Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  The old force had been sucked into the new Police Service of Scotland, his hero Maggie Thatcher had taken over in heaven and his beloved Heart of Midlothian were shite and skint. His world was changing, and all he could do was push on, but he locked down the negative thoughts till later.

  ‘How can I help you?’ He thought for a moment then remembered he was only months away from the winning post and realised that he could say whatever he liked.

  Eddie was about to answer but Baxter gave him a talk-to-the-hand movement. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’re here. I’m busy chasing fucking criminals. Now I’ve heard your old man and brother are – how do we put it? – not answering their phones. No one’s reported it to us, so if it’s serious we’re miles behind the ball. Your old ma looks like she’s been abducted by aliens and then dropped back to earth.’

  Pat didn’t like his attitude and tried to get out of his seat, but Eddie whipped an arm across his chest and eased him back into his chair.

  Baxter was unimpressed, sniffed and continued. ‘Now something fucking awful is going on in this city, and I think for the time being we should declare a truce. Tell us what we need to know and let us get on with it. I know it’s not in your interest to tell us everything, just enough. Otherwise fuck off out of my station.’

  Pat shook with temper, but Eddie read the situation better than his brother.

  ‘He’s windin’ you up, Pat boy – keep calm.’ He smiled at Baxter, who smiled back, satisfied with his delivery, which had been honed by years of taking the piss out of criminals.

  Eddie leaned forward and put his arms on the table. ‘Get some tea, Sergeant, and I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much, but I want to make an official report that my father and brother are missin’, plus my mother has been abducted and assaulted. Not by aliens I might add. I believe my brother and father have been murdered.’

  Baxter hadn’t expected what he’d just been told and leaned back in his chair, trying to assess the young man opposite. He was good, no doubt about it. He’d have to be if someone had taken out Joe and Danny then scared Lena half to death.

  Baxter smiled again, knowing that he wasn’t going to bed that night and the alarm bells were going to start going off all over the shop. He fucking loved it.

  ‘Okay, gents, let’s get some statements from you. It’ll take a bit of time.’

  Across the city Nelson looked out of the window of his new home. The money was rolling in, and his terraced villa was straight out of a glossy magazine. It made no difference; he felt empty, and though his gut had been okay for a couple of days, he didn’t feel right – life didn’t feel right. He should have felt like sipping a nice glass of something, enjoying the smell of new furnishings and the welcoming comfort of a very expensive home. He should have had a woman by his side, but there was no excitement. Just hollow emptiness and growing anger.

  No more than a couple of hundred yards away McGovern was setting up an observation post in an empty flat. They’d been lucky getting it; it had clear sight to Nelson’s front door and would be ideal for controlling the surveillance teams when he moved.

  When the chance came they would covertly enter his place and bug it up.

  McGovern slapped the two young officers he was with on the shoulders. ‘Over to you, boys. I’m off to bed. The privilege of rank and all that shite.’

  In Wester Hailes, Banjo Rodgers sat in his favourite chair. He hadn’t bothered to put the lights on when darkness fell on the city. The TV was on but the sound was turned down. He rocked back and forward with a steady rhythm, trying not to think about Maggie and his failure.

  Macallan watched Fraser disappear beyond the departure gate as he looked back for the last time before disappearing airside. She turned away, smiling to herself. It had been good – better than good – and forgiving him had been the right thing to do. It had only been a short visit, but they’d talked easily and confessed their sins. They’d been careful not to make too many promises, but when Macallan could get time she’d go to Northern Ireland and spend a weekend with him. No big commitments – they’d just take it as it came.

  She walked back to the car and shivered at the biting cold before driving over to Portobello, the faded, once-busy holiday spot where for decades thousands of stressed-out blue-collar workers had enjoyed a day by the seaside. It was quiet now, but the long promenade was ideal for a blow in the sea air.

  She walked along from the King’s Road end, looked over the wide estuary towards the sparkling lights on the Fife shoreline. The sky was cloudless, and she guessed that Fraser’s flight would be up there somewhere in the darkness on the short hop to Belfast City.

  She walked as fast as she could to counteract the freezing easterly breeze, and her skin tingled with cold and energy. She thought that perhaps, with a double slice of luck, things might work out with Fraser after all.

  A couple of snowflakes nipped her face, and she looked back up at the sky, but it was still clear. She walked further on and her eyes scanned east along the darkness that was the place where the Firth of Forth became the North Sea. She couldn’t make out the horizon in the darkness but saw a grey line of cloud heading her way and realised the forecasters must have got it right. There was a snowstorm coming, and it would envelop the city in a few hours.

  She walked on and ignored the cold.

  18

  The surveillance team had waited patiently, charting what routine there was in Nelson’s life, photographing him from every angle, noting the way he walked and dressed, his habits and who he met. Even the information from an ordinary day where he was just living his life started to build up a picture. The records from his phone calls had started to come in, and the senior analyst, Felicity Young, researched the lists, plus all that was known from his previous history in Belfast and the Army. His family, friends, comrades in the regiment – all were studied, and deep in the electronic systems of law enforcement a target profile was created for Billy Nelson.

