DCS White stopped talking and lowered the phone clamped to his ear and reached to his pocket. He produced the other phone and scowled.
‘Yes?’ his gruff voice barked.
‘Janet?’ said Max in a broad cockney accent.
‘Obviously bloody not,’ said White, his voice full of irritation.
‘Sorry, wrong number, mate,’ said Max, and hung up.
A slow smile stretched across Max’s face. It was all coming together nicely. They just needed to stir the hornets’ nest a little to draw the bigger fish out. He knew what to do. Taking his personal phone, he dialled Ross, imagining the bad guys listening, ready to act.
‘Max, how you getting on?’
‘All good. McGee is in custody. Lots of evidence at his house. The daft bugger kept the scissor jack from the wrecked car. Fingerprints and what looks like granite dust and soil from the gravesite all over it.’
‘Excellent. Has he grassed yet?’
‘Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. He knows it’s all over, weight of evidence against him. He has to deal.’
‘Nice. Any news on the other bent cops?’
‘Oh yes, but not over the phone. We know enough to bring the whole house down.’
‘Right. When you coming back here?’
‘Me and Sally are about to interview McGee, then we’ll leave him to stew for a while.’
‘Good man. See you later.’
Max hung up. He took his burner out and messaged Janie.
Watch the phones.
He then used the burner again to call Ross back, a smile spreading across his face.
‘Max, what do you really know after that rather performative bullshit call?’
‘DCS White is bent as a nine-bob note and I can prove it.’
‘Excellent. I knew that bastard was in on it. So, is it him receiving the intercepted calls?’
‘No, he doesn’t have the clout. There’s someone else. Someone really high up. We have the smaller fish, but there’s still a big shark in the water, and the net is closing.’
61
The very senior police officer put the phone down from his contact at the intercept room, his heart thumping. He tasted bile at the back of his throat as he tried to digest what he had just heard. Could Craigie know about him? How? He had been so careful, but then his thoughts turned to the calls from Hardie.
He dialled, his fingers trembling.
‘Yes,’ barked Hardie.
‘It’s me.’
‘What?’
‘Craigie has just called Ross Fraser. McGee is bang to rights, apparently, loads of evidence and they think he’ll talk. You said you’d sort this.’
‘Stop panicking, man. McGee won’t say shit. I have a man with him now, Leo Hamilton. He’s told him what the ramifications of talking are. He’ll stay quiet.’
‘He also says he knows who the bent cops are, Tam. How the hell does he know that? I can’t get arrested.’ His voice trembled.
‘Bloody hell, don’t piss your pants. I’ve got it all in hand, as I said. Slattery will take care of things.’
‘Craigie has to be stopped. I can’t let this happen. It’s taken me too long to get where I am. You have to let this feud drop, leave Ferguson and Phillips alone.’ He was almost gabbling as he spoke down the phone, spittle flying from his mouth.
‘We stop when I say we stop. Now you do your bloody job. Keep us informed if either phone lights up and keep listening to Craigie. You can leave everything else to me.’ Hardie hung up.
The senior police officer took a deep, rasping breath and reached into his drawer, coming out with a hip flask. He took a long draught of the whisky, relishing the burn as it washed over his tonsils.
He cursed the day, almost thirty years ago when he’d accepted the two-hundred-pound bribe from Tam Hardie Senior. He almost rejoiced when the old man was murdered, only for his joy to be curtailed when his eldest son called him, leaving him under no illusions that he was still a Hardie asset.
62
Jack Slattery parked his Mercedes at the top of the forestry track that ran behind Craigie’s house. He stubbed his cigarette out into the overflowing ashtray. Locking the car, he walked through the dense forest, coming out eventually at the top of the wide lawn that marked the beginning of Craigie’s garden. He cursed under his breath as he climbed over the short, wire fence and his foot sank into the deep mud, soaking his sock. Slattery hated the countryside with the permanent stink of shit. He was a city boy through and through.
