‘Yep, Max Craigie and this is Janie Calder. How come the Glasgow team is on this? It surely belongs to Inverness?’
‘It does, but the murder team are all full-on up north with the scenes and trying to get all the evidence together, so they don’t have a FLO to send to the family. Bloody liberty, I’d say; means I’ll be up and down the A9 constantly now.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be for long. Do you know much about the Hardie family?’ asked Max ignoring the man’s truculent tone.
‘Only by reputation. I’m sure it’s all exaggerated – usually is.’ He yawned loudly, projecting more cigarette and old whisky fumes to the front of the car.
Max caught Janie’s eye with half a smile. ‘Well, we met them just yesterday. I’d say we need to tread very carefully. The last thing we need is them thinking the police aren’t doing their job and deciding to cause us problems.’
‘I can’t see what they have to moan about. You nicked the fella within a few hours of the report and found the body. I’d say Police Scotland are smelling of roses, right now. They can bury their pa and know that the madman who killed him is caught, even if he’s in the nuthouse.’
Max shook his head, just a touch. The man’s attitude was beginning to grate.
‘Well, we need to be properly professional on this, or you’ll have problems. I met Tam Junior yesterday and he’s a difficult man, so you had better bring your A game. This murder will be attracting serious press attention, so any loss of confidence from the family and I suspect you’ll be firmly in the spotlight.’
Johnstone grunted and began looking at his phone screen. Max bit his tongue, glad that the detective was not one of his people.
The rest of the short journey was undertaken in silence until they were driving up the long sweeping drive to the Hardie residence. ‘Nice place,’ Johnstone said.
Max turned to him. ‘I’ll brief them, as I was at the scene and can probably answer any of their questions. Once they’re in the picture, I’ll hand them over to you and you can explain what your role will be moving forward, okay?’ Max’s voice was even, but firm. It was a statement, not a request. Johnstone merely shrugged.
Tam Hardie was waiting at the door when Max, Janie and Johnstone ascended the stairs, his face displaying nothing, his eyes flinty hard.
‘Thanks for coming, DS Craigie. We were visited last night by an officer who informed us that you’d found our pa, but little else. The rest of my family is inside. Come in.’ He was cordially polite, but his voice was bone-dry. There was something in it that Max could not quantify. Was it rage or grief?
Max extended his hand, which Hardie took. It was a firm handshake with none of the trial of strength that Max had expected.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Hardie. This is DC Johnstone, who will be your official liaison between you and the Major Investigation Team.’
Hardie looked with disinterest at Johnstone and merely nodded.
‘Come through; the boys are waiting in the kitchen,’ he said flatly.
Hardie led them to the familiar kitchen, which had the same aroma of coffee and the same luxurious surroundings as last time, only now there were two other males in the room. Max recognised Davie and Frankie Hardie from intelligence photographs. Both men were almost identical in appearance, lean and tough-looking, with similar-styled neat dark hair, their faces masks of contempt. They looked tough, and they looked mean.
There was an uncomfortable, unquantifiable atmosphere in the room. It was a mix of anger, grief and hostility, but there were no tears. The set jaws, hard eyes and terse body language told their own story. The thick, turgid aura was almost tangible. Max had experienced hostility and anger many times during his career, but this was different. This was malevolent in its intensity. Max realised, with a sudden rush of certainty, that whatever the police could offer the Hardie family, would not be enough. Not by a long way.
‘Boys, this is DS Craigie and DC Calder who found Pa, and this is DC Johnstone, who will be our liaison.’
The atmosphere shifted, Frankie and Davie both looking at Tam with obvious respect, almost reverence. There was no doubt who was the boss. None whatsoever.
There was a brief silent pause.
‘So, DS Craigie, what can you tell us?’ Tam Hardie said, quietly and politely.
Max cleared his throat and told the story from beginning to end. From their father’s journey, stop at the inn in Dunbeath through to finding him in the grave at Ballachly. He then moved on and described Leitch’s arrest and the discovery of the murder weapon. He briefly spoke about Leitch’s detention and the fact that he would soon be held at a secure facility.
