Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  The winds that had swept over Edinburgh headed north. The sky cleared above the old city and the wet streets reflected the gleaming reflections from a shimmering full moon. The city was quiet again after what had been a perfect storm.

  41

  It was a brilliant clear morning, the sky was an endless blue from horizon to horizon and it was as if normal services had been resumed after the storm. Macallan woke before the alarm did its job and blinked at the light streaming in through the space between the bedroom curtains. She swung out of bed, padded over to the window and peered out at the world to find summer was back in place and the streets were drying, though there were still puddles that couldn’t find a way into the choked drains. Having Jack and Adam back with her had given her the boost she needed and a shower finished the job before she stuffed bread into the toaster. Jack hadn’t stirred at all when she got up but came through rubbing his tangled hair, having reacted to the smell of coffee and singed bread.

  ‘I don’t know how you’re going to get back to full-time work, Jack Fraser; you just can’t get out of your bed any more.’ She kissed him and put a thick layer of marmalade on her toast. She was desperate to get going but forced herself to take a bit of time over breakfast with her man.

  ‘I was thinking. I had an idea last night, but you were either snoring or rushing off to see Jimmy.’

  She said, ‘Mmmm,’ as she flicked through the routine messages on her phone.

  ‘I was thinking maybe we should get married when you’re through this case. Nothing fancy: a few friends, a few drinks and a bit of a party.’

  She looked up from the phone and blinked, nearly choking on the piece of toast she was trying to chew. The remains of it dropped from her hand back onto the plate and she stared at him, struggling to find a response. In the end, all she could manage was, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’ He picked up her toast and chomped a huge bite out of it.

  ‘Okay, but I keep my name.’ She tried in vain to hide the tremor in her voice.

  ‘That’s it done then. You’d better get off to work. I can see you’re a bit agitated.’ There was the hint of a boyish grin on his face as he watched her surprise, and that’s just how he’d planned it. He loved seeing Macallan caught off guard – those moments when the vulnerable girl was exposed and human.

  Macallan sat in her car for a few minutes but didn’t start it. She stared in the mirror and realised that marriage had hardly crossed her mind. ‘What have you just done?’ Her face broke into a grin and she did a silent scream before turning the key and heading for the office.

  When Macallan and Thompson arrived in Newcastle, Tony Harrison treated them like old friends. She had to admit that the man knew how to lie, which probably explained why he’d survived so long.

  ‘We’ve arranged to get Maxi Turner and Geordie Simms brought in and thought we’d have a briefing before we get going with that.’

  ‘If it’s okay, I wouldn’t mind a one-to-one before we start briefing you about the shootings in Edinburgh. There are some sensitive issues I need to run past you and we have to keep them watertight.’ Macallan’s act was flawless and Harrison looked pleased that he was invited to join the inner loop.

  The real reason she wanted to see him alone was that their next move required lying skills on a par with Harrison’s and Macallan was concerned that Thompson might give something away if she was there when the story was being delivered. For better or worse, lying wasn’t one of Thompson’s talents, but Macallan’s time in Northern Ireland had taught her how to look into the eyes of the hard men and make them believe in her. She could handle Harrison and her old instincts were back in play. He took her into his office and she noted the hint of greed in his eyes. The bastard was sniffing the bait she’d just dangled in front of his nose so Macallan started to play her game.

  ‘It’s a mess up there and I was beginning to think that we were going to lose it.’ She saw that glint again and it sickened her that the man across the table could betray the job and, more importantly, people like Ingrid Richter. She was walking on the thinnest ice herself by handing over information on Swan, but she and O’Connor had agreed this course of action, and despite her own history of whistleblowing she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad about breaching Swan’s rights given his background. It would only ever be Harrison’s word against hers anyway, and he was a rat, so she told him exactly where to find the pimp, laying it on thick about Swan being a police source who’d agreed to introduce the UC to the Flemings.

