‘Look out, boys, here comes Fast-Track Fannie. How’s the mental patient? Did he kill anyone on the way back?’ the bawdy, strongly accented voice of Danny, one of the senior DCs on the team rang out across the office, to be accompanied by some chuckling and guffaws from the other officers, all sitting in front of their computer terminals. Danny was middle-aged, with short, wiry grey hair and was seriously overweight, his stomach so vast that his chinos could barely contain it, and she feared that if his trouser button popped, it would take someone’s eye out.
‘Very funny, Danny. Max is fine, just in case you were wondering,’ said Janie, shaking her head as she sat at her desk which, unfortunately, was directly opposite and attached to his, leaving barely three feet separating them.
‘Aye well, just saying, Fan, bloke’s a bloody liability, shooting people in London, then coming up here to go bloody doolally, eh?’ A big grin stretched over his face that Janie would have described as “punchable”.
‘Whatever, Danny. I’ve work to do, you know. You may want to try it,’ she said without looking at the man’s stupid, fat face.
‘Calm down, Princess, just because you’re destined for greatness doesn’t mean you can get all snooty with me. I’ve socks older than you, sweet-cheeks.’ Danny swigged from a large bottle of Irn-Bru, and belched with relish.
‘Maybe change them sometimes then, Dan, if you can reach your feet,’ blurted out Janie, her cheeks glowing hot with anger and embarrassment.
There were guffaws around the office at Janie’s barbed comments.
‘Touché, Danny, one nil to Fannie,’ came a voice from across the room.
‘Cheeky bloody mare, no bloody respect. Too much time hanging with Loopy Max. You need to work with a real man,’ said Danny, his face a shade of purple.
‘Aye right, if you find one, let me know, yeah?’ said Janie, standing up, and shaking her head, her stomach tight, her face red.
‘Oh, pal, you’re getting fair roasted here. She’s brutal today,’ came a voice from behind Danny.
Danny span around to the source. ‘Shut your geggie, man, this daft bint—’
Quick as a flash, whilst his head was turned, Janie reached forward and flicked the top of the Irn-Bru bottle, sending it toppling into the big man’s lap, depositing half a litre of bright orange, sticky liquid over him.
‘Whoops,’ said Janie, walking away as Danny leaped to his feet, cursing. The office exploded into raucous hysterics as Danny batted at his crutch trying to brush the iridescent orange liquid away.
A new voice bellowed across the office, ‘Will you bunch of apes shut up? Some of us are trying to bloody work in here. Janie, my office,’ boomed Ross.
Janie’s stomach lurched as she walked into Ross’s glass cubicle in the centre of the open-plan space, expecting a major bollocking, but his face was split with a broad grin when she entered.
‘I saw all of that. Good work, Danny is a bloody oaf, and he asked for it.’ Ross chuckled.
‘Accident,’ said Janie, shrugging.
‘Aye, right, anyway, never mind. He’ll whinge, but he’ll get over it. You okay?’
‘Aye, I’m fine.’
‘Do those buggers get you down?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’m a big girl, Boss. I don’t need to be babysat.’
‘I can see that. Anyway, Max okay?’
‘He’s pissed off, but he’s fine.’
‘What do you think about it?’
‘What?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Janie sighed. ‘I think that some folk aren’t willing to see what’s in front of them, but it’s not my place to query that,’ said Janie, her face impassive.
‘Nail on the head. Not our place. We have new work to do on a trafficking job that’s going to be busy when it gets going. I want you to review all the surveillance product we have. I’ll have it sent to your laptop. You can do it from home, if you’d like to get out of the office, but it needs doing, okay?’
Janie looked through the glass wall, at the still-muttering Danny who was now wiping at his stained chinos with a paper towel and glowering at her, his face florid and flushed with anger. ‘Aye, I’ll do that, then.’
‘Excellent, cut along,’ said Ross, turning his attention to his screen.
Janie stood as if to leave.