  When it was opened, his picture flashed up on the front page with the routine benchmarks of his existence: age, date and place of birth, description, marks or scars and previous convictions. Everything that was known from the shell scarring on his thigh to the Red Hand of Ulster tattooed on his right arm, it was all there in the blossoming files. He’d become the main target in Operation Ranger. The name had been created randomly, so any bent officer couldn’t guess at potential sources – which had happened in the past – but it could be regarded as appropriate given Nelson’s history. Once the bugs were in his home and authority had been granted to tap his phone, the surveillance assets would all be in place. What it would need then was focus, patience and, like almost everything else in life, a portion of luck.

  Macallan knew that without that luck it could all go wrong. Surveillance was a manpower-intensive discipline that tied up dozens of skilled officers in covering the target 24/7. The reality was that they could take on Nelson 24/7 but not the rest of the Belfast boys, because the force was running dozens of other operations against organised crime and terrorists. If the other members of his team were seen with him it would be recorded and they’d be photographed, but unless the situation became more serious, they could target only him for the time being.

  Macallan knew that as Nelson became settled in, he might follow the familiar pattern where the top man becomes hands-off and lets the workers take the risks. If that happened they might switch to whoever was next down the line. A greater and recurring issue was when some other serious incident cropped up for the force and resources were redirected towards the new problem. Their finances seemed to be getting squeezed all the time, and the fact was that the uniformed oligarchs, whose problems came at them day to day and needed answering promptly, didn’t quite get long-term surveillance and investigation. It was understandable – if the head honchos didn’t sort something immediately they got it tight from politicians trying to keep the restless masses happy, but it didn’t help those at the coalface.

 
; As it was, reports of the ‘gang war’ that seemed to be escalating in the city had reached the press, and they were pushing their own sources for a story. Jacquie Bell had her own criminal contacts and was picking up the sound of the beating war drums, so she’d left a couple of messages asking Macallan to contact her. Despite always being suspicious of the press, Macallan owed Bell and knew that she might be able to pick up useful information herself if they talked. Ultimately it was better to try and keep control of the story before the media poured fuel on the fire; the last thing she wanted was Nelson to be spooked then take cover. Already she had been summoned to attend a meeting with the chief super, who was bursting blood vessels about the Fleming twins’ report to DS Baxter.

  She decided to squeeze in a call to Bell before she had to endure another meeting with the insufferable bastard who could play the cards that would make her job a misery. She closed her office door and took her pay-as-you-go phone from her bag. She kept it for contacting Bell, just to be sure that her name couldn’t be traced back to the reporter through her phone records.

  She tapped the only number in the phone memory and it was picked up after two rings.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous. Don’t tell me – you’re feeling a bit frisky and thought about me?’

  Bell said a variation on the same theme every time she spoke to Macallan, knowing that it still wound her up. Macallan, however, smiled patiently and took it with a shrug – it was best just to let the reporter do her thing. In fact, she decided it was time to start batting back across the net to Bell, who loved any form of verbal sparring.

  ‘Jacquie, good to hear you, but just for your information I might be involved with someone.’

  Bell was impressed and tried a lob: ‘Get you, Macallan! Hope he’s an improvement on the previous failures.’

  ‘Believe it or not, he is one of the previous failures, but I’ll fill you in the next time I see you.’ Not exactly game, set and match but that ball was now out of play.

  They got up to date on the trivialities but knew what the call was really about. Bell got to the point before Macallan.

  ‘What’s going on? All my little weasels are telling me that we have a situation and it might just get worse. What I hear is that Joe and Danny Fleming aren’t renewing their Hibs season tickets next year. Correct or what?’

  ‘Without the bodies we just don’t know, but I’ll be amazed if they’re still with us. Look, this is bad and if you want we can meet up. The press could cause us a major headache on this, Jacquie, so let’s get the heads together.’

  ‘Heads together – sounds good to me if you know what I mean.’

  Macallan laughed; she definitely felt she needed that lighter kind of moment before she saw the chief super. ‘You’re sounding more like Julian Clary every day!’

  They arranged to meet at Macallan’s flat because Bell lived in a bomb site that never had food or drink of any description. Bell claimed she only went there to change her clothes.

  Macallan put the phone down and smiled broadly; it was strange to her that a reporter like Bell was one of the people she trusted most.

  The smile dropped when she remembered the meeting she had a few minutes ahead of her. She called in Thompson, who, being the DCI, was the officer in charge of Operation Ranger. Macallan was less than happy about it, but she had no choice in the matter. She just hoped that Thompson would have the sense to defer where necessary – to McGovern when they were out on the ground and to her at other times. They’d rushed her through a surveillance training course and she’d scraped through, probably because of her rank, but the feedback had been borderline. There had been a footnote saying that she seemed to struggle under pressure.

  Macallan and Thompson bumped into the chief super’s secretary on the way to his office. Macallan smiled warmly at her. ‘What mood is he in?’

