ve had one sighting of the car heading out of town along Great Western Road.’

  There was silence from Narey’s end of the phone.

  ‘Rachel? You still there?’

  ‘Yes. I think I know where he’s going.’

  CHAPTER 52

  Narey took the Dunblane junction onto the A820, swerving past a car that was dawdling in the outside lane and pulling straight out in front of another as she crossed the bridge over the motorway towards Callander. The country road was narrow and winding and she prayed she didn’t get stuck behind a tractor. She hammered her foot to the floor, only reluctantly slowing as she neared the village of Doune.

  She was still doing fifty as she hit the village’s constricted streets, alarmed to see schoolkids strolling along the pavement and running across the road. One wee boy dashed out twenty yards in front of her and she hit her horn and her brake together, causing the tyres to squeal and locals to glare at the car. She hit her horn again, continuously this time, as she barged her way at speed through the village’s main street with its collection of small shops, forcing pedestrians to pay attention to her and stay the hell out of her way.

  A sign forced her to take a right at the village cross and she raced down a narrow one-way street past little whitewashed, turreted houses until the road rose again, a pub to her right and a churchyard on her left. A car was sitting at the give-way sign, waiting patiently to turn left but Narey didn’t have time for such a luxury. She went inside the car onto the wrong side of the road and, horn blaring again, barrelled her way into the traffic and onto the road towards Callander, finally able to give in to the pressure that had been screaming from within to accelerate fully again.