Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  It was the side of my face burning as it was dragged up the front door step and across the coconut-fibre welcome mat that brought me back to a semblance of consciousness. Through bleary eyes, my head throbbing with pain, I saw a pair of tartan trews walk past me and close the front door.

  ‘Get up.’ The order was accompanied by a kick to the small of my back. I tried to raise myself off the ground and was helped by another kick to my already injured ribs. I fell over, lying on my back and gasping for breath, staring up at Clyve Cree, dressed in a white-paper boilersuit, a blue plastic glove on each hand and, most oddly of all, a clear plastic shower-cap on his head, the type hotels supplied and nobody used.

  Cree bent over, grabbed hold of one of my heels and proceeded to drag me the length of the hallway, taking a sharp left into the sitting room, banging my elbow off the door surround on the way in. Once inside he kicked me again. Rupert had joined us, closing the door behind him.

  As gradually and painfully I found my bearings, I realised I was in the sitting room of Devlin’s cottage. Nothing very much had changed since I had so thoroughly searched it just a few weeks previously; only the number of occupants. I’d been alone the last time. Now there was five of us; four still alive.

  Another kick from one of Cree’s boots urged me to my feet and I was pushed into an armchair, situated across from the fireplace and perpendicular to a couch on which, hands bound and mouth gagged with silver duct-tape, sat one terrified History of Art student. Beside him, the body of an elderly man wrapped tightly in a heavy-duty polythene wrapping. Victor Devlin, I presumed.

  Rupert’s earlier coolness had gone. His face was ablaze and sweat ran from his brow. ‘Why did you have to make things so difficult for me?’ Rupert asked. ‘I’m a fair man and—’

  ‘And you hadn’t intended to kill me, just frame me for murder?’

  Cree stared hard at Rupert from under his showercap. ‘He’ll have to go as well,’ he said, as though my death was just another unticked-box on his to-do list for the day. He lifted a roll of duct-tape from the coffee table on which a big hardback golf book and lump of tantalite still sat. He tossed it to Rupert and jerked a thumb at Dominic. ‘Get his legs done.’

  Rupert let the roll of tape strike him on the chest, bounce off onto the floor and roll away. ‘I’m touching nothing in here without gloves on,’ he said.

  ‘Gloves aren’t going to help,’ I said. Surely Rupert had to realise that the plan had unravelled? ‘Kill me and who are you going to blame the other deaths on? I’ve already mentioned Cree’s name to Dominic’s dad, and to the Advocate depute, and just about everybody else with an interest. When they find three bodies, they’ll start by asking Tam Bain a lot of questions. How long do you think it will take them to start looking for you?’

  Cree pulled a savage looking knife from the sheath he wore on the brown leather belt about his waist and levelled the blade at my face. ‘Shut it.’ He went over to the polythene-bagged body and slit it from head to toe. Rupert pushed a handkerchief across his face, a barrier against the stench of rotting flesh that filled the room. Seemingly immune to the smell, Cree ripped the polythene away and Devlin’s remains slid off the couch and onto the floor. The fingers of each hand were mangled, twisted and blue. His throat had been cut, the wound white, gaping and ragged. I remembered the wooden handled carving knives in the cutlery drawer. Why hadn’t I worn gloves?

  Cree roughly folded the polythene. Pink, watery liquid dripped from it, splashing against the legs of his paper suit. He held it out to Rupert. ‘Get rid of that.’

  Rupert stepped back. ‘Don’t contaminate me. Take it to the kitchen. There are carrier bags in there. Put it into one and we can dispose of it later.’

  Cree decided against that idea. He wasn’t prepared to take his eyes off me, not even if Rupert stood guard with the knife. He threw the bundle of polythene onto the floor by the hearth. My arrival had caused father and son-in-law to alter their plans. Rupert was showing signs of uncertainty. Not Cree. He was a highly-trained soldier, well capable of adapting to changing circumstances. I tried to think like him. If I was a psycho out to avenge the death of my partner, I’d kill me first and then spend some time on Quirk. I was just a nuisance. Quirk was the star prize; his presence here the end result of a long, well-thought out and highly-expensive plan. Cree wouldn’t want to hurry things.

  ‘What if Munro’s right?’ Rupert said. ‘It’s too risky.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Cree said.

