Dead Man's Grave

by Neil Lancaster

  ‘That seems risky. What if you’re spotted?’

  ‘I’ll stay out of the way, but I need to be there. We don’t know if Bruce Ferguson will show, or not, and I’m concerned that Hardie will want to harm him. I want to be there to prevent it.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I want to come. You’ll need some support.’

  ‘That’d be great, I could do with another set of eyes and ears up there. Can you get out of the office without being noticed?’

  ‘Sure, there’s nothing much going on, and I can just book out on an inquiry. I have a witness that I’ve been putting off seeing in Inverness, anyway. What are you thinking?’ asked Janie.

  ‘The time has come to go after some of the low-hanging fruit,’ Max said, smiling.

  ‘Good call, we used to do this on Vice all the time: take out the smaller pimps so that the traffickers would come out into the open.’

  ‘Glad we’re on the same page. Someone caused Duncan to go over that cliff, and then someone at Wick Police Station ruined the evidence. We find them, the bigger fish might start to make mistakes and then we bring this whole thing crashing down.’

  ‘I think it could work. We can’t just let these bastards run riot.’

  ‘Janie?’ said Max, his voice low.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Thanks. I was beginning to flag there. That bloke was bloody strong.’

  ‘No worries,’ she said, a glimmer of a smile forming.

  ‘Maybe I need to take up Muay Thai.’

  ‘If you think you can handle it. You did well, though; he was a bloody monster.’

  ‘Aye, but if you weren’t there, he’d have broken away, and then I’d have been screwed. Thanks, I’ll not forget that you had my back.’

  Their eyes met, and something passed between them.

  ‘Forget about it. Forget about the fact that an eight-stone girly rescued you from the big nasty mannie.’

  Max chuckled. ‘Janie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  35

  Jack Slattery sat in the café in one of the less salubrious parts of Glasgow. He twirled his packet of cigarettes in his hand, turning the half-empty pack between his fingers, desperate for a smoke. The message had come from the youngest Hardie that they needed to meet urgently, so here he was, a thick cup of tea at his elbow and a slightly sick feeling in his stomach. It had been much easier with the old man, who had more of a sense about keeping the cops at bay by being a little subtle when required. The new Tam Hardie seemed to have no such reticence. Frankly, the guy was insane in his desire to leave the shadow of his old man. The body count was getting higher every day.

  He had passed on Willie’s sister’s address to Hardie last night, once he had received it from one of his contacts on the team. He had heard nothing about that yet, but he imagined that the outlook for the lady wasn’t good. Hardie was using his own people in Perth for the job, so he was thankful for that, at least. Nothing would come back to him on that one.

  The door of the café banged open and Davie Hardie swooped in, a furious look on his face.

  ‘Outside, now,’ he barked, jerking his thumb at the open door.

  Slattery’s heart leaped into his mouth. What the hell was going on? He jumped to his feet and followed Davie out of the door where the large, luxurious Mercedes sat adjacent to the pavement, the rear door open.

  Trying not to tremble, Slattery climbed into the car, where Tam Hardie sat, his face dark with barely concealed fury.

  ‘I thought Max Craigie was off the case?’ Hardie said in a low growl.

  ‘He is. He’s on enforced sick leave.’

  ‘So, tell me this then: how, when my men go to deal with the Leitch bitch, does Craigie show up and stop them from taking her out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aye, he appeared out of nowhere and smashes one of their elbows and batters the other. My man had to rush in and rescue them. Cool as a cucumber, the bastard was.’ Hardie’s eyes flashed with fury.

  ‘Is Craigie dead?’

  ‘Of course he isn’t dead. You think I’m stupid enough to have a cop shot in broad daylight? What am I paying you for? I thought you had him tracked.’

  ‘The tracker hasn’t moved. The motorbike was the only vehicle at his house when I was there.’

  ‘Need to watch him closer, then.’

  ‘Tam, he lives in the middle of nowhere. No way could I watch him normally, even with loads of extra guys. Plus, he’s ex-Met Flying Squad, always switched on.’

  Hardie almost growled in frustration. A vein throbbed at the side of his head. ‘We need to warn this bastard off, and properly. What family does he have?’

