Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

‘We know about the attack last night and understand that you’re upset. They also told us that you made some threat of disclosing information about some people who may have used your facilities.’ Macallan let it hang there, waited for a response as Swan slugged back the juice. She was fascinated by his Adam’s apple, which seemed to have a life of its own. He drew his pyjama sleeve across his mouth and burped wetly before patting his mouth politely and saying ‘excuse me’ as if he meant it.

  ‘Upset. Did you say fuckin’ upset, Inspector?’

  ‘Superintendent, Ricky,’ McGovern interrupted, but Swan ignored the prompt.

  ‘I’m attacked outside my own business by these fuckin’ nutjobs, nearly killed and you think I might be upset!’ He took another drink and the detectives waited. ‘One of your boys is missing and my prints are all over it as far as the fuckin’ gangsters are concerned, so you could say that I’m upset, yeah. That would definitely be a fair description.’

  The door to the bedroom swung open and Gnasher padded into the room with his head down as if he’d already been beaten. The need to eat was overwhelming for the dog and Macallan saw the animal was shaking uncontrollably. She’d never had a dog, but it was obvious something was wrong.

  McGovern had always had them as pets, so he knew exactly what he was seeing. ‘When did you last feed that thing?’ he said, failing to cover the anger in his voice.

  Swan looked at Gnasher and for a moment thought about dispensing the beating he’d promised the dog earlier, but when he saw the look on McGovern’s face he decided that might be a bad idea.

  ‘Just all this aggravation, must have forgotten.’

  ‘Tell me where the dog food is and I’ll fix it.’ McGovern got up and made for the kitchen, scooping Gnasher up on the way.

  Macallan was losing patience but tried her best to keep it professional considering the idiot opposite her might be capable of blowing up reputations in the middle of one of the most complicated operations she could imagine. ‘Can we get on with it?’ She gave him a hard look and he shrugged.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you what I have and who it concerns. Not at the moment anyway. Just believe me when I say that I have it and they’re all in there: politicians, judges, some of your lot and a few footballers – although what’s new there? I’ve got them with the girls, some of them very young, snorting lines of coke and a couple I’ve hooked up with boys. The papers would fuckin’ love it, Superintendent.’ He smiled, though it was more of a self-satisfied leer, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat as he played what he thought was his ace. ‘I’m no fool and realise that some of the crap regarding these women on the boat might land at my door. Let’s just say I’ve given a few foreign tarts some work over the years. If anything comes up that might mean charges, I want assurances that I’ll be left alone.’

  Macallan tried to control the anger constricting her throat and she felt her face heat up from a rush of blood. McGovern came back into the room, glaring at the man for his offences against dogs. Then he saw Macallan’s face and knew there was a problem.

  ‘So what is it you want from us? And can I add that I won’t let whatever it is that you have interfere with my investigation. If I find evidence then I go with it; if it’s criminal, it’ll be investigated. Understand?’

  They both knew it was never that simple and that disturbing the great and good of the city would cause ripples. Phone calls would be made to call in favours and so it would go on. But Macallan didn’t care about that, and she hoped they’d find something that would bring her back to Swan’s door. That would be a bonus.

  ‘What do you want from us, Mr Swan, and are you asking for protection?’

  ‘Protection.’ Swan leered again and Macallan planned to take a shower as soon as she got back to the flat. ‘If you put protection round me you might as well shove up a sign at my front door with the word “grass” in big fuck-off letters. I want you to put these lunatics inside. I can stick to the story that the undercover was introduced to me over in Belfast and had fuck all to do with yours truly. But the McMartins will come back for more after what happened to The Bitch. I can explain it to the Flemings but not to Glasgow or Newcastle.’

  Macallan raised her eyebrows. ‘The bitch? Who’s a bitch?’

  ‘It’s what they call Brenda McMartin, and it’s well deserved in her case,’ McGovern said, still angry at Swan’s treatment of his dog.

