The First Cut (Terrence Reid Mystery Series Book 2)

by Mary Birk

  He unclenched his fist and walked back across the grass to rejoin Henry and Allison by the railroad tracks.

  Harry popped two sticks of gum into his mouth and squinted at Allison. “This is your first dead body, isn’t it, ducks?” Chewing his gum with a little too much enthusiasm, Harry peered into her face with more amusement than concern. “You’re not looking so good, lassie. Green, almost.” Although he was actually from Dundee, Harry, chameleon-like, had adopted a broad Glaswegian accent.

  “Stuff it. I’m fine.”

  Harry widened his eyes in mock surprise at her prickly response, then shrugged, a demonic grin on his face.

  Reid shot Harry a warning look. Usually Reid was mildly amused by the banter between his detectives, but not today. “Allison, breathe through your mouth until you get your bearings.”

  She swallowed, inhaled deeply, then nodded.

  “Where was the surveillance that was supposed to be on Ramsey?”

  “Don’t know, sir. It was supposed to be DC Parsons, but it looks like he ditched it.”

  Reid frowned. “When exactly did DC Parsons leave his post?”

  “Sometime after eleven, sir,” Allison said. “According to the computer records, that’s when Parsons reported in saying that the house lights had been turned off a half hour before, and he figured the family had turned in for the night.”

  Reid shook his head, disgusted. This forced liaison with the Glasgow Criminal Investigation Division, and particularly with CID’s DI Mark Lawrence, had been nothing but trouble. Lawrence had tried to undercut Reid at every turn. No doubt the arrogant bastard would find some way to shift the blame for this mess back on Reid. “So are you saying DC Parsons left off the surveillance when the family went to bed? Ramsey was supposed to be under watch around the clock.”

  “From what I was able to winkle out of one of the other CID lads, DI Lawrence has been letting his people make a judgment call as to whether they needed to stay after Ramsey looked to be home for the night.” Allison obviously didn’t relish being the one giving Reid this news. “I guess Parsons decided to call it a night.”

  Reid tried to reconcile what he was hearing with what he knew about the young constable who had approached him several weeks ago, asking to join Reid’s team. Reid had let him know that he’d be under consideration, depending on his performance on this investigation. So why would he throw away his chance like this? “How did he explain himself?”

  “Don’t know, sir. No one’s been able to get hold of him.”

  Reid forced down the cold dread that clamped around his chest. That Parsons would abandon his duties last night and then ignore efforts to contact him made no sense. “When you get him, have him call me directly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Allison said, a little faintly. She was staring at the body again.

  Harry snapped his gum, and Allison rolled her eyes in disapproval.

  Reid gave his sergeant a mildly reproving look, not at the gum snapping, but because Harry was doing it to annoy Allison. Harry caught Reid’s look, raised his eyebrows, and gave a slight jerk of his thumb toward Allison. Reid finally realized his sergeant had been deliberately annoying Allison to distract her from being sick. And to Harry’s credit, she did look less green.

  Harry, completely serious now, said, “The local coppers say he did it on purpose. Got soused and plunked himself down across the railroad tracks.” He pointed to an empty bottle of whiskey that looked to have rolled a few feet down the embankment. “What do you think, guv? Drunken accident or a desperate act of remorse?”

  Reid didn’t answer, just frowned, pacing closer to where the mutilated body lay across the tracks. He let his eyes slowly assess the entire site, taking in the access road, the trees and other thick vegetation screening the small grassy knoll on the other side of the tracks, and the location of the Mercedes, while he analyzed the possible scenarios that might have led to Ramsey’s end.

  He looked at Allison. “Your thoughts, DC?”

  The young woman’s face blushed a wild pink, which was a marked improvement, Reid decided. He could tell Allison was trying desperately to think of an insightful comment to make. “I’m not sure, sir. Maybe suicide? Or it could have been an accident, I guess.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. Suicide, I guess.”

  Reid let his gaze wander from the car to the tracks and back again.

