Dead Man's Grave

by Neil Lancaster

  There was a hiss and some clicks and then he heard the voices. Max’s eyes opened wide in shock. There was no doubt, it was a phone call of Tam Hardie talking to someone.

  Max restarted the clip and held the phone close to his ear. The audio was clear as a bell with minimal interference.

  ‘Slattery?’

  ‘Aye, Tam, I’m here.’

  ‘You find anything?’

  ‘No, Leitch’s sister is still nowhere to be found, and Ferguson is fuck knows where.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. What about Craigie?’

  ‘His phone signal is still at his place and the tracker on his bike hasn’t moved. No one’s seen him at work.’

  ‘Who is Craigie working with?’

  ‘He was with Janie Calder, new bird, accelerated promotion type. She’s working on another job.’

  ‘Is she helping him?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Jesus. Why am I paying you? Worse than useless. Anyway, shut up and listen. I’ve done what you should be doing. Intercepts will be up and running on Craigie and Phillips soon. We’ll know everything they know and I need you to be ready to act.’

  ‘Christ, how’d you manage that?’

  ‘Shut up, Jack. You still have the item I gave you?’

  ‘It’s safe.’

  ‘Well, be ready.’

  ‘What about Leitch’s bastard kid in London?’

  ‘All in hand, leave that to me.’

  The call abruptly ended.

  Jill placed Max’s cranberry down in front of him. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing. Load of spam nonsense,’ said Max, his insides churning, his thoughts on Bruce Ferguson.

  48

  ‘From the OP. Stand by, stand by, stand by. Subject one is out of the premises, and is right, right, right, along Stoneleigh Road towards Tottenham High Road, walking casually, not aware and I’ll have him in view for two hundred metres, camera is rolling.’ Jill Strother wiped the sweat from her eyes and swore under her breath as she sat in the rear of what appeared from the outside to be an electrician’s van. Rolls of cable and other tools in a false back at the rear of the load space completed the subterfuge. The front dash was littered with greasy sandwich wrappers, old invoices, a crushed Coke can and a copy of the Sun. It was fairly unusual for Jill to be in the OP van, but in this particular case where the objective was the recording of a test call, it made as much sense for her to be in there as anywhere else. The stultifying heat was beginning to make her regret that decision, however.

  The van was plain white and as unremarkable as any of the other thousands of vans driving the north London streets at ten in the morning. The inside, however, was a little different. It had a swivel chair and a bank of monitors all showing images captured by the four cameras front, side and rear of the van. Jill took a draught of water from her insulated bottle and cursed the absence of air conditioning. All that tech, and you still had to sweat like this. She would be the subject of much mickey-taking when they almost had to pour her out of the bloody van. Jill tweaked the control for the rear camera and followed the loping gait of Eustace Fielding as he sauntered down the street, looking at the phone he held in his hand.

  ‘Be aware, subject one is holding a mobile in his right hand right now. Control now would be a good time for the call,’ said Jill into the mic at the control panel.

  ‘All received, be aware, OP, call is going in now,’ the booming voice of Terry, the surveillance team controller came over the net.

  ‘From control we have a ringtone our end, be aware.’

  Jill watched as Fielding reached for his pocket. ‘From OP, subject one is reaching for his pocket, and there’s another phone, looking at the handset now, and raising it to his ear. Looks like he’s answering.’

  There was a brief pause. Fielding pulled the phone away from his ear, a frown on his face, then he pocketed it once again.

  ‘From control, phone answered. We are good to go. Trojan nine four seven, we are now authorised for hard-stop, over to you.’

  A new voice came over the airwaves: ‘All Trojan units from nine four seven, we are state red, repeat state red. Nine four five, you in position at junction of Stoneleigh with High Road?’

  ‘From nine four five, yes, yes. In position.’

  ‘Nine four seven, we are on Stoneleigh, towards High Road. He’s right between us. OP, still have eyeball?’

  Jill spoke calmly. ‘Yes, yes, subject one approaching junction, distance twenty metres.’