‘Janie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Keep an eye on Max. He’s a good guy and he may need a pal who isn’t his boss, yeah?’
‘Okay.’ Janie left the office, went to her desk without looking at Danny who was still chuntering and giving her daggers, picked up her bag and left the office.
She went up to the first floor to an empty room where she found a terminal and logged on. She used an unconventional route into the PNC to check out the registration of the Mercedes that had been at Max’s place, noting the details on a scrap of paper. She then ran the results through an open-source database, and up popped an image of the driver. Familiarity nipped at her as she looked at the photograph. The thick glasses, swept hair, and lean yet lined face was just very familiar. More so than that, she was sure that she’d met him.
Janie’s phone buzzed on the table in front of her. It was a message from a friend of hers who was on the MIT and it contained a name and an address in Perth. Janie nodded in satisfaction. She needed to get this information to Max, but she urgently needed to bottom out who the mystery man in the Mercedes was. It was going to take some work to get all the information, but she knew where to begin. She went into her bag and pulled out a bottle of water and an apple which she bit into. This was a break; in fact, this was a big break. She took a swig from the water bottle and attacked the keyboard.
*
Janie sat back staring unbelievingly at the screen in front of her. She couldn’t believe what her research had revealed. This was it. She picked up her phone and dialled. It went to voicemail.
‘Damn.’ She flicked through the files and images from that brothel raid a few years ago. It was definitely him. She dialled again.
‘Janie?’ said Max.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good. Just had my phone off, briefly.’
‘Cool. I’ve checked the car out. Merc AMG A-Class, registered to JTS Security Consultants at a PO Box address. No reports on it, and from what I can see, no checks and nothing on intelligence systems. It’s clean, unlike the owner.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I did some digging and JTS Security Consultants are registered with the Security Industry Authority and the only member is one Jack Slattery. He’s also the only director on Companies House databases. No website or social media presence.’
‘I know you’re saving the best till last, so stop teasing and hit me with it.’
‘Jack Slattery is an ex-cop. He was a DS in Police Scotland, a legacy Strathclyde officer, who found himself in some shit over missing payments to informants. One of his people alleged that Slattery had top-sliced part of his reward money after information he had given led to the recovery of a serious amount of drugs. He was ready to make a full complaint, but then, somehow, changed his mind, just as the procurator fiscal was about to charge Slattery with corrupt practice. Want to know something else?’ said Janie, her voice suddenly serious.
‘Yes, but your tone suggests that I may not like it.’
‘The informant wound up in Glasgow Royal Infirmary with two broken legs, and a large flap of skin removed from each of his arse cheeks. Also, it seemed he had developed memory problems, because he claimed he had made the whole Slattery business up and the PF withdrew the charges.’
‘Shit.’
‘PIRC weren’t happy, so went after Slattery for failing to adhere to informant handling guidelines, but he threw his cards in before he went to a hearing. I guess he could see the writing on the wall.’
‘Is that everything?’
‘Nope.’
‘What, there’s more?’
‘Christ, when?’
‘When I was on Vice. We raided a lap dancing club that was a front for a full-on brothel. The whole upstairs was a knocking shop where the girls took the clients who weren’t satisfied with a bit of naked jiggling and wanted a happy ending. One of the working girls was an informant of mine and tipped us off about it. Slattery, although he didn’t use that name, was in one of the upstairs rooms being entertained by my informant. We closed the place down and prosecuted the owner, but let the punters go. Fortunately, we got photographs of all of them and the working girls first. I found one of Slattery, who was calling himself George Smith.’
‘Well, that’s a helpful coincidence. The dirty bastard, eh?’
‘A sleazy bugger – that much I do recall.’
‘Well, there’s our conduit, then. He’s obviously working for Hardie, now.’
‘It would seem so, and the intel was that the brothel was a Hardie-owned business, although we never got to the bottom of that. Why was he at your house?’
