Say You're Sorry: A Gripping Crime Thriller (A DCI Campbell McKenzie Detective Conspiracy Thriller No 1)

by IAN C. P. IRVINE

  When he had started the job, he had been a caring, kind person. Now he didn't feel anything when people poured their hearts out to him, sometimes literally begging for his help. On the face of it, a car was just a car. Anand had never owned a car, and maybe never would, but he had swiftly come to realise that for many people a car was the centre of their lives: it took them to work, to buy food, to places of entertainment, on holidays, to see loved ones, to hospitals, marriages, christenings, and funerals. People fell in love with their cars. For some, it was not the actual car, but rather the life the car enabled or facilitated. However, almost everyone came to depend on their cars and for the majority who couldn't buy one whenever they wanted, having a car, their car, the same one they had been driving and trusting and caring for over all the years, was incredibly important.

  When, out of the blue, they were then involved in an accident, and the very existence of that car was threatened, some lives would begin to fall apart. People fought hard to keep what they had. For years they had paid their insurance company to protect them, and keep them safe, and they lived securely in the promise and the big words written on the front of their insurance policies which made it sound as if, should the worst happen, the insurance company would be their friend and make everything right again.

  Little did they realise the truth. Until too late.

  It was called 'the small print'.

  It was those tiny little words which few if any ever read before an accident, which quite clearly heralded the truth of the disaster that would befall most people when they became the innocent parties to a calamity not of their own making.

  For, far from trying to help, the insurance companies made money by helping themselves.

  First and foremost.

  The customer last.

  "I'm so sorry, sir/madam. However, if you read the small print..."

  Anand had little choice but to continue in his job, his 'career', as the manager described it during motivational talks when they discussed the number of calls that had been answered each day; it was never about how many customers had been helped, just how many calls had been answered.

  His family needed the money, and where they lived, there was little chance of any other job that paid so well. As the months drifted past, Anand had come to realise just how fortunate he had been while living in England and studying at the university. He knew he should give up the dream, in fact he had done, for a while, but now it was coming back. One day, please, one day Anand would like to go back to the university, finish his degree, and then get a really good, well-paid job.

  He was sick of the lying and the cheating and the smarmy voice and indifference that he had to maintain hour after hour. Sick of it.

  At the end of each day, he couldn't stand to look at himself in the mirror.

  The truth was, Anand had started to hate himself.

  If only he could feel good about himself again. If only he could really HELP someone instead of playing the company game and ruining customer's lives.

  When lunch time came, as he sat by himself in the shade under the trees on the grass outside the call centre, he thought of the man who had called him that morning and invited him to see Hibernian play a game of football in Edinburgh.

  Wow!

  Imagine that.

  Imagine seeing them for real. Playing at ... Easter Road? Yes! Imagine being there, finally, after all those years!

  He thought of the man. He was sad and lonely. Yet, although he was similar to many of the people who rang the call centre looking for help and guidance, even in the midst of the personal stress the man had been going through, he had still shown kindness to Anand.

  The old man had shamed Anand.

  Heaped burning coals upon his head.

  Anand swallowed hard.

  There was something else.

  The man was lonely. It sounded as if he had nothing else, or nobody else in the world.

  Apart from his car.

  Which Anand was going to take away from him and destroy in the same, classic manoeuvre that was played out by everyone in the call centre day after day.

  Doing their job.

  Making their company rich.

  Destroying the lives of those who trusted them.

  Yes, the man was lonely.

  Like Anand.

  Since returning to India to be with his family, and the responsibility that was immediately placed upon his small shoulders, Anand had never felt so lonely.

  As he finished his curry, and wiped the inside of his bowl clean with the remnants of his naan, a thought popped into Anand's mind.

  "Could he and the man become friends? Would they one day actually see 'the Hibs' play together?"

  Anand smiled.

  It was a nice thought.

  A silly, stupid thought.

  But a nice thought all the same.

  -------------------------

  3 p.m.

  Jonathan Stuart sat on the bed in his room, listening to the clock tick on the side table.

  He loved the sound of it, and found that just now, it helped him to relax.

  His eyes were closed, and he let the passing seconds wash over him.

  Jonathan often sat there listening to the clock.

  The clock was Sally's, a wonderful retirement gift that she had received from the school where she had taught for twenty years. Sally had dedicated her life to her children, thousands of whom had passed through her classroom and benefited from her kind heart, knowledge and warmth.

  She had cared for them all.

  Sadly, their own child had died in her womb, and there had never been another one. Something about the way the womb had been damaged.

  Despite their loss, their lives had never been empty.