  ‘Estranged wife who lives in Hertfordshire and an elderly aunt who lives on the Black Isle.’

  ‘Is that it? No kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have their addresses?’

  ‘I’m working on that.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you have them, okay? I’ll send the bastard a message he won’t be able to ignore. I want this job done, and soon. Meaning the remaining relatives dead and buried. I don’t care if it looks like suicide, or if they have to get shot in the bastard head. You understand?’

  ‘Aye, of course,’ Slattery almost mumbled like a schoolboy in front of a head teacher.

  ‘Do you know where the bitch sister could’ve gone?’

  ‘No idea. MIT only had that address. She’s got no social media presence, and just seems to live a quiet life.’

  ‘So, we’ve lost her?’

  ‘I have her phone number, and I can probably get someone to cell-site it.’

  ‘Get it done. When’s the funeral for Ferguson?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, up at Wick cemetery,’ replied Slattery.

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I’ll be up there, but it’s a real small do, so I’ll stay out of the way. One of my contacts has a solid reason to be there. He’ll report back on the brother, if he turns up.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘If he has a car, I’ll get a tracker slipped on it so we can follow him to a suitable spot. If he’s flown in, closest airport with scheduled flights will be Edinburgh or Glasgow, so there’ll be plenty of opportunities.’

  ‘Okay. Will you do it?’ asked Hardie, his face impassive.

  ‘Me?’ Slattery sounded shocked.

  ‘Aye, you. Who else? You’ll be up there. Follow him back down and when you get a chance shoot him. You need to start earning your retainer. Do this, and there will be a big bonus in it for you.’

  Slattery sighed and rubbed his face. ‘I’ve never shot anyone before, Tam.’

  ‘First time for everything, and anyway, Duncan Ferguson’s death was set up by you, right? You’d still be going down for murder, if the police caught you. Imagine that, an ex-cop getting life in Saughton or Barlinnie. Jack-boy, you’re as much a part of this as any of us, so you bloody need to prove your worth. Or I could find someone else, and I can’t imagine I’d want you running around with everything you know about my operation, right? Life would be, shall we say, precarious? Yes, precarious, for you, outside my team.’ Hardie showed his white, capped teeth in a smile that was as insincere as it was terrifying.

  Slattery said nothing, just breathed deeply, trying to regain control of his nerves. He realised he had no choice.

  ‘Aye, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Of course, you’ll do it. Give him the piece, Davie.’

  A hand snaked around the seat from the front, clutching a small revolver. Nervously, Slattery took the dark, new-looking weapon, feeling the cold of the metal against his sweaty hand.

  ‘Smith and Wesson snub-nose thirty-eight revolver. You fired one before?’ Davie piped up from the front of the car.

  ‘I was firearms trained, but always used Glocks,’ Slattery said, his nerves dissipating as he turned the weapon in his hand and felt the tingle of power begin to nip. This always happened when he took hold of a gun and imagined its
latent power. Even as a cop, he used to get a buzz holstering his pistol. He smiled, just a little. ‘I can handle it, no worries.’

  ‘Good man. Revolver is perfect. Never jams, and don’t leave spent cases behind. Find the opportunity and do it quick, pal. One in the head, two in the chest, as we all like to say and then chuck the thing in the sea. Okay?’

  ‘What about the body?’

  ‘It’s bloody Caithness. There are a million places to hide a body, so get him hid. You’re an ex-cop, hide it where you wouldn’t find it. Car can be lost later on, let’s face it. I know a few scrap dealers who can crush it into a cube.’

  ‘I’ll get on it. I’ll have someone up there to help me, if necessary.’

  ‘Can you trust him?’

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s in it up to his ears already.’

  ‘Will Ferguson be missed?’

  ‘I can’t find anything about him. He left Caithness as a young man and never returned, but I’m sure someone will be looking for him. With the other people who’ve died recently, it may cause a stir,’ Jack said, quietly.

  ‘You aren’t my only route into the police, trust me. You’re just the person I avail myself of most often. You don’t survive in our line of business without gaining influence, and my late pa got all his ducks in a row many years ago.’

