‘I hope you are going to be suitably respectful.’
‘I most certainly am. Take care, this is going to be a desperate situation for them. With what they’ve done so far, there’s no telling what they’ll do if you get seen.’
‘Received. I’ll be careful.’
37
Max sat in his car outside the inn in Dunbeath, thinking things over for a moment, when something occurred to him. He pulled out his phone and dialled 101, the general non-emergency number for all police. When the operator answered he asked to be put through to PC Peter Anderson from Wick.
There was a brief pause as the operator connected Max to the officer’s Airwave radio.
‘PC Anderson, can I help you?’ He even sounded young with the faint hiss of static from the radio.
‘Hi, Pete, it’s DS Craigie. I just wanted to thank you for taking the evidence in from Sweeney’s the other day. Really helpful.’
‘No bother, Sarge. I was glad to help. Not often I get involved in a murder squad job.’ He almost bubbled with enthusiasm.
‘No problem booking it all in? It’s important that evidential productions are correctly documented,’ said Max with a serious tone.
‘No problem, Sarge, in fact Sergeant McGee helped me with the paperwork and he stored it away. I think a murder squad detective came and took it the next day. Is everything okay?’ he said, worry creeping into his voice.
‘Everything is fine, mate. Thanks again.’ Max hung up and considered this new information. It all pointed to McGee, but just who was he taking his orders from? He shook his head and got out, heading for the inn.
It was just as Max remembered it, except this time the room was busy with black-suited mourners, all at the strange gathering known as a wake.
The atmosphere had yet to be loosened by the influence of alcohol, and there were just knots of individuals in hushed conversations, all clutching glasses and looking uncomfortable. Max had been to a few funerals in his time, but these were mainly military, after comrades had been killed in Afghanistan or Iraq. They often ended up as a raucous, drunken celebration of life, rather than the stilted mourning of death. Max felt uncomfortable as he walked to the bar and all eyes turned on him. The dining tables had been lined up alongside each other and were laden with buffet food and a stack of paper plates.
‘Hi, DS Craigie, right? What can I get you?’
‘Cranberry juice would be good, thanks,’ he said.
Hettie produced a bottle, filled a glass with ice and put it on the bar, with a half-smile.
‘How much?’
‘Nothing, Mary has an open bar,’ said Hettie, nodding to where Mary was standing, looking a little stunned, next to her brother-in-law, who was staring at Max with a curious expression.
‘How’s she doing?’ asked Max.
‘As well as can be expected. Her folks are over from the US, and she’s returning to the States tomorrow for a little while. I’m minding the place whilst she’s gone,’ said Hettie.
‘Maybe it’ll help to get away, right?’
‘Maybe. You should say hi to Mary. She’s mentioned you a few times, she might have some questions.’
‘I’d better go and say hi, then,’ said Max, smiling.
He took a sip of juice and sauntered over to Mary, who was in deep conversation with her brother-in-law. Her eyes were still red and puffy, but she had something else in them. Determination.
‘Hi, Mary, I just wanted to pop in to offer my condolences,’ said Max.
Mary turned to look at him, and the grief and hurt were clear in her eyes.
‘Thank you for coming. I didn’t see you at the service?’ Her voice was hoarse and thick.
‘I thought family only, you know? Didn’t want to intrude, just wanted to come to say hi.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. Sergeant McGee came to the burial, which was thoughtful of him, but he had to go on duty straight after. He’s been really kind; everyone has been,’ she said, smiling, wanly.
‘Aye, he seems a nice man. Have you been updated about the incident?’ asked Max with a straight face.
‘Yes. He said that he thinks my husband was driving too fast, or maybe there were brake problems, but they can’t find all the bits. I have to say, it’s a little confusing.’ Her eyes began to moisten.
‘With the car being so badly damaged a forensic vehicle examination is always difficult, particularly if vital components are missing.’
Tears started to fall down Mary’s face, and her shoulders began to heave. Her mother swooped in, and pulled her close, whispering softly in her ear.
