by JD Kirk
“He’s got dwarfism,” Ross said.
Hamza spoke again before Logan could get a word in. “Right. And, just for the record, what height are you, Mr Lyndsay?”
“I’m five foot. But what’s that got to do with anything?” Ross asked.
Hamza shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry, carry on.”
“You were saying about this Dinky fella,” Logan reminded him.
“Right. Yes. God,” Ross whimpered. “He’s sort of a... bookie, I suppose. Or like, a loan shark, maybe. I’ve never had anything to do with him, but I’ve heard stories, and I’ve seen him about. He’s got a house near Letterfinlay. Up on the hillside, overlooking the water. You know the big straight by the loch? There. He lives there. Big white house. Got a metal shed at the side.”
“I think I’ve seen it,” Logan told him.
“OK, good. But, please don’t tell him I told you! Don’t tell him I gave you his details.” Tears welled up in Ross’s eyes again. “If he finds out, there’s no saying what he might do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The prod from Olivia was hard and sharp. It caught Jonathan almost right in the centre of his chest, and it took all his self-control not to acknowledge the pain of it.
Her features were sharper still. She’d taken to scraping her hair back in recent weeks. It made her look harder. Fiercer. She’d always looked young for her age, but now she looked older. Too old, if anything.
It wasn’t just the hair, it was everything. The way she moved. The way she talked. The way her eyes had been shaded in darker. They looked matte these days, not glossy. Jonathan had never seen eyes like them before.
And he hoped that he never would again.
“Where the fuck have you been?” she demanded, pulling him into the doorway of what had once been a TV repair shop, before TVs had become cheap enough to be virtually disposable. Now, it was locked and shuttered, but the inset door offered a good place to shelter from the rain, and from prying eyes.
“I got held back after Maths,” Jonathan explained.
“What did I tell you about that?” Olivia hissed. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. You’re a model fucking pupil now. Alright?”
“I was just talking,” Jonathan mumbled.
“Well don’t. Keep your mouth shut. You’ve got nothing worth saying, anyway.” She prodded him in the chest again, harder this time. Jonathan gritted his teeth, then shot a sideways look at the black SUV parked across the street. “Don’t look at him, look at me,” Olivia instructed. “Do you have the money?”
Jonathan nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well give me it, then!”
The boy stole another quick glance at the car and the skinhead behind the wheel. Then, he unzipped his bag, pulled out a thin envelope, and handed it over.
Olivia took it, appeared very disappointed by its lack of weight, then stuffed it into her own bag.
“That’s it?”
“So far, yeah. I’ve still got stuff left.”
“You’d fucking better have stuff left, unless they’re all hundred quid notes in there,” Olivia replied. “I want that stuff shifted by this time next week.”
Jonathan’s eyes came dangerously close to popping out of their sockets. “Next week? But there’s loads of it!”
“You said you could shift it,” Olivia reminded him.
“Aye, but not all at once. I’ve gone round all my usual customers this week already. They’re all sorted.”
Another prod to the chest, this one hard enough to make the much bigger boy flinch. “Then find other customers,” she instructed, swinging her bag up onto her shoulder. “Or I’ll find someone who can.”
She had taken just a couple of steps out onto the street when Jonathan called after her.
“Fine. Do that. I want out, anyway.”
Olivia stopped. Turned. Marched back.
“No, you don’t,” she told him.
“Aye, I do,” Jonathan insisted, his chest puffing up. “I’ve had enough. It’s too risky. I’m out.”
“You can’t get out, Jonathan,” Olivia told him.
“Aye, I fucking can. You going to try and stop me like? I’ll grass you up. All I’ve done is sold a bit of puff. You’re the one I got it from. You’ll be in the shit.”
Olivia shoved him, driving both hands against his chest hard enough to slam him back against the shuttered door.
