Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Are you questioning me? If you are then think carefully, my friend, because that’s not how it works.’ Nelson got up and walked round to the cupboard behind them. ‘Let me fill you boys up while you think about it.’

  They heard the sound of the whisky being poured but it unnerved Fisher not being able to keep him in sight. Nelson brought a fresh glass for each of them and went back to the cabinet for his own drink.

  Fisher put the glass to his lips to try and calm the nerves that were sparking after the challenge he’d made. Then he felt the working end of a gun against the back of his skull and knew that Nelson wouldn’t think twice about putting one in his nut. The drink slipped from his hand and his back arched in response to the threat to his life.

  ‘Have you had a think about it, Dougie? I just want to be sure who’s with me and who’s not. What about you, Rob? Are you with me?’

  McLean had told Fisher before the meeting that he wasn’t going to make the challenge with him. He was as pissed off as the others, but there were just too many enemies circling to go it alone. ‘Whatever you say. We’ve come this far so let’s see where it goes.’ He felt ashamed that he’d left Fisher on his own, but he knew that Nelson had turned into a class-A nutter, and if he was going to do a runner he’d make sure he could find a place where Nelson couldn’t get to him.

  ‘Well then, Dougie, it looks like you’re on your own.’ Nelson said it with a smile, enjoying the fear he could see in the two men. He raised the gun about two feet from the side of Fisher’s ear and smashed the handle of the weapon into his unprotected flesh. It wasn’t hard enough to cause serious injury; just enough to hurt like fuck, and Nelson watched as blood trickled from the open flesh wound.

  Fisher came off the sofa and fell to his knees, clutching the side of his head and groaning with the shock of the blow. Nelson walked round in front of him, crouched down and offered him some tissues that had been sitting on the coffee table.

  ‘What’s it to be then?’ he said softly into Fisher’s ear, like a father soothing his injured child.

  Fisher had suffered enough and decided that McLean had been right and he’d picked the wrong time for a challenge. There would be another time, but Nelson already knew that. The move had been made, and once that line had been crossed it would come again – and the next time would probably come from behind.

  ‘No more, Billy. I’m sorry – it’s the booze. I just shoot off at the mouth with it. We’ll take care of the job with Monk.’ His teeth were clenched as he tried to deal with the beating pain in the side of his head.

  Nelson helped him back up onto the sofa and ordered McLean to pour another round. ‘Another drink then I’ll need to go, boys. Places to go and people to see.’ If they found out that he was on his way to the hospital it would have made him even more vulnerable, so that had to stay under wraps.

  They left after the drink, Fisher still holding a bundle of bloodstained tissues to his head. As soon as they were gone Nelson scrubbed his teeth to kill the smell of booze and put on a fresh shirt for his appointment. He’d always been brought up to be clean and tidy for a visit to the doctor.

  The surveillance team watched Fisher leaving the house with some kind of head injury. They had no idea what it meant, but it was logged so it would be seen by the analysts and intelligence boys.

  Nelson left in a hurry not long after and they watched him jump in a taxi then followed him to the Western General Hospital.

  30

  ‘Cancer.’ Even saying the word was like a cold hand squeezing his heart, and he felt his chest tighten with the diagnosis that he’d suspected but tried to avoid thinking about.

  The doctor had seen the expression on Nelson’s face too many times, and it was the part he hated most. Without the bonus of telling some people that they were through it safely, he couldn’t have done the job. He’d worked in Scotland for nearly ten years, and although he’d seen the most intolerable suffering from poverty and disease in his homeland of Pakistan, he’d never get used to breaking bad news.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Nelson, but the problem is quite advanced, and I think we’ll need to carry out further tests to see what might be possible in the way of treatment or management.’

  Nelson looked across the desk and tried to absorb what it all meant. He didn’t have a wife or partner and his isolation felt more like physical pain. There was no woman to put her hand in his when the news was broken; no one to absorb part of the shock, worry or fear. For the first time in his life he wanted to whisper to a loved one that he was frightened, but there was only a young Asian doctor called Mohamed.

  Nelson stared at the bearer of bad news and forgot why he was there, hate pouring into his mind.

  ‘A fuckin’ death sentence from someone like you. Jesus Christ, that has to be the icing on the fuckin’ cake.’ Nelson said it in no more than a whisper.

  The doctor knew that sometimes people would accept it quietly while others would break down and a few would become angry. He’d been trained to know that it was part of the process and it was just a case of getting the patient through the initial shock.

  ‘I realise that you feel upset, Mr Nelson, but let us take care of you and see what might be possible in the way of treatment or care.’

  But while he was talking he realised that the expression in his patient’s eyes was something he hadn’t been trained for at all, and he suddenly felt very nervous about being alone with Nelson. There was only a cheap wooden door between him and his colleagues, yet he felt as if he was a long way from help. Nelson’s emotions were raging, and the doctor’s instincts told him that he was alone with a man of violence.

  ‘Maybe I should get a nurse to bring you in something to drink. Would you like some tea or coffee?’ He hoped the offer would calm the situation but recognised that Nelson was losing any control of the emotions struggling for release.

