Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘By the way, go and have a shower before you go out or you’ll choke that young woman in the car. That wouldn’t be a good start to her career as a detective now, would it?’ As the DCI said this he was already looking at the papers on his desk and his mind was wandering elsewhere again. If Monk needed any sign that he was nothing more than an object of contempt, his boss had just given him a full display. The ultimate humiliation.

  He left the DCI’s office and the new aide smiled enthusiastically at him, waiting for a response, so he ignored her. He looked across the room at the rucksack and realised that he was dead. Maybe not yet, but there was no escape.

  He headed for the showers without speaking to anyone – the new start could wait till he was ready.

  As the water washed some of the excreted poisons from his skin, he realised that there was nowhere for him to run and all the eyes in the office were watching him like a dead man walking to the last drop into eternity. He’d managed to delude himself for a while, but that was over now. If they started looking into his life and records, he was fucked. He’d been stealing from evidence bags for months to feed his habit, and it was a minor miracle that it had gone undiscovered as long as it had. He couldn’t do prison time; he just wasn’t equipped. Someone would come for him – it would either be Billy Nelson or the rubber heels, and he wasn’t sure which was worse.

  He dried himself on an old towel he kept in his locker and tried to ignore the state it was in. While he worked the cotton on his skin, fresh, toxin-laced sweat bubbled to the surface as his body struggled to clear itself.

  Monk sat down naked on the wooden seat in the shower room, letting let the cool air waft over him and trying to see a way ahead that didn’t involve him being killed or abused in prison.

  There’s no way out; just face it, boy, he thought before shaking his head and managing a dry smile. ‘What the fuck,’ he murmured. It was a done deal, and it was over one way or the other. He had not far off a quarter kilo and it was top gear, so why not just enjoy it?

  He stood up, straightened his back and remembered that Donnie Monk had been a man at one time. His head cleared; he’d made a decision and it was better. It was too late to struggle with ways out – there were none.

  He pulled on his grubby clothes and made up his mind to buy fresh clobber when he left the office.

  All eyes hit the door when Monk came back into the room. A wounded detective was news, and they wanted to savour every moment of someone else’s downfall.

  Monk picked up his rucksack, ignored his audience and walked into the DCI’s office without knocking. His boss was on the phone with one foot up on the desk and looked like he’d just seen Elvis when Monk told him to put the phone down.

  ‘I’ll call you back.’ He put the phone in its cradle and swung the foot off his desk.

  ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I’m not. I’m heading home as I’m ill so you can sign me off.’ He felt that at long last he had at least some control, after the terrors of doubt.

  ‘You’d better get a doctor to back you up or you’re in worse trouble than you’ve managed to create already.’

  ‘Fuck you. I’m suffering from stress and all that crap.’ He closed the door and left the DCI gaping in disbelief behind him.

  The new suit smiled again at him and he at least returned the compliment this time. ‘Hope you have better luck than I had, love.’ He meant it; he wanted her to have a good career. He still knew in his bones that it was the best job in the world if you kept your head.

  He turned and left the CID office for the last time.

  Once he was outside, Monk went to his bank and drew out all that he could get, made his way to Princes Street and bought new trousers, a shirt, underwear and a decent pair of shoes. He felt some energy in his exhausted bones and enjoyed his shopping, something he hadn’t done for too long. He hated it by nature, but this time it was different. Work had been the worst kind of struggle and now he was free of it.

  He bought some food, some quality wine and some malt. The sun shone, and although it was cold he carried the bags over to the gardens below the castle then sat and stared up at the stronghold that had stood guard over the old city for nearly a thousand years.

  Monk had always loved the gardens; when he was just another working detective and about five stone lighter he’d go there in the summer to enjoy the sights and sounds. Especially the sight of the girls who flooded out of the offices and shops at lunchtime then decorated the grass in a celebration of youth and all that it meant.

  He breathed deeply and wished it was summer, just for a day, so he could smell the grass.