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘Look, we’re on this already but we can’t do it overnight so bear with us. Are you prepared to give evidence against the people who attacked you last night?’

  ‘You’re doing it again.’ As Swan said it she saw a vein pump frantically in his neck and the combination of alcohol and rising anger turned his face crimson going on purple. ‘If I step into the witness box I’m fucked again. You don’t give evidence against people like them and keep breathing. Just make sure there are some cops in the area if needs be and get those bastards locked up for something else. I saw the headlines about that girl found near Eyemouth. Do the fuckin’ maths.’

  ‘That’s enough; you’ll give yourself a coronary.’ McGovern leaned forward when he said it; he wanted Swan to give him some excuse to clobber him.

  ‘You need to watch it, Mr Swan,’ Macallan said, her face tight with the strain of fighting her instincts to kick the greasy little bastard in the nuts. ‘We will be looking at women trafficked for sex so there’s every chance we might end up back at your door.’

  Swan leaned back in the chair and chuckled. ‘Don’t give me any of that crap about sex workers. Your lot haven’t been able to make up their minds for years whether it’s right or wrong to protect the women on the game.’ Macallan had thrown the dig in without anything to back it up and Swan did a good job at not reacting, even though she was closer to the truth than she realised. He was up to his eyes in taking trafficked women from the Flemings and it had been good business. What worried him more was that he’d pointed the Flemings at one or two gold-plated contacts who were looking for women to keep for themselves. He hoped that particular sewer didn’t erupt in his face.

  Macallan stood up; she could see the conversation was going nowhere, though that would make no difference to her investigation. ‘If you want protection then ask for it, but you need to give us some information or you can take a fuck as far as I’m concerned. I’ll make sure there are extra patrols in the area but that’s all you get unless you want to cooperate as a witness. I’m sure there’s a lot you could tell us if you wanted. Other than that, I can’t stop you disclosing to the press.’ She turned to go.

  ‘It’ll stay safe for now, Superintendent, as long as none of your lot start throwing charges at me. Any problems then I feed it to the dogs and the first ones to go will be from your job.’ He looked like he’d already made up his mind to do it anyway.

  When they got to the car, McGovern patted his pockets. ‘Sorry, left my notebook in there. Jump in and I’ll be back in a sec.’

  He knocked at the door, told Swan the lie about the notebook and followed him back into the living room. When Swan turned round his balls were crushed for the second time in twenty-four hours and he really wished he hadn’t pissed off the Chief Inspector whose face was about three inches from his own contorted phizog.

  ‘If I come back here and see the dog in that state again,’ McGovern said, ‘your shagging days are over, my friend. Nod if you understood that.’

  Swan nodded weakly as McGovern let his knackers go then slid to the floor, where he lay for at least ten minutes after McGovern slipped into the car and pushed the key into the ignition.

  ‘Is that a creep or what?’ Macallan asked as she stared out of the driver’s window.

  ‘You’re not wrong, Superintendent. He’s got some balls on him.’

  Macallan didn’t get it and didn’t ask for clarification, but McGovern felt a whole lot better about his day.

  It was still quite early, but Macallan knew there were hard days ahead and that the real work would
start in the morning, so she insisted McGovern head for home and get some rest. He looked at his watch and tried to put up some resistance: ‘Are you trying to turn me into a nine-to-five office worker?’

  ‘I’m pulling rank on this one. Go home and talk to your wife. All I want to do is meet Ingrid for myself. Ten minutes is all I want with her and then I’m for home. The girl’s probably had enough for one day, but I need to get a feel for her.’

  McGovern knew it was pointless to argue, and anyway, this was too good an offer to refuse. He’d been working flat out for weeks on end before Macallan had come back to the team and he was weary in the core of his bones.