Keeping to the side of the garden, using the trees as cover, he quickly covered the ground between the fence and the back of the house. He first went to the big garage and lifted the up-and-over door. It wasn’t locked and opened with a tortured squeal. Looking inside he saw the big KTM motorcycle and the storage racks, alongside the squat rack, bench and heavy bag.
He checked behind the engine plate and was relieved to see the tracker was still there. He quickly pulled it out, and with a small screwdriver unscrewed the battery plate. Inserting two fresh cells, he pocketed the old ones and refitted the back before snapping the tracker back in place. Shutting the garage door behind him, he negotiated the low wall and came to the back door. Looking about, he was relieved to see no sign of the stupid dog from last time. He hoped the boot up the arse had scared the little rat off.
He tried the door, but it was locked tight. He didn’t want to risk going to the front of the property, as he had no idea where the neighbours were. It was madness doing this in daylight, but Hardie had been insistent. Craigie needed sorting and they needed to make sure they stayed one step ahead of the game. They had no idea how he had been reinstated and White couldn’t find out as he was being blanked from above.
He quickly snapped nitrile gloves on his hands and a pair of overshoes on his feet before producing a set of picks from his pocket, thankful for the covert entry course he had completed some years ago. The lock was a crappy one-lever mortise, so it only took a second with a torsion bar and a number three pick to get it open. He quickly moved through the house checking each surface for anything of note. A shard of metal on the breakfast bar caught his attention. It was sharp, like a piece of broken glass. He was curious, but couldn’t see the value in taking it, so he simply snapped a quick picture with his phone. He took a brief video clip of the living room, before searching the drawers in the coffee table, carefully. He wanted to leave no evidence of his presence and the video clip would help to make sure that everything was as it should be before he left.
He made short work of the house, finding nothing of note, and being meticulous to leave no trace of his presence. He had just one task remaining before he left. Going back into the kitchen, he pulled the bottom drawer of the coffee table out completely, placing it on the scrubbed wooden floor. From his pocket he pulled out a small self-seal bag that contained a decent hit of white, flaky powder. He smiled as he attached it to the rear of the drawer with a small piece of tape he had already prepared. He slotted the drawer back in place and stood to admire his handiwork. A call into Professional Standards and they would find three grams of Colombian marching powder. It would result in an instant suspension of Detective Sergeant Max Craigie.
63
Max replayed the footage from his phone with an ironic smile. He had been expecting this for some time, hence making sure that Nutmeg was safely ensconced with John and Lynne next door. It was still a shock, however, to see Jack Slattery picking his lock and then searching through his property. He could only admire his tradecraft and systematic approach to the search. He was also thankful for the motion-sensitive cameras covering the front door and interior. He even had good footage of him removing the drawer from the coffee table and taping something to the back of it. Clearly a set-up of some kind.
His feelings were mixed between outrage at the violation of his home, and a kind of satisfaction that another large piece of highly incriminating evidence was in the bag against Slattery and, with the phone traffic, Hardie.
The time was drawing close when they would take this whole bloody conspiracy down.
‘Max, you ready?’ said Sally, a bag of evidence in one hand and her red A4 book in the other.
‘Aye, let’s get on with it.’ And they both filed into the interview where McGee and his solicitor, Leo Hamilton, were waiting. Max was fairly sure what McGee would say, and that the interview probably wouldn’t take too long.
*
Max was right.
McGee said nothing. Literally not one word. He didn’t even confirm his name or agree whether he understood the caution. There was no prepared statement, not even an acknowledgement of any part of the interview process.
Sally went through every piece of evidence, a step at a time, but McGee just stared at the table. Hamilton said nothing, either, beyond a grandiose and pompous, ‘my client wishes to exercise his right to silence. I cordially ask that you respect his decision.’ He then clammed up and remained silent for the whole fifty-minute interview.
As they began gathering the evidence ready to finish, Max decided that he needed to make one last point.