  The phone went off in his pocket and he saw it was Nelson.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything. Is it done?’ Nelson sounded extremely pissed off.

  ‘No.’

  Nelson waited but Monk had nothing more to add.

  ‘What the fuck do you mean “no”?’

  ‘You’ve got the answer, take it or stop wasting my time.’ Monk had regained a semblance of dignity and felt the glow of finding a small part of what he’d lost. It was a gesture and would mean nothing when the knock came on his door, but it made him feel like a man again and he smiled. Whatever else he’d become, he’d just got one over on the man they all feared.

  ‘Grace Macallan has the hotel case now, which means you’re fucked. Me, I’m going to have a couple of days in some nice hotel and enjoy your very-high-quality gear. After that you can do what the fuck you like. See you, Billy.’ He let it hang for a moment, imagining the man raging on the other end of the line, then added, ‘You’re on the road to the same shit heap I am. Enjoy.’

  He put the phone down and tried to think of the best hotel he could afford for a couple of days. Then he made the call, booked into a suite and felt okay. The fear had gone.

  Nelson stared at his phone and ground his teeth, seething with the frustration of having an arsehole like Monk talk to him like he didn’t count. Okay, he thought, have your little time off, Donnie, and then I’ll come and see you. He was exposed now for the attack on Kristina Orlova in a way that should have been covered, but it was one of those times when the dice were all rolling the wrong way. It happened, and like Donnie Monk he’d make his own preparations.

  The DCI made a note that Monk had gone off sick and filled in the necessary forms. At the time, he couldn’t know it would be of interest to anyone other than the personnel department.

  35

  Macallan, accompanied by Baxter, walked along the corridors of the hospital wondering how all the pieces they’d uncovered would join up at the end of the job. There would be a picture, but it was impossible to predict yet what story it would tell. Along the way, there might be a strong sense that they’d get who they were after, but there was always the unknown factor in between that could mess up lives or ruin a career. The traps were everywhere and only occasionally would you be smart enough to see all of them. It was how you dealt with the situation when the wheels came spinning off on the outside lane of the motorway that mattered.

  They spoke to the doctor in charge before trying to talk to Andy Clark.

  ‘Best of luck, Superintendent. He’s not been responsive to anyone else and he’s definitely a man with a lot on his mind. He’s not abusive to the nurses, quite the reverse, but he’s preoccupied and clearly under stress.’ The doctor was up to his armpits in work yet managed to be patient and polite.

  ‘What about his prognosis?’ Macallan asked.

  ‘He’ll recover, but he’s suffered significant bone injuries that will affect him for the rest of his life. His mobility will be impaired and he’ll be lucky to walk without the aid of a stick. He was seriously injured, much like a bad car crash if that makes sense. Having said all that, he’s very strong and making remarkable progress so we might get him into a chair soon enough. Anyhow, I’m busy but by all means speak to him. He doesn’t get any other visitors.’ The doctor smiled warmly and left.

  �
�Okay. There’s no plan. Sometimes that’s the best way, so we’ll just wing it like all the best detectives.’

  ‘Always worked for me,’ Baxter said, and meant it. They agreed that he would take the lead with questioning.

  Clark had his eyes closed but was wide awake. All he could do was think, and that wasn’t something he did easily. What he was doing was spinning the same worries round and round on a carousel without resolving a single thing. Billy was hacked off with him and he’d no idea where Kristina was. It still hadn’t occurred to him that she could have been involved in setting him up; he just wanted to know if she was safe.

  ‘Andy Clark.’

  The man’s voice startled him, and when he opened his eyes he knew exactly who they were. The man was CID and could have had it stamped on his forehead. The woman who was with him had to be the same but was attractive with it.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  They ran through a line that they were aware he’d said he couldn’t identify his attackers but they were keen to try again to see if he might have remembered anything else. He listened to them, but his instinct as always was to keep quiet. He’d been brought up to be wary of the police, though the truth was that he’d always thought that if he’d been a bit smarter and able to pass the exams he would have loved to have been a Peeler. Baxter impressed Clark; he liked the look of him and his talk. But what could he say? They would know exactly who he was and, more importantly, who his friends were.