  Every moment had been full. Every second of every minute of every hour had been a joy spent in her company. They had seldom ever rowed and had rarely been apart.

  All their friends had always commented to him how lucky they were, how lucky Jonathan was, and he knew that many of the men who had commented on it, had secretly been in love with Sally. It was hard not to be.

  Then one day she was gone.

  Leaving behind emptiness and vacant days, where as much as Sally had brightened every moment with her presence, her absence made everything twice as dark.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  When the little bell inside the brass casing finally struck three small, independent chimes, Jonathan stood up.

  He was already dressed in his suit for the appointment with the doctor at 6 p.m. and had been since eleven o'clock that morning.

  However, he had promised himself that upon the hour he would pick up the phone in the hallway and call the mobile number of the man who had driven into the back of his car.

  It had taken him a long, long time to fall asleep the night before, despite having the windows open and listening to the crashing of the waves on the beach outside.

  Normally, even after all the years they had lived on the promenade, the hypnotic pulsing of the waves crashing on the beach and then being sucked back out to sea, would quickly lull him into sleep. Unfortunately, Jonathan had got himself so worked up from the stress of the accident that nothing could calm him down.

  On top of all the stress of having to call the insurance company, and the paperwork he had to complete, he felt violated.

  Jonathan had never been mugged, or had his house broken into, but there was something about having an accident that was deeply personal. His safety had been attacked, his security had been removed. From now on, he would be forced to view every other car on the road with suspicion. And worry.

  Perhaps he had been mugged after all: someone had attacked him from behind and stolen from him the innocent joy of driving, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never get it back again.

  Worst of all though, was the thought that he would lose the car.

  Jonathan couldn't afford to buy another car. Even if he did ha
ve the money, Jonathan didn't know how to buy a car. Where would you go? How much would one cost? What type should he buy?

  In the wee small hours of the night, he had started to fret that he had done the wrong thing. Perhaps he should not have reported the incident. To his untrained eye, it looked as if only the bumper of the car had received any significant damage. Surely it would only cost a few hundred pounds to fix? He could afford that much.

  There was also a garage at the top of the road. He passed it whenever he walked to the Coop to buy a pint of milk.

  Surely, they could fix the car for him?

  After hours of worrying, two things had helped him to find some modicum of peace: first, the nice man from the insurance company that he had spoken with on the phone had really helped and had assured him that once he had the information on how much the official repairs would cost, Jonathan could decide whether formally to make a claim or not.

  Second, Jonathan had decided to pluck up the courage and call the man who had caused all this grief. Jonathan would suggest that they both desist from making any claims on their insurance, and that instead, since the other man was clearly to blame, that he volunteer to give Jonathan say, £150, and then Jonathan would get the car fixed privately. That way, the other man's 'no claim bonus' would not be affected, and both parties would end up better off. The insurance companies need no longer be involved.

  This decision had allowed Jonathan to find some rest throughout the rest of the night, but once the dawn had come, the sun's rays had melted the assurance the decision had given him, and he had once more started to worry.

  What would the other man say?

  Would he agree?

  Would he be friendly or angry?

  "Oh dear, ..."Jonathan muttered to himself for the hundredth time that day.

  Still, Jonathan had never been a procrastinator. Any success which he had enjoyed during his life had come about because he always faced his problems, dealt with them and moved on.

  It had always been the best policy up till now, and Jonathan knew it would remain so.

  Taking a sip of cold water from the glass, and placing it gently on the sideboard beside the phone, he picked up the receiver and began to dial the number that was written down on the piece of paper that rested beside it.

  The phone rang.

  Jonathan counted the number of times it rang at the other end. He had promised himself that if it wasn't picked up by the time it rang ten times, he would hang up.

  "Hello?" a man's voice, deep and powerful, suddenly caught him unawares at the other end just as he got to 'seven'.

  "Hello," Jonathan replied, then coughed several times. The coughing was beginning to irritate him. Being nervous was bad enough. "Hello, this is Jonathan Stuart. Is that Mr Thomas McNunn?"

  "Yes. Who else would it be? Who are you then?"

  "I'm the driver of the car you hit yesterday afternoon in Willowbrae Road."

  "And? How can I help you?"

  "Well, you see," cough, cough, "I was wondering, if perhaps it might be a good idea if we didn't go through the insurance companies, and we dealt with this privately?"

  "What do you mean? What are you suggesting?"

  The man didn't seem to be very friendly. Perhaps this was not a very good idea after all.

