The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “See you later.”

  ***

  Lucy Thompson and Dr Roy Dent were waiting for the two detectives when they arrived at the mortuary. As there was no way to corroborate Mehmet Ashad’s identity, his body would be left intact until someone could be found to make a formal identification.

  Dr Thompson took the lead on the investigation of the body of Martin Jenkinson. She had completed the initial external investigation when the door of the viewing room opened and Assistant Chief Constable Ian Dunsmore walked in. He cut an imposing figure at over six feet tall, his broad chest covered by his uniform, with a line of medal ribbons decorating it. A uniformed assistant who was carrying a notepad accompanied him.

  “Sorry I’m late, folks,” he said loudly.

  “Sir,” Russell acknowledged him while wondering what he was doing there.

  As if reading Russell’s thoughts he said, “This one’s a bit too public for us not to be fully in the loop. I thought I would pop down and see what the docs have to say, Tom.” His voice boomed in the limited space of the tiny room.

  Russell knew that Dunsmore had been in the military and at times it appeared that he thought he was still on a parade ground as his volume never seemed to dip below thunderous.

  “We’ve not long started, sir. Dr Thompson has just finished the external examination.”

  “A.C.C. Dunsmore and this is my assistant, Sergeant John Gordon.” He said formally offering his hand to Helen Clarkson.

  She shook it while replying, “D.S. Clarkson, sir.” She then acknowledged the sergeant with a nod.

  “Excellent. Carry on doctor,” he leaned towards the microphone that connected the room to the autopsy suite. Russell was pretty sure Thompson would have been able to hear him through the glass without the help of the intercom. Thompson returned to announcing her findings as Dent noted the details. As she worked through the established procedure, she found Mr Jenkinson to have been in good health before that fatal moment of chance robbed him of his life. She confirmed her theory from the scene that the knife had cut through his liver and that it was the cause of his death.

  Dent took the lead for the post mortem of Jordan Callender. Russell noted that the pathologist was almost effusive, at least by the standards of his normally humourless character. When he removed the young man’s ribcage to look at the internal organs, there was admiration in his tone as he said, “The heart has been punctured with a single stab between the fourth and fifth rib, piercing the left ventricle and killing the subject immediately. It would have taken a very precise blow to achieve this with a single action.”

  Russell asked, “Are we looking at someone with medical knowledge?”

  “It’s poss…” Thompson tried to answer but Dent interrupted her.

  “It’s more likely that it is someone trained by the military in hand-to-hand combat.”

  Thompson gave him a withering look. “Can we continue please?” she said abruptly. Professional differences weren’t going to be aired in front of the police officers but it was obvious that Thompson would have words with Dent later.

  There was no sign that Dent understood his colleague’s feelings as he returned his focus to the cadaver.

  Russell thought there was evidently tension between the two doctors and the whole short cameo was revealing. They continued their work but even through the glass, Russell could feel how icy their relationship was.

  By one-thirty, one of the mortuary technicians was stitching together the pieces of the unfortunate student.

  “How are we doing with the investigation?” Dunsmore asked when the post mortem was over.

  Russell briefed him on what they had learned so far and it was obvious that the senior man was less than happy.

  “It’s a bad one, Tom. The press are bound to put two and two together about what happened ten years ago and then we’ll have the politicians crawling all over us.”

  “I understand that, sir but we can’t do anything other than to keep working the case and see what we find.”

  “OK but keep me informed.”

  “Chief Superintendent McLelland is running the case, sir.”

  “Of course, yes but you’ll make sure that he’s on top of it, won’t you?”

  Russell wasn’t sure what the A.C.C. was saying, but he wondered if Dunsmore held McLelland accountable for the failure to catch the killer after the last series of murders. “Yes, sir.”

  On the drive back to the incident room, Ellen Clarkson asked Russell more about the original crimes. He told her all that he remembered, it was a case that was etched into his memory and he could recall much of that terrible time. From the finding of the original trio of bodies through to the suicide of D.I. Newman, they were images that crawled through his nightmares like predatory spiders, preying on his weakness and taunting him with his failure. The discovery of the three bodies in George Square had only added more pain to the psychological and emotional scars of doubt and regret that he had stored. For her part, Ellen Clarkson could see how much the case was possessing Russell and she hoped that she would never let the job get to her in that way. She thought she would quit if she ever let her career overtake her life and character in that way.

  ***

  When the two detectives arrived back in the office it was obvious that something had happened; the atmosphere in the room had been dampened and Russell’s first thought was that the killer had struck again.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Andy McKinley replied, “You’ve to go in and see the chief super right away.”

  “Why? What’s so urgent?”

  “You’ll see when you get in.”

  He did as requested and when he knocked on the door of the office, the chief superintendent shouted angrily, “Come in.”

  He opened the door to find two people sitting opposite a red-faced McLelland. On the left was a rangy, thin-faced man in his mid-forties and on the right a slightly younger woman with perfectly coiffured blonde hair. They were both dressed in navy blue suits and Russell knew instinctively that they weren’t part of the Strathclyde team.

