Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  When he stepped out of the car he could smell a problem on Harrison. The detective was wound up tight and normally he was an arrogant shit who’d never quite worked out where he sat in the food chain. Self-delusion was a powerful drug when it was administered with the help of envelopes stuffed with hard, tax-free cash.

  ‘What’s up?’ Handyside asked him. ‘Got a cold or something?’

  ‘I’m brand new, just up to my eyes in work.’ It was a lie, but it didn’t matter to Handyside who watched it drip from Harrison’s lips.

  He told them about his meeting with Macallan; how she’d told him Swan was a top grass and confirmed that he’d stuck the undercover into the Flemings.

  ‘The problem is that it looks like this fucking slag has information that can hurt a lot of people. He’s frantic after the two shots at taking him out and is considering his position with the law, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘No, I don’t know what you mean. Tell me in English and not Met wankspeak.’ There was no rise in tone when he said it; Handyside remained calm, but Harrison knew he could see through him and it chewed his nerve ends.

  ‘That’s all I know. The slag . . . Sorry, this Ricky Swan has information on a number of people and they’re trying to turn him. He’s not gone over yet, but they think they can get him into the witness box eventually, and he’s sitting on records of all our dealings north of the border, courtesy of the Flemings. Laundered money, girls’ details, that kind of thing. He’s headed for some place in the wilds till he sells up his businesses, then it’s off to the sun for a spot of retirement. There’s no police protection, not at the moment.’

  ‘Does this affect me, Tony?’

  ‘So she says.’

  ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’

  ‘Nothing, that’s it all, but I’m there if anything develops.’

  Handyside watched the lies drip from his mouth again, but they were sins that would have to wait for another day. He needed Harrison for the time being. The one thing he’d learned about bent detectives was that they had a limited shelf life and when the time came they had to be cut adrift.

  ‘How’s that wonderful home in Italy?’

  ‘It’s the bollocks. Going to retire there in a couple of years.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Handyside turned and headed back to the car with Turner, who’d kept quiet through the meet.

  ‘The man’s a cunt, Pete.’

  ‘I know that; that’s why he works for us.’

  On the way home, Handyside ran his decision past Turner. ‘We do this job ourselves and no slip-ups allowed. There’s no time to wait – Ricky Swan needs to go. You mentioned that he has a daughter who he hardly sees but who’s still the proverbial apple. We need to get her to get to him. Do we know where she is?’

  Turner nodded; he was good at looking ahead.

  ‘If all this falls apart then there’s no parole for us, my friend,’ Handyside said.

  Turner didn’t like it, but they’d been together too long and he was in, whatever he thought. The whole thing was a mess, but if they came out the other side he was going to retire, regardless of what Handyside wanted. He’d squirreled away a small fortune so he could easily stretch out in the sun, drink with the Cockney wankers and exchange war stories about the good old days for the rest of his life.

  ‘Okay, we do this together,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get a team together pronto. We’ll need a few of the boys for this kind of job.’

  Handyside took his right hand off the steering wheel and offered it to Turner, who gripped it tight. ‘We’ve come a long way; who’d have believed it?’

  Later that night Handyside lay in bed with his wife and felt her tears run onto his chest. She’d had her arms wrapped round him since he’d told her what she needed to do. ‘Are you sure? It scares me.’ She dug her nails into his skin and he kissed her forehead gently.

  ‘It was always a possibility, girl, you know that. I just need you to promise that you won’t hesitate. Do exactly as I’ve shown you and we’ll be fine. I just need to know that you can do it.’

  ‘Of course. I trust you and always have.’

  42

  Macallan was up at the crack of dawn, but Jack didn’t wake this early even with the smell of coffee wafting through the open doors of the flat. She went through to check Adam and found he was still out for the count. It was unusual for him to wake in the night, but she’d almost welcomed it in the early hours as it had given her some time to catch up on holding him close. Jack hadn’t argued when she’d said it was her turn to see to Adam and he’d been snoring again almost before she’d left the room.

  Adam hadn’t really cried much, just enough to get someone’s attention; he’d just made up his young mind that he was going to be awake for a couple of hours and that he’d decide when it was time to go back under the covers. Watching the summer light rise up over the city while she was holding him had made Macallan’s heart beat faster – it was going to be a beautiful day and she’d stood there, looking down at her baby and thinking about their future.

  Jack would soon be going back to work but he’d loved all this time with Adam, though he had a tendency to spoil the boy. Though maybe it wasn’t possible to spoil them at that age? That kind of attention had been missing from her own unhappy childhood.

  Adam had fallen asleep again in her arms and she’d decided that there was too big a day in front of her to try and sleep again. There was no point in worrying about lack of rest or stress; she was in it now till the case was resolved one way or another. The thought that she was going to marry Jack had given her extra strength, so she would do whatever it took to make someone pay for what had happened on the Brighter Dawn and then concentrate on what really mattered to her. She would be in the office by seven and had arranged to see O’Connor before she had a full briefing with all the heads of the investigations she was coordinating.