‘Mick, we are going to see the custody officer now and we’ll be presenting evidence to the procurator fiscal. Once we leave this room, any opportunity for you to level with us disappears. Do you understand?’
McGee stared at the table, but Hamilton puffed his chest, his florid face flushed a deeper shade of red.
‘Officer, I object to your tone. My client has exercised his rights and I consider any further comment from you to be oppressive. Leave us now. I wish to consult with Mr McGee.’
Max gave the large, well-fleshed solicitor in his expensive suit a tiny smile, then turned and left the room, Sally right behind him.
64
McGee looked up from the table, tears brimming in his eyes, his face crestfallen. He had been a cop for twenty-eight years, and he knew a mountain of evidence when he saw it. It was all over. He was going to jail for the rest of his life.
‘I’m screwed, aren’t I?’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.
‘Afraid so.’ The solicitor’s casual tone was almost like a slap in the face, as he fiddled with his phone, sending a message.
‘Is there nothing that can be done?’
‘No. Well, unless you decide to deal with the cops, but I’ve already explained Mr Hardie’s view on that. He can get to you easier in jail than if you’re out, but more than that, any cooperation with the authorities will be viewed as an act of defiance that would be heavily punished.’ Leo stopped typing on his phone and leaned in close, his mouth widening into a broad smile that did not reach his grey, flat eyes. Mick could smell the man’s breath in the confined room. It was sour and bitter, with the hint of last night’s whisky. ‘He knows exactly where your family are, Mick.’ Leo’s voice was low. ‘Monica and the kids – Michael Junior and Annabelle, yes?’
McGee’s hands came up to his face, tears brimming and spilling onto his cheek. He took in a gasp of air. ‘Not the kids, Leo, please not the kids. I don’t care about myself. My life is over; I have nothing. Look at me, Leo. I’m an alcoholic, broke and now facing a life term. I’ll get thirty years. I’ll die in jail. I just want to do right by my kids.’ He began to sob, his shoulders heaving, fat tears cascading onto the melamine-topped table.
The solicitor sat back in his chair with insincere concern in his eyes at the shambolic form in front of him. He smiled again, his teeth stained by too much coffee and red wine. There was a long pause before he spoke again, in a gentle, soothing tone. ‘Well, there is another option. Mr Hardie wanted me to tell you there is another way, and he promises to look after your kids, with a large cash sum. You’re finished, Mick, but you can give your kids a life. Is that worth considering?’
McGee wiped his face, his eyes blood-red, desperation written all over his craggy features.
‘What do I have to do?’ he said. A cold determination gripped him. He would do what was right for the kids. Nothing else mattered.
65
They all sat in the covert premises, silently watching the PowerPoint presentation on the large screen. No one spoke and everyone looked exhausted.
Chief Constable Macdonald had personally made coffees for everyone from a machine he had brought in ready for the early briefing. He looked at his small team and made eye contact with each and every one of them. He felt a tug of pride.
Ross, Max, Sally, Janie and Jill all looked back, tired but ready, all clutching mugs of strong coffee.
‘Thanks, everyone, for all the sterling efforts. There has been an amazing amount of work done so far, and we are close to bringing all this to a resolution. As I understand it, McGee is charged and is remanded to court later this morning. Thank you, Sally and Max, for pulling that together. We have overwhelming evidence of his sabotaging Ferguson’s car and how that leads to Slattery. We also have the conversations over the probe between Slattery and Hardie, which I have heard and which are, as far as I see it, damning. We have enough to wrap this up, but we lack one thing. The final nail is the member of this organisation at the highest of levels who clearly is in bed with the Hardies. Any suggestions?’
Max spoke. ‘We need to put 786 in his or her hand, Guvnor, and nick them carrying it. He or she only speaks to Hardie. There is no other link between whoever it is and the rest of the organisation. We get the phones, we get them both.’
There was a soft ringtone from the back of the room, and Jill looked up.
‘I need to take this, sir,’ she said.