  A more urgent voice came on the net. ‘Nine four seven, we now have eyeball on subject one; we are going to engage. Nine four five, be aware.’

  ‘Nine four seven, yes, yes, in position.’

  ‘All units, strike, strike!’ came the calm, assertive voice of the firearms controller. There was a roar as a big BMW X5 tore past the OP van closing fast on Eustace Fielding as he approached the junction. Suddenly, an officer wearing a chequered baseball cap rounded the corner, a carbine in his shoulder sighted directly at Fielding.

  ‘Armed Police!’ he bellowed, the carbine levelled at Fielding’s chest. Fielding reacted immediately, turning and sprinting off back the way he had walked, only to be confronted by the BMW, which screeched to a halt and two officers disembarked, using the doors as cover, carbines levelled at Fielding. The multiple shouts of ‘Armed Police’ were audible in the back of the van. Jill zoomed in on the scene, recording everything.

  Fielding suddenly reached into his waistband, a mix of panic and sheer unadulterated rage on his broad face.

  ‘Shit, shit, no,’ muttered Jill. A bead of sweat ran down her face and she had to wipe it out of her eyes.

  When his hand reappeared, it was holding a pistol. In what seemed to Jill like slow motion his hand raised, the gun pointing at the officers from the BMW.

  ‘From OP, subject armed, subject armed,’ she bellowed into the radio.

  There was a crack, and Fielding’s hand bucked, a shower of sparks bursting from the pistol. There was an immediate response of a series of sharp cracks from the officer’s carbines and Fielding fell, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

  There was a moment of total silence, and then things went crazy on the radio. ‘Man down, man down! Suspect one has engaged firearms officers and is down. Paramedic required, urgently,’ bellowed one of the firearms officers, the stress evident in his voice.

  Jill focused the camera in as the firearms officers switched roles and sprinted forward to try to save Fielding, who moments earlier had been trying to kill them.

  A crowd was already beginning to form as the officers worked on Fielding, one of them performing chest compressions. The bystanders all had their arms extended, phones in hands, as they recorded the unfolding drama before them.

  Jill was relieved to see the green uniforms of the paramedics, who had been monitoring the operation by radio, arrive at the scene and take over from the firearms cops.

  Within ten minutes there were emergency vehicles everywhere and a rapidly swelling crowd of onlookers being ushered back by uniformed officers. They were stretching blue and white scene tape around the area. Even through her camera, Jill could feel the atmosphere change from calm and professional to febrile as the bystanders became more and more aggrieved. She needed to get out of here urgently, or there was every possibility that the van she was currently in would end up in flames.

  A few minutes later, the alarm blipped on the van. She looked up at camera one and was relieved to see Doug opening the van door.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ he called from the front, as he started the engine.

  ‘I am now you’re here. I’ve a feeling it’s going to get a little bit lively,’ she said, using the crawl hatch to get into the front, and strapping herself into the passenger seat.

  ‘The crowd is getting much bigger, and angrier, by the minute. I just had to walk through them all to get to you. They’re saying that the cops have murdered a black man. It’s a good job I’m black, or I’m no
t sure I’d have made it through.’ He smiled at Jill, but she could see the stress on his face.

  As they drove away from Tottenham High Road, a group of about twenty young men jogged by, most with bandannas pulled over their faces. The whole dynamic one of anger.

  ‘Bloody hell, this is going to be bad,’ said Jill, tuning her radio to the local police channel, intending to report the marauding youths in. The net was suddenly alive with shouts for assistance and screamed reports of violence.

  The paper-thin veneer of peace was about to be tested to its limits.

  49

  Max and Tony Jeffry sat in the large corner office in one of the upper floors at New Scotland Yard. The room was silent, Max having just finished delivering the briefing to Assistant Commissioner Fowler. He had prepared his document on PowerPoint and included the surveillance footage of Hardie embracing Fielding. Max was thankful that he had retained working copies of the original. He had also included the video clips of Slattery and McGee arriving at Leitch’s home and the images of Slattery arriving and leaving his house in the Mercedes. For good measure he had attached the photographs of the scissor jack in the rear of Duncan Ferguson’s destroyed Focus at Sweeney’s garage. He was thankful that he had saved everything in his cloud storage for easy access before leaving Scotland.