  On her way to Fettes Macallan stopped off at a small café in Stockbridge, thinking she’d treat herself to a coffee and a read of the paper before she kicked off the day’s work. Jacquie Bell called her when she was halfway through reading about some senior politician’s latest PR gaff.

  ‘How’s my favourite detective?’

  ‘Same as always,’ Macallan replied. ‘Up to my armpits in alligators. How’s you?’

  ‘I’d like to see you, but I guess you must be snowed with all this mayhem. Have you time to talk?’

  Macallan sipped her coffee as Bell explained that the papers were going to war with the police over Ingrid Richter, the Brighter Dawn and the Gunfight at Ricky’s Corral.

  ‘My God, are you going to use that?’

  ‘Too late, my friend – two of the red tops have done it already this morning. They’re going to slaughter the handling of the cases and I’ve no option but to follow the editorial line. You know I wouldn’t do anything to harm you, and I’ve told them I’m fucked if I’ll put your name up – but you, O’Connor and anyone connected with this are going to get caught in the shit storm. I’m really sorry but I’ve no control on this one.’

  Bell wasn’t sure how her friend would react; she was prepared for anger, and half expected it given what she’d been through, but Macallan’s answer took her by surprise.

  ‘It’s fine. Go for it; I want it to happen. Do your job and I won’t hold it against you. To tell you the truth, I’m tired of trying to take these men on with one hand tied behind my back. We know who’s behind all of this and I want you to print that. Big letters, Jacquie. By the way, I’m getting married and you’re invited.’

  ‘Why?’ was all Bell could manage to say.

  ‘Jack said, “Why not?” to that question. Look, can I see you later for a drink? I think we’re close with this one and I’ll give you the inside track when it’s done.’ Bell agreed and Macallan put the phone down, realising it was time to head to work.

  ‘Fuck me.’ Bell leaned back in her chair and shook her head. ‘Good for you, Grace,’ she murmured then turne
d back to her laptop and started typing up the story.

  O’Connor was sitting behind his desk and looked tired, the well-defined features that had made him so attractive a little blurred. Macallan wasn’t sure whether it was strain, drink or both, but since she’d come back to the force she’d been struck by the impression that he was a man carrying a heavy load. He was on the phone when she stepped into his office and he pointed at the seat opposite his desk. It was pretty obvious from the side of the conversation she could hear that he was on the receiving end of some flak for the mass of incidents hitting Edinburgh. She guessed, rightly, that it was an executive-level twat making sure the shit ran downhill, as always.

  He put the phone back on the desk and tilted his head back in a gesture of exasperation.

  ‘Sorry, you could probably write that script without any clues. To think that’s the job I used to dream about.’ He smiled wearily, lifted a pile of paper and dropped it in an untidy heap into his pending tray. The statement puzzled her and she couldn’t remember his desk trays ever overflowing the way they were now. He was a careful man by nature and hated missing any note that might need a response or report of some kind.

  He broke through her thoughts and got straight to business. ‘Okay, where are we with this thing?’

  Macallan took her time and explained everything that had happened in Newcastle.

  ‘Christ, what happens to a man like Tony Harrison?’ O’Connor asked, knowing there was no answer that would ever make sense.

  ‘I gave up trying to understand them a long time ago. They happen, that’s it and we have to clean it all up.’ She shook her head; she didn’t waste time trying to find answers where there were none. ‘All in all, it seemed to go well and I thought we’d give it a day or two and then feed Harrison the story that Ricky might be coming round. I think we have to presume that they’ll already be considering making sure he’s taken out this time, but we’ve no way of knowing what their plans might be. We can’t expect to get anything reliable from Harrison.’

  ‘Okay, I want you to keep in touch all the way on this. There are going to be some tough decisions here, and I think however this turns out we get flak – too much has happened. Anything else?’

  ‘I could do with the intercept going on Ricky’s phone,’ she replied. ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Yes, I think we might have it up and running by tomorrow. I had to call in some favours on that one. There’s so much pressure on the lines for the counter-terrorist stuff that you need influence to get an urgent one, and everybody’s case is urgent now, which is a sign of the times.’

  Macallan stood up and was halfway through her excuses for leaving when O’Connor told her to sit down again. ‘I want you to know first. I intend to resign in a few weeks.’

  Her mouth dropped open an inch and she was going to ask why, but he decided to answer all her questions in one go. ‘It’s okay – I’m not dying with some terrible disease or in trouble. I’ve just had enough. I used to want nothing but the top seat; you know that as well as anyone. Since I came back from the German post, so much has happened and I made some mistakes, my priorities all went to rat shit and, well, I suppose you know that too. Whatever it was that was driving me that way is gone, and I get almost nothing out of the job now. It’s pretty simple really.’ He stopped, looked down at the table and seemed to drift off as if he was pondering a memory.

  ‘I’m sorry, John, and despite what happened . . .’ Macallan couldn’t think how to finish the sentence and he took over again.