‘The bastard put a lump on my bike.’
‘Bloody hell. What are you going to do about it?’
‘For now, I’m leaving it where it is. He doesn’t know I know it’s there, and that gives me the upper hand. I can play dirty, as well. The problem with technical surveillance kit comes with over-reliance. It’s useful but it’ll never replace the mark-one human eyeball. Slattery will be relying on it, so that presents opportunities.’
‘If you say so. I wouldn’t be happy.’
‘I’m not overjoyed by it, but it’s better I use it to our advantage. We now have a place to start with tracking down our dirty cops.’
‘I guess so. You sure you don’t want to call this in? Maybe get Professional Standards to look at it?’
‘If I’m honest, apart from you and maybe Ross, I have no idea who else I can trust. The Hardies have their claws in at a high enough level to get me out of the way, and until I know more, I’m keeping this to just us.’
Janie let out a big rush of breath. ‘This wasn’t what I was expecting. It’s dangerous stuff.’
‘It is what it is. Anything on the families of Leitch and Ferguson?’
‘Sister has been traced, literally in the last few minutes by the MIT. I managed to find out from a pal on the team. Her name is Elizabeth Phillips, now. Lives in Perth, a divorced social worker, no kids. No contact with Willie Leitch for a number of years.’
‘Has she been warned?’
‘I don’t know, but I doubt it, bearing in mind the attitude of management. I only discovered it a wee while ago. Seems Elizabeth fell out with her brother a long time ago. She blames him for their parents’ untimely deaths and says that it was only a matter of time until he either died or killed someone. She didn’t expect them to both happen so close to each other, was the comment I heard. Apparently, she won’t be coming to any funerals.’
Max paused a moment. ‘We have to tell her. We have to warn her and maybe get her out of the way. If the MIT know where she is, so do the Hardies. Can you get her address?’
‘I can, but what if she refuses to go anywhere? We can’t force her and we’d be doing this off-books.’
‘I’ll take that risk. I’m not willing to let any innocents get hurt, without at least trying. Get me the address, and I’ll go and visit her. Maybe I can persuade her to move out for a wee while, just whilst we sort this out.’
‘I’ll get the address, but I’m coming with you. Seeing a weirdo like you pitch up may freak her out.’
‘Charming. Can you do this soon?’
‘How about first thing tomorrow morning? Ross is giving me carte blanche to be out of the office. There is sod all happening at the moment, despite the apparent urgency of the trafficking job.’
‘Great, see you here before work, okay?’
‘No bother – about six-thirty.’
‘How about Duncan’s brother?’
‘MIT can’t find him anywhere. Mary knows he lives in Spain but only has an email address for him. She’s emailed him about the funeral, which is the day after tomorrow up in Caithness. She had a one-line acknowledgement, that’s all. Seems a bit of a mystery.’
‘Well, if the MIT FLO can’t find him, I imagine the Hardies are unable to, either. Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.’ Max hung up.
Janie sat back in her chair, satisfied and determined. She wondered about Ross’s words to her earlier about getting out of the office. Was he keeping her away, or was she being given an opportunity? Whose side was Ross on?
Her mind whirled with it all, but she decided that she was going to trust her gut.
32
A cold, wet nose began to nuzzle Max’s hand. Nutmeg stared up at him intently, with that look he knew well.
‘Come on then, dinnertime.’ Max mixed up Nutmeg’s kibble with a little wet food and placed it down. The dog dived in, enthusiastically.
Max yawned deeply, then realised that the strange gnawing feeling in his stomach wasn’t the stress of the previous events. It was hunger.
He stretched his arms high above his head, trying to ease the tension from his muscles. As he turned towards the fireplace, his eyes fell on the photograph of Katie. It was a picture of her in the snow in France on a ski holiday they had taken a few years ago. Her mouth was open in a big smile, her eyes sparkling and her hair dishevelled. She looked happy and beautiful. A wave of sadness and longing swept over him again. He shook his head, trying to exorcise the feelings from his mind. Not now, he was too busy and there was too much at stake.