  Assistant Commissioner Jeanette Fowler sat silently for a few more moments before speaking, in soft northern tones. ‘So, let me get this straight. You haven’t approached any of your management about any of this?’ She looked at Max over her spectacles, her eyes shining with intelligence. Max had given the same verbal briefing that he had given to Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Jeffry, just the previous day.

  ‘No, ma’am. Once I was removed from the case and put on enforced sick leave I realised that I couldn’t trust anyone in Police Scotland. I’m also fairly sure that at least two murders have been facilitated by serving or ex Police Scotland officers and I’m convinced that Hardie intends to use his contacts to kill the surviving relatives of William Leitch, which is also evidenced by the fact that Leitch’s birth son is now in intensive care at the Royal Free Hospital.’

  Max had decided to leave out all mention of the illegal intercept that had been emailed to him. That would make a complicated situation almost impossible to manage, and would doubtless put Bruce Ferguson in a difficult position in the future.

  ‘Tony, what’s your take on this?’ AC Fowler turned to Tony Jeffry.

  ‘Ma’am, I know Max from old and I can vouch for him and his integrity without a second’s hesitation. It really does seem that Police Scotland is penetrated by a powerful corrupt element. The question is, what do we do about it?’

  AC Fowler sighed, a thoughtful look on her face. ‘One thing is clear. We have to act, and we have to act fast. Eustace Fielding’s family are demanding answers and we were only a whisker away from a full-scale riot after he was shot yesterday. I make it clear that I attach no blame to anyone involved in this operation. I’ve seen the surveillance and body-worn video footage and I’ve briefed the community leaders as to their contents. Fielding was clearly shot, after first firing on police and I have relayed that to the interested parties. They’re keeping a lid on any disorder, but we’ll have to be clear what sits behind this operation, and we can’t do that whilst the situation in Scotland remains as it is.’

  ‘Agreed, ma’am. I’m going to take a wild guess. You have an idea?’ Tony said, half-smiling.

  ‘Funnily enough, I do. It’s a fortunate coincidence that the recently appointed Chief Constable of Police Scotland is a good friend of mine. We served together in GMP and he’s a good man whom I would trust with my life. It won’t surprise you to learn that he was appointed very much as a new broom after the authority lost faith in the previous incumbent, and there has been a nasty smell of corruption within the organisation. We spoke just a few days ago, and his number-one priority is tackling it. We may be able to come up with a strategy that will satisfy Police Scotland by bringing the Hardie family and the corrupt elements in Police Scotland down.’

  ‘What’s in it for us?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Well, at this stage we suspect that Hardie had asked the late Eustace Fielding to facilitate the murder of Will Harding, offspring of Willie Leitch, so this gives us a genuine and reasonable interest. We, as in the Met, have an obligation to see that if Hardie did task Fielding with this murder, then he is brought to justice for it. We can’t do that without the assistance of Scottish Police, but we can’t use normal means of communication, or we may as well just phone Tam Hardie ourselves and tell him what we’re planning. So, my suggestion is that you guys go and grab a coffee whilst I phone Chief Constable Chris Macdonald and see what options are open to us.’

  50

  Max sat in the canteen at Scotland Yard, nursing a lukewarm coffee. Tony had disappeared after receiving a call from the AC. Clearly machinations and plans were afoot, and Max wondered, nervously, what the next play would be.

  One thing was for sure, he was in too deep, now. He had planted trackers illegally, carried out surveillance without authority and broken a suspect’s elbow without reporting it. He had relocated witnesses without any authority and was now liaising with another force and planning actions without the knowledge of his superiors.

  He thought of how this all started, at that bleak grave in Ballachly a few days ago. The grave said that it should never be opened, and because someone had, many people had died. If only Hardie hadn’t found that grave. Six victims, and counting. If they didn’t stop this, how high would the death toll reach?