  “You said he was pretty shook when he realized the money he was helping launder was being used to finance terrorists,” Harry said. “Maybe he just couldn’t live with himself.”

  Reid made a noncommittal sound, still deep in thought. After a moment, he looked over at Allison. “Who found the body?”

  Allison gestured at an elderly man, thin and almost certainly hung over, who stood away from the scene, quietly waiting, an old woolen jacket wrapped around him and a red plaid cap with ear muffs keeping his head warm.

  “Have you taken his statement?”

  “Yes, sir. He was walking home after a night out with his mates. He lives just past there.” She indicated an area away from the tracks where the trees were thick. “After he found Mr. Ramsey’s body, he went home and rang the local police. They brought him back here so he could show them where the body was.”

  “You can let him go if you’ve got his contact information.” Reid glanced at the old man, registering the bowed shoulders and uncertain posture. “Make sure he has a lift home if he wants one.”

  “Right.” She moved away to speak to the old man. Reid watched, saw the man shake his head at Allison’s offer and then shamble across the field to the trees.

  Harry picked at his teeth with a piece of dried grass, but his attention was on Allison who was hurrying back toward them. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be the poor sod who found him. At least we knew what to expect when we showed up. Stumbling across a sight like this had to suck.”

  Reid ignored the comment. His voice low, he said, “For Ramsey to want to kill himself, he’d have to either be unable to face his involvement being made public, or be overcome with guilt. But he’d already figured out the spin he’d take to excuse his involvement and he didn’t blame himself. His story was that he was a victim as well.”

  Harry made a face. “Right. Like he didn’t suspect. What did he think the money was being used for? To help starving orphans?”

  Reid shrugged. He had learned never to underestimate the ability of people not to see what they didn’t want to see.

  “An accident, then?” Harry asked. “Passed out while taking a piss?”

  “Then what was he doing here in the first place? This road goes nowhere, and he’s lived around here long enough to know that.”

  “What if it wasn’t guilt or shame? What if it was fear? Maybe he decided killing himself would be less painful than getting crosswise with Von Zandt. When you’ve let the devil get you by the balls, it may get a mite uncomfortable when he twists them. Could be Ramsey decided offing himself was preferable to what he was going to get from Von Zandt.”

  Reid didn’t mind his conclusions being questioned. But Harry hadn’t been there, hadn’t talked to Ramsey, hadn’t seen the man’s outraged demeanor. Ramsey wasn’t a man who let himself be beaten by anything or anyone. Something wasn’t right.

  He leaned toward the mutilated and mangled body to get a closer look at the torso. Then he gave a low, thoughtful whistle, and squeezed his eyes to better focus. When Reid was sure, he gestured at Harry to come closer.

  Harry obliged, squatted down, and looked at where Reid was pointing. “Ah, bugger me, but I think you’re right.”

  Reid straightened up. “We were meant to think suicide, or at a stretch, a drunken accident. The killer must have expected the train would make more of a mess than it did.”

  Allison poked her head from behind Harry, then cleared her throat as if preparing to speak. She didn’t say anything, but Reid felt her question.

  “See, Allison? Just there.” He pointed to what had been the body’s chest. “I’d
be surprised if the medical examiner doesn’t tell us that that hole in his chest was made by a sharp instrument. He was stabbed and then dragged to, or thrown on, the tracks. Already dead when the train hit him, I’d say. Harry, have Ramsey’s car towed in and get the SOCOs to go over it carefully. Whoever killed him may have been in the car with him.”

  Harry gestured toward the Scene of Crime operatives milling around taking photographs and samples. “Already gave the order, guv. And I told them to check for tracks to see if another vehicle was here.”

  “Good.” Reid said. “Either Ramsey met the killer here, or the killer drove here with Ramsey, dead or alive. Had to have been picked up by someone else afterwards or had transport hidden somewhere nearby.” He studied the desolate area around the tracks. “Make sure they look for motorbike and bicycle tracks as well. Also, for any signs the body was dragged.”

  Harry nodded.