  Rupert disagreed. ‘Even if we don’t kill them, we can still put the blame on Munro for Devlin.’

  ‘And what about this piece of filth?’ Cree asked, the blade of his knife this time angled at Dominic.

  ‘We’ve got him once, he knows we can get him again. The boy will say whatever it is we tell him to say.’ Rupert turned to Dominic. ‘Isn’t that right?’ Eyes wide, the prisoner nodded furiously. ‘We say it was Munro who kidnapped him, drove him here...’ his words were accompanied by more enthusiastic nodding from Dominic. ‘Who knows what might have happened if we hadn’t stumbled upon him?’

  ‘And how did we manage to do that?’ Cree snapped back at him, his own complexion matching that of the older man’s. ‘You left the ball for some fresh air, I took you for a drive, we just happened to see a deserted cottage and thought we’d go in for a look around. Is that it? Don’t be so—’

  ‘Quirk’s going to prison on the other case. We’ve got Devlin’s money...’ Rupert put a hand on Cree’s shoulder. ‘Clyve, nothing we do can bring Wendy back.’

  Cree shrugged him off. ‘I never heard you plead for Devlin’s life. You saw what I had to do to make him talk. What really bothers you the most?’ He jabbed the point of the knife at Dominic. ‘That he killed your daughter? Or that Devlin took your money? You see, I don’t care about the money. The money was only good for getting us here, and now that we are, Quirk’s going to pay for what he did to Wendy and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.’

  Dominic burst into tears, duct-tape gag straining as his cheeks puffed in and out, a squeaky whine escaping through his nose.

  Rupert dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief. He went over to Dominic, raised a hand, but didn’t strike. ‘This is all your fault. You killed... you killed my daughter.’ He began to cry too. The handkerchief was transferred to his nose. He blew hard and came over to me, his eyes red-rimmed, tear-laden. ‘And you. Why couldn’t you just leave well alone?’

  I wondered the same myself. Suddenly, going to prison for life for a murder I didn’t commit, seemed not all that bad an option. Except it was one no longer available.

  Eyes fixed on me, Rupert pointed a straight arm at Dominic. ‘He killed my daughter and you defended him. You knew what he did and yet you stood up there and told the jury—’

  ‘That the case wasn’t proved beyond reasonable doubt? I know. I’m a defence lawyer. It’s my job. What should I have said? When you get caught for all of this, are you going to tell your lawyer to plead guilty?’

  ‘Enough!’ Cree shouted.

  But I wasn’t finished. ‘No, you’ll deny it and blame everything on your demented son-in-law. You’ll take the stand and say how you tried to talk him out of it, how he was crazy and you couldn’t stop him, and, if your lawyer is any good, you might get off too.’

  Cree strode across and back-handed me across the mouth. ‘No-one’s getting caught,’ he said to Rupert. ‘Munro murdered Devlin, took his money, and—’

  ‘And what?’ I asked. ‘I murdered Dominic Quirk, a former client of mine who I needed to go to trial so that one of my own clients could go free from a murder charge. Where’s my motive in that?’

  Cree, grabbed hold of the back of my jacket at the collar and wrenched me to my feet. I could taste blood in my mouth. I had to make a move sometime, but I was so weak and I couldn’t have over-powered him fully fit. All I could do was keep stalling.

  Cree put the broad blade of the knife to my neck. ‘Let’s go.’ He pushed me
towards the door, turned to Dominic, stared at him through slitty-eyes. ‘I’ll be back for you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘Mr Munro was so full of regret that he threw himself off the edge of the cliff,’ Cree said, through his teeth. He dunted the back of my head with handle of the knife. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  It was now or never. I spun around. Throwing myself at Cree, I tried to knock him off balance. Like a matador evading a charging bull, he side-stepped neatly and I fell headlong into the centre of the room, falling across the coffee table, knocking the lump of tantalite, from where it sat on top of the golf book, onto the floor. A second later, Cree was on top of me. He pulled me back to my feet, arm around my neck, tightening a choke hold. My dad had taught me how to get out of one of these. You twisted, turned to face your attacker and broke his grip on you. Fine when as a boy I’d practised the move on Malky in my dad’s kitchen, the old man looking on and giving helpful advice. When the choke-hold was applied by a trained-killer, it was a whole lot different. What light crept into the room through the slim gap in the drawn curtains began to fade as though someone was working the setting sun with a dimmer-switch. I couldn’t breathe. It didn’t seem to matter. Darkness. Sleep.

