A loud and brash voice bawled across the office dragged Max from his reverie. ‘Max, what the fuck? You told me this was a sure thing.’ Max looked up from his desk to see the portly, balding figure of Detective Inspector Ross Fraser, his face flushed with anger as he limped across the office. His suit was rumpled and clearly hadn’t been to a dry-cleaners for some time, if the stain on the lapel was anything to go by.
‘You okay, Guvnor?’ Max said, smiling at Fraser’s worn and unpolished Oxford shoes. Sartorial elegance was not at the top of Ross Fraser’s priority list.
‘No, I am fucking not, and none of that cockney Met “Guvnor” shite, either.’ He mimed quotation marks with his fingers. ‘You’re in Police Scotland now, no Sweeney bollocks in here, pal.’
‘You look sore, Ross,’ Max said, smiling. Despite his angry demeanour, Ross Fraser was a good-humoured and kind-hearted man, who had welcomed Max to the team with open arms. It was probably because they were both Highlanders, had both served in the Black Watch a few years apart, and were both fans of Ross County FC. Max was originally from the Black Isle, just north of Inverness, and Ross was from Dingwall, a few miles away. It was a series of small coincidences, but they had helped strike a chord of friendship between them.
‘Sore as a bastard, man. It’s the pissing gout shite again. Chat in my office?’ He winced as he limped towards the glass-walled office in the middle of the open-plan space, dotted with desks where all the other members of the Serious Organised Crime team sat beavering away.
‘Too much fine living, Guv. Didn’t Henry the Eighth have gout? All that port and venison.’
‘Piss off and bring me a tea. We need to chat.’ DI Fraser limped inside his glass sanctuary without looking backwards.
Max smiled to himself as he fixed a couple of teas. Ross was full of bluster and bullshit, but he and Max had hit it off immediately. Despite the pugnacious manner, Ross was a highly talented detective, with a long history littered with successes against the major criminal groups that their team was operating against.
Max’s posting direct from the Met to the Serious Organised Crime team was unusual, as most transferring detectives would have been put straight into a main office somewhere dealing with volume and routine crimes. A phone call from Max’s old boss in London had let them know of his skills and experience. It made total sense to get him working in this area, owing to his training in surveillance, informant handling and firearms. Max didn’t feel too flattered by this, realising that it was most likely a simple fact of saving money by not having to put someone else through long and difficult training courses with a high attrition rate.
He’d quickly settled into his new work and was enjoying being in Scotland and away from his life as DS Max Craigie in London. DS Craigie, the officer being investigated for shooting an armed criminal. He’d needed a fresh challenge, and the opportunity to work in Scotland had seemed to him to be exactly that.
‘Tea, two sugars, Guv, although with your gout, maybe a bit less sugar would be in order.’
‘Don’t you start, you cheeky twat. Having a mere two sugars is a nod to health, especially now that Mrs Fraser has bloody stopped me smoking. Why did this job blow out then? Intel was that Turkish Joe had laid up ten kilos of pure smack in that flat. Is Cookie being a dodgy bastard?’
‘They’re all dodgy bastards. Goes with the turf.’
‘Aye, well that’s true. He’d been reliable up until now. He was bang on with the snide pawnbroker. We recovered a whole stack of nicked watches from that job.’
‘I’ve called him. He’s just as mystified as us. He says it was definitely there three days ago and it was being stashed there until Turkish Joe could offload it somewhere.’
‘This is why I need you in here. As far as I can see the only person who could take on that amount of gear is Hardie and his family.’
Max shrugged.
‘How long have you been with us?’ Ross sipped his tea, screwing his face up slightly. ‘Shite tea, by the way. You need more practice.’
‘Six months, or so?’
‘Settling in?’
‘Aye, it’s fine.’
‘Not missing London?’
‘Nope. Glad to be back in Scotland after all these years.’
‘Heard from Katie?’
‘Aye, sometimes, but we’ve agreed to not talk for a while. You know, space and that.’