Bruce Ferguson stepped forward, his hand outstretched. ‘DS Craigie, I’m Bruce, Duncan’s brother. Can we have a minute?’ His voice was rich with the tones of Caithness, but softer, presumably after many years away. Max gripped the man’s hand. It was firm and rough.
‘Aye, sure. Shall we go over here?’ Max pointed at a lone table in the far corner of the room.
Both men sat opposite each other, Bruce fixing Max with blazing eyes. They radiated sorrow, but there was something else. A flinty, steely hardness, which Max recognised. No doubt about it, Bruce Ferguson had seen much of life.
‘It’s hot,’ said Bruce, peeling off his dark suit jacket, revealing a crisp white short-sleeved shirt. His tie was plain and dark and had been loosened at the collar. His arms were lean and tough-looking, almost like nylon rope, and heavily scarred. On one there was the pink and puckered skin of a significant burn, on the other a long scar with white stitch marks, stark against suntanned flesh. A solitary tattoo was visible at the edge of his sleeve. Max recognised it as the tip of the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger, better known as the commando knife.
‘Aye, fair roasting,’ said Max, taking a sip of his juice and loosening his own tie. ‘Bootneck?’ asked Max, nodding at the tattoo, using the slang for Royal Marine Commando.
‘A long time ago. I did my twenty-two, but mostly with the SBS at Poole. You look like you’ve served,’ Bruce said, sipping his own beer.
‘Black Watch,’ said Max.
‘Any tours?’
‘Aye, Telic and Herrick,’ said Max simply using the operation names for the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. ‘Yourself?’ he added.
‘Aye, both and a few more you may not have heard so much about. What is the real story with my brother’s death, Max? Mary is telling me that it’s looking like an accident, and that wet fart who said hello at the funeral – McGee, was it? – well, he didn’t inspire confidence.’ His voice was low and soft, but there was an underlying edge that made him a slightly intimidating individual.
Max explained how he had got involved with the case, keeping it brief.
Bruce said nothing for a moment, just looked at Max with a cool, appraising gaze. Max had seen that look before from a sergeant major who didn’t believe the bullshit being spouted by a junior NCO.
‘You believe there isn’t a link between the two deaths? Honest answer, veteran to veteran, pal, ’cos I have to tell you, I don’t buy it. No way did my brother die by accident.’ His voice was still low and calm, but his eyes shone with controlled fury.
‘Being straight with you, I have my doubts, but I’m in a minority. I’m still looking into it, but anything I come up with won’t be well received.’ There was something about Bruce Ferguson that made Max want to trust him.
‘How is it that even though Mary told the murder squad cops that Willie and my brother were cousins, they didn’t look into it? I can’t believe that with the Hardies’ reputation, nobody considered the deaths could be linked.’
‘I’m not so sure. Look, I’m persona non grata with the murder teams at the moment. I’m on enforced leave,’ said Max, aware that he may be saying too much.
‘And yet, here you are?’ Bruce’s eyebrows raised a fraction. A silence hung in the air and even the hubbub of the inn seemed to fade into the background.
‘Aye. Here I am,’ Max almost whispered.
Bruce said nothing a
nd the uncomfortable silence between them lingered. This was an interview tactic Max had often used himself in the past. Leave an uncomfortable pause in a verbal exchange and someone will soon want to break it.
Max broke first, realising that Bruce Ferguson was not the breaking type.
‘I’m here of my own volition, because I have some concerns for your safety. I think the Hardies are seeking some kind of revenge against blood relatives of Willie Leitch. There was an attempted attack on your cousin, Elizabeth, yesterday.’ Max immediately realised that he had said too much.
Bruce’s face darkened and his eyes narrowed. ‘Is Liz okay?’
‘She’s fine. She’s staying with a friend away from Scotland, and she’ll be safe there. Me and a colleague intervened and stopped the attack.’
‘And the attackers?’
‘They escaped, with injuries,’ said Max, feeling as if he was walking down a route that he would find it difficult to come back from.
‘What are your bosses doing about this?’
