Dead Man's Grave

by Neil Lancaster

  ‘Not that we have found, just an old landline at his house,’ Sally said, checking her notebook.

  ‘How about Hardie’s computer?’

  ‘Still being worked through, but nothing is jumping out. Mostly research on genealogy websites and local history forums. Certainly, an absence of anything about the family business from what we can see,’ said Sally.

  Max shrugged. ‘Okay.’ He smiled.

  ‘Anyway, moving on, Bill?’ Sally spoke, clearly eager to change the subject. Max said nothing more.

  Bill scrolled through a series of images of the inside of Leitch’s premises, which were as he had remembered, but Max wasn’t really watching; he was deep in thought about the lack of interest in the concept of an accomplice. Something didn’t feel right and Sally’s attitude had only exacerbated his concern.

  An image of the red journal flashed on the screen.

  ‘This is from Leitch’s hand we assume, although we haven’t been able to ask him. Jenny, you’re going through it. Much to report?’ asked Sally, turning to a tired-looking officer in the corner of the room.

  ‘It’s really rambling, mostly nonsensical stuff, Boss. Densely packed text about all sorts, but a fairly large section berating the Hardies and calling them a threat to his family. He’s obviously been doing research on them, as there were some printouts from Ancestry.com where he had been tracing their family tree. And of course, there’s the letter.’

  ‘Aye, I think we’ve all seen it on the circulated briefing. Looks like it was written by one of Leitch’s ancestors in 1890. We are continuing the research, but there was a William Leitch who died in 1890 in Wick,’ said Sally. ‘All pretty damning stuff, then. Okay, we are where we are. Next slide, Bill.’

  Max looked up as the image of the cutlass flashed on the screen. It was an evil-looking thing, broad of blade, with an iron handle and a wickedly sharp edge. The next photograph was zoomed in on the initials on the blade, a faded but legible “T.H.”

  ‘This is an 1804 naval boarding cutlass.’ Max nodded at Janie, who smiled, as Sally continued talking. ‘And we are fairly sure it’s the murder weapon. It’s gone to the lab along with Leitch’s clothing, and all the other recovered samples. We’re expecting the DNA results imminently, but I’m confident the blood on Leitch’s clothes, hands and the sword will all belong to the victim.’ Sally paused to let it sink in, but her tired and weary team seemed to relax at this news, safe in the knowledge that, even with Leitch currently being a patient at a secure hospital, this case would be wrapped up quickly.

  ‘What of the initials?’ asked a voice from the back.

  ‘Leitch made comments about Hardie being killed with the weapon that killed his ancestor, so there could be something in that. We are looking into the history of this, but it looks like there was a Tam Hardie in the Navy in the 1800s. We are still digging into it, but the evidence is strong, and we keep developing it,’ said Sally.

  A silence descended. Murders like this just didn’t happen. Centuries-old feuds were not supposed to spill over into the modern day.

  ‘How about Leitch? Where are we now?’ Sally asked a slim, fresh-faced officer sitting at the table.

  ‘As we all know, the doctor pronounced Leitch unfit as soon as he got to Burnett Road custody. We managed to get all the forensic samples and recover all his clothes. Mental health crash team came out and sectioned him, on an emergency mental health certificate, for seventy-two hours. He’s currently at Carstairs. I have spoken to his care team, and they’re certain that he will be further detained, probably for at least the full twenty-eight days, and most likely beyond that. He has dealt with paranoid schizophrenia for some time, but had recently fallen off his meds.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Paul, how are the family?’ Sally said, looking pointedly at DC Johnstone.

  ‘Pretty quiet, Boss. They have very few questions, accept everything I say and are always polite and thankful when I leave.’ He coughed wetly.

  ‘How were they at the identification?’ asked Sally.

  ‘It was just Tam Junior. He was quiet and restrained, took one look at his father and said, “Aye that’s my pa.”’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Aye. They don’t seem to want us there, although they’re not rude or obstructive. They just want to bury their pa, as soon as possible. The fiscal has released the body and I think they’re preparing a big gangland funeral, you know. Giving the old boy a proper send-off, tomorrow.’ Johnstone looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Nothing else?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Well, I did as you said and showed them a picture of the cutlass, in case it was a family heirloom. Tam Junior said that whilst he had never seen it before, the old family legend was that it was his great-great-grandpa’s and with the initials, and all that, they want it back.’