He opened the old larder cupboard, finding very little of interest other than a tin of baked beans. Some slightly suspect-looking bread was at the bottom of the bread bin. Max sighed. He popped the bread in the toaster and tipped the beans in a saucepan. Two minutes later he was tucking into beans on toast with a pile of mature cheddar on top, nicely beginning to ooze as it melted. Food of the gods, thought Max as he ate, washing it down with a glass of chilled cranberry juice from the fridge. He really did like the taste of the juice, but a small part of him longed for a long, cold beer. He could picture the glass, full to the brim with the amber liquid, the bubbles lazily circling to a foamy head. He could almost imagine the condensation chilling his fingers as he lifted the drink to his mouth, then the soothing, cold liquid sliding down his throat.
He missed beer a lot, but one always led to another, then another, which always led to the darkness and inevitably the dreams. He wanted Katie back in his life, and that was never going to happen if he was drinking again.
His phone buzzed, dragging his thoughts away from alcohol, the number showing “withheld”.
‘Hello?’ Max said, suspicion in his voice.
‘Max, it’s Sally Smith. You okay to speak?’
‘Aye, crack on.’
‘There was nothing on that jack from Ferguson’s car,’ she said without preamble.
‘What?’ Max said, astounded.
‘Well, a little bit of oily muck on the bottom, and a touch of chalk dust on the top. Nothing that would suggest it had been to Ballachly. CSI have taken samples, but no way it’s come from the cemetery. Sorry.’
Max sighed and massaged his temples. Someone had got to it at Wick; there was no other explanation.
‘That’s not possible. It was clearly peaty soil, and I’m certain that it was granite dust. Who collected it?’ Max said.
‘I’m only telling you this out of courtesy. It looks like you were mistaken, but it was still a good shout. We’re continuing with the theory that Leitch was alone. We have to work with the evidence, and that’s what the evidence is showing us. Now you’re on sick leave, maybe just leave this thing alone, now, right?’
Max opened his mouth to argue, but then realised it was probably pointless. His thoughts turned to the photograph of the scissor jack on his phone. It wouldn’t be conclusive proof, but it would be something. He de
cided not to mention it, in case Sally told her bosses and it got back to the Hardies. For now, he needed to stay off the radar.
‘Aye, maybe. I’ll be off now, just eating.’
‘Look after yourself. Don’t let the job take over your life.’ Sally’s voice was kind, and Max believed she meant it.
‘Thanks.’ Max hung up.
He put his plate down, suddenly not hungry anymore. He stood, walked to the sideboard where a solitary bottle of whisky sat. It was a good bottle. An old Macallan single malt that Ewan had given him as a thank you for a whole day he had spent cutting logs with him. He uncorked it and poured a large measure into a heavy tumbler. He raised the glass and inhaled the deep, smoky, peaty aroma, causing a visceral rush of memories. He paused a second, staring wistfully at the amber liquid and his hand trembled, almost imperceptibly. An anaesthetic maybe. One wouldn’t hurt after the few days he had experienced, surely? It was totally forgivable and Katie would understand. He closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply again, his lips touching the glass.
Nutmeg’s cold nose nudged his trailing hand and made him jump spilling a little of the liquid onto his hand. She stared at him intently, and Max felt sure that her adoring gaze had an edge of disapproval.
‘Jesus, Nutty, what are you, my mother?’ he said, caressing the little dog’s ear.
‘You’re right, girl, not now.’ Max set the glass back down on the sideboard and picked up his cranberry juice, drinking the rest of it in one.
33
Elizabeth Phillips’s house was in a tidy residential street in Craigie, a well-kept and pleasant-looking area west of Perth. The houses were semi-detached and looked to be circa 1930s in style. All the front gardens had been turned into driveways, on which sat predominantly upmarket cars.
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