When he finished speaking, a long, impenetrable silence descended on the room and three pairs of eyes bored into Max.
‘Do you have any questions?’ Max asked, discomfort rising in his chest.
‘Just one. The cutlass you found, was it marked in any way?’ Tam Hardie Junior asked politely.
‘Just the initials T.H. stamped on the blade,’ said Max.
‘Thank you. We have no other questions for now. Please keep us informed of any developments, DC Johnstone. DS Craigie, DC Calder, thank you for finding our father. We can lay him to rest properly. Now, I’ll show you out.’ He stood from his kitchen stool, indicating that the meeting was over.
‘Can I tell you about my role?’ asked Johnstone handing over a business card.
‘No, thank you, Officer. We’ll call if we need anything. Now, please, my brothers and I have much to organise.’
*
‘What was that all about?’ asked Janie, as she negotiated the drive away from the Hardie residence and back to the road.
‘Aye, shite. How am I meant to work with that family?’ said Johnstone, his disdain and frustration quickly turning into a hacking, barking cough that projected smoke-laden breath into the front of the car. Janie’s nose wrinkled in disgust.
‘With difficulty, I’d say,’ said Max as they pulled up alongside Johnstone’s car in the street.
‘DCI will be hating this. Thanks for the introduction; fat lot of good it did. See you later.’ Johnstone slammed the door shut and got into his car. Janie pulled out and drove away.
‘He’s charismatic,’ Janie said, flatly, cracking the window to try to freshen the stale air that Johnstone had left in his wake.
‘A real charmer,’ Max said.
‘I think I know why Hardie didn’t ask us any questions,’ said Janie, gazing at the road ahead.
‘Go on.’
‘They know it all, already. They’ve their own bloody sources,’ said Janie, a look of disdain on her face as she pulled to the side of the road.
‘Why have we stopped?’ asked Max, perplexed.
‘Bastard messing my bloody car up,’ said Janie leaning over and picking up the discarded crisp packet and sweeping a few stray crumbs from the seat. She screwed the packet up, deposited it in a plastic bag and tucked it out of sight.
‘You really don’t like a messy car, do you?’ said Max.
‘Not a lot. Anyway, as I was saying, they know everything we know. The only question Hardie had was about the sword, and did you notice one thing?’ said Janie, as she pulled away from the kerb.
‘He said cutlass, not sword.’
‘Yep. He knows everything about this case, and it’s not yet twenty-four hours old. Someone is feeding him this inquiry, step by step, someone central to it.’
14
Tam Hardie Junior, now just Tam, went to the drinks cabinet and began to finger through the many bottles of old whisky. The worn piece of furniture was incongruous with the rest of the sleek kitchen.
Tam was proud of his collection, assembled over many years. After a minute looking through the bottles his hand fell onto a twenty-five-year-old Lagavulin. This was a rare, limited-edition bottle released on the two-hundred-year anniversary of the distillery. He cracked it open and poured three large measures into crystal tumblers and passed one to Frankie and Davie who both
held their glasses contemplatively, watching their eldest brother, and now head of the family.
‘Pa,’ Tam said quietly. As one, the brothers raised the glasses to their lips and drained them. There were no tears, no wobbling lips and no outward show of grief, but a crackling and almost electric sense of tension and fury.
The glasses were returned to the granite tabletop and the silence descended on the room, each brother lost in their own moment.
‘Davie, what do you know?’ said Tam in a flat, low voice, looking at the youngest brother.
‘Jack is on board and has a direct link into the murder team.’ His voice had a hard edge, and his face was almost still as he spoke.
‘He’s a wretch. Was there nobody better than him?’
‘We have plenty of sources, as you know, but he’s the only one with a direct line into the murder team. The DI is straight as a die, apparently. Young bird, wants to get promoted and thinks this case is her ticket. Jack has at least two mates on the team,’ Davie said, a trace of a smile on his thin lips.