  ‘So, it looks like Leitch killed Old Man Hardie with his ancestor’s cutlass. Jesus, what the hell? Paul, do you think they’ll be looking for revenge?’ asked Sally.

  ‘I can’t see why. The only suspect is secured, and they’re just flat, like. Almost unemotional. I can’t work them out.’

  ‘Did they mention any vendetta of any type?’ Sally asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ask them?’

  ‘Aye, of course. They said they knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’

  Johnstone just shrugged, his face an almost bored display of ambivalence.

  ‘Have you made it clear that we are dealing with this; we have the suspect locked up and a wealth of evidence and that they have to, I repeat, have to, keep out of it?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve told them.’

  ‘How did they respond?’

  A hint of a smile crossed the detective’s big face. ‘I can tell you exactly what Tam Hardie said, ma’am. “We have absolute confidence in the fine officers of Police Scotland to investigate our father’s murder.” Those were his exact words. I recorded them in the FLO log,’ he said proffering the booklet.

  DI Sally Smith just closed her eyes and exhaled.

  ‘Okay, guys. Thank you all so much for your sterling efforts. It’s been a real beast of a few days, but we have all the crucial stuff captured. Finish up anything urgent, then get yourselves home, see your families and back here in the morning. I know we all think this is slam dunk, but let’s not relax. Push on and get this tight, and hopefully Leitch will be well enough at some point. Thank you again,’ Sally stayed sitting at the table as the team all filed out, most yawning and clearly ready for a few hours at home. It was often the way when a murder broke. A massive push, long hours to secure the essential evidence that would be lost otherwise. Then a brief pause to recharge before getting back to it.

  As the team began filing out, the atmosphere suddenly changed in the room. Two uniformed officers entered, all smiles and nods at the departing tired-looking officers. The area chief superintendent nodded at Sally, his eyes swivelling to indicate that someone of importance was following him. Immediately behind him was a lean officer, with thinning red hair and with rank insignia on his epaulettes that indicated he was a deputy chief constable. His name badge read “DCC Geoff Caldwell”.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ said Sally rising to her feet.

  ‘Don’t get up, please, just a flying visit to say hello, and offer my thanks for the team’s hard work,’ said the DCC, a wide smile splitting his face showing white, straight teeth, which looked a little too white and straight.

  ‘Hello, sir, can I introduce DS Craigie and DC Calder, who’ve been assisting us from Serious Organised Crime?’ Sally nodded at Max and Janie who remained seated at the table.

  The DCC looked at Max and Janie in turn, and his smile widened as he stepped forward and shook each of their hands. ‘I’ve been briefed by the area commander, and of course your own DCS about what you did, guys. I have to say I have rarely heard of a better and more instinctive bit of police work. Hopefully nipped this in the bud before things got much worse. Who knows what Leitch wa
s capable of? If any commendation recommendations come across my desk, they’ll most certainly get my endorsement. First-class stuff.’ He nodded, in what seemed a sincere fashion. Geoff Caldwell was certainly something of a charmer.

  ‘No problem, sir, but thanks anyway,’ said Max.

  ‘Sally, when you’ve finished up here, can you pop up to the chief super’s office, just for ten minutes, okay? I want to be sure I have it all, as I’ve a bloody community reassurance meeting tomorrow, and I want to be ready,’ he said grimacing, slightly.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Sally said.

  ‘Once again, great stuff all round.’ He nodded, turned and left the room flanked by the chief superintendent.

  ‘Nice bit of smoke-blowing there. Right, I really need to finish this, before I go and see the boss again.’ Sally lowered her head back to her policy log and began scratching away with her pen.

  After a few seconds, she looked up to see Max and Janie still sitting watching her write.

  ‘Max?’ she questioned, stifling a yawn of her own, a slight look of frustration on her face.

  ‘Are you sure about all this?’ he asked, politely.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow,’ she said, although her face didn’t reflect this.

  ‘Leitch couldn’t have moved that stone and deposited a corpse under it, and I think you know this.’

