Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘The other problem, or should I say one of the problems, we need to sort is this . . . what’s his name?’

  ‘You mean Ricky Swan?’

  ‘Ricky Swan.’ Handyside didn’t project any feelings of crisis. He knew that if he didn’t control the people in the room they would starburst in all directions, leaving a trail of evidence for whichever police team was on the case.

  ‘I’ll sort the bastard, Pete. You can take that from me.’

  ‘No you won’t, Eddie. That’s exactly what you won’t do.’ Handyside had leaned forward and there was enough in the non-verbals to say this wasn’t up for discussion.

  ‘Whoever it is up there who owns the UC is going to put you down as the top suspect if Swan turns up dead. They don’t like losing informants. We’ll get him done, but we need to talk to him before we put his lights out. You need to be in the open when he goes so you have a cast-iron alibi. Okay?’

  ‘We’re fine with that.’ Eddie said it as if they had a choice in the matter, and Pat kept his gob firmly shut.

  ‘I want our friends from Glasgow to take care of this Swan guy.’ Handyside nodded to the Glasgow team. ‘Can you handle that?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Crazy Horse said – and meant it. His sister looked pleased; she was determined to get involved as well.

  Handyside knew he needed to do a lot of thinking and was about to wind it up when Maxi Turner entered the room and came over to whisper in his ear. Apologising as if he were the chairman of a reputable company who had to interrupt a routine board meeting, Handyside left the room with Turner, returning five minutes later to give those assembled another disturbing report. He seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment then looked round the room before speaking. ‘It is being reported that a young woman was found barely alive on a beach near Eyemouth earlier today. It seems that our friends in the police are keeping it tight, but the media are speculating it might be related to an earlier operation at the harbour . . . There’s nothing more we can do at the moment so we need to act carefully and get it right.’

  Handyside looked up at Hunter and Dillon, who were at the back of the room and trying not to break for the door. ‘How did this happen?’

  Hunter did his best but felt like he was attached to a lie detector. ‘Don’t understand it, boss.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Okay, it’s just another problem to sort out, and we have enough to do for the moment.’ Handyside seemed to let it pass and Hunter looked round at Dillon, who’d developed a twitch at the side of his mouth.

  Handyside closed the meeting down and called Turner, Hunter and Dillon into a side room.

  ‘I want you to take the cop out to the moors. He’s a brave man and had enough so I want it to be quick. You know the moors so make sure he’ll never be found.’

  Turner nodded, already knowing exactly what he had to do.

  ‘Get on it then and call me when it’s done. The roads are still busy enough so you can get lost in the traffic.’

  The dog walker who had spotted Ingrid Richter on the shore reported it to the police as a washed-up corpse. In truth, the young woman was so close to death that it would have been hard to tell the difference, and another hour would have finished her.

  About the same time as her eyes first flickered in the intensive care unit, Dillon was moaning again about having to dig the hole that would be the UC’s last resting place.

  ‘I’ll be saying hello to the fucking kangaroos if we go much deeper. Can we call it a day here?’

  They did what had to be done under a moon shimmering against a cloudless sky. The only sounds were the creatures of the night and the rhythmic scrape of the shovel in the damp earth. Turner sat about three feet from the hole, smoking a cigarette as he re-ran Handyside’s instructions through his head. The UC was dead and Turner had made it quick, just as he’d been told; the cop hadn’t even been conscious when he pulled the trigger. Hunter sat at the other side of the hole, smirking at the bent bastard he despised so much having to sweat for a living. Dillon’s head was barely visible above the dark ground; his breathing was heavy and showed all the signs of the forty a day he consumed.

  ‘That should do it.’

  Turner flicked the cigarette into the darkness and stood up. In the same motion he pulled out the Glock and double tapped Hunter, who collapsed in a dead heap next to the hole.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Dillon screamed, but he already knew the answer as Turner found his way round the edge of the dig and put another one in Hunter’s cranium for good measure.