  ‘What do you think, Andy – anything else come to mind while you’ve been lying here?’ Baxter said.

  The more the two detectives spoke to Clark the more they realised he was a different animal to Billy Nelson. His profile was spot on: much more reserved and not the brightest individual. Macallan thought he was a physically attractive man, and with his looks and quiet attitude, she would have taken him for a gentle soul in another life. It was hard to imagine him as part of a team that had tortured and killed their way to control of the drugs scene in the city, but she knew Clark was capable of terrible violence, though the profile was clear that he never initiated it. However if he was given the order by someone he respected then he followed it without question. What neither she nor the profiler could have known was that Clark questioned what he’d done for Nelson every day now, and for the first time in his life he couldn’t work out what to do about it. He wasn’t a decision maker.

  ‘I’m sorry – I can’t remember anything else. It’s all a blur now.’ He liked the woman but he just wanted the two detectives to go and let him spin the carousel again, even though it wasn’t giving him an answer.

  Macallan knew they weren’t connecting, although he wasn’t being difficult, and she had the inclination to call it a day and leave it till they had a bit more information when she remembered the nurse’s report that Nelson had been in his face about something. ‘Can you confirm your address for us before we go?’ she asked, as if it was completely routine.

  He told her; he liked the colour of her clear green eyes.

  ‘One thing I would like to ask is’ – she pushed the door just a bit further – ‘what were you doing at that address where you were assaulted?’ She waited and watched him struggle for an answer.

  ‘I’m very tired and think I’m going to be sick. Could you get the nurse please?’ She saw the opening, and he was vulnerable.

  ‘Do you happen to know a woman we’re dealing with named Kristina Orlova?’ She watched his expression change and knew a line had definitely been opened – they just had to see where it went.

  The words ‘we’re dealing with’ meant he needed to know. His heart raced; at the very least he needed to speak to her. The sight and sound of Orlova was what he wanted more than anything – and to warn her to stay clear of Billy Nelson.

  ‘I know her. Where is she now?’

  Macallan saw the plea in his eyes and knew they’d found a weak spot they could exploit. She looked at Baxter. They’d both worked out that whatever his relationship with the girl, he still didn’t know what had happened to her or that she was in an intensive-care ward not that far from him.

  ‘She was found badly hurt and had to undergo emergency surgery.’ Macallan said it softly and watched as Clark’s eyes filled and his colour changed. He was angry and frustrated, but he was helpless and all he could do was squirm pointlessly as he tried to cope with his emotions.

  ‘Did some fucker hurt her?’ It had gone too far, and Macallan called one of the staff nurses as he managed to dislodge a drip and supports for his arm. The nurse told Macallan and Baxter to leave and they went out into the waiting area to try to work it all out.

  ‘Jesus, the boy didn’t know and she’s obviously the one as far as he’s concerned,’ Baxter said, still surprised at his reaction. ‘What now?’

  ‘First thing is that we don’t tell him yet that she probably set him up. We wait and see what the doc says, and if we can get back in then we grab the chance. If there’s going to be a long wait then we can nip up to the other ward and see if they’ll let us talk to Orlova.’ He nodded in agreement and she added, ‘Let’s grab a coffee while we’re waiting. There’s one other thing though, while I remember. In the morning I want to go to the coordination centre to listen in to the surveillance operations, so would you mind going to see Banjo Rodgers and trying to squeeze some evidence out of him?’

  ‘Consider it done, but let’s get that coffee. I’ve a feeling we’re going to need it,’ he replied and they headed for the café, leaving their numbers with the staff nurse.

  It took the medical staff twenty minutes to calm Clark down, although it was as much his own exhaustion as their support that got him there in the end. They tidied him up and on the way out the doctor told the nurses that the police should not be allowed near Clark for the time being.