  The chief super’s right hand looked from Macallan to Thompson and there was a slight hesitation. Macallan saw it, read the non-verbal, and had no doubt she was taking care with her choice of words in front of the DCI. It had been apparent from the previous meeting that the secretary was no admirer of the man polishing the top seat in the city with his fat arse. She obviously knew something that put her on guard and Macallan made a mental note to see if she could get it out of her later on.

  ‘He’s fine, Grace, just very busy and a lot to deal with.’

  Thompson must have picked up that she was the problem.

  When they walked into the chief super’s office he was staring out of the window with his hands behind his back. There was no pretence at good manners as they waited for a few moments till he turned and nodded to the seats opposite his desk.

  Macallan tried a ‘Good morning, sir’, but all he managed in response was a grunt and a shuffle at his papers. He stuck his glasses on the end of his nose and drummed the desk with his fingers.

  Thompson shifted uncomfortably, but Macallan knew this was just his childish attempt to prove that he was king of the castle. She never moved a muscle, knowing that would piss him off, and her eye contact was full on when he finally flicked his gaze in her direction.

  ‘I’m not happy, Superintendent – not happy at all. The press are wound up about this gang-war stuff, and it seems like someone is running riot in the city. A father and son missing, presumed murdered, a wife and mother abducted. How many arrests have we made?’

  ‘None so far, sir. In investigation and surveillance terms we’ve hardly started, but so far it’s going well. And we haven’t even deployed the listening devices in Nelson’s home address yet.’ She decided to keep her answers to a minimum because the man clearly wanted to lay blame and she was going to give him as little room as possible.

  ‘The chief has been on to me this morning and he’s not happy either. I want results on this and soon – am I clear? Who’s running the operation on the ground?’

  ‘Under my command, Lesley is the operational commander and Jimmy McGovern is her deputy.’

  He looked at Thompson and his expression softened. If Macallan had been in any doubt that she was fighting on more than one front, she’d just had it confirmed. She would need her eyes both back and front.

  ‘Good stuff, Lesley, and I have every faith in you. Please feel free to come directly to me anytime if you feel there’s something worth briefing.’

  Macallan had to fight her own instincts at the snub to her rank. He’d basically declared that Macallan didn’t count in his particular loop. She managed to sit tight but it was hard, and she saw how much he’d enjoyed delivering the kick in the ribs. She reminded herself that he was an over-promoted lightweight and not really much of a man when it came to it. She knew men, had loved and served with the best, and the chief super didn’t deserve to be mentioned in the same breath.

  The tension eased off as she knew she had nothing to prove, and she gave him the lover’s smile. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  He walked back to the window and turned his back on her, imagining being with her again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to dismiss the thoughts. He knew the smile was false and that’s what she’d meant it to be. It was disrespect without a word being said and he ground his teeth in frustration. ‘That’s all. Keep in touch, Lesley.’

  ‘I will, sir – and thank you.’

  Macallan looked round at her deputy and wondered if Thompson knew what game she was in. She was naive and being manipulated by people with agendas that didn’t take too much account of her position. She was playing in a tough game and oblivious to the traps.

  They walked through the corridors without a word, both knowing that they were on opposite sides despite there having been no formal declaration of war.

  When they arrived back in the office, the surveillance team who’d been out since the early hours were back in, having been replaced by a fresh shift. Thompson was due to go out and join them and Macallan kept it sweet as she bid her goodbye. She wasn’t going to risk the operation with a cat fight in front of the team; that wo
uld be fatal.

  McGovern had led the early-shift operation and Macallan could see how knackered he was the moment she spotted him.

  ‘Any chance of a quick brief on what happened before you hit the hay?’ she asked.

  ‘No problem. Let me mix up some caffeine and I’ll get Felicity in as well.’

  Macallan wanted some reassurance from McGovern that the job was moving along. She wished she could be out there with them, but she had to let her deputies have their place. The surveillance and investigation would be debriefed during the day, and all the new records would be examined for information and intelligence, which would be extracted and fed into the guts of the system. Young and her team would analyse every scrap of information and Nelson’s life would start to open like a book. They just had to identify the mistakes, the opportunities or the human weak links who might be turned into informants and deliver the fatal blow to Nelson and his team.

  Macallan felt the buzz that every hard case brought her. Like all detectives she would curse it during the sleepless nights, the reports of new casualties and unforeseen fuck-ups, but that didn’t stop the kick, the feeling that they were testing their strengths to the limit, or the thrill if they came out on top. They were dealing with men who had killed and would kill whenever or wherever it was necessary, and Macallan knew that those same men would see the police as just another problem to be knocked over. If they were UVF, they’d proved time and again in Northern Ireland that politicians, the police or the press would be taken on if necessary.

  The thought brought Jacquie Bell to mind and she was concerned the reporter might press too hard, not realising what they were capable of doing. If Bell had a weakness it was that she thought she was fireproof. That was the difference between Macallan’s working life and Bell’s: Macallan knew through bitter experience what people were capable of, and in her early days in the RUC had scraped up some of the bodies that proved it. Bell would probably laugh it off, but Macallan decided that she would pass a warning to her friend anyway.