  ‘We’re sure he can provide evidence that will wrap up a number of major targets,’ she concluded, ‘including Handyside if he was prepared to cooperate. The attempts on his life have wrecked him so he’s definitely ready to turn.’

  Harrison felt it was his lucky day. He told Macallan that it would go no further, all the while thinking he’d struck a little nugget of gold. Handyside would find this level of inside info irresistible.

  ‘He’s taken off to a holiday cottage he has somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, but we know where it is so we’ll keep working on him. He’s scared to death so I’m sure we’ll get him on-board. It looks like he has all the goods on discs and he did a lot of business for the Flemings so has dates, times and money transfers as well – and, just as importantly, the names of women brought into the country and where they ended up.’

  ‘So he’s not protected?’

  ‘Won’t have it, and we can hardly provide it for a pimp who’ll probably turn out to be the major trafficker in Scotland. We’re working on his financial history and if we get a case together then he gets his turn fair and square. As it currently stands, he’s going to spend some time selling up his businesses then head off for retirement in the sun with the only company he has at the moment, which is his daft spoodle. We don’t have enough to arrest him for anything yet and can’t tie him to the Brighter Dawn. I’ll keep you in the loop, but remember this is strictly need-to-know. I’m going to have a couple of meets with him and try to talk him over to our side.’

  ‘You’ve got it, and anything you need down here . . . just let me know.’

  Macallan was satisfied that he’d bitten and she’d given him enough bait for now. If he’d taken it and he was working for Handyside then they’d want more. They left it there and joined Thompson and some of Harrison’s team for the briefing on the situation in Edinburgh.

  It was the start of a long day and two hours later Macallan and Thompson were sitting across the table from Maxi Turner, who was as relaxed as Macallan had expected him to be. Men like Turner didn’t have to be dragged in screaming for an interview – they took a professional pride in facing up to it and being able to take whatever the pigs threw at them, so he’d already told his lawyer not to interrupt unless he needed his advice.

  Macallan had expected nothing else, but she wanted Handyside to know that she hadn’t gone away; there was a message to deliver and she wanted to make sure he got it. She pounded Turner with questions for over two hours and he took it in his stride.

  ‘There’s no crime I’m aware of in sitting smoking in Eyemouth, Superintendent. Maybe you can charge us with a litter offence for dropping a pile of fag ends, but that’s about it unless you can come up with something better. We just went there for some fishing and enjoyed the view. Anything else?’

  ‘You did know Frankie Dillon and Alan Hunter though?’ If Turner thought he was pissing Macallan off, he had it all wrong. She knew exactly how the script would pan out and she’d played the same game many times in Northern Ireland.

  ‘They were a couple of wasters and Pete gave them the odd driving job, but nothing more than that. Whatever they were doing in Eyemouth was nothing to do with us. They were freelancing and I take it they legged it after your boys let them go? I haven’t seen them since well before the Eyemouth thing.’ He sat back, looking satisfied with the way it was all going.

  Turner stuck to his script and repeated the same lines over a dozen times during the interview. Macalla
n thought he would have made an excellent politician, the way he could spin round the questions and avoid getting to the point. He was good and she respected that, but after two hours she decided they’d all had enough play-acting. Thompson had enjoyed her supporting role, and at one point almost managed to wind him up when she described him as Handyside’s pet dog. It had hit a chord and Macallan had realised that Thompson’s experience had started to give her a hard edge. It was good to see given how hard it must have been for her to fight her way back after the explosion.

  ‘Okay, Maxi, that’ll do for me,’ Macallan told him. ‘One last thing . . . We’re building this case despite what you might think. Tell Handyside that it’s only a matter of time. I don’t think you believe that, but tell him anyway. He’ll get it, trust me.’

  Geordie Simms had a long way to go to emulate Turner. He was a young and hard criminal, which was why Handyside had agreed to take on his cousin’s oldest son, but while he’d always regarded himself as a rising star, he’d soon realised that he’d just been promoted to the position of occasional gofer. As so many before him had discovered, being top of the pile as a local hood and working for the top man were entirely different worlds, and most of the other gangsters had treated him like shit. When he’d complained about that to Turner he’d ended up flat on his back, convinced his jaw had been broken.