  “And get warrants to search Ramsey’s office and home. I want you to personally take charge of looking at all of the electronics—computers, mobile phones, everything. Quickly, before Von Zandt figures out a way to get there before we do.”

  “On that, guv. I’m sure Ramsey’s been holding out on us. The bugger had to have more info on the accounts they were using than he admitted.” Harry’s freckled face folded into a grimace, a sign of concentrated thought. “And if he’s got it, we’ll find it.”

  “I want anything that could help us find who killed Ramsey, whether it leads to Von Zandt or not. But most of all, I want Von Zandt.”

  “Understood. All I need is one small end of the string to follow it somewhere else. Eventually we’ll get there.” Harry’s self-confidence, justified as it was by the results he customarily got, gave Reid a small measure of hope.

  Reid was suddenly anxious to leave. “I’m heading out now to update the Chief Constable. Let the local police know they’re to make no statements to the press or anyone else about this, and that we’ll be handling the investigation ourselves. I want the details kept quiet unless and until I decide to release them.”

  Harry held up a hand in acquiescence and headed toward where the scene of crime operatives were setting up.

  On his way back to his car, Reid reached inside his coat pocket. Pressing the beads of his rosary together so hard he thought his fingers might bleed, he numbly marched the Latin words of the accompanying prayers through his mind.

  At least the day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  Chapter 3

  CID HAD MANY superbly competent detectives, but, in Reid’s opinion, Detective Inspector Mark Lawrence was not one of them. DI Lawrence was arrogant and lazy. Unfortunately, he was also politically connected within the police force.

  Reid had thought he’d minimized the damage Lawrence could cause by assigning the detective inspector parts of the operation that he was least likely to foul up. Something as simple as the round-the-clock surveillance of Richard Ramsey, a man who had a fairly regular pattern of activity, should have been easy. Even if Reid hadn’t given explicit instructions that the surveillance on Ramsey was to be continuous, giving someone as junior as DC Parsons the discretion to make the decision to suspend surveillance was inexcusable. Any young officer would, no doubt, rather be tucked up in his own bed than sitting in a cold car all night, although Reid still found it difficult to believe Parsons had dropped the surveillance on his own. It just didn’t jive with the young man’s fervently expressed ambitions.

  Reid glanced down from the road to check his mobile for text messages, something he knew he shouldn’t do while he was driving. Nothing from Anne. He looked up quickly to make sure no cars were approaching, then hit the button for voicemail. Nothing. He put down his mobile as he merged into the roundabout.

  Yesterday had marked six weeks exactly from when he’d left California, and six weeks had been their agreement. A cold hand squeezed his heart and his throat closed up. He knew what it meant that she hadn’t called. After all, he’d been through this with her before. It was just that he’d been so sure this time. This time things between them had felt so right, like they were finally on the same page with what they wanted out of their marriage. But then he’d left California without her. That had been a mistake. A huge mistake in a long line of mistakes he’d made with his wife.

  He hit speed dial for CID at Glasgow City Centre station, confirming with the officer answering calls that DI Lawrence was, uncharacteristically, actually in his office on a Sunday. Reid next made a quick call to Chief Constable McMurty to let him know he’d be by after he’d gotten some questions answered. At the moment, he had things to discuss with DI Lawrence. But to be honest, discussing things wasn’t what Reid wanted to do. He wanted to beat the bloody hell out of the sabotaging arsehole. If they weren’t able to stop the next terrorist attack in time, it would be down to Lawrence’s idiocy.

  The street outside the police station was Sunday city quiet. Without the bustle of people going to and from work and many nearby stores either closed for the day or opening late, the neighborhood had the feel of a deserted movie set. Quiet, empty, closed down.

  Inside the station, Reid made his way to CID, his steps seeming oddly loud in the semi-deserted halls. He nodded curtly to the few people he passed. In the way he’d now become too familiar with, Reid saw the faces first merely register recognition, then snap back with more interest—the result of his recent descent into tabloid hell.