“Look over my shoulder, Jonathan,” she said, spitting the words into his face. “See that guy? He’s ex-Russian mafia. You think he’s going to let you out? You think he’ll just let you go, knowing what you know?”
The skinhead in the car was watching the tussle in the doorway. It was difficult to read his face from that distance, but Jonathan could quite confidently state he didn’t look particularly pleased.
“Fine. I’ll… I’ll grass him up, too,” Jonathan said, which earned him a look of genuine horror from the girl currently pinning him to the metal barrier.
“Don’t ever fucking say that to anyone but me,” she warned. “And I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear it. If he thinks for a second that you’re going to talk to the police, you’re dead. And not just you. Your mum. Your dad. You’ve got a wee sister, haven’t you? He’ll kill her first. He’ll make you all watch. Worse, he’ll make you all help. He’ll make it look like a murder-suicide. Like your dad did it. Like he enjoyed it. That’s why you can’t get out, Jonathan. That’s why none of us can. Ever.” She released her grip and stepped back, her shoulder slumping as the fight left her. “No matter how much we might want to.”
“Fuck,” was all Jonathan could think to say about any of that. He felt it so appropriate, though, that he said it again a few times for added emphasis.
“So, same time next week, then?” Olivia asked, brightening again.
Jonathan slowly nodded. “Um, aye. Aye. Same time next week.”
“What was that about?” asked the skinhead in the SUV, as Olivia jumped into the passenger seat beside him. His accent was still mostly Polish, but he’d learned much of his English growing up in Inverness, and a lot of the local twang had crept in. “Is everything OK?”
“Yeah. He was just being a whiny little bitch,” Olivia said. “He said he wants out.”
“Oh. Shit. Is that…? What did you say?”
Olivia grinned as she reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope Jonathan had given her. “I said you were Russian mafia, and that you’d kill his family.”
“Ha! Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“He didn’t believe you?”
Olivia laughed. “Totally swallowed every word. You should have seen his face. I swear to God, he nearly pissed his pants. It was hilarious.”
The skinhead gave a nervous chuckle. “God! I actually feel bad for him now.”
“Don’t. He’s a dickhead,” Olivia said. She took the money from Jonathan’s envelope, counted it out, then added it to a much larger bundle in the SUV’s glovebox. “Right then, Borys,” she said, once she’d closed the glovebox door again. “I’m going to get you to drop me off at my friend’s house. But first, we’ve got a few more stops to make.”
She turned and watched the city start to move as Borys pulled away from the kerb. Her reflection looked back at her from the other side of the glass.
“Let’s just hope this lot have done a better job than Jonathan.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dinner came courtesy of one of the local takeaways, and was eaten in the Incident Room as they all took turns going over their findings for the day.
Tyler had gone first. Partly, this was because his was a relatively quick and easy update, but mostly because his Chicken Maryland had still been too hot for him to eat.
His choice of food had caused some controversy in the office, after they’d all settled on ordering something from the nearest Chinese takeaway. Logan had been frank and forthright in his insistence that there was something fundamentally wrong with anyone who ordered from th
e ‘Western’ section of a Chinese menu, and the others—even Sinead—had been quick to agree with him.
Sinead had agreed more vehemently than most, in fact, and it soon became apparent that this was not Tyler’s first offence of this particular crime.
He eventually managed to steer the conversation around to the mystery key. The local locksmith based out on the Claggan Industrial Estate was currently off on holiday—in the Florida Keys, no less, which had amused Tyler no end. He had, however, been able to track down a former locksmith who still lived in the area, and sent him pictures of the key taken from a variety of angles, with accompanying measurements.
The former locksmith had written a lengthy and detailed response, and sent it over within the hour. Unfortunately, the reason for the email’s length was the list of possibilities it contained. There were over twenty possible suspects, from padlocks to diaries, all ranked in no particular order because, as he pointed out in the final line of the correspondence, he quite frankly didn’t have a fucking clue.