  McLelland said curtly, “This is Detective Inspector Russell.”

  The man stood up and offered his hand. “Harry Coldfield and this is my colleague Jennifer Smyth,” he said with a refined English accent.

  Russell shook each of their hands in turn, all the time wondering who these people were and what they had done to get under McLelland’s skin to the extent that he looked ready to burst.

  Russell’s answer came in the form of an announcement from McLelland. “DC.I. Coldfield and D.I. Smyth will be taking over our case.”

  “What?” Russell exclaimed.

  “They’ve come from London on the authority of the Home Secretary.”

  Russell knew what McLelland was saying. It was the discreet way of saying that they were from Special Branch and that meant that all decisions relating to the case were being taken out of the control of the Strathclyde force.

  “What the hell do you want with our case?”

  Coldfield gave a measured response. “It is a matter of national security.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Your opinion is of no consequence. We will be taking over the case. A team will arrive from London in a few hours and we will need some help from your foot soldiers but we will be running this investigation.”

  “Sir?” Russell looked to McLelland.

  “Sorry Tom, but there’s nothing we can do about this.”

  “This is bullshit. There’s nothing about this case that is relevant to what you do. This is some crazy bastard bent on revenge for God knows what reason, but it is just that.” As he was speaking, the reason they were there suddenly dawned on him. “Mehmet Ahmad. This is what this is all about, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t need to explain ourselves to you or anyone else.
You will follow orders.” Coldfield was unmoved by the anger being directed at him.

  Russell began to think out loud. “The Turkish authorities could find no trace of him. Let me guess, maybe he was a Kurd, which means he wasn’t really Turkish but Iraqi. Did you get him out to ensure that Saddam didn’t get his hands on him or was it just because you knew that you were going to bomb the hell out of his country?”

  Coldfield’s façade crumbled and he growled a warning; “You keep your little fantasies to yourself. Don’t dare repeat that outside of this room. I’ll remind you that you are bound by the Official Secrets Act in the same way we are.”

  “Bingo. Well, you can think what you want but this is nothing to do with whatever group of spooks Mr Ahmad worked for, he was just an unlucky victim of timing and circumstance. If he had arrived two minutes later he would have been a witness, not a corpse lying on a mortuary slab. You know I’m right, sir.” Once again he turned to McLelland for support.

  “Apparently our experience of this case is irrelevant, Inspector Russell. We have our orders.” McLelland’s defeated tone indicated that he would not be able to back his D.I. and that Russell should let it be.

  “Aw fuck off.” He turned and stormed out of the office. When he reached the incident room he said, “I’m going for a walk.”

  ***

  An hour later he returned and was told once again to go to McLelland’s office. This time McLelland was alone.

  “Sorry, sir,” Russell said as he took a seat, knowing that he had let down both his boss and himself.

  “I know how you feel, but when the orders come from that high up there’s nothing we can do. They don’t want you involved with the case in any way and have been asked that you be reassigned.”

  McLelland was ready for another outburst but Russell had been expecting to be removed from the case. He said simply, “Fine.”

  “That means no involvement, Tom. I know how personal this case is to you but you can’t get in the way of these people. They don’t play by the same rules that we do.”

  “All this is going to do is divert resources to a wild goose chase, while the trail for the real killer goes cold. Do they really think that Saddam Hussein is going to send an assassin dressed as a fuckin’ clown to kill a spy? I think he’s got more to worry about right now, don’t you?”

  “Tom, I am on your side honest, but it’s pointless arguing.”

  “Why won’t they listen to us? It’s obvious that this is related to a previous case, a case we have already worked.”

  “I suppose when the normal rules don’t apply to them, they begin to think they can’t be wrong. I think you’re probably right about the Iraqi angle and if that’s true they are more than a little paranoid that Hussein or his sympathisers will begin operations within Britain. They think that Mr Ahmad, or whatever he’s called, will be just the first of many. If you worked within the intelligence services, you’d probably be just as fearful.”

  “It’s nuts, they’re wasting their time. Anyway I’m going home. Send me a text to tell me where I’ve been reassigned.”

  “”I will. I’m sorry Tom.”

  Russell lifted his coat from the rack in the incident room and left without a word to any of his colleagues.

  ***

  Karen wasn’t home when Tom arrived back at their flat. Once again he stood under the shower trying to loosen yet more knots of tension that had built up since he had met Coldfield. Shower over; he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt before heading to the kitchen. He wasn’t much of a cook but he could manage to prepare a decent omelette. He chopped onions and mushrooms; the rhythm of the knife on the board was a little more frantic and angry than it would normally have been. He was already frying the ingredients in the pan when he heard the door of the flat open.

  “Hello,” Karen hollered.

  “Hello.”

  “You’re home early,” she said walking into the kitchen.

  “I’m off the case.”

  “What?”

  “The spooks from London arrived and decided it was a matter of national security.”

  “Eh?”