Macdonald nodded and Jill moved to the back of the room, the phone clamped to her ear.
Ross cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Boss, are you sure you’re ready for this? We already have strong evidence against DCS White, a number of other cops from phone links, a serving cop charged with murder, as well as a bent ex-cop who has his finger in pies throughout the force. We’ve had cops followed, Max has been bugged and his house searched by Slattery and drugs planted. The press will have a field day.’
‘Ross, I don’t personally give a toss about what the press thinks. We can do nothing in Police Scotland whilst it’s riddled with corruption. It’s only by exorcising this cancer that I can start to rebuild the force that Scotland deserves. I have no interest in being the boss of a force that’s being ruined by corruption. No bloody chance. All these senseless, pointless deaths, each one of them because someone decided to open an ancient grave that somehow rekindled a centuries-dead feud.’
Jill returned to her seat, a look of sorrow on her fine features. She sat down with a deep sigh.
‘Jill?’ asked Macdonald.
Jill closed her eyes, briefly, in what could have been a silent prayer. ‘Will Harding died a few minutes ago at the Royal Free Hospital. His parents were at his bedside.’
A thick silence enveloped the room for a solid thirty seconds.
‘So, we now can add a fifteen-year-old innocent to the list,’ said Macdonald.
A further silence followed the words that the chief constable had enunciated, sorrow in every vowel and every syllable.
He spoke once more, his voice strong: ‘Right, we go tomorrow. Ross, get whatever resources you need, from wherever you need them, but we stay covert and under the radar. I don’t want them knowing we’re coming. We all have people we trust. Let’s get them in. We finish this, guys, and we finish it tomorrow.’
66
Mick McGee sat in the rear of the prison van, known to all as “sweatboxes”. It pulled out of the backyard of Burnett Road Police Station and started the short journey to Inverness Sheriff’s court. Despair swept over him as the van bumped its way out of the yard and onto Longman Avenue.
He had nowhere to turn, but he was scared. He wasn’t a detective, but he knew enough about police procedures and evidence to know that the case against him was overwhelming. Tears sprang into his eyes again at the thought of his kids spending the next thirty years with their daddy in jail.
He knew what he had to do. Leo had told him
. Just do it and Hardie would sort out the kids. Pay for their university, whatever, but he knew he could no longer be around. They were all better off without him.
He reached into his mouth and slid out the small, slim fragment of razor blade that was secreted in a fold of plastic, wedged between his cheek and molars. It was only a tiny piece, but it slotted nicely into a notch cut across the end of a biro. Pushing the pen top back on top it left a wickedly sharp blade protruding from the pen. Just a quick slice and it would all be over. Leo had told him how to do it.
McGee felt in his neck, his fingers searching for the pulse point he had felt on many others over the years when checking for a pulse on a collapsed drunk or whatever. Strangely there was no panic, and only a little fear. This was like a way out.
As soon as he had the pulse located, he pressed the blade up to his neck, feeling the wicked sharpness of the sliver of metal. He closed his eyes, offering a small prayer of forgiveness. He wasn’t even religious, really, but it just felt appropriate.
Strangely, the pain was almost comforting. A cathartic release from months of internalised and unbearable pain. Just a sharpness, followed by a deep slicing pressure as he dragged the razor down, the fine metal slicing through flesh and then muscle, then finally through the carotid artery. A spurt of bright red blood hit the Perspex in front of him, followed by another, and another and another. Reactively he raised his hand up to the terrible wound, feeling the pulsing warm precious fluid force itself through his fingers.
The smell of copper filled the van as his vision began to fade. The last thing that he heard was the rattling keys in the door and the shouts of the guard in the back of the van. His vision continued to fade and he was only vaguely aware of the guards attempting to stem the blood flow. Too late, thought McGee. Too late now.
His last thoughts were of his kids, Michael and Annabelle and their beautiful faces. As he lost consciousness, a smile spread across his craggy features.
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