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine. In a way I’m relieved I’ve made the decision, and it’s the right one.’ He smiled again and looked more like the man she first knew. ‘I’ve been approached to go for a job with the UN. You know that’s what I always wanted anyway. The big stage, travelling the world and talking about drugs even though it doesn’t make a bit of difference to the reality of the situation. They pay you a fortune for talking bollocks while you guys are struggling in the real world. I was born for it.’ His smile broadened and it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders with that declaration. She got it and returned the smile because he was right.

  ‘Thing is, yes, you’ll be good at it. You’ll probably end up with a knighthood.’

  ‘The least I can expect. Now go and get ’em; I want to have a drink with the boys when you clear this lot up.’

  The men and women attending the briefing had already arrived when Macallan got to Leith, and she asked them to give her a minute so she could go and call Sheena McGovern. Forgetting about her friend was not an option. It was a safe bet he’d feel lost, and being cut off from his beloved team in the middle of an investigation would chew him up.

  The phone was picked up immediately and Macallan realised that McGovern’s wife would probably panic every time she received a call now.

  ‘How’s our boy, Sheena?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s good, and your visit was a big help. It’ll take time, but I think he’s coming round to the idea that criminal intelligence isn’t the worst option in the world given what’s happened. The docs are happy and reckon he’ll be out in a couple of days.’ Her voice was strong and Macallan was glad that at least McGovern’s wife was looking at a good future for them.

  ‘Just think, you have him all to yourself for the next two or three weeks while he’s recuperating.’

  ‘That’s what worries me – Jimmy is useless in the house so I’m guessing he’ll just sit there with the remote ordering tea and biscuits. Such is life.’ There was a hint of humour in Sheena’s voice, as well as relief. It made Macallan smile, considering how bleak things had seemed less than forty-eight hours earlier.

  ‘Tell him I’ll see him soon and give him an update on the job. I know his nose’ll be twitching.’ She put down the phone, feeling relieved. McGovern was going to be okay, and though she’d miss him by her side he’d still be in the job he loved.

  The team at the briefing were in babble mode when she came back into the room and apologised for being late. Macallan opened it up, gave as concise an introduction as she could then handed over to Young, who knew that the information about Harrison was not for the ears of that particular audience. Instead she ran through the rest of the phone analysis, pointing out that even though they couldn’t confirm the clean phone users it might still be useful in a circumstantial case.

  ‘There are a couple of good little developments. We’ve picked up a report from a source to his handler that early on the night of the shooting he was in the pub and saw Billy Drew come in and join the Flemings. This source has nothing to do with them but knows them all by sight.’

  She finished giving her update and looked at Macallan, who was rhythmically tapping her fingers on the table as she gathered her thoughts. When she started to speak she did so quietly, as if she was still considering the options.

  ‘We know from other sources that Drew seemed to come on-board with the Flemings just after the Brighter Dawn incident. It’s a strange one because he always operated on his own or with a very small team. He avoided anyone else. What we do know is that he’s proved that he’d be more than capable of the level of violence we’ve seen at The Corral.’ Macallan scanned the room and could see Slade making notes.

  ‘I think that the timing of Drew joining the Flemings is the significant point. We’re pretty well agreed that the undercover officer must have been exposed at the meeting in Newcastle, as that’s the last time he made contact with us. We know how Handyside reacts to failure and Hunter and Dillon’s disappearance is probably testament to that. The Flemings must have explained how we’d managed to infiltrate their organisation. And that brings us to Ricky Swan. Since old Joe Fleming was taken out by the Belfast team and the twins inherited the business they’ve made costly mistakes, but this little error was the cherry on the cake. We can only speculate how they managed to stay alive after what happened and I think they wanted an old pro to steady them up. Felicity has confirmed that late on the night the UC went missing E
ddie Fleming made a call to Billy Drew. There was no intelligence of them working together before this call. Correct, Felicity?’ She glanced over to the analyst, who was, as usual, covering sheets of A4 with notes.

  ‘I agree with the superintendent – it seems to be a reasonable proposition. What I can’t work out is – if Drew is the killer – why? The only reason I can see is that he wanted to take over the business, but historically it’s not his game.’

  Macallan would have to rein herself in from getting too focused on Drew. He’d walked away from a life sentence because Harkins had fucked up on procedure, but that was in the past. Nevertheless, she would love to see payback for Drew, an animal that had killed for pleasure.

  She looked towards Slade. ‘Ronnie, I honestly think things are coming to a head in this case, which might surprise some of you, but we have to be ready for anything and get ahead of the game. I want you and your team to crawl all over Drew. I mean get right in his face. There’ll be nothing to find in his house, but take it apart anyway and get him lifted. When he’s released we follow him so he can see us, and find any excuse anytime to bring him in again. If he drops a fag end I want him harassed. Is that clear?’

  ‘You’re talking my language, Superintendent.’ Slade had just been given a ticket to do what he enjoyed most – hassle the bastards.

  ‘Felicity, you said there was something else . . .’