  Turner looked down to find Dillon was on his knees and begging for his life in the near darkness of the hole.

  ‘Twat’ was the last word Dillon heard before the bullet smashed through the top of his skull. Forty minutes later the three bodies were safely covered up and the gun that had ended their lives was bound for the bottom of the River Tyne by the end of the night.

  Turner gave everything the once-over before he left and called Handyside as he headed back to Newcastle. ‘It’s done, and no problems. I’m going to finish the other job and text you when I’m on the way home.’

  The same cop who’d wandered past Handyside on his previous shift pulled up his patrol car in the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t that far from the same spot and decided it was time for a smoke. It was quiet – not a soul about apart from the odd drunk trying to get back home to bed without drowning in the river.

  He opened his flies and sighed as he relieved his swollen and caffeine-aggravated bladder into the Tyne. He played the stream like a schoolboy then looked down at the river and managed to wet the front of his uniform trousers as he muttered the word ‘shit’.

  They pulled Eric Gunderson’s body from the river under an hour later and didn’t need a doctor to tell them that a massive head injury had killed him. The initial assessment was that he was another drunken fisherman who’d fallen in trying to get back aboard his boat. Sadly, it happened too often.

  5

  Grace Macallan stared out over the cliffs at the breaking waves driven past her view by a cool north-west wind. Despite the breeze, the sun shone through the gaps between the white clouds bouncing across the Antrim coast, dappling the land with light and shade. Her partner, Jack Fraser, had stayed back in their rented holiday cottage, where he was looking after their son, Adam. Jack had read the signs that she needed to clear her head so he made her take a long walk along the cliffs they’d come to love so much.

  Macallan had been badly hurt in the Edinburgh operation against the Loyalist Billy Nelson and had gone back to work too soon after her release from hospital, so it had been a real strain trying to get back to her old form. Difficulties with the pregnancy had given her an excuse to go off early after the arrest of ‘Elvis’ McNally, and she hadn’t been back since the birth. The wounds had affected her mind as much as her body, and though she felt physically fit again, she was struggling to work out what it was she wanted to do with her life now that she shared it with Jack and the baby. She thought about the word family every day as she looked into the face of her child, who stared right back at her and gave her part of the answer without saying a word.

  Jack had rented the same cottage in Ballycastle where he’d nursed Macallan after the bombing. On a clear day they could stare across the Irish Sea towards the Scottish mainland and the southern edges of the Hebrides. It felt like a different world to the one that had nearly taken her away. The views alone made the rent bearable and there were times when she almost forgot the demons that inhabited her memories. It was as if she had been told a story about another woman, someone whose life seemed more glamorous than the reality that persistently broke into her daydreams and reminded her who she really was.

  Macallan sat on a dry tussock, lifted her face to the sky and felt the salt air tingle across her skin in the breeze. She watched the gannets scream and dive vertically into the waves then erupt through the surface of the water with their victims twitching helplessly in their long yellow beaks. She breathed in
deeply, filling her lungs, and exhaled slowly, wishing that time would stand still so they could just live there in peace and never grow old. She’d been sleeping like a child, when Adam would let her, and it was the first time in years that her dreams were free of demons. It was deep, easy sleep and they’d put their bedside clock in a drawer with their watches so they could do what they wanted when they wanted. She’d added a few extra pounds to her frame and Jack had given the look his seal of approval. He saw how her skin seemed clearer and, for the most part, she was glowing with good health and contentment. The problem wasn’t her skin or her weight though; she was wounded where it didn’t show to the human eye, but he was aware of it – and felt helpless. It was as if her soul was covered in scars that hadn’t completely faded and he wondered whether they ever would. This was the same woman who he watched putting their child to her breast as if her life had never had a bad moment. Feeding Adam was when she was most contented – where she could forget the creatures she’d spent her life pursuing.