  The doctor tried to stay calm as the Belfast man stood up and walked round the desk, but it was impossible; tremors of fear ran through his body, and he prayed someone would walk through the door unannounced. There was a panic button only inches away, but his fear would not let him move his hand towards it.

  Nelson grabbed him by the throat, and the doctor became fascinated by the saliva oozing from the side of the man’s mouth and leaking down his chin. He noticed there was a thin line of blood in the spit.

  Nelson’s mind was racing and he’d lost all control. The sleepless nights and the pressure of the previous weeks had weakened him. Hurting the doctor would cost him, but he needed somewhere to put his rage. All those years of conflict, the Republican bombs, shootings, Iraq, the horrors of Basra and then watching friends die in Helmand. All those people who hated what he was and where he came from. Then to get the news from a doctor whose accent and skin colour told him all he needed to know?

  There was nothing to say to the man so he just went to work and hit him so hard with the first one that the doctor was thrown backwards in his chair, smashing into a glass-fronted cabinet containing some of his most prized books. The doctor was hurt, but the old leather chair had saved him from something worse, and Nelson knew that the noise would bring in the cavalry. He picked up one of the other chairs, threw it through the window and then he couldn’t do any more. He threw up all over the carpet.

  The door opened and a nurse put her hand over her mouth before screaming her head off. Two beat cops who were in the hospital taking a statement from an accident victim were near enough to hear the racket and respond. A tussle was always better sport than writing a statement, and they managed to overpower and cuff Nelson without much of a struggle. He let them do their best and stayed quiet through the arrest.

  By some miracle, the doctor had suffered no more than bruising round his mouth and some cuts, and he knew that he’d been very lucky to come away in one piece.

  ‘From the eyeball, a couple of uniforms are taking the target away in handcuffs. Instructions?’

  Thompson had taken over from McGov
ern and was turning over in her mind why Billy Nelson might have gone into the hospital. The call made her sit up in confusion.

  ‘Say again.’ She knew what the eyeball had called but needed to buy herself time to think what to do.

  The eyeball repeated the call.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘we can’t declare to the uniforms and not much else we can do at the moment but I’ll let Superintendent Macallan know in case it affects what she’s doing. Otherwise stand down this surveillance and I’ll see you all back at the ranch.’

  Thompson was thrown. She’d already admitted to herself that covert work was difficult and that you needed hardened steel balls just to survive. There was never a right and wrong answer – so much of it was a judgement call, and you had to be able to justify decisions then stand by them when the critics took their pot shots.

  31

  Grant Baxter had always been regarded as a manager’s nightmare, but he got the stories about Macallan. She was easy to like and didn’t act as if she was anything other than human. No airs, and she didn’t try to pretend she was interested in the witness statements. They were a ball-breaker, and if there was one out of a hundred that had any meaning then it was a result.

  He knocked on Macallan’s door and stuck his head in, his happiness that she’d taken over the role clear on his face. ‘How’s it going, boss? You ready for a brew?’

  She looked pissed off. That was a good sign.

  ‘Wait till you read the files from the psychics and visionaries – that’ll really make your day.’

  She nodded and put her hands together in the prayer symbol. ‘A brew would be great, thanks.’

  Two minutes later he reappeared with a tray and some clean cups, which was always a bonus in a police station.

  ‘Anything you want doing straightaway?’ Baxter said as he poured the tea.

  ‘There’s a couple of things. I saw a statement from a beat cop about this guy Banjo Rodgers mentioning Irish bastards. Just seems worth checking, and he’s up in Wester Hailes where they were based originally.’ Macallan pulled her fingers through her hair. ‘The other one is this attack on Andy Clark – do we know any more about it, and has anyone spoken to him yet? Probably a waste of time and I know he’s not making a complaint, but I’d like to see the details of that attack.’

  Baxter shrugged. ‘It was allocated to divisional CID, and as you’d expect he’s not talking to anyone from our side. Nothing more than that at the moment but I’ll get you the full SP.’

  He watched as her mind started to fire up with ideas and that was what he wanted to see.

  ‘I think we need to make a proposal to get any case connected to this lot under the one roof or we might miss something. Agreed?’ She said this as a done deal rather than a question.

  ‘Agreed.’ Baxter wasn’t about to argue, and for the first time he thought they might have a chance of solving the case. ‘The attack has the Flemings all over it but it might be better to leave them alone for the minute,’ Baxter said.

  Macallan nodded; she had enough on her plate without trying to get an admission from Eddie Fleming. She knew they had to find Nelson’s weak spots and tear them open.

  Baxter sipped his tea noisily and Macallan was pleased that she already felt relaxed in his company. She’d heard the stories that he could be difficult, but she saw that he wasn’t happy leading the investigation. Some people were born deputies; it was no bad thing and an asset where it was recognised by the person themself. The Fleming case was a potential maggot-fest and whoever took the decisions needed to have a mind like a chess player. Grant Baxter was more of a dominoes man.