  ‘No,’ Clark said quietly and calmly enough. ‘I want to see them – it’s important.’ The emotion was gone. He knew another struggle would achieve nothing but a heavy dose of sedative, and he didn’t want that till he knew exactly what had happened to Kristina. The doctor tried to argue, but he replied that he had something important to tell them. He promised to keep calm and told them it would be worse if he couldn’t see them.

  Baxter took the call from the staff nurse and winked at Macallan. ‘Well well! He wants to see us.’

  They quickly drained the last of their coffees and headed back, though they would have enjoyed another one to chew over what was developing.

  Clark was sitting up and looked comfortable enough when they arrived. ‘Thanks for coming back. I’m sorry I got so upset; it was just a bit of a shock,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No worries, son. Just let us help you with this. We’ll take our time so there’s no misunderstanding.’ Baxter said it almost in a growl, which pleased Macallan. He was presenting the older, wiser head to Clark, who was a vulnerable character despite what he was and what he’d done. It seemed like he needed an older figure to follow and Nelson had dropped out of that position in his life. If Baxter could connect even for a moment then they might just get somewhere, so Macallan let him take the lead.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened to Kristina,’ Clark said. His eyes were wide and desperate, so Baxter told him as much as they could, but given Monk had done no investigation, his information was limited. The news that Orlova had lost a kidney made Clark flush in colour though, and Macallan worried that he might throw another one before he pulled it together.

  ‘Have they got a name for who did it?’ His face tightened and Baxter recognised the tension and what it meant.

  ‘We have our suspicions, but there are a lot of investigations still to be carried out before we arrest him.’

  They had no evidence, but Clark didn’t know that. They all went quiet and pondered the words ‘arrest him’. Baxter left it dangling perfectly; even without saying the words Clark knew they were talking about Billy Nelson.

  ‘Can you leave me for an hour? I need to think.’

  Baxter looked a
t Macallan, who nodded in agreement. Clark was hanging just over the edge and they had to make it easy for him to jump.

  Macallan stood up to leave and decided to take a gamble. ‘We’re going to speak to Kristina now. If you want to talk to us just get the staff nurse to call our mobile. If we don’t hear anything we’ll leave it for the night to let you think it over and then come back in the morning, which might be better. We’ll probably be able to tell you a lot more by then.’

  As they walked along the corridors Macallan broke the silence. ‘What do you think then, Grant?’ She slapped him lightly on the back to break his deep train of thought.

  He looked round and grinned. ‘Fifty-fifty, but if the boy takes the leap then I reckon we’re on our way. Let’s hope the girl’s as pissed off at Nelson as Clark is. She’s every reason to be. I just can’t understand why he’s been so careless, but if the medical stuff is on the money then maybe he doesn’t care now.’

  Macallan nodded, thinking he was probably right.

  The doctor would make no compromise on them speaking to Orlova. The girl was still recovering but very ill and had been lucky to survive. They had ten minutes, and if there were any signs of stress the medical staff would move in and stop the proceedings.

  The detectives stepped into the room, which was quiet and cool. Orlova’s eyes were open and she watched them enter. She smiled; the nurses had told her that they wanted to see her.

  ‘Please sit down.’ Her voice was barely audible but clear.

  Macallan introduced them both and told her that they were investigating the attack on her and were linking it to a number of other crimes. Orlova’s eyes widened; because of her sedation she hadn’t spent long analysing what had happened at the hotel. She’d heard her attacker’s accent so there was no doubt it had been Nelson or one of his gang. What she had already decided was that, given what she’d had to endure in her life already, the law of averages meant she wasn’t likely to live to old age or do so with her face intact. The next time it might be some psycho with a razor. The doctor had already explained at length that it was her youth and strength that had let her survive a potentially fatal injury, and Orlova had decided that when she was well enough she’d move to somewhere no one knew her and let her looks find her a man. She’d saved hard and put as much money aside as she could afford, and her life as an escort was now over.