‘So, what of that bastard Leitch?’ asked Tam.
‘Been sectioned. Pure barmy, as I’m hearing it. He’s been transferred to Carstairs.’
‘They’re taking it seriously then. Did he get interviewed?’
‘No. Too mental apparently.’
‘Shite. Absolute shite. He’s bullshitting them, he knew what he was doing. Stabbed an old man with a cutlass. What evidence is there?’
‘A shit-ton. Not been taking meds, I hear.’
‘The bastard. We lose our pa, because he can’t be arsed taking a tablet.’
No one said anything.
‘We have to do something, boys. That bastard keeps breathing in and out and every ned up and down the country will think we are losing our grip, so stay on top of Jack and keep me informed. I want to know everything about Leitch and his family.’ Tam rubbed his face, his bristles rasping audibly.
‘Aye …’ Davie hesitated.
‘There’s something else,’ piped up Frankie.
‘What?’ Tam’s eyes swivelled to his younger brother.
‘Turkish Joe obviously has his own sources, too. He called to offer his condolences.’
‘What? The cheeky bastard. That’s him just letting us know he knows, flexing his muscles, the bastard. Did he say anything else?’
‘Just that because of the police attention on us the price would have to go up on the skag he’s holding,’ Frankie said, softly, a little hesitantly.
Tam initially said nothing, his face visibly darkening. ‘It’s happening already, boys, like I said it would. Pa is dead and the sharks are circling, smelling the blood. Well, I say no.’ Tam was breathing heavily and his eyes shone with fury. Both brothers were now transfixed on the new head of the family.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Frankie.
‘Bring that Turkish prick in. Get hold of him and take him to the farm. I’ll deal with him personally. I’m putting the word out. Pa may no longer be here, but the Hardies are and we are worse than ever.’
15
The team members all sat in the conference room at Burnett Road Police Station – the modern, sprawling building on the outskirts of Inverness.
They all looked shattered, having worked almost non-stop since the discovery of Hardie’s corpse, and this was the first time they had managed to get together for a briefing. Mis-shaven chins and rumpled shirts told the story of too much work and not enough sleep.
Max and Janie sat at the back of the room. They had been asked to attend to make sure that all their information was shared with the MIT team. They’d had no involvement in the case since leaving the Hardie house the previous morning, and Max had to admit, he was curious where the inquiry currently stood.
Sally Smith cleared her throat and spoke. ‘Good morning folks. Firstly, thank you so much for all your hard work these last couple of days. I’ll keep this as quick as possible as I’ve been warned that the DCC is floating about having come up to see the boss here at Burnett Road. He’s being briefed on the murder as he’s worried that it may impact on local policing. I want us all out of here before he catches us looking all scruffy and raggy-arsed as we do, okay?’
‘Bloody gaffers looking to share glory more like,’ said a tired-sounding voice from the back of the room.
‘Anyway, it’s been a big push but we have broken the back of the major strands of this already. As usual, I’ll go round the room and get the main points so we are all on the same page. Firstly, what news from the post-mortem, Phil?’ Sally raised her eyebrows and an officer in a rumpled shirt and loosened tie spoke.
‘Special PM was done quickly once the forensic pathologist had finished at the gravesite. The victim was terminally ill with stage-four lung cancer. Pathologist thinks he had only months left to live. Cause of death was catastrophic haemorrhaging following a severed aorta, caused by a large, flat, non-serrated blade. He has seen a photo of the cutlass seized from Leitch’s place, and has the dimensions, and he’s clear that it could have caused the injury. The injury was a through-and-through, as in: in through the abdomen, straight through the aorta and then out of the back. Death would’ve only taken minutes.’ Phil paused for effect.
‘Thanks, Phil. So, a single blow only?’
Phil just nodded.
‘Time and date of death?’ asked Sally, still scribbling furiously away in her red book. A pre-formatted decision log sat open to her side. The mantra of murder inquiries. Record everything. If it isn’t written down, it didn’t happen.