‘Is that a problem?’
Max shrugged. ‘Just the way it is, Guv. I didn’t want to stay in London and she didn’t want to come, not at the moment, anyway. Maybe in the future.’
‘Ah well, you can be a single gadabout now, lucky boy. Wives always give it you in the bloody neck; take Mrs Fraser, for instance. I wish the old bint would throw me out.’
‘That’s definitely not true. And Katie didn’t throw me out, but you knew that already,’ said Max, refusing to bite.
‘Bloody is true, drives me up the wall,’ said Ross, scowling at the framed picture of his wife on his desk, with what Max could see was affection. Despite the bumptiousness, Ross was devoted to his wife and kids.
‘Is the shooting inquiry all finished?’
‘I thought so. Inquest jury returned a lawful killing verdict, CPS ruled no evidence against me and IOPC ruled it all legit.’
‘But?’ Ross, asked, his eyebrows raised.
‘Family have applied for a judicial review of the findings, bringing up all sorts of shite.’
‘Jeez, that’s crap, man. When will they let it drop?’
‘They’re clinging on to the fact that in my notes I said I shot twice, but the weapon exam showed that I shot three times. As far as I can remember it was only two, but, you know, human brain is a funny thing.’
‘I read something about this. You know, extreme stress messing with recall?’
‘That’s true, but it’s enough for an anti-police set of solicitors to keep pushing. Not much I can do about it, just have to let it play out. Two shots or three, the bloke had a loaded sawn-off that he was swinging towards me and it was all captured on CCTV.’ Max affected an air of nonchalance, but couldn’t help the familiar feeling of dread that began to creep into his chest as he talked about the incident. It was palpable, like a knot of flesh.
‘You okay?’
Max said nothing, just raised his eyebrows waiting for his boss to continue. A mix of an incident in Afghanistan years ago and the shooting in London had left their mark on Max and Ross knew it. He was feeling better, however, and the dreams were less frequent now, especially since he’d quit drinking. The silence hung in the brightly lit office, the tension tangible.
Max eventually broke. ‘I’m all good, Ross. I want to work hard and stay as busy as I can.’
‘Well, since I’ve a shit-ton of work for you … Do you know about the Hardie family?’
‘I’ve heard about them, of course. Glasgow based, but influence all over, main suppliers of heroin and cocaine through the country. Father is Tam and he has his three boys, Tam Junior, Frankie and Davie, all up to their eyes in organised crime. As I understand it, they’re mad, ruthless bastards who control most of the drugs in Scotland. No one can get up to anything more than a bit of shoplifting unless Old Man Hardie gives the go-ahead.’
‘That’s about the size of it. Tam is an old man now, but still rules the family and all their employees with a rod of iron, supported by his eldest boy, Tam Junior. He’s properly ruthless and there’s nothing he won’t do to protect his turf. All hard bastards, boxers and MMA fighters, but also very clever buggers – the boys did well at posh schools. We’ve never got them for anything serious, and he has enough legitimate business interests now, with pubs, clubs, saunas, et cetera.’
‘Okay. So?’
‘Old Man Hardie has gone missing. Off the radar completely to the extent that his eldest boy Tam Junior has reported him missing, and it’s unprecedented for them to seek out the help of the police.’
‘So why?’
‘Not sure. I suspect th
at the manner of his disappearance means they need our resources. He’s also sick, as in dying, lung cancer, so it’s been designated as high-risk. If they’re reporting him missing, then something bad has happened and all we have at the moment is that Pa Hardie went off doing some family history up in the Highlands. We need to grip this. We don’t want angry Hardies going mental and shaking down all the scrotes around Scotland. He needs finding, pronto. I’ll email the link to the report. Have a good squint at it before you go and see the family.’
‘Okay. But why Serious Crime and why me? This is surely a local missing person problem?’