  ‘Man up or fuck off out of it,’ Turner had told him. ‘In this game you earn your way to the top, and if I hear any more from you I’ll put you in the fucking hospital.’

  That was the moment Simms had realised he was out of his depth, and this lack of experience in the big leagues meant he was nervous to the point of coming apart in the interview room when Macallan brought him in. On the night he’d watched the Brighter Dawn sail in to Eyemouth harbour he could have no idea what exactly had taken place out at sea. It hadn’t been explained to him because he didn’t need to know, but when he saw the headlines on TV and remembered Turner’s phone conversations that night, it became clear to him what he’d got himself into.

  It made no difference though because when he sat in the interview room with Macallan, Handyside’s favourite bent solicitor was by his side, and Simms knew that any slip he made would be reported back to the main man. It hadn’t escaped him that Hunter and Dillon hadn’t turned up for work for a while, and it didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened to them.

  Macallan saw it all and understood exactly what was going on – she’d seen it often enough in Belfast. It was clear that Simms would break without the lawyer in the room, but that wasn’t going to happen. In any case, it would be almost impossible to prove they were doing anything wrong in Eyemouth that night. Macallan gave the pointless interview just over an hour to make it look real, but she was glad when it was over. She’d dropped the lure for Harrison so it was time to back off and wait for a reaction. She’d give him a couple of days to fester, after which she’d call him and tell him that Swan wanted to talk.

  There was, however, one more surprise to drop on Harrison before they headed back to Edinburgh, and Thompson was going to deliver it. Young had been too busy to come with them to Newcastle but it had been arranged that Thompson would have an hour with their intelligence officer and analyst before they headed back up the road. Macallan would keep Harrison occupied over a late pub lunch to give her time and space, and during the exchange Thompson would drop into the conversation the information that they’d picked up a number used by the Flemings around the time of the Brighter Dawn incident, mentioning that it looked like a clean phone and that they would continue to develop that line of enquiry. It would get back to Harrison pretty quickly, and he was smart enough to see there might be a problem for him once he worked out the implications of what Thompson had said.

  Macallan kept their pub conversation away from the job; she could see he was twitching for more information so she played the ‘walls have ears’ card. ‘Better not to discuss anything here, you never know who’s listening. Tell me a bit about your time in the Met.’ She gave him the full-on ‘you’re a really interesting person’ face and he lapped it up.

  Macallan had arranged with Thompson to text her when she’d planted the phone story with the analyst. As soon as that was done the DCI would make the excuse that there was an urgent development in Edinburgh and pick Macallan up from the pub.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Macallan said as she read the message on her phone. ‘Need to get back to Edinburgh. The Fiscal wants to see me urgently as there are some developments.’

  She could have sworn that a tiny bead of sweat popped out above his right eye.

  ‘How did it go in there?’ Thompson asked Macallan as she snapped the seat belt on and the car pulled away from the pavement.

  ‘He’s biting, no doubt about it. Our Tony is dirty, and no matter what happens we’ll put the bastard away.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ Thompson pressed the accelerator and they left the smell of corruption behind them.

  Harrison headed back to his office, thinking that Macallan might be worth a pull. She was uncomplicated yet eye-catching and it intrigued him. Few women held any attraction for him these days – it was normally whatever spare Tom he could rent out from his favourite escort service. He didn’t quite know what to make of her, but he’d definitely try and have her out for dinner with a couple of drinks the next time she was back in Newcastle. He thought he might go up to Edinburgh and find out what exactly the Sweaties were up to with the shootings.

  Once he was back in the office he sat down with the intelligence officer and the analyst. There had been an exchange of bits of intelligence and some requests for data searches. It was all routine until the analyst brought up the information Thompson had provided about Eddie Fleming’s number.