  He shook his head, sadly, realising that all of this could easily end his career. And then what, or who, was he? He longed for a drink. Just one cold beer would almost be like a tonic now. He rubbed his face, trying to break the train of dark thoughts that were beginning to seep into the corner of his mind.

  He dialled a number from memory on his phone, butterflies in his stomach. Please answer, he thought, almost desperately. The phone diverted straight to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, it’s Katie. Sorry I’m obviously doing something more interesting right now. Leave a message or call back. Or don’t. Up to you, byeee!’

  Max’s shoulders sagged. He missed her so much, and she was only an hour away from where he was sitting. He longed to see his wife, to hold her, just for a few moments.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ said Tony appearing suddenly, causing Max to start.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, Guv,’ he lied.

  ‘We’re on. You have a flight booked at 6 p.m. back to Glasgow. Tomorrow morning at eight, call this number and you’ll be told where to go.’ Tony handed over a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it and continued. ‘You’ll have to make the same presentation you just made to the AC to your chief constable. He wants to hear it first and be ready to answer a load of questions. Don’t hold anything back, Max, not the dodgy surveillance, or slightly illegal tracker deployments, not busting elbows. The AC didn’t tell me anything much, but the inference she gave me is that he isn’t the slightest bit surprised. We’re gonna make this right, for both forces. This situation stops, and it stops right now.’

  51

  Unsurprisingly the dream hit Max again, waking him in a cold, cloying sweat, with a gasp. Nutmeg showed her usual concern, nuzzling him with a cold nose, her tail thumping, rhythmically.

  Max had arrived home at about 9 p.m., only to find the little dog sitting at the bottom of the track, as always. His first action had been to sweep the house for any new electronic devices, but he found nothing. The cameras had been clear, apart from a couple of Nutmeg-initiated recordings. He’d been really tired, so had gone straight to bed, sleeping heavily until the dream dragged him awake.

  He was too tired and weary to run, and a little nervous at the forthcoming meeting with the chief. So, he made strong coffee, and just sat, contemplating.

  He picked up his phone that he’d retrieved from the garage last night. There were two missed calls from Ross and a
voicemail. Max keyed into his mailbox and listened to Ross’s rough Highland brogue.

  ‘Max, you twat, why the fuck aren’t you answering my bastarding calls? Even though you’re a bloody nugget, I’d like to know that you’re not dead. Call me back.’

  Max wondered whether to call him back but discounted it; he could bloody well wait. He then thought about whether to call Janie. Remembering the earlier strange email with the intercepted call, he laid it back down on the coffee table. Picking up his burner, he dialled Janie on the number she had messaged him with just the other day, feeling a little guilty about not keeping her in the loop.

  ‘Firstly, you’re an arse for not being in touch until now. Secondly, you’re a double-arse for ringing me this early. I’m not an insomniac, like you,’ said Janie, her voice gummy with sleep.

  ‘Morning, sorry on both counts, but I have to say that “double-arse” is a tremendous insult. Kudos,’ said Max, chuckling.

  ‘Well, it’s accurate, DS double-arse. Where are you?’ He heard her yawn, extravagantly.

  ‘Home. I’ve a meeting with someone significant this morning. We may be turning the tide, soon.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing. Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Not yet. You want an update?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Max explained what had happened during the arrest of Fielding, and the mysterious message with the poem and audio file.

  ‘Shit, I saw on the news that police had shot someone, and that’s a line from the Burns poem that was in Leitch’s journal. Blimey. What are you thinking?’

  ‘Ferguson almost certainly knows more about this feud than he let on, and he has access to intelligence product that we’d never get our hands on. I’m also thinking that this is both a curse and a potential opportunity.’ Max sipped his coffee, relishing the smooth, strong brew.

  ‘I’m looking for the opportunity, but I can just see the bad sides.’

  ‘Upside is that we know they’re doing it, but they don’t know that we know. I also think that we need to keep it to ourselves, okay?’