Max paused for a moment. This was now a difficult situation, but there was no way he could share his suspicions with Bruce Ferguson. He decided that his only option was to be a little more guarded.
‘The usual. Watching hospitals, looking at any associations, and the like,’ said Max aware of how unconvincing he sounded.
‘And you think these people want to harm me?’ Bruce asked, his eyebrows raised in an almost amused expression.
‘It’s a possibility. These are bad people, and whilst we have no evidence, I’m fairly confident that the Hardies were responsible for the attack on your cousin and they’ll be targeting you next. You should take what steps you can to protect yourself. I’d offer you police protection, but with my current status with Police Scotland, I can’t.’ Max leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. He really didn’t want to be overheard. ‘There is every chance that the Hardies’ influence stretches into certain areas of the force.’
‘Bent cops, you mean?’
Max paused. ‘Aye,’ he said, eventually. There was a long pause that almost felt like static and the hubbub in the bar seemed to fade. Bruce’s face remained impassive.
‘You don’t look surprised,’ Max said.
‘I can’t say that I am. Are you sure that Liz is safe?’
‘As I can be. She’s staying with a friend from a while ago, who has no social media links. A colleague I trust has checked and she can’t find any link, so I don’t think the Hardies will, either.’
‘That’s all I care about, then.’
‘Not worried for yourself?’
Bruce’s eyes almost lit up a little, and his tough, lined face broke into a wide smile. ‘You’ve no idea about me, have you?’
‘Well, you’re ex SBS, so I imagine you can take care of yourself.’
‘I did spend many years in the SBS, but for the last six years I’ve been head of security for a very high-profile and very, very rich Russian businessman. I spend all my life surrounded by ex-Spetsnaz bodyguards, in a well-guarded, large property on the side of a mountain in Spain. Every possible security facility is available to me and when I’m working around the world with my principal, I’m always armed. So I’m not scared of a two-bit gangster, even if he could find me, which he won’t be able to. You guys couldn’t find me, right?’
‘True. Other than knowing you were in Spain.’
‘I’m rarely in Spain. I’m rarely anywhere for any length of time. Will you answer me one question, honestly?’
‘Depends what it is.’ Max matched Bruce’s smile.
‘Did Hardie have my brother killed?’ The smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Max paused for a moment. If he said what he wanted to say, there was every possibility that it may introduce another fly into the already contaminated ointment. An ex-special-forces operative, with access to significant resources, could be a problem if he bore a grudge against Hardie.
‘Yes. I think Hardie had your brother killed. I also think he tried to have Elizabeth killed and if he gets the chance, I think he will have you killed as well. This is a blood feud, and it dates back nearly two hundred years. There is no way Hardie will rest until he gets satisfaction.’
‘I heard about Willie’s scrapbook,’ said Ferguson, flatly.
‘And?’ said Max, his eyebrows raised.
‘I think “no comment” is as far as I’m willing to go on that front. Certainly, at this stage.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Max, deciding that he wouldn’t get anywhere by trying to press the man.
‘If you’re wondering, am I going to be safe, the answer is yes. I’m heading south to Glasgow for a flight later on this evening back to Spain. My boss wants me at work, and with what he pays me, who am I to argue?’
‘Mind if I check your car over before you head off? With what happened to your brother, I would feel better if I knew it was roadworthy.’
‘Be my guest.’ He tossed over a single Ford key with an Avis fob. ‘Hired Fiesta parked out the front. I’m going to stay here with Mary for a wee bit longer.’ He stood, nodded and walked back over to his sister-in-law who was standing in a small knot of mourners, all clutching drinks.
Max headed for the door, pausing by the buffet for a brief second. He pulled out a small sheet of foil from beneath a pile of sandwiches and folded it in half, before leaving the inn and walking into the car park.
38
Max surreptitiously looked about him but saw only the line of parked mourners’ cars. There was no sign of McGee’s Volvo and no other cars that would have served as observation points. Max smiled to himself. As he had predicted, the problem with technological surveillance equipment was that, inevitably, those utilising it placed too much faith in it.