  ‘Okay, you’re the boss, and to tell the truth I’ve hardly seen my family over the last few weeks. One thing though: something’s bothering me about Ingrid. I can’t put my finger on it, but see what you think. I told you she looked a bit dreamy or spaced out. Maybe something they’ve given her. Could you check with the medics just in case? It worried me a bit.’

  Macallan pulled up outside McGovern’s home then watched his wife open the door and wave. She saw the look on her face, the genuine pleasure at seeing her husband back home. Macallan knew what that meant now. In the past going home to be on her own wouldn’t have bothered her too much, but without Jack and Adam there the rooms would feel empty. There was good reason to go and meet Richter, but part of it was to avoid going back to the flat and spending the night wishing Jack was beside her. During their time together Macallan had made a great discovery: it seemed ridiculously simple, but Jack had become her best friend as well as her partner, and it was a revelation. She’d leaned so heavily in the past on Bill Kelly, and to a lesser extent on Mick Harkins, that she’d never realised the role they filled in her life, but Bill had stood by her through all her problems in Belfast, which had proved his loyalty and sealed his place in her heart. Their relationship had been very deep and on his death she had mourned for him more as a daughter than a friend.

  From Macallan’s earliest memories of childhood her father had treated her like a stranger, and she had never been able to work out why he seemed to want to punish her by never showing any form of affection. It was only very recently, and almost by chance, that she’d discovered the answer. Her mother had died barely two months after Adam was born, and the day before the funeral she’d fallen into conversation with her only aunt, Jean, a woman she’d hardly ever met. Jean had spent most of her life in London and had barely been on speaking terms with her sister or brother-in-law. They’d started chatting and Macallan had quickly warmed to her, wishing that she’d known her better. On impulse, after Jean had commented on how totally besotted Jack looked with his baby son, she’d asked whether her aunt knew why she had been so unloved. Jean had paused for a moment and given her a searching look before deciding that Macallan had grown into a strong and intelligent woman who needed to understand – and who deserved to know the truth.

  The revelation that her mother had conceived her through an affair and that her father had known had been shocking. In a way it was a simple explanation, and she wondered why she hadn’t figured it out before. Her father had then inflicted the worst of all punishments – he’d stayed with his wife but never forgave her.

  There was more: unknown to Macallan she’d had an elder sister who’d died before she was two. Jean had told her that her father had been a decent man but this event had nearly broken him; finding out about his wife’s later infidelity had then destroyed what was left of his dreams and turned him into the cold, unsympathetic character Macallan had grown up with.

  Later that night Macallan had sobbed like a child and barely slept, but by morning she’d felt that years of guilt had been lifted from her. Like so many children she’d been convinced that somehow or other she was to blame for the way her father had treated her. When he had died all those years ago, and her mother more recently, she’d felt the same old guilt and wished she could feel the pain of loss, but there had been none. Now, though, she had Jack, and she swore that their son would have all the love he needed to take his place in the world. It was a strange feeling, but when it was her time she wanted Adam to grieve for his mother in a way that she couldn’t for hers.

  22

  When Macallan arrived at the hospital she wondered how much time she’d spent over the years in these places. Detectives return again and again to those sterile rooms trying to find answers from the broken victims who meet the wrong people at the wrong time. She asked to see a doctor, who told her that Richter was responding to treatment but they were concerned about her mental health. McGovern had been right; the nursing staff were reporting some unusual detached behaviour and the consultant had asked for a specialist assessment as soon as possible. The doctor told her that Richter was showing a variety of symptoms for post-traumatic stress.

  ‘There are long periods of emotional detachment, and I think this is her way of avoiding what’s happened. Then there will be periods of anxiety, and the nurses tell me she wakes every night shaking and in tears. The dreams aren’t necessarily of the event but true nightmares that leave her exhausted. Hardly surprising given what the girl’s seen and experienced. People who suffer such severe trauma, coming so close to death, can spend all their time reworking the event and imagining they’d died. It seems more logical – makes more sense than surviving against such odds.’