‘Tallies with the time of the last call into Hardie’s phone. Blowfly larvae have been preserved for the entomologist, if required,’ Phil said referring to the maggots found, which could be used to estimate how long since a person had died.
‘We won’t need that yet, unless someone has any other thoughts?’
Bill the CSM spoke up. ‘It would be hard to justify the spend on that, bearing in mind the wealth of other evidence.’
‘Agreed. Bill, will you talk us through the scene,’ Sally said, not looking up.
Bill nodded and pressed a key on a laptop in front of him, lighting the screen on the wall at the head of the table. A photograph of the graveyard appeared, its identifying production number in the bottom corner.
‘I think someone has been looking into the history, but as I understand it the burial yard hasn’t been used for ages, and correct me if I’m wrong, records were lost in a flood many years ago when the chapel was destroyed. Heavily overgrown, in fact the PolSA team ended up needing strimmers. The fingertip search found a battered old clasp knife in among all the vegetation.’ He pressed a key and a picture flashed up of a small, dull-metalled knife with a worn blade extended, nestling in some long grass. ‘There’s no suggestion forensically that it’s been used for anything and it’s far too small to be the murder weapon. Maybe it belonged to Hardie, particularly as the grave shows signs of being scraped with a blade to clear it of vegetation.’ Bill pressed another key showing the grave, the sinister words emblazoned on the granite surface.
A hush descended on the room, and a few of the room’s occupants shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This wasn’t supposed to be written on resting-place monuments. A piece of the granite lay to the side of the stone, just as Max remembered it.
‘Why that inscription, Boss? I mean surely not opening a grave doesn’t need to be said. It’s kinda bad form, anyway,’ a voice said from the back of the room.
There was a snort of amusement from the other side of the table.
‘As I understand, it was used many years ago, either during times of bubonic plague, or possibly cholera,’ Sally said, her voice serious.
‘Jesus, any risks?’ the voice said.
‘Apparently not, so don’t worry,’ said Sally, a small smile on her face.
‘You’re all ugly enough already; you certainly don’t need big pustulating boils on your faces, right?’ said Bill, looking around the room and smiling, tiredly. ‘N
ow can I carry on?’
The next slide was an image of the PolSA officers lifting the stone from the grave, quickly followed by one of the yawning chasm of the grave. It seemed deep black.
The next slide was lurid in detail and pin-sharp. The bloated corpse of Tam Hardie, on his back, his face waxy, yellow and swollen, his eyes open but empty. The black wound in his midriff seethed with flies. Even in a still photo, you could almost feel the mass of insects feeding on the gore. A mobile phone lay on his chest surrounded by the flies. There were no gasps, no groans; in fact, there was little reaction at all.
‘Is there any explanation for the broken piece from the gravestone?’ Max spoke for the first time. Several pairs of eyes locked on him, traces of suspicion on their faces. Max was an unknown, and an outsider.
‘Damaged when removed by Hardie, probably?’ Bill said. ‘There are some scrape marks on the underside, so I’d say he used something to prise it up.’
‘Could someone lift it on their own? It’s a heavy piece of stone, and Leitch is only a skinny wee gadgie?’ Max asked, not wanting to press it too hard in an open meeting.
‘Well, Leitch’s comments in custody were that he did it on his own and we have nothing to disprove that. We can’t explore it further until a doctor pronounces him fit to interview, so we can’t get near him,’ said Sally, her face registering something. Irritation? Or maybe something else. It didn’t add up, that was for sure.
‘Have we searched his car?’ Max asked.
‘Yes, PolSA did it. Scrappy old Land Rover Defender. Nothing at all in it.’
‘Did it have a jack?’ asked Max.
Sally didn’t answer, just raised her eyebrows at the blue uniformed sergeant in the corner of the room who Max recognised as the PolSA team leader.
‘I don’t think so. It was a right old heap that was practically falling to bits. In fact, I don’t even think it had a spare tyre,’ he said, looking through a property register.
‘Did Leitch have a mobile phone?’ asked Max.
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