He quickly pressed the key and the indicator lights flashed as Bruce’s Fiesta unlocked. Max produced his smartphone and took a quick snap of the car. He made a show of checking it over, inside and out. The boot had a solitary small military-style rucksack in it and nothing else. Squatting down by the wheel arch Max leaned in and felt around with his hand. He found the tracker almost immediately. Reaching into the space by the axle with the torch on his phone switched on, he took a few pictures. Even though this was all off-books, he felt more secure documenting every step. Looking at the image on the phone’s screen he could see that the tracker was a carbon copy of the one currently attached to the skid-plate of his KTM back at Gartcosh.
Quickly, Max pulled hard to free the magnets and wrapped it completely in the shiny tinfoil, thereby encasing it in a makeshift Faraday cage. Max imagined it suddenly disappearing on the screen of whoever was monitoring, as the metallic foil blocked the GPS signal from hitting the satellite circumnavigating the globe thousands of miles above them. Max couldn’t help but smile.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Janie.
‘Max, all okay?’
‘Yeah, all fine. You got eyes on Willie’s place?’
‘Yep. Nice little spot a hundred metres away. They’ll never see me.’
‘Cool. Now listen carefully. I want you to wait ten minutes and then switch on Elizabeth Phillips’s phone. Make a call to the operator or something, just to make sure it’s visible on the net. Be ready to photograph whoever shows up, okay?’
‘Sure, what are you going to do?’
‘I’ll be close by. I’ve removed the tracker from Bruce’s car, so he’s safe to travel. He’s an interesting character, and to put it mildly, not even slightly concerned about the Hardies. He’s ex special forces and current security manager for an oligarch,’ said Max.
‘Right, so both relatives are as safe as we can make them, which is good, but what next?’
‘Now we are going proactive. We’re going to pick one of the bastards off. If we present inconvertible proof that we have a dirty cop, they’ll have to listen to us, right?’
‘I guess, but this is all new to me. I don’t like it.’
‘Y
ou think I do? We have no idea how deep this corruption runs, but if we do nothing, innocents die, and I’m not letting that happen.’ Max instantly regretted his harsh tone. He was tired. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just getting to me,’ he added before Janie could respond.
‘Nah, you’re all good, Max. Let me know when you’re on your way.’
‘Thanks, pal.’ Max hung up.
He returned into the inn where Bruce and Mary were talking by the bar.
‘Car’s all good, Bruce,’ said Max handing the key over to him.
‘That’s good to know. I’m heading off now myself. Thanks for what you’re doing, Max. It’s good to know there are some good cops out there. I’d appreciate it if you kept me apprised of any developments, or if you think I can offer anything.’ He handed a business card over which Max took. It simply bore Bruce’s name, an email address and a UK mobile phone number.
‘Thanks. Can I just say one thing?’
‘Aye, fire away.’
‘I really wouldn’t be tempted to get involved in this if I was you, mate.’
‘Do I look worried about that?’
‘No, but I think it’s important. You do anything daft, then the focus could easily shift from Hardie to you. Cops like low-hanging fruit, and they’ll lock you up as quick as anyone.’
‘I’ve plenty on my plate already. Hardie means nothing to me, and I trust you to do the right thing. I’ve zero interest in any of that bloody family.’ His gaze was penetrating, and Max wasn’t sure if he believed him, or not.
‘Well, fair enough then. Take care.’ The men shook hands.
It was time to bait the hook, thought Max. In fact, it was time to bait a couple of hooks and see who bit.
39
Jack Slattery sat and smoked in his car at the side of the road just outside Wick in Lybster, a little harbour just a few miles away from the funeral wake in Dunbeath. He had been there for a while now. The blue blob on the map screen on his phone had disappeared out of nowhere a few minutes ago. It had just plain vanished. This wasn’t good, as the tracker was the only direct link to Ferguson. He checked the tracker on Craigie’s motorcycle, and it was stationary at Gartcosh, and hadn’t moved since early this morning. He wondered if Craigie was back working. His contacts should have let him know, if that was the case. Still, he couldn’t worry about him right now.
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