‘You’d think so, but – and it pains me to say this – the Hardies have people everywhere, including many police stations. We need a clean skin to see this with fresh eyes and to make sure we aren’t missing something. This could be a real opportunity, Max. The Hardies have been a major thorn in our sides for decades and you have no history in Police Scotland, leaving here for the Army, as you did, as a sixteen-year-old. You’re an unknown.’
Max shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Take Janie with you. Have you worked with her yet?’
‘Yeah, a couple of times; she was on the spin. Seems solid enough, quiet mind.’
‘Spin? What is this cockney crap you keep coming out with?’ Ross said with a sneer.
‘Spin as in “spin his drum”. You must’ve heard that before.’
Ross shook his head in mock annoyance. Even Scottish cops knew the Met term for searching property was to “spin a drum”. He continued with a half-smile, ‘She’s a good cop, very young, an accelerated promotion flyer. Posh bird, like. DC at the moment, but she won’t be for long. Who knows, she’ll probably be our boss soon enough. She’s a bit of an odd fish, and she has had a few problems settling, but I trust her. And her old boss in Vice who’s a pal of mine really rated her, and I trust his judgement. Right, cut along, man, get this sorted. A wildly aggrieved bunch of Hardies is the last thing we need.’
‘Sure, we’ll be on our way soon.’
‘Overtime is no issue on this. We need to find out what’s happened to the old bugger.’
‘We’re on it,’ Max said, standing up.
‘One thing …’
Max paused and looked at his boss’s red and meaty face. There was concern written all over it. In the short time he had known Ross, he had not seen this expression. It was normally more sarcastic or split with a big grin.
‘Don’t get close to the Hardies, Max, and don’t mention this job to anyone else inside or outside the office. They’re properly bad people, so don’t let them know anything about you and never drop your guard. There’s nothing they won’t do if they feel it’ll advance their cause.’
3
‘Nice neighbourhood,’ said Max as the BMW driven by DC Janie Calder swept along the wide, well-kept streets.
‘Aye well, they’re worth a few quid, these guys,’ said Janie.
Janie was in her early twenties, with a well-educated Edinburgh accent. She was lean and fit-looking and was casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. She seemed shy, slightly nervous. Max had never really spoken to her before, but he had heard the rumblings on the team. Accelerated promotion officers sometimes attracted a little suspicion, and there were enough dinosaurs in Police Scotland that being young and a woman was probably not helping her cause too much either.
‘Have you had much contact with the Hardies?’ said Max, yawning.
‘Nothing direct, talking to Tam Junior today was the first time I’ve ever spoken to one of them. Did a little surveillance on the youngest of them when we had a whisper that he was running round tooled up with a gun. He kept losing us, almost as if he knew he was being followed, if you get my drift.’ Janie’s eyes had a frustrated look in them.
‘That bad?’
‘Yep. Rumours that they’ve several cops on the payroll. Nothing confirmed, though.’
‘Jeez, and I thought we had problems in the Met.’
‘The Hardies are the biggest fishes in Scotland and they’ve money to burn. They’ve an arrangement with the Turkish gangs for heroin and they source their cocaine direct from the cartel in Colombia. Old Man Hardie has a grip on all the disco drugs with the Dutch supplying him direct. He apparently takes even the slightest suggestion of disrespect from anyone very personally and if only half the rumours about him are true … Apparently, his speciality back in the day was removing large pieces of skin from those who displeased him. Hence his nickname, “Peeler”, which I guess is a little ironic. Here is their place now.’
‘What about the Hardie boys?’ said Max.
‘Tam is very much the senior and is being primed to take over. The other two, Davie and Frankie, are enforcers as far as I can tell.’
‘Been doing your research,’ said Max.
Janie just shrugged, averting her eyes.
The Hardie residence was massive. A huge, modern building overlooking a vast swathe of the South Lanarkshire countryside. They gained entry to the extensive grounds via electric gates that swung open as soon as they pulled up. There was no need to ring a bell or intercom, so they had clearly been seen on CCTV.