  "Well, perhaps, the simplest thing would be if you were to offer to pay me to have the bumper fixed privately. If we did it privately, then it would be cheaper than going through the insurance company, and your no-claims bonus wouldn't be affected."

  "Mr Stuart, I'm all for giving people as many choices as possible in everything that happens, but perhaps you should have thought about all the options before you got the bloody police involved? What the fuck did you do that for? Do you know how much grief you could have caused me? You were just thinking about yourself, weren't you!"

  Jonathan took a deep breath. He hadn't been expecting such a reaction.

  "No,... sorry, I don't understand. I didn't mean to cause you any problems. I just wanted to have a witness for the insurance company..."

  "I thought you said, you didn't want the insurance company involved?"

  "Yes, no... well, yes that's what I'm thinking now, but yesterday when you caused the accident I was very shaken and upset... I didn't know what..."

  "I caused the accident? You're saying that I caused the accident? You've got a cheek."

  "Well, yes, obviously... Mr McNunn."

  "Listen, Mr Stuart. None of this is my problem. Okay? You started this, so now you finish it. Talk to your insurance company. Get them to fix your bloody car for you. That's what you pay your premiums for. That's what I pay mine for. It's their problem not mine. Goodbye. And don't call this number again. It's private. Do you understand?"

  Suddenly, the line went dead.

  Shaking, Jonathan gently put the receiver back on its cradle and stepped back from the phone.

  For a few moments he stared at the ivory white effect telephone, his head ringing with the man's words.

  Slowly, Jonathan walked back through to his bedroom and sat down on the edge of his bed.

  "Oh dear..." he whispered to himself, then coughed several times.

  His chest started to hurt, and for a few moments he wondered if he was about to have a heart attack, but then the pain abated.

  Jonathan closed his eyes.

  He took several long, deep, slow breaths and listened carefully to the sound of time passing.

  Tick. Tick.Tick.

  If only Sally was still here.

  Chapter 10

  Starbucks Coffee

  Costorphine

  Edinburgh

  Thursday

  4 p.m.

  Campbell McKenzie opened the door to the Starbucks and let DI Danielle Wessex pass through the door before him: the age of chivalry and good manners was not yet dead, and so long as he remained alive, he would keep it going.

  As they walked towards the rear of the shop, Tommy McNunn looked up from his newspaper, and seeing them approach, clicked a finger instructing his two heavies to let them pass, but prevent anyone else from following.

  Campbell slipped into the seat opposite McNunn, with Wessex remaining standing beside his left shoulder.

  "Can I get you both a coffee? Or something else to drink?" McNunn offered.

  "Tommy, you know we can't accept freebies from suspects, but thanks for the offer." McKenzie turned to Wessex, and handed her a tenner from his wallet. "A Latte for me, please, and whatever you'd like for yourself?"

  DI Wessex nodded, took the money, and walked towards the serving counter.

  Campbell shuffled a little closer and rested his hands on the table.

  "So, McKenzie. What brings you here this afternoon, disturbing my private time? You know how much I value my coffee in the afternoon. It's the only chance I get to sit down and switch my brain off for a few moments. And, I should warn you, I'm due at my gym in thirty minutes. I've an appointment with the club physio and I can't miss it. I think I pulled a muscle playing golf this morning."

  "Don't worry. I won't keep you. I just wanted to have a few words in private. Away from the voice-recorder and the station."

  "About what?"

  "About Urqhart."

  "I got the message yesterday. You made yourself very clear. But you're wrong, as usual. I don't have anything to do with that man's death. As well you know it."

  "Come on, Tommy. You and I know each other too well for such banal meaningless statements. We go way back." McKenzie smiled, and then looked over his shoulder towards Wessex at the counter before continuing. "The thing is, I just wanted to give you the chance to perhaps say anything you may want to, off the record. If there's something you know about Urquhart's death, then now would be a good time to say it."

  McNunn folded the paper he was reading in half, creased it with one hand and then laid it on the table.

  "McKenzie, I know you want to pin this on me. In fact, I know you want to pin everything on me. And I know that
you'll never stop trying to pin everything on me until one of us leaves town, dies, or wins the lottery and doesn't give a shit anymore. You and I have been dancing around the flame for the past twenty years. I've watched all your promotions, and you've watched my businesses flourish. Never, not once, have you managed to pin anything on me, and take it from me, you never will. I'm a professional at what I do, and so are you. Which is why we both respect each other. So, I'm a little surprised when you immediately jump to conclusions and start to associate me with the dead man who is lying in the city morgue. Especially, when, if you were to investigate a little wider afield, you may find that other parties were particularly interested in that little shit."