  He spotted DI Mark Lawrence through the half-glass of the door that led into the main CID bullpen. Lawrence’s dark blond hair was slicked back in the smug, vain, way favored by men who fancied themselves dangerously attractive, and the muscles that showed through his black too-tight t-shirt all but announced steroid use.

  Reid opened the door in one swift move, the noise causing heads to turn toward him. DI Lawrence looked up from his position at the center of a circle of officers who were apparently hanging on his every word. None of the faces that turned toward Reid looked friendly, but DI Lawrence’s expression was insolently hostile.

  “Well, if it isn’t Lord Reid, the golden wunderkind. What brings you to our humble abode? Slumming, are we? Or did you get lonely over in your private headquarters?”

  The reference to his title had been made to rankle him, Reid knew, as well as to brand him further as an outsider to the watching officers. Reid wondered what lies Lawrence had been telling his audience.

  “A word, DI Lawrence?” Reid kept his voice calm and expressionless as he sized up the situation. Definitely an enemy camp. The large room was broken up into work stations divided by chest-high partitions, but no one seemed to be working. The air reeked of bacon butties, burnt coffee, and political bullshite. With efforts in play to unify the Scottish police force, the jockeying for position and power had intensified, and along with it, the intricacy of political stratagems. The City Centre Police Office, the largest in the Strathclyde district, held more than its share of influential officers. Rumor had it that DI Lawrence’s mentor, Chief Superintendent Steynton, a man known for his ruthlessness, was maneuvering to land the position of head of the new national force.

  “Certainly. Go ahead, my lord.” The mocking tone in Lawrence’s voice made Reid want to dispense with all pretense at civility himself.

  “Go ahead, Superintendent.” Reid deliberately reminded the other man that he outranked him, even though DI Lawrence didn’t actually report to him.

  “Aye. Superintendent.” The title came out as a sneer.

  “In your office.”

  “Feel free to speak in front of my men, Superintendent. I don’t keep secrets from them.”

  “In your office.”

  Something in either Reid’s tone or his manner sent Lawrence’s minions scurrying back to their cubbyholes.

  Lawrence shrugged. He led Reid into a small office that had a window with a view of the street on one wall and three walls whose upper glass portions allowed the officers sitting in the general area to see inside. Lawrence took a seat behind a desk c
luttered with piles of papers and file folders and motioned for Reid to take one of the two metal chairs on the other side. “So what’s got your silk knickers in a twist this fine morning, Superintendent?”

  “Richard Ramsey was murdered last night.”

  Muscles tightened visibly around DI Lawrence’s eyes. “So I heard.”

  Reid wasn’t surprised. Even though he’d tried to keep the news of Ramsey’s death quiet, DI Lawrence had a lot of connections. Probably someone from the local force or even one of the scene of crime team. “Your boy Parsons, the one who was supposed to be watching him, wasn’t anywhere around.”

  Lawrence hit a button on his computer’s keyboard, displaying the investigation database. “According to the surveillance log, at eleven, Parsons reported that the cars were all garaged and the house was dark. He must have left after that.”

  “When exactly did he leave?”

  Lawrence glanced at the screen, not seeming to be cognizant of the enormity of his team’s failure. “Dunno. The log doesn’t say.”

  “When was the next shift supposed to start?”

  Lawrence looked at his watch. “Started at seven this morning. Brady was in front of the Ramsey house at seven on the dot, but I called him off once we got the news.”

  “And Parsons?”

  “He’s likely planning to update the log when he gets in.”

  “Which is when? I need to talk to him now.”

  “He’s not scheduled back until tomorrow, but I left him a message to call in.”

  “Get him in here right away.”

  The detective inspector’s glare could have sliced steel. “I don’t see what you need to say that can’t be said over the telephone.”

  “I want to talk to him in person.”

  Lawrence shot Reid an exasperated look, but pulled something up on the computer that looked to be a personnel directory, then dialed the telephone. Reid heard the faint ring on the other end, then a droning tone that he knew was saying to leave a message. After instructing Parsons to call in immediately, Lawrence hung up. “I’ll send someone round to his house to rouse him.”