  ‘Now what about the loose end down south?’

  ‘You’re still keen on that?’

  ‘Of course, I am. How many times? No bloody loose ends, anywhere.’ Hardie’s face flushed red.

  ‘I’m still looking into it. I have a contact, and together with your man down there, we should be able to sort it,’ Slattery said, his voice catching, just a touch.

  ‘You still need me to sort that out as well? Fuck’s sake, Jack, I’m not sure what you’re for anymore. Find the information out quickly and get back to me. I want this sorted. Now get out of the bloody car and get to work.’

  Slattery stepped onto the pavement and the big car roared off. He pulled a cigarette out of the battered packet and lit it with a shaking hand, his heart sinking at how far he had fallen. He inhaled deeply, relishing the hit as the nicotine bit. Not that long ago, he was just running errands, giving simple bits of intelligence from police sources, and staying in Old Man Hardie’s good books for a nice little retainer. Tam had changed all that, and he was now planning the murders of innocents. He was in too far, he couldn’t back out, and frankly, he needed the money.

  He looked at his reflection in a shop window and saw a seedy middle-aged man. All of a sudden, he loathed himself. His hand went to the pistol tucked in his bulging waistband and as he touched cold metal, he felt a surge of resolve.

  He’d bloody do it. He had no choice but to do whatever Hardie wanted, for a good price, then take the money and run. Away from Scotland, away from the UK. He was bloody sick of it. He’d make his money, and then he was off.

  36

  Max got up early the next day, poured a coffee down his throat and was soon kitted up and on his KTM heading towards the offices at Gartcosh. It felt like a sensible idea to put the tracker still hidden on the skid-plate at a new location on the map. He hoped it meant they wouldn’t be looking for him at the funeral.

  He pulled into the yard, still mostly deserted because the daytime workers had yet to arrive. He parked his bike in a distant corner out of sight. He went to his Vauxhall that was still parked up and threw his bag and bike kit in the boot. He was dressed simply, in plain dark chinos, a white shirt and a dark tie in his back pocket, ready for mixing with the mourners at the funeral.

  As he was settling into his seat his phone buzzed. It was Ross.

  ‘Ross?’

  ‘Max. Welfare check. You okay?’ Ross’s rough voice had a softness to it that wasn’t normal.

  ‘Fine, why?’ said Max, suspiciously.

  ‘You’re a legend in your own lunchtime at the moment, pal. Word’s got out about you telling DCS White to copulate with himself. I have to say, it was quite funny, despite how career-threatening it could be. Genuinely, mate, I’m enquiring as to your welfare.’

  ‘I’m honestly fine,’ was all that Max was willing to say. His lack of trust was now widespread, and even included a man he considered a friend.

  ‘Aye, well. The OH referral has been made, and you’ll get a call sometime in the next millennium. In the meantime, I’d chill out in whatever foul and depraved way you see fit, but stay out of the case, yeah?’

  ‘Aye,’ was all that Max could bring himself to say.

  ‘Shite, man, you’re hard work. We’re supposed to be pals,’ said Ross, concern in his voice.

  ‘I just can’t talk right now. Speak later, yeah?’

  ‘Aye, but no more sticking your beak in, right? I may be able to keep the shite away from you, but interfere any further, and I won’t. Clear?’

  ‘As a bell. Listen, I have to go.’ Max hung up.

  He sat for a few moments, staring out of the window, lost in thought and wondering who he could trust. No one, he decided, as he started the Vauxhall, engaged the gears, and drove off.

  Within a few minutes, he was once more heading north from one end of the country to the other, a full five hours away.

  He dialled Janie on the hands-free function on the car’s steering wheel.

  ‘Early bird, Sarge?’ she said, and he was surprised to hear sleep in her voice.

  ‘Not on your way? Funeral starts at eleven. Good morning by the way.’

  ‘Unlike you, I like to prepare. Ross was so impressed by my diligence at going to see the trafficking victim in Inverness that he authorised a hotel, so I could see her first thing. He thinks that I’m a shining example of victim care. I’m about to head downstairs for a big breakfast and I’ll see you in Wick. What’s the plan, by the way?’