  ‘Working theory is that he could have lifted it, as you did, and wedged something under it to keep it up. There is no evidence of a third party. No fingerprints, no tyre tracks beyond Leitch’s Defender and Hardie’s Range Rover. No extraneous footmarks, nothing.’

  Max sat more upright and squared his shoulders a little. ‘I lifted that with some significant effort, and only by eighteen inches, and I’m probably a fair bit stronger than Leitch. I just don’t buy it. I’m also totally unconvinced that the Hardies will leave this here.’

  Sally sighed again and rubbed her tired-looking eyes. ‘Max, we have almost wrapped this case up. Leitch has confessed, the evidence is all over him or written in his crazy journal and whatever happens, he’s either in Carstairs for life on a hospital order, or prison. The job is finished and the detective chief superintendent wants it put to bed. The family are happy with where we are and what we have done.’

  ‘Even if it’s all nonsense?’

  ‘That’s enough. I’m very grateful for your help and actions in this case, but that’s it. I’m under instructions to clear it up. We have our result; it’s finished. Am I understood?’ Her red-rimmed eyes flashed with sudden emotion and Max could detect the conflict within them. Sally knew. She knew it wasn’t finished, not by a long way.

  16

  Yusuf Tekin was in serious pain in the centre of a rough wooden barn, his hands tightly handcuffed and secured to a stout wooden beam by a length of rusting chain that looked like it had been in place for years. He was scared. In fact, Yusuf Tekin was terrified, which was not an emotion he often experienced. He was more used to inflicting terror than receiving it, certainly since he became the head of a successful heroin importation gang.

  His side ached where the stun gun had been jammed and thousands of volts had flowed into his body, temporarily paralysing him. He hadn’t even seen his attackers when he left the restaurant in Glasgow in the early hours of the previous evening, much the worse for drink. He had been hooded, thrown into a van, and now, several hours later, he was almost suspended by his wrists, with only enough slack in the chain to allow him to stand on tiptoes before the cuffs bit into the raw, bruised skin of his wrists and hands.

  The smell of urine was sharp in his nostrils, as he had been secured for several hours, suspended and not released to pee. In fact, he hadn’t seen a single soul since his incarceration began. It had been a simple snatch, a drive from the city centre of about an hour, and now he was in this stinking barn, with no actual idea where he was.

  So, yes. Yusuf Tekin was absolutely terrified.

  The barn door swung open, suddenly, the bright morning sunshine assaulting his eyes.

  ‘Who’s there?’ His voice cracked with dehydration. They had to know that he wasn’t someone to be messed with. He had a fearsome reputation in Glasgow and wider Scotland.

  ‘I said who’s there? You are making a big mistake. My people won’t take this. Show yourselves. You clearly have no idea who you’re dealing with,’ he croaked, hoping that he sounded more in control than he actually felt. His wrists were burning, the pain becoming almost unbearable. ‘Uncuff me now, and let me go, and I’ll not seek retribution.’ The words died in his throat. The tall, lean figure of Tam Hardie strode into the barn flanked by Frankie and Davie Hardie, worryingly all dressed in new-looking overalls and wearing blue surgical gloves. Tam Hardie’s eyes blazed with fury, his jaw tight.

  ‘Tam, what the—’ His garbled response was brutally cut short by a forceful, open-handed blow to the side of his head, rocking it sideways with a noise like a pistol shot. His head exploded with pain and he let out a cry, from shock as much as from hurt.

  ‘Think you can use my father’s death to put your prices up, eh, Turkish Joe?’ He followed the rapid words with a vicious punch, which caught the drug dealer square on the nose. The cartilage and bones crunched as Yusuf’s nose disintegrated, his head snapping backwards again. He knew all the Hardie boys were boxers, and the overhand punch was devastating in accuracy and power. Yusuf let out a howl of agony that was almost animalistic.

  The three Hardies just stood and watched as he whimpered, a long line of bloody snot falling from his nose.

  ‘You remember my father’s nickname, Joe, right?’ Tam said, in a low, even voice.

  Yusuf swallowed a sob before shaking his head blearily, the terror now gripping his insides like a vice. He remembered well enough, as did anyone in the Glasgow underworld. Tam “Peeler” Hardie’s calling card was a thing of legend that struck fear into the criminal world.