‘Looks like they were waiting for us. I assume we look just like cops, then,’ said Max.
‘I imagine there are cameras all over. I think the Hardies are fairly particular about their security.’
‘I’m not surprised. Jesus, would you look at the size of this place.’ Max tried not to sound too overawed. The whole property was designed around a central tower with three spurs jutting out in opposite directions. There were few walls; the place seemed to be mainly constructed with glass and steel.
‘Yep, built in 2009. The Hardies bought it a few years ago for a shade under two million quid. Not clear where the money came from, but there’s no mortgage, that’s for sure.’
Max let out a low whistle, admiring the landscaped gardens as they drove slowly up the smooth tarmac drive. The sun reflected from the large windows at the front.
‘Looks like a bloody building society, to me. Still, each to their own,’ Max said. He’d never been a fan of the huge, sprawling modern architecture. His recently purchased home was a small two-hundred-year-old stone farm cottage at the end of a rutted track.
‘It’s hard going, all dead ends and blind alleys, but they’ve plenty of legitimate businesses and off-shores that, at the moment, are keeping us away from their cash.’ She pulled up outside the huge, glossy front door that was at the top of a large set of sweeping stone steps.
‘Well, let’s see where this takes us, then,’ said Max, getting out of the car.
The large door swung open noiselessly as they ascended the steps, and a well-built male stepped into the sunlight, his face grim.
‘Officers?’ he said, with no trace of a smile.
Max and Janie both reached for their warrant cards. ‘Yes, I’m DS Max Craigie and this is DC Janie Calder, and you are?’ Max left the question hanging, despite the fact that he knew exactly who this was. The family resemblance was remarkable. Tam Hardie Junior. He was casually, if expensively dressed in designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and his wrist glittered with a Rolex. He was tall and beefy, his broken nose and cauliflower ear telling the story of a brawler. In contrast, his light grey and silver-flecked hair was well cut and styled, and he sported a neat goatee beard.
‘I’m Tam Hardie. Come in. There’s coffee on.’ His demeanour was polite and business-like, but it was impossible to hide the concern that was written on his rough features.
The interior of the house was just as impressive as the outside. He led them into a huge, double-height hall with a galleried landing above them and a polished marble floor. He led the way into an enormous, modern kitchen. Acres of granite worktops and state-of-the-art appliances seemed to be everywhere, along with a huge range cooker and well-stocked, glass-doored wine fridge.
Hardie indicated to a line of bar stools next to a vast kitchen island. Max figured that the cost of the gra
nite he was about to lean on was probably equal to about six months’ salary.
‘Coffee?’ Tam said, flatly, his eyebrows raised. There was a delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee that pervaded the sleek kitchen.
‘Sure, thanks,’ said Max.
‘Very kind. Thank you, Mr Hardie,’ said Janie.
‘No problem. Your accent is Highland. Am I right, DS Craigie?’
‘Aye, Ross-shire.’
‘Nice part of the world. My cousin lives there, has a wee garage, and we go up sometimes,’ said Hardie.
‘It’s a good place,’ was all that Max said, not wishing to go further down the small talk line.
The big man busied himself before an enormous, professional-looking machine and within a minute two steaming china mugs had been deposited before the detectives.
‘Milk and sugar just there,’ Hardie said, nodding towards a small earthenware jug and a bowl that contained rustic-looking sugar lumps.
‘So, what can you tell us about your father, Mr Hardie?’ Max said after taking a sip of the rich, dark brew.
Hardie paused for a second, gathering his thoughts. ‘Pa has been very ill, Detective. He has terminal lung cancer and only months left to live. He’s been getting reflective about life and had this bee in his bonnet about some old family story. I don’t know too much about it, but he’s been studying all the genealogy websites and looking for family trees and the like. It had become all-consuming for him. He called it his quest to find out the truth about the family history and “right the wrongs of the past”. I’ll be honest, I thought he was going a bit doolally with the drugs and all, so I didn’t pay too much attention.’
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