The analyst’s earlier enthusiasm to be at the locus had evaporated under the reality of modern police politics. She nodded but said nothing.
*
Macallan was in bed in less than an hour but knew there was little or no chance of her sleeping. Her mind swirled with the problems that she faced and the speed that events were moving had overtaken anything she could achieve by way of investigation. She was way behind the ball and wondered how she could get the operation moving while the lines of investigation were being burned all around Pete Handyside. The Flemings would have been next on her agenda, but where could she steer the operation after tonight’s events? The thought that she might not have an answer to her own questions – well that made her sweat. It could make her appear inadequate for the job she’d been handed.
If there was a weak link it certainly wasn’t in Newcastle and her gut feeling had always been that the Fleming brothers offered the best chance to get at Handyside’s organisation. She decided that perhaps they’d neglected Ricky Swan. From a distance he didn’t give off the aura of a big-time criminal, and because he was a high-value source who’d provided so much intel in the past, he’d never come close to being considered a viable target in his own right. Maybe it was time to really find out what his role was. Perhaps he was another route to Handyside. She wouldn’t know till she’d pushed his buttons. The fact that he’d introduced the UC into the Flemings’ organisation meant the links were there. He ran knocking shops and escorts all over the city and beyond, mostly staffed by foreign women and so little was known about them or where they ended up after they left Edinburgh. She’d read the reports on Swan and they were always vague, lacking in detail about what he was actually up to. In other words, no hard intelligence – and that should have rung bells earlier.
Macallan’s laptop was next to her bed; she sat up and emailed Thompson, instructing her to get a specialist team organised first thing to start digging into Swan’s finances. As far as she was concerned they should go as far back as possible. Trafficking women made her sick to her stomach and there was no way she could ignore Swan – the murders were a priority for her.
When the message was on its way she lay back on the bed and tried to focus on the fact that in the late afternoon Jack and Adam would walk through the exit doors at Edinburgh Airport. She needed to be with them to remember what mattered in her life. Her old demons were trying to force their way back into her mind and that frightened her as never before.
She forced herself to imagine them taking a long, warm holiday when it was all over, somewhere far away. Eventually her eyes flickered and she settled into a restless sleep.
34
While Macallan slept uneasily, Richter sat up in bed, listening to make sure her parents were not awake. She’d slept lightly for less than an hour and was now determined to keep her eyes open to prevent herself re-entering her terrifying dream world. She could find no way to explain what it was that had crawled into her thoughts and squatted there like a venomous toad inhabiting the dark recesses of her mind. Whenever she’d tried to look into the future it seemed to hold nothing for her but endless years of fear, but now, for the first time in days, her mind was clear and settled. It felt as if she’d been inhabiting two parallel worlds: the conscious, where she was racked with guilt, and her dreams, where she was haunted by memories of the women who’d died for reasons she still didn’t understand. This survivor guilt had been recognised by her medical team, but for Richter it was like a physical pain she suffered every minute of her waking day. It was almost a feeling of shame – what right had she to survive when the other girls had perished that night? There was a natural order to things; she believed that she’d gone outside that order and that the dreams were her deserved punishment for avoiding her fate.
She dressed quietly, not wanting to disturb her parents, who she loved so much but who seemed like strangers now. There were no wounds or scars to show them, and she didn’t want them to even imagine what she’d witnessed – or the ghosts who visited her every night.
Her father’s wallet and some small coins lay on the table inside the suite door. Richter took the notes, stuffed them into her jacket pocket and closed the door quietly behind her.
The city was quiet as she stepped onto the edge of the pavement, taking in the strange environment. Seeing the beauty of Edinburgh’s silhouette sketched against the moonlit sky made her pause. She’d read about the old town with its ancient castle, graceful architecture and dark underbelly that had spawned literature both terrifying and entertaining. It was one of the places she’d dreamed of visiting when she eventually finished university.
There had been so many dreams and hopes before her life had been torn apart by the men with no soul. She wasn’t frightened any more though; sometimes life was what it was and you just had to accept it.
Richter noticed the small yellow ‘for hire’ glow above the windscreens of a line of taxis not far from the hotel, dug her hands into her pockets and walked slowly towards them while trying to work out what to say. The weather had changed and fat clouds seemed to bounce across the sky as the wind picked up, and Richter smiled for the first time in days at feeling the night air on her face.
The taxi driver was leaning against the first car in the line enjoying a cigarette. He looked up as she approached him. ‘Where to, love?’
‘I want to go to the beach please.’
‘There’s a few beaches to choose from, honey, just tell me where.’ He was used to tourists with vague requests, especially the Americans with Scottish ancestry who trawled the city looking for links to their forebears.
Richter was embarrassed when she realised that of course there had to be more than one beach so near to a coastline. ‘I just want to go for a walk on a beach.’ She was almost pleading with him and the driver wondered if the girl was okay, though as far as possible he tried to avoid other people’s problems. He’d seen it all in the back of his cab at one time or another and a foreigner wanting to look at a beach in the middle of the night was purely routine.