Tyler finished by asking permission to stick the photos of the key on social media to see if some randomer might recognise it. Then, he hurried to his desk and got stuck into his now just cool enough to be edible Chicken Maryland which, for reasons not explained on the menu, came accompanied with a small sausage, a slice of cold bacon, and half a banana fritter.
There was some brief discussion about Fergus’s mobile phone. Records had been requested from the network, along with any information on his movements in the days leading up to his death. It was hoped that these might open up some new lines of inquiry, but the network was being stubborn and insisting on all the correct paperwork being submitted, so it would take time.
The phone itself remained locked. Tyler had given it to Hamza, as the DS had a better grasp of technology than anyone else in the office, but Hamza had been too afraid of entering the six-digit PIN too many times and locking the phone to do anything with it. Ultimately, it would have to be passed on to the tech bods in the morning, so they could have a crack at it.
There had been a slim hope that Ross Lyndsay might know the PIN code, but he’d insisted that he didn’t, and Logan had believed him. It was all numbers, too, so the code in Fergus’s notebook wasn’t it, either.
The DCI took the floor next, his mouth burning from some of the spiciest Salt and Pepper Chicken he’d ever eaten in his life.
Before he could get started, Ben stopped slurping down Chow Mein long enough to ask if the DCI had called Detective Superintendent Mitchell back yet. Logan pretended he’d forgotten, confessed that he hadn’t yet called, and made assurances that he’d do so just as soon as they’d finished the briefing.
Once he had successfully pulled the wool over Ben’s eyes, he went back over the Ross Lyndsay interview, with Hamza chipping in occasionally to add further details drawn from his notes.
After they’d recapped pretty much everything that had been said around the hospital bed, there was a general sense of agreement that Lyndsay probably wasn’t involved in Fergus’s murder.
For one thing, his size went against him—or for him, perhaps. He was almost certainly too small to lift a fully-grown adult body even a short distance. Corpses were heavy, awkward things, and lugging them around wasn’t an easy task. It needed strength and leverage, neither of which Mr Lyndsay had been blessed with.
Ben had called and spoken to the manager who’d been on duty at the hotel in Invergarry on Monday evening, and she’d confirmed that Ross had turned up for his shift. He hadn’t behaved any differently, from what she could tell. Certainly, nobody had remarked on him being quiet or withdrawn. No more so than usual, at least.
He’d been there until late, too. It had been well after midnight before they’d got the kitchen cleaned up and ready for the next day.
Could he have then gone home, removed his flatmate’s head with a power tool, transported the body a couple of miles to the well—without owning or having access to a car—and disposed of it, before stuffing the head somewhere?
It was possible. Just very, very unlikely.
“Anyone heard of someone by the name of Dinky?” Logan asked.
“No’ unless he used to make toy cars,” replied Ben.
“Loan shark. Or bookie. Possibly both,” Logan explained. “Lives out near Letterfinlay. Apparently, Fergus owed him money. Lyndsay was scared of him when he told us. Worried about what he might do.”
“He might be on CID’s radar,” Sinead said. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him, though, and I used to cover up that way back when I was in uniform.”
“Check, will you? Then, Hamza, you take Tyler up and have a word with him. Tonight, ideally. Sinead and I will go chat to that English teacher, and see if she can shed any light on anything.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“Bagsy driving,” Tyler said, spraying banana fritter onto his desk.
“Fine. As long as you don’t drive like an old woman like you usually do,” Hamza said.
“I don’t drive like an old woman!” Tyler protested. He wilted under the looks this earned from the others. “OK, but just on the winding bits.”
“Anything you want me to be getting on with, Jack?” Ben asked. There was a hopeful note to the question. An enthusiasm. But there was a wariness to it, too, like he was secretly dreading the answer.
“Aye. Aye. Absolutely,” Logan said, his mind racing. “You could… Eh… Oh! I know! If Tyler’s up doing the interview, you could put out the social media shout on the key.”