  ‘Get him!’

  I woke up lying on the floor, sticky with the congealed blood and body fluids of a murdered conman. Behind me the fireplace, immediately in front of me the legs of the coffee table. Squinting between them I could see the door to the hall was thrown wide. How long had I been out? What was happening? Where was Cree? There was something underneath me: the big hardback golf book. I tried to haul myself up on the coffee table, it wobbled and I toppled sideways, striking a shoulder blade against the hearth. I heard the sound of fluttering and raised myself onto an elbow. Curtains billowed, streaming into the room. A gust of cold wind rushed over me and I sucked in great gulps of cool reviving air. The big front window was smashed and Dominic Quirk was gone. So was Cree. Only Rupert was left, standing at the broken window looking out. Now was my chance. But to do what? Think. My brain was numb, starved of oxygen. A deep breath helped me make it to my knees, arms resting on the coffee table. A few more and I was upright on jelly legs.

  Rupert backed away from the window, paying me no attention. He looked to the open door as though expecting someone to come in. The front door to the cottage slammed shut and I heard the sound of a struggle. In the hallway, something crashed to the floor, glass-splintered: a picture frame from the wall, possibly. Rupert took a pace forward, bent and picked up the chunk of silvery-grey mineral, a dazed, scared expression on his face, his motley complexion now strangely pallid. He hefted the lump of ore, and had readied himself to throw it, when through the doorway, stumbling, twisting, falling, came the bound figure of Dominic Quirk. A deep laceration ran from above the prisoner’s scalp-line, down his forehead, across one eye to his top lip. His mouth was still gagged, and he breathed heavily through his nose, one partially-sheared nostril flapping horribly, spraying his shirt front with blood and snot.

  Rupert remained poised, chunk of mineral still clutched firmly. Why? Dominic, now sprawled on the floor not far from me, was no danger to him. And then I realised. Rupert wavered for an instant, turned to me and tossed the lump of tantalite under-arm. I caught it as Cree marched into the room. In the split-second I had, I knew this was my one shot. The tantalite was heavy. Go for the head and I might miss the target. I had to play the odds. I aimed for the body. With every particle of strength I could assemble, I hurled the lump of rock. It travelled the three or four metres between my hand and Cree’s torso in less time than it takes to tell and, yet, even then, he somehow managed to raise an arm to protect himself. The solid chunk glanced of his forearm, diverted upwards and struck him in the throat. The force of the blow and his own instinctive reaction caused him to strike the back of his head against the wall. The knife fell from Cree’s grasp and clattered onto the floor. He stood there for a moment, hands limp at his side, staring at me, his confused expression glazing-over. He tried to say something, coughed blood, fell to his knees and pitched forward onto his face.

  Chapter 56

  Rupert wanted an hour. I was prepared to give him thirty minutes. The police arrived in fifteen. Apparently, Al Quirk hadn’t spent a hundred and fifty grand on a motor without fitting a tracking-device. I wished I’d known.

  Cree was conscious but unmoving, his breathing laboured and weak. I thought his wind-pipe might be crushed and not sure what I could really do about that, or particularly enthusiastic to do anything, I’d arranged him into a sort of recovery position, but only after taking the precaution of taping his legs together at the ankle.

  After that I’d assisted Dominic, freeing him from his bindings and giving him a damp tea-towel to clamp over his injured face.

  I’d already been arrested and handcuffed and was sitting on the armchair by the fireplace when several uniformed cops came bursting into the room, accompanied by Al Quirk and a distinguished, grey-haired gentleman, both of them, like myself, in dinner-suits; albeit my bow-tie was long-time lost and most of the buttons were ripped from my blood-stained, white shirt.

  Next to arrive on the scene was a team of four paramedics. They quickly assessed Victor Devlin as a long-lost cause and split up: two attending to Cree, the other pair to Dominic’s wounded face. All the time, Al Quirk fired questions at his sobbing, traumatised son. This was a crime scene. There were formal procedures that should have been followed. If Quirk senior knew that, he didn’t care and none of those present seemed intent on dissuading him.