‘I can take you to Portobello, that’s not too far. There’s a decent prom there. Can’t sleep?’
Richter didn’t completely understand what the driver had said so instead of answering she simply smiled and reached for the car door, which was fine for him. He scrunched the fag end out under his shoe and climbed into the driver’s seat. The young woman had no idea where Portobello was but it didn’t matter as long as there was a beach and the sea. She jumped in the back of the cab and watched the city lights blur across her vision while she thought about her parents sleeping soundly in the hotel. It made her sad, and she wished it had been possible to explain to them what she was feeling – but how could she? What right had she to bring her nightmares to them, and how could she tell anyone she loved what she saw in that other world?
The Flemings’ and Drew’s plan to cause major disruption in the city and draw the police away from Swan’s place had unforeseen consequences for Ingrid Richter. Two uniforms had been deployed 24/7 to stay close to the hotel and the Richter family, just in case, but the chaos that had resulted from the actions of the Flemings’ team and the twins’ deaths meant that every spare cop in the city had been drawn away from other duties to try to hold the line against the mayhem on the streets. Hardly anyone apart from some uninterested night staff had noticed Richter walk away from the hotel and off into the night.
The taxi drew in at the bottom of King’s Road on the west end of Portobello promenade. The driver swung round in his seat and smiled at the sad-looking girl in the back who seemed completely lost. ‘This is it, honey, and if you head along the prom it should give you a nice walk and help you to sleep.’
When he told her how much the fare was, she pulled out all the notes from her pocket and handed them over without checking the amount. The denominations would have meant nothing to her anyway. The driver pulled the notes apart and frowned. ‘That’s far too much, honey.’ He handed her half the cash back, b
ut she put her palm up to him.
‘Please take it. It’s okay, I promise.’ She said it with as much of a smile as she could muster and he looked at her with more interest, feeling a twinge of concern. There was no word he could find to describe what he saw, but the girl was troubled, no doubt about it. He remembered his golden rule never to get involved and stuck the money in his pocket.
‘You take care, honey.’ He waited till she was out of the car, gave her a short wave and drove away slowly, still unsure why he was so worried.
Richter headed slowly along the prom, past what had once been the site of the Fun City amusement park, when Porty, as it was better known, had been a popular destination for day trippers. There was no sign of anyone else, and she was glad that she seemed to be the only person there. The clouds had started to cover the sky and though the temperature had dropped she was unaware of the chilled air. She felt warm and relaxed for the first time in days because she had accepted what her life now was and why she was in this strange place in the early hours of the morning. Coming from a landlocked country, she had always been fascinated by the sea, and on coastal holidays she’d spent hours doing nothing but staring out over the endless waters, dreaming of what might be beyond the faraway horizon.
She leaned on the prom railings and tried to imagine what this place would be like with the sun shining on the people who used the beach. She remembered her first holiday by the sea, the excitement of playing in sand; her father laughing and helping her to mould castles then dig moats to keep imaginary attackers at bay. It was so real she could almost feel the heat of those warm days on her face.
Stepping down onto the sand, Richter abandoned her shoes and padded to the water’s edge where she sat down, crossed her legs and listened to the waves lapping, almost reaching her then retreating as she stretched out her hand to feel the cold tingle of the salt water. It was summertime and the first hint of the new day started to touch the deep inky blue of the night. Time stopped for Richter and the colours of the eastern sky intrigued her.
Some streaks of red started to appear on the skyline, becoming angry slivers of fire that seemed to arc towards the city. She gasped when it seemed as if a switch had been pulled and the world changed again; the deep colours departed, replaced by the monochrome world of her nightmares. The dark sun rose out of the sea and she felt her skin burning as if she was on fire. It was unbearable and she needed the feel of the chill water to ease the heat that was eating into her.
She stood up, dropped her clothes and slipped into the water, finding there the relief that eased and cooled her flesh. The water was energising. When she felt her feet lose hold of the bottom she started to swim a steady stroke, breathing easily, and the terrifying black sun disappeared. The early morning half-light and the streaks of red were in front of her as she aimed towards those far-off horizons and what lay beyond.
35
The taxi driver had reached Princes Street when he said ‘fuck it’ and banged his fist on the steering wheel. He couldn’t get the foreign girl out of his head and was annoyed at himself for breaking his own ‘I don’t give a fuck’ rule. He wheeled the cab round and headed back to Portobello. The streets were empty so he was there in fifteen minutes and parked at almost the same spot where he’d left the girl earlier on.
Lines of grey and blue cut by great streaks of fiery red lay along the horizon as the new dawn made its appearance. There was no sign of the girl, and he hurried along the prom, not quite sure what he would do if he actually saw her. What worried him more was what he would do if he couldn’t see her. For a man who stayed out of other people’s business it was a difficult problem to resolve.
By the time he’d reached the east end of the promenade he had done his best to convince himself that he was overreacting. He was due to finish his shift, and he wasn’t sure how his wife would react to a claim that he’d suddenly become a concerned citizen. She never really believed half his stories and any mention of a foreign girl would just add to her suspicions that he was playing away. The driver compromised, telling himself that he’d walk back to the cab along the water’s edge and if there was still no sign of the girl he’d forget all about her and go home.