  ‘Well, my pa was feared throughout the country, and for good reason. It’s unfortunate for you Joe, that you’re going to be the evidence that the Hardies are not only alive and well, but they’re bloody worse than ever.’

  As if by an unspoken command, the younger Hardie brother marched forward and tore off Yusuf’s shirt buttons, exposing his protruding stomach and flabby chest. He yelped in fear, any pretence or attempt at assertiveness now gone.

  Tam Hardie reached into his overalls pocket and produced a bright yellow box cutter. He extended the small, angular blade with a flick of his thumb. He smiled, as Yusuf began to scream, the chain clinking as he tried to back away. He only managed to move the few inches that the now taut chain allowed. Apart from the trace of a smile, the look on Tam’s face was blank and unfathomable.

  ‘Hold him,’ he barked at his younger brothers, who as one grabbed a foot each of the thrashing Yusuf. They pulled sharply and he fell, but only as far as the chain would allow. His shoulders jerked as his bodyweight almost pulled them from their sockets. He couldn’t move. The pain was terrible and he screamed like a howling wolf. It felt like his hands would be pulled clean off, and part of him almost wished they would.

  ‘I’m sending a message. It’s just unfortunate that you have to be the messenger. Everyone will know that the Hardies aren’t finished. Quite the opposite. The Hardies are here, and we are stronger than ever.’ The gang leader’s voice was low, calm and even, but his hard, flinty eyes told a different story.

  Tam’s hand thrust forward, the box cutter glinting in the early sunlight.

  ‘No, please. Please, I’ll pay you anything. I’ll never try anything again, please, please,’ Yusuf babbled, spit flying from his mouth, terror gripping him like a vice.

  Yusuf’s scream was ear-splitting as the wickedly sharp blade carved a large square in the exposed flesh of his wobbling abdomen. Hardie worked at the bucking and thrashing flesh as he ripped it from the yellow fat that lay beneath. The pain was indescribable as Tam tore the square of skin from the stomach, leaving the bloody gore exposed underneath. Yusuf screa
med, once more, long and full of loathing.

  The blade flashed up towards Yusuf’s neck. Strangely there was no pain as the knife bit into his flesh and was drawn sharply, left to right. In fact, the pain went, to be replaced with something else.

  Warmth and peace, closely followed by a dark, inky blackness.

  17

  A classic gangland funeral – that’s what it was.

  The funeral cortege was impressive. The hearse was pulled along the busy Cumbernauld Road at a slow, mournful pace, by two large, coal-black shire horses, bedecked with black plumes mounted on their massive heads. A solitary police motorcyclist preceded the parade, the bike’s blue lights flashing as it led the way in the bright, mid-morning sunshine. Two top-hatted and frock-coated carriage drivers sat at the front of the hearse and skilfully steered it off the main road towards the cemetery. A long line of cars and limousines followed behind as they approached the gates of Riddrie Park Cemetery on the East End of Glasgow.

  The pavement each side of the white gateposts was lined by hundreds of mourners, all immaculately dressed in their best gangster finery. Dark suits, leather jackets, bootlace ties, patent leather shoes and sunglasses among the menfolk. The women wore new-looking dark dresses and jackets, black fascinators or hats. There was even a flash of mink and fox fur among the older women present, despite the warm sunshine.

  Heads were bowed respectfully as the hearse carrying the body of Tam Hardie swung through the gates and headed into the graveyard. The gleaming black coffin was surrounded by bouquets of flowers, topped with a floral display that simply read “Peeler”. A gruesome reminder of the coffin’s occupant.

  The cortege briefly paused as it entered the cemetery and the Hardie brothers alighted from the lead limousine, also bedecked with a multitude of floral tributes. They walked slowly to the front of the hearse. Each brother was dressed identically in a simple dark suit, black silk tie and white pocket square, sunglasses shielding their eyes.

  They formed up, side by side, heads bowed for a brief moment as the lead funeral director, an old family friend with a top hat and cane, walked to the front. As he set off at a slow, rhythmic pace in the direction of the family plot where Tam Hardie’s wife lay, the whole cortege began to move again, in total silence, apart from the clip-clop of the shire horses’ metal-clad hooves.