  After a garbled explanation of events from Dominic, during which exasperated paramedics tried to patch up his face, Al’s grey-haired companion shouted to one of the uniforms present and ordered my release.

  Duly stabilised, Cree was carted off to an ambulance, one hand cuffed to the stretcher. Dominic was also hospital bound. One side of his face was completely bandaged, the dressing held in place by white tape stretched under his chin and across the top of his head, tufts of hair sticking out at wild angles. His father approached me as one of the first-aiders led Dominic out of the door and the other came over and did her best to tidy me up.

  ‘I don’t know what’s been going on,’ Quirk said, ‘but Dominic tells me you saved his life tonight. Seems I should have listened to you.’ At that point he ran out of words.

  ‘How’s your chauffeur?’ I asked.

  ‘Looks like he tripped and gave himself a nasty one.’ Quirk cracked what he probably thought was a smile. ‘Let me take care of Tam. Trust me, he’s got a lot more to worry about than a sore leg. You’re free to go.’ He started to walk away, stopped and turned. ‘What do you think will happen to Dominic? At his trial?’

  I thought whatever happened to Dominic now was a bonus. ‘He’s in good hands with Paul Sharp and Jock Mulholland,’ I said.

  ‘And if you were a betting man?’

  ‘On an acquittal? I’d rather try the Lottery. Between culpable homicide and murder, it’s even money.’

  Quirk left. Before I could too, the grey-haired dinner-suit approached me. He was assistant Chief Constable for the newly formed Police Service Scotland, East Region, and confirmed that while, technically, Quirk was correct and I was free to go, I was only free to go as far as the nearest police station.

  ‘You’re not accused of anything,’ he said. ‘We just want to take a witness statement. You won’t be cautioned and you can keep what you have to say down to what happened after you arrived here,’ he said. ‘I’m not interested in anything from earlier this evening. No-one has made a report of assault and I understand no-one will. As for Mr Quirk’s car, he’s confirmed to me that you took it with his permission…’ he cleared his throat, ‘given the emergency situation.’

  Nothing happens quickly at police stations. I gave my statement. I didn’t mention Suzie, I’d only make myself look foolish, and... well... she was Suzie after all.

  Driven home in the not so early hou
rs, I struggled from a hot shower into bed and was wakened from a deep sleep by my phone ringing.

  My dad. ‘Where are you?’

  I’d been wondering that same thing just a few seconds before. ‘In my bed.’

  ‘At this time of the day?’

  ‘I had a bit of a rough night.’

  ‘Well get out of your bed and round to my place pronto. I’m firing-up the new barbecue. I told you, you were to come for your lunch.’

  Every bone in my body ached. I stretched out for the alarm. One o’clock. ‘Dad, can I not see the new barbecue another time?’ Surely his excitement couldn’t be over a barbecue, even though it had to be a step up from his last attempt: a George Foreman grill and an extension cable. ‘It’s not even sunny.’

  ‘Who says it has to be sunny for a barbecue? If you want sunny barbecues go to Aust.... At least it’s not raining. Now get over here. I’ve important news.’

  There was no way I could talk myself out of going; mainly because he hung up at that point. I showered again, dressed and hobbled out of the house. What was his important news? What was it that seemed to have completely eclipsed my break-up with Jill? If there was ever a time to face my dad about the separation, it was now, while he was so excited about whatever it was and, anyway, I couldn’t feel any worse than I did already.

  Chapter 57

  I had to take the bus part of the way and walk the rest. There were three cars crammed into the small driveway outside my dad’s cottage. Wisps of smoke rose above the roofline, disappearing into a cloudy sky and I could hear the shouts and laughter of children ringing out. What was going on?

  ‘Here he is at last,’ my dad roared, as I rounded a pile of logs that were stacked at the corner of the cottage, partially covered by a green tarpaulin. He was standing beside his DIY barbecue, poking sausages with an enormous two-pronged fork, while Malky, Dr Diane and a female I didn’t recognise, but thought maybe I should, were seated on deck chairs up-wind from the reek. Most surprisingly of all, four children were kicking a plastic Disney football and running around on what my dad liked to call his lawn, but what could more accurately be described as his golf practice area.