About halfway along the beach he stopped again and looked up at the dawn light: a whole range of blues and reds had mixed together to create an impression that the sky was raging at the world. It was beautiful, almost desolate, and it looked like it was approaching the old city to engulf it in its flames. He lit a cigarette and smiled at the thought that he’d got himself carried away by the sight of an attractive young woman who looked like she had problems.
‘The story of my fuckin’ life,’ he said and tossed his cigarette into the receding tide – and that’s when he saw the discarded clothes in the sand. He felt his heart thump in his chest and hoped that it was debris from the previous day’s visitors.
He picked up the jacket and recognised the floral design on the collar. His instincts had been correct, but he had a problem convincing the police of that when they finally responded to his call and he couldn’t quite explain why he’d been so worried or why he’d turned back. The two uniforms had just spent one of their worst nights in months answering calls in a city that seemed to have gone mad. They were both knackered and the taxi driver’s story just didn’t make sense. It was smelly enough for them to think he might have tried to get his leg over a reluctant passenger and it had all gone horribly wrong. The younger of the two uniforms wanted to make it into CID and had already decided that the increasingly nervous driver was a murdering bastard.
‘I’m tellin’ you, Charlie. The guy’s at it,’ he said to his partner. ‘I’ll phone the CID and see what they say. Suppose we’d better leave the girl’s stuff in situ.’
‘In situ!’ the older and wiser cop said with a tired smirk. ‘I think you’ll make it right to the top of the CID using words like that, son.’
They called for another uniform to stay with the clothes and took the blubbering driver to a station, where he would be given a hard time before his story was finally believed.
The chaos that had engulfed the city had nearly passed. As the night-shift officers signed off and ached to get home, the sky seethed angrily above their heads and the wind picked up, driving cold rain into the faces of the men and women entering and leaving the stations around the old city. It was unseasonal weather, but it was Scotland and unseasonal was normal.
36
Macallan had struggled all night to get anything resembling rest. There had been a brief period where she’d hung somewhere between the conscious world and sleep, but she hadn’t been able to take that final dive; there was simply too much to think about. Eventually she gave up trying and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was pointless to spend any more time trying to rest, despite how tired she was, and she decided she might as well take the day on, whether she was knackered or not. It would look like she’d lost the plot if she was spotted going into the office this early so she decided to relax for half an hour with coffee and out-of-date bread that would do the job once it had been carbonised in the toaster.
Her new power shower was a godsend and she let it blast her skin red before doing a minute under the cold till she couldn’t stand it any longer. She dried off quickly, brewed the coffee, lay back on the bed and devoured her jam-covered toast. Once she was fully awake the anxieties of the night drifted away as she put things back in perspective. Jack and Adam would be with her by the evening, and she was sure that alone would lift her spirits.
The main problem of the day would be making the right decision on where she steered the investigation now that the Flemings were off to join their old man and brother. She thought digging deep into Swan’s life was the right call, and it might throw up some unexpected leads to Handyside. Even if it didn’t, he would take a serious hit if he was trafficking women. The challenge was to work out how he’d reacted to the previous night’s havoc at The Corral or – perhaps more importantly – simply to find
him. As it stood, Swan was the main witness for a triple homicide and the investigation team needed to get hold of him as soon as. There was still the possibility that he’d been taken out as well and his skinny little carcass just hadn’t been found yet. She still didn’t know why the shootings had happened the way they had and untangling the whole mess was going to be a nightmare.
Once she was dressed, Macallan decided to walk to the office, needing the air and a stretch to untangle the knots in her mind and body. The one thing she was sure of was that Pete Handyside was part of the answer, and she’d have to rethink how to get him cornered.
When she’d been making her coffee earlier it had been raining and the wind had been blowing hard through the city streets, but by the time she left the flat it had cleared again and the sky was ablaze with a swirling palette of reds, purples and blues. She thought it might have been an angry reflection of the night’s events and prayed that she could find an answer, a chink to squeeze open . . . just something to motivate the troops into digging up the evidence that would put someone away for the horrors that had taken place.
The traffic was still light as she strolled along Constitution Street, and it was quiet enough to catch some of the dawn chorus still being belted out over the old port. Macallan couldn’t remember having to face a situation where the main target was killing the witnesses and suspects quicker than she could get to them. Smiling grimly she decided that at least it couldn’t get any worse. She was wrong though – she hadn’t yet heard about the latest tragedy.
Another torrent of rain and wind crashed into the city just as she entered the front door of the station. Thankfully the office itself was quiet. The rain thumped at the windows like an angry man, the sky had turned dark grey again and the clouds dropped to blot out the tops of high buildings. The old station was getting a bit worse for wear, and the gaps in the windows and doors led to an almost permanent low howling sound throughout the building. There was no one else in the office and even the cleaners hadn’t shown up yet. It was just the way she wanted it, because she needed some time in the working environment to get her head back into place.
Shores of Death Page 25