  ‘Tell me about Eddie Fleming. All of it. I want to get a feel for this family. You’ve been on this patch for a long time so you must know them pretty well.’ Macallan was playing to his ego as well as doing the right thing. She couldn’t have Baxter in a stronger position than her, and she knew that his generation loved to keep something back in case they could use it later. It didn’t make them bad cops, just a product of their times.

  Baxter responded, pleased that she was using his knowledge of Leith, and he took pride in knowing what was what and who was next in line to get locked up.

  Harkins had briefed Macallan perfectly on how to play him: ‘Don’t fuck the man about, Grace; just get him onside and playing the same game as the rest. He’s old school and will be running unofficial sources. We can’t give them up to the force, it’s against our religion – misguided but his heart, or what’s left of his heart, is in the right place.’

  Baxter spent the next twenty minutes running through the history of the Flemings and his involvement with them over the years. He told a few good war stories on the way and a picture began to form in Macallan’s mind. In a way they were familiar, and every detective in the country could have described a similar crime family or families on their patch. Baxter had had his share of run-ins with Joe and his son Danny, but the twins were virtually unknown to him. It was obvious that he hated Danny and saw him as the unpalatable future of crime, or he would have been if he was still breathing – he had no regard for the old rules and would use violence even where it wasn’t necessary. Baxter thought it was like a game now – who could be the most heartless bastard on the street.

  ‘I know you dealt with the Barclay case, boss, but I knew Pauline Johansson and what Danny did to her put her where she was the day she ran into that murdering bastard.’ He stopped, knowing that he was showing he actually cared, and that wasn’t something he did very often.

  ‘I’m with you there, and what happened to Pauline had quite an effect on me too. I still drop in to see her from time to time.

  ‘What about these twins then?’ she continued. ‘And especially Eddie?’

  ‘To be honest I only know them by sight, and like everyone else who’s getting too long in the tooth I was still thinking of them as kids up until this case. Not so. I’ve heard Pat is a hard bastard but thick as an MP’s wallet, but other than that I can’t really say.’ He paused, waiting for a question from Macallan, but she was still forming the picture in her mind.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Eddie is something else. I must confess I was impressed. No doubt that he’s yet another horrible product of old Joe’s loins, but he’s smart, and from what I can gather he got Pat’s brain as well as his own when they were spawned.’

  Baxter paused as he sank the last of his tea and thought carefully about what he was going to say next.

  Macallan was glad that she’d demanded it all. Men like Baxter found it hard to give up any little gem they were holding, but she knew he was smart enough to realise that if Macallan’s profile was true then it would end in tears if he held back. The story about Harkins’ handling of Jonathon Barclay was already the stuff of canteen legend.

  What puzzled Baxter and the others was that she’d forgiven Harkins, and apparently there was no one closer to her than he was. If that was true then Baxter knew that Harkins would have given her all his moves, and he would expect nothing else. He didn’t always get on with Harkins, but they respected each other and regarded themselves as part of a small group of detectives that the neds really didn’t want on their case.

  He decided to be straight with her. ‘Eddie has offered himself up as a source if we do the business on Nelson and co,’ he said and waited for a response.

  Macallan didn’t show any surprise. She knew the disclosure must have been hard for him, but his leap of faith probably meant they could work well together.

  ‘Have you handed him over to the source unit?’ She already knew the answer.

  ‘Not yet. I was waiting to talk it over with you.’

  They both knew that wasn’t quite true and he’d only decided to disclose the information to Macallan on the spur of the moment.

  ‘Hand him over, Grant. The force owns the sources now, not the individual. I had enough problems with Mick, and I don’t want to see another good man fall for someone like Eddie Fleming.’ She said it loud en
ough and clear enough.

  Baxter got the message and nodded. ‘Consider it done. I just miss the old days.’ He smiled, accepting who was the boss.

  ‘We all miss them at some point in our lives or we haven’t lived but let’s get back to business.’ Macallan sipped a few mouthfuls of the rapidly cooling tea and moved on.

  ‘There isn’t a lot to go on and we’re going to get pressure on this without a shadow. All we have at the moment is rumours about the Belfast team and not much else. It might be that we have to pull them in cold. I don’t need to tell you what the chances are of getting them to cough with no evidence, but it’s about the same as this office getting a prize for design. These boys are UVF. They won’t talk without an incentive so that’s what we need . . . an incentive.’ She swallowed more of the tea and tried to work out a plan that would enthuse the team, if nothing else.

  ‘This is the problem we had all the time during the Troubles. People are terrified of them, and who can blame them? They’ll do anyone that gets in their way so we have to box clever.’ Macallan stopped and thought she should give Jacquie Bell a call. She’d warned her about the Belfast boys already, but Bell was running the story every chance she got and Macallan was worried she hadn’t taken her warning seriously. Besides, calling Bell always cheered her up, and she needed some of that.

  The ancient phone on Macallan’s desk buzzed almost silently and she realised that it was so knackered the ringer was buggered. She raised her eyebrows at Baxter as she answered it, but truthfully the office was so bad she was starting to like it. No one had an office like hers, and it would make a good story some day.

  Baxter watched her smile disappear as she listened; whatever was being said had immediately commanded her complete attention, and he knew she was already making decisions.