“Social media?” Ben replied, screwing up his face at the very thought. “Me? I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Already did it, anyway, boss,” Tyler revealed.
“Right. OK. Good. In that case, Ben, you could… You could check if any new reports have come in from Shona or Geoff Palmer’s team.”
“I looked a minute ago, sir,” Hamza announced. “Nothing new.”
“Still. Worth checking again,” Logan said. “You never know if—”
“Nothing, boss,” Tyler said. “Just did a refresh.”
“Did you? Did you? Thanks for that,” Logan said, glowering at the DC. As this was no different to the expression the DCI usually wore when talking to him, Tyler didn’t pick up on it, and simply smiled back in response.
“No bother, boss. You know me, always happy to help.”
“I suppose I could start filling out some of the paperwork. Book an interview room for tomorrow, in case we want to bring someone in,” Ben suggested. “Keep Mantits happy.”
“Aye!” Logan said, seizing the suggestion. “Aye, that sounds like a plan. You do that, then maybe head back to the hotel. We did get a hotel, didn’t we?”
“Premier Inn,” Sinead confirmed. “They’re even throwing in breakfast.”
Logan nodded approvingly. It was, after all, the most important meal of the day.
“Good stuff. Ben, once you’ve finished the filing, head back there and get some rest,” Logan told him.
“Rest? Why? I’m no’ tired, Jack,” Ben insisted. “I’m not a bloody invalid.”
“No, I know,” Logan said. “I’m just… It’s your first day back.”
“Second.”
“First official day back,” Logan countered. “No point jumping in headfirst. Ease yourself back in. There’ll be plenty of time for you to get your teeth into the other stuff.”
Ben begrudgingly agreed, but it was clear to everyone that he wasn’t happy about it. Still, better unhappy than landing himself back in hospital again.
Or maybe even worse next time.
“You can sit in on any interviews we do here,” Logan said.
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, Jack,” said Ben, sarcasm dripping from every word. “But are you sure? I’d hate to be a liability. Don’t want me nodding off halfway through.”
“That’s not what—” Logan began, but Ben was up on his feet, his nose held aloft.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go se
e if I can find those forms,” he announced. “It’ll take these old bones a while to get there, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Logan and the others watched him shuffle towards the door, one hand resting on his lower back. It was only when he’d left that Tyler finally broke the silence.
“Was he really annoyed, or was all that just a wind-up, boss?” he wondered.
Logan shrugged and relinquished a sigh he’d been holding onto for a while. “Honestly, son? I have absolutely no idea.”
Shona Maguire stood at the window of her cottage, the smell of popcorn drifting through the air around her.
The sun was on the wane, and its fading light danced across the waters of the Beauly Firth just a little way down the hill from where her house stood. Shona wasn’t looking at that, though. She was looking for something that wasn’t currently there.
Olivia was late. Twenty minutes now. Cancelling the night before was one thing, but being late wasn’t like her. At least, it hadn’t been like her until recently. She’d always turned up early—stupidly early, sometimes, before Shona had even arrived home from work.
That had changed a few months back. Now, every time she visited she arrived a few minutes later than before. Shona wouldn’t have cared, but she’d become more distant over the same time period. Withdrawn. It was like there was always something on her mind these days. Some distraction. Some burden she was having to bear.
It couldn’t be easy, of course, with her dad in prison and her mum a useless cow—Olivia’s words, not Shona’s. She’d been forced to change schools, and there had been some drama involved in the transition, to put it very mildly.
Shona remembered her own teenage years. All the stresses and pressures, both real and imagined. The problems she’d had fitting in.
Whoever said that your school days were the best days of your life hadn’t gone to Shona’s school. Hadn’t walked in her shoes. Hadn’t seen what she’d seen, or faced what she’d faced.
And then, of course, there were the Troubles. Like being a teenager wasn’t hard enough without an ongoing civil war to contend with.