  ‘Say again.’ He tried not to show too much interest.

  The analyst repeated what she’d said and Harrison searched his memory for signs of a problem. He coughed nervously as he tried to remember whether he could be somewhere in the pattern of calls. He’d spoken to Handyside on a couple of occasions around the time of the Brighter Dawn incident but was fucked if he could remember if there had been a call between the clean phone and his number. He dismissed his team, and when the door closed behind them he stood at his office window flicking through his call lists.

  ‘Fuck.’ It was there – one single call. He stared out of the window and tried to work out what this meant.

  Harrison was no fool, and though he was a bent bastard, he was also a talented detective. There was a problem in the information about the clean phones, but the maximum they could prove was that there had been a call from one of them to his number. They couldn’t get a subscriber from a clean phone, but if they identified them all they could tie down Handyside’s to the Newcastle area. Macallan’s team would find it eventually, but they were swamped with lines of investigation and research so it might take a bit of time. He was glad he’d mentioned that he’d had a few run-ins over the years with Handyside so he could pin it on a threatening call from the man. It was weak but it would hold if he stayed tight. He knew someone like Macallan might see through it eventually, but suspicions and proof were different things. There was also the outside possibility that they could miss it, though he wouldn’t rely on that one. They couldn’t prove a thing – and he’d survived worse in the Met and the RCS. He decided not to alert Handyside to the fact that the Scottish team might dig up their relationship through the phone analysis, but he did need to know about Ricky Swan, so he picked up a set of car keys and headed for the nearest call box.

  ‘Fuck.’ He muttered it again in frustration at the small slip that was going to cause him a bit of stress. Despite always being careful about phone contact they had somehow slipped up, but it was what it was.

  When he got to the call box, which looked and stank like a sewer, he held the receiver a couple of inches away from his face as he dialled the number.

  ‘We need a meet about the game north of the border.’ He waited for
a reply.

  ‘I’ll see you near the river.’ The phone clicked off. They had a series of meeting places that changed month by month. ‘Near the river’ was an old industrial site close to the mouth of the Tyne.

  Handyside turned back to Turner, who’d just arrived at his home. They were in the study and his wife had taken the children to the park to soak up the glorious sunshine that had followed the storm. ‘Tell me again what she said.’

  Turner repeated the message Macallan had given to him at the end of the interview. What worried him was that Handyside’s face seemed to harden, so whatever it meant, the message had hit home. ‘What did she mean?’

  ‘Nothing. The woman’s a class act and she’s trying to play mind games. Ex-RUC Special Branch, so she’ll know all the moves. Forget it.’

  Turner wouldn’t mention it again, but he saw that it had touched something in his friend.

  ‘How did Geordie stand up?’

  ‘According to our legal friend he didn’t do that well, but he kept to the script. Not much choice, has he?’

  Handyside ran his hand over his face and smiled grimly. ‘Tough game this, Max, and it’s just about to get tougher. I asked you to get as much as possible on this Ricky Swan. Tell me about him – everything.’

  Harrison had given them everything he could on Swan, and Drew had filled in any gaps. Handyside listened without interruption, trying to put a picture together of the man who’d caused them all so much grief. Turner went through every detail he’d been given, knowing that the top man hated anything being missed out. He was a details junkie and that was part of his talent.

  When he was finished, Handyside stood up and took the keys for the Jag from his desk. ‘Let’s go and see our man from the constabulary.’

  It took about thirty minutes to get to the meet with Harrison and during the drive Handyside made up his mind about what had to be done. Unless the detective dropped something new on them, he needed to act fast and hard. In a way the plan was simple enough: he would get the job done north of the border, Drew could get the Edinburgh side of the business back in working order and he would talk Brenda McMartin back on-board. There was no way she could work out who’d pulled the trigger on her insane brother, and for the time being that would suit his purposes. It might all be simple, but perhaps it was also a bit on the ambitious side – the feeling in his gut still told him that he needed his plan B, which was more likely to succeed.