  ‘Burial is at eleven at Wick Burial Ground, opposite the retail park. I’ll meet you there. Are you dressed for a funeral?’

  ‘Well, I have that option with me, if you mean dark trousers and a white shirt.’ She yawned.

  ‘Excellent, we’ll look like waiters for the wake. I’ll see you at eleven. Enjoy breakfast.’

  Max smiled, as he drove north, surprised at the warmth he felt for Janie, who was fast becoming a friend. Things were going well, despite the seriousness of the situation. Max was sick of being on the back foot. It was time to go on the offensive.

  *

  It was just a small cortege that swept into the cemetery. A single undertaker’s car came behind the hearse that contained Duncan Ferguson’s coffin and a couple of floral tributes. Half a dozen cars followed them into the large, sprawling graveyard. They paused, briefly at the entrance, before the top-hatted undertaker alighted from the hearse and walked the cortege in, cane in hand.

  The plot for Duncan was close to the leading edge of the cemetery and Max and Janie watched from the retail park opposite as the party formed up around the grave. The coffin was lowered in, as the vicar, resplendent in full cassock, read from a Bible.

  Max looked at the scene with a long-lensed camera, zooming in on all the guests in turn. He paused at the tall form of Sergeant Mick McGee, the fatal accident investigator from Wick, who he’d seen arrive in a Ford earlier. It wouldn’t be unusual for the lead investigator in a fatal accident to be at a funeral, but Max wanted to document the guests in any case. He paused on the weeping Mary, surrounded on both sides by an older couple who had to be her parents. Then Max focused on a small, wiry man with a deep tan and short, greying hair. He zoomed in close on his face and the resemblance to his brother was significant. This was certainly Bruce Ferguson. He was tough-looking, possibly in his mid-forties, with a military bearing, and an unmistakable air of confidence about him. He looked formidable, despite his comparatively small stature.

  ‘We seem to be the funeral squad at the moment, and bearing in mind I’d never been to one before working with you, I’m starting to worry, especially as we’ve now done two recently,’ said Janie, taking in the scene.

  ‘Val
uable intelligence sources, Constable. Next stop weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs.’

  ‘I may ask for a transfer; it’s getting bloody depressing.’

  ‘Hold on, party is breaking up,’ said Max pointing at the now dispersing group. There were the usual knots of people who held back, but Max focused the camera on McGee, who spoke briefly with Mary and then in turn to Bruce Ferguson, a sympathetic look on his face, before heading back to the car park.

  Rather than walk straight to the Focus that Max had observed him arriving in, Mick walked slowly, eyes swivelling, along the line of cars.

  ‘He looks suspicious. Glad he’s on roads policing and not Serious Crime,’ said Janie.

  Max said nothing, just snapped away with the camera.

  Suddenly, McGee dropped to his haunches by a small Ford and began to affect tying a shoelace, whilst his head swivelled in each direction.

  ‘Could he look any more suspicious? Tell me you’re getting this,’ said Janie.

  McGee reached into his pocket and his hand went up to the wheel arch of the Ford, fiddled inside for a few moments and then was withdrawn. He stood and walked purposefully towards his Focus, climbed in and drove away.

  ‘I may be wrong, but that looked very much to me like McGee just lumped up that car,’ said Janie.

  ‘This is what happens when you go after dirty cops: they know the dirty tricks we play. Lucky for us he isn’t very good, the dirty, corrupt bastard.’

  ‘So, we have our first confirmed dirty cop. Now what?’

  ‘Can you take your car and head back down to Latheron and find somewhere to hole up out of the way? Be ready when I call you to switch on Elizabeth Phillips’s phone. It’s only an old thing, so doesn’t have GPS, but as long as it hits the mast that covers Latheron we’re good. They’ll assume Lizzie is at Willie’s gaff, if they’re cell-siting the phone. I’d like to know if they have that capacity. Just get yourself somewhere with a line of sight on Willie’s place. Take the camera, okay?’

  ‘You think they’ll be cell-siting her phone?’

  ‘It’s what I’d do.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m off to pay my respects to Mary Ferguson and speak to Bruce. We have to warn him and I don’t like him having a tracker on the car.’