  “Exactly. Anyway I told them they were talking rubbish and they weren’t too happy, so I got the boot.”

  “That’s crazy, don’t they know you’ve been working this case since it started?”

  “I don’t think they believe that what happened ten years ago is the same case, they’re too busy chasing shadows.”

  “Did you make any progress with the investigation today?”

  As they sat down to dinner, Russell ran through what little he had discovered before the bombshell. When he mentioned Ellen Clarkson, Karen began to interrogate him. It was a regular part of the pattern of their relationship. Any female colleague seemed to be regarded as a threat and she would quiz him intently. After the day he had suffered he was in no mood for her irrational jealousy.

  “Karen, she’s a detective sergeant who happens to be a woman. I work with Andy McKinley who is also a detective sergeant but he happens to be a man. I’ve had a shitty day and the last thing I need is your fuckin’ paranoia.” He immediately regretted his anger but before he could apologise, Karen got up from the table and stamped away in the direction of their bedroom, leaving her omelette half eaten on the plate. Russell pushed his own plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. He knew that only part of his frustration with Karen came as a result of the day he had endured. He was becoming increasingly annoyed by her constant belief that he had a wandering eye. She had been the only woman he had looked at ever since they had started to go out together, but her own insecurity meant that she suspected him of chasing other women. For Russell, what had started as a minor irritant that he could laugh at was now a major and widening gap between them.

  He threw what was left of the omelettes into the bin and curled up on the couch, the T.V. remote in his hand. He drifted off to sleep and woke at two o’clock in the morning, with a painful neck and sticky eyes. He put the television off and went to a bed that was cold, both literally and emotionally.

  Chapter 14

  When he looked at his phone the following morning there was a text from McLelland telling him to report to Pitt Street. He guessed he was going to be told what a naughty boy he had been upsetting those important people from London.

  Before he arrived to discover his assignment, he rang Ellen Clarkson.

  “Hi Ellen, it’s Tom Russell.”

  “Oh hello, sir. Aren’t you coming in?”

  “No, I’ve been reassigned, I’m just about to find out where they’ve dumped me. Can you do me a favour?”

  “Well…” She was hesitant.

  “It’s nothing that will get you into trouble. I just want to know what the ‘Tinker, Tailor’ brigade is up to. Nothing useful probably as they’re on completely the wrong track.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Magic. I’ll give you a ring later.”

  “OK, sir.”

  There was no way that he was going to let them remove him from a case this important without a fight.

  He walked into the reception area of the H.Q. building and was asked to go up to McLelland in his regular office.

  “Are you a bad boy too?” he asked the chief when he reached his office.

  “Not quite. Look, Tom I know you’re pissed off but we have to play the hand we’ve been dealt. I’m asking you to bear with me. I want you to go to the archives…”

  Russell interrupted him. “Bloody hell, are you putting me out to pasture?”

  “No, but you have to appear to be as far from this case as possible. But the archives are quiet, you’ll have access to old files, particularly the cold case files,” he said the last bit with heavy emphasis. McLelland’s hardline approach of the previous night had softened now that he had had time to think about it.

  Russell took th
e hint. “Ah, you mean the cold case that has nothing to do with the current one.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you sure about this, sir? You’ll be in bother if the braid find out.”

  “Why? I assigned you as far from the current case as I could. The new case is a suspected assassination apparently. What harm can you possibly do in the archives?”

  Russell smiled with appreciation. McLelland was playing the political games with the skill of someone who had climbed the promotional ladder by avoiding the potential broken rungs. He had complete deniability if Russell got involved in investigating ‘The Harlequin’, while at the same time being in a position to claim the credit should the younger man find something. Russell knew that his investigative and management skills were good enough to allow him to follow McLelland up that tricky ladder but that he would never be able to navigate the bureaucratic pitfalls with the degree of skill his mentor had shown over the years.

  “I’ll try not to let you down, sir.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Did you see the newspapers?”

  “No.”

  “They’re putting together the connections, not surprisingly.”

  “It was inevitable.”

  “It just makes things more awkward if they start asking questions about how the investigation is going. Special Branch won’t want anyone knowing they’re running the show and we’ll be the fall guys when no one is caught.”

  “The perils of rank, sir,” Russell said with a sardonic smile.

  McLelland grinned back. “Aye, very good. Get out there and investigate the real case.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  ***

  Russell went straight from the meeting with McLelland to the archives where he reported to Sergeant Ken Harris. The ageing sergeant was a former detective who was coasting his way through his final months before he could collect his pension. Russell had worked with him before when they were both based in Partick. As a detective, Harris had been a very methodical and dedicated plodder. A man who would track every angle of a case until he found a lead that he would then pursue until it panned out. If that failed he would go back to the start and find another route. He was a solid analyst and was always a capable member of the team. Time and a chronic back problem had caught up with him, but he hadn’t been ready to be pensioned off due to ill health, he had wanted to be useful. Now he was tied to a desk, supervising a couple of civilian workers, in the depths of the archives where the light was fluorescent and the coffee dreadful.