  Macallan knew it was time to go back to the job or abandon it altogether and live her life with Jack and the baby. He tried hard to make it easy for her. ‘I want whatever you want.’ He would say it every couple of days and meant every word. ‘The book’s going well, and when I finish it I’ll get back to work. In fact I miss the court. We could have a good life back here in Northern Ireland.’

  She knew they could, and all she had to do was say yes to him. The other possibility was a move to a cushy uniform job somewhere, but she knew she would struggle watching other people deal with the horror stories. It was always that strange drug that she hated and wanted at the same time, and it was these same horrors that she couldn’t bring home to the two men who were in her life now. She was lucky in that respect – Jack was far from naive in his life as a criminal barrister.

  I’m starving! The thought pounced on Macallan; her current life meant she could enjoy regular meals and her stomach had come to expect fresh food on time every day. Her whole body had welcomed the well-deserved rest from the trials of police canteens and eating on the run.

  When she arrived back at the cottage all was quiet and the first thing Macallan did was raid the biscuit tin to keep her hunger pangs at bay. She switched on the kitchen radio and caught the end of the news headlines, which all seemed to be depressing – the sad plight of refugees in the Middle East, more terrorist plots, fewer people able to keep up with their mortgage repayments and a half-dead young woman washed up on a beach somewhere in Berwickshire. She switched the radio off again and went through to the sitting room, where she found Jack spreadeagled and fast asleep on the old settee with Adam, just as sound, lying face down on his father’s broad chest. She moved forward as quietly as she could to get a better look, smiled at the synchronised snoring and felt her eyes moisten, wishing again that it could always be like this.

  6

  Eddie Fleming felt his shirt sticking like adhesive to the plastic seats in their hired car. It was nothing to do with temperature or humidity, just the simple fact that he’d left a meeting where at one point he’d been sure he was going to sleep with the fishes or worms or skip bugs or whatever the fuck. He looked round at his brother, who was driving and had hardly spoken a word since they’d hit the road north, heading for the Scottish border then home. As they drifted past the concrete monster that was Torness nuclear power station (or Tornobyl as it was affectionately known by the locals), Eddie put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them up with one hand steadying the other. Pat, who’d taken on the pallor of a mortuary escapee, took the proffered cigarette, coughed painfully a couple of times then burnt some rubber pulling onto the grass verge in the nearest lay-by. He bolted from the car and into the darkness.

  ‘What the fuck, brother?’ was all Eddie managed to get out as he pushed his door open, stood up and peered across the top of the car towards the sound of Pat heaving his guts up in the bushes. ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  Pat retched then retched again till all he was achieving was noise. Eddie moved in behind him, knowing it wasn’t the usual dodgy curry with a lager topping that had caused the problem. It was the same fear that had shattered his own nerves and the awful truth that they were operating in the wrong league. Relegation in this game was permanent and messy. Eddie took out a packet of tissues and handed them over as Pat straightened up, sucking in lungfuls of cool air to clear his nausea.

  ‘What the fuck are we involved in?’ Pat looked round, his eyes bulging and pleading with the older twin to reassure him. ‘I still can’t believe we walked out the door in one piece. Jesus, we brought an undercover into the operation. Do you really think the man down there’ll let us live after that?’

  ‘Pat,’ was all Eddie got out before he got talked over by his brother again.

  ‘Did you see that mad Weegie bitch sizing us up? This is bad. Very fuckin’ bad.’

  Pat wasn’t ready when his brother lashed the side of his face with an open palm that caught him off guard and dumped him on his arse. Eddie moved in close, ready to belt him again but it wasn’t required.

  ‘Now listen to me for once in your life. You better pay attention if you want to survive this. Stop fuckin’ about and man up. We have a problem, brother, and we can sort somethin’ out or wait for one of Pete Handyside’s team to come for us with a meat cleaver or, worse still, get a visit from the Glasgow mob.’

  He lit another two cigarettes and handed one over to Pat, who was back in the game after that slap in the puss. He sucked in some poison and blew a cloud up past his brother’s face, shook his head and managed a bleak smile. Eddie backed up a step then and offered him his hand for a lift up.