  Macallan had seen this condition in Belfast where people had been close to bomb blasts and somehow or other made it out when others had been killed. She’d even felt something like it herself when Nelson’s booby-trapped car had nearly wiped her out.

  ‘What’s the prognosis for her?’

  ‘It’s not my field, but we need to be careful.’ His phone beeped. He apologised, read the message and continued. ‘It’s very common for people to feel guilt at surviving. There are almost bound to be some long-term effects; however, she’s an intelligent woman who’ll realise that in some ways she is damaged for life even though there isn’t a mark on her body. I’ll keep in touch, but if you’ll excuse me . . .’ He hurried off and Macallan felt like a lead weight hung in her chest. She wanted to go home but pushed the thought from her mind.

  She spoke briefly to the uniform on duty outside Richter’s room. He seemed to know how important it was to protect the girl even if it was boring the arse off him. They’d had one massive fuck-up on the Barclay case where the idiot guarding Pauline Johansson had decided it was more interesting to chat up the night shift than look after the victim and that wasn’t going to happen this time.

  Macallan looked through the glass windows to the single room Richter was occupying. McGovern had managed to talk the administrators into giving her the room after intensive care because they needed to control access till she recovered enough to tell her story about what had left her fighting for survival on that beach. McGovern and Fitzgerald had done a good job, but Richter would be revisited to the point where she’d be sick of the sight of those hunting the men who’d tried so hard to kill her. It had to be done though. Time and time again witnesses would give several statements then come up with the gem that detectives pray for.

  Richter seemed to be sleeping but the sound of conversation outside her quiet room made her roll her head on the pillow and open her eyes. She stared, expressionless, in the direction of the police officers. Macallan could see she was a beautiful young woman and that there was no obvious sign of physical damage. She thought again about how often she’d had to visit broken faces and bodies, struggling to get their owners to recount the horrors they’d endured.

  She stepped into the room, smiled and introduced herself. ‘Can I call you Ingrid?’

  The girl nodded and pulled herself up on the bed. ‘I’m sorry but I was very tired after your colleagues left today. I don’t seem to have much energy. I hope my English is okay for you?’

  ‘Your English is excellent so don’t worry about that. It’s remarkable you’ve made so much progress. Chief Inspector McGovern told me your story and even for us
it’s hard to understand why men do these things.’

  Macallan sat down and asked Richter about her home and family. She’d done more than enough for one day with McGovern and Fitzgerald and forcing her back to the events on the Brighter Dawn could do more damage than good for the next interview.

  Macallan liked Richter immediately and thought that in another life she would have been a good person to know. She kept their meeting short but told her she would come back and that there would always be a liaison officer available till she left for home.

  ‘Home?’ She said it as a question.

  ‘Of course. When you’re well enough and we’ve finished with your statements then you can go home and be with your family. You understand when we arrest whoever is responsible there might be a trial?’ Ingrid seemed to ignore the question; her mind was drifting.

  ‘I have these dreams, every time I fall asleep and I’m frightened to think what they mean. It is strange because I realise it is . . .’ she searched for the word and muttered, ‘zlý sen,’ trying to trace the English equivalent. Macallan knew she was trying to find the word nightmare. She’d had enough of her own over the years and they still came to visit, though not as often as they had during the Troubles.

  ‘I understand what you mean: it’s a frightening dream.’

  She nodded. ‘I try to find my way home but I don’t know where it is. When I wake up it is as though home and my past was just in my imagination and there is no way to go back there.’ She looked at Macallan for an answer, but there was nothing the detective could say that would give Richter some form of explanation. She knew the young woman was struggling against the demons given birth since she’d been washed ashore. Her survival was nothing short of a miracle, but she was fighting with something left inside her mind like a parasite by what she’d witnessed under the stars that night. Macallan knew, and Richter was coming to realise, that it would occupy part of her mind for the rest of her life. There was no surgery or medical intervention that could remove the invader, and it terrified her.