  ‘We have to make this right. First, we get Billy Drew on-board and then we burn that grassing cunt in his sauna. Pete Handyside wants someone else to do it, but if we let these Weegie fuckers do our dirty work we’re finished. Look what happened with the Belfast mob – we let someone in the door and the next thing they want the whole fuckin’ show. I want the truth from that grassin’ bastard before we do ’im. Maybe, just maybe, we get a pass from the man down there and some cred back for cleanin’ up the mess. I’m fucked if I know if we can do it, but I don’t intend to sit on my arse and wait for the butcher to come for us. We might just square it with Handyside. If he’d been convinced we’d already be in the ground. The big problem we have is with the Glasgow mob. They have an agenda, brother. This fuck-up is their excuse to take us out and run Edinburgh.’

  Pat had ignored his brother’s hand but listened intently. ‘I hear you.’ He said it more like the hard case he was. He rolled onto his hands and knees then pushed up onto his feet with the cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘Do you fuckin’ believe it?’

  His face was scrunched up in disgust as he lifted his left hand and Eddie caught the stink as well as the sight of the dog shit that covered Pat’s hand. He backed off, revolted and trying to put distance between himself and the offending paw; then his face creased into a broad grin. ‘You fuckin’ idiot.’ In an instant they became boys again and Eddie belly laughed at Pat, who was stumbling about in the moonlight with his hand in the air as if it was on fire.

  ‘You don’t get in the car till that’s cleaned off.’ He jumped in through the driver’s door and locked it down. He grinned then waved like the Queen, and for a moment the mood had lifted. He scrolled through the address book on his phone, saw the name he wanted and pressed the call button. It only rang once before it was answered.

  ‘What?’

  That was Billy Drew short and to the point. Being an ex-soldier, armed robber, widower and convicted murderer had made him a humourless bastard, but that was exactly what Eddie wanted. He could do humour with his brother, but Drew had the experience he lacked and needed till he learned how to hold his own with the other top men.

  ‘It’s Eddie Fleming.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Have a wee proposition and wanted to meet up.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘As s
oon as. I’ll be back in Edinburgh in an hour.’

  ‘Okay. Come round to my place.’

  As soon as they reached Drew’s, Eddie told his brother to fuck off and steep his hand in disinfectant for a month. Eddie had all the business acumen and Pat had sweet FA, which the younger twin accepted as a matter of fact. Pat hated the technical side of organised crime but usually enjoyed the violence and fringe benefits.

  The moment he was clear of his brother he pulled the wrap of coke from his Ys and snorted the lot before phoning the latest pro he was involved with.

  It was the early hours of the morning but that didn’t stop Billy pouring out a glass of whisky that would have knocked a Rottweiler out cold. Eddie slugged half the malt in one go – he needed the hit. The heat washed through his veins and calmed his frazzled nerves. He told Drew that he was looking for an experienced and wiser head now that his old man was in heaven. He didn’t mention the problem with Handyside right off, wanting to dangle the carrot first. The money he eventually offered was crazy, but it was a case of life or death and he made more than he could spend, so what the fuck? Drew wouldn’t have to touch anything at the working end of the business and risk an arrest, which with his record would mean heavy prison time. The forces of law and order hadn’t forgiven him from walking away from a lifer on appeal.

  Drew threw back his own whisky and gave Eddie the eye.

  ‘What’s the catch? There’s always a catch. Tell me, because if there is one and you haven’t told me then I’m going to be pissed.’

  Fleming told him it all, including the sauna owner introducing a UC.

  ‘I always knew Ricky fuckin’ Swan was too wide at the mouth and all things to all men, including the law. You did fuck up there, my friend, and I learned the same hard lesson you need to get into your DNA – trust no one. Swan was fuck all till he put his talent as a perv into practice and opened the sauna.’ He poured another monster into their glasses and Eddie took it gladly; the expensive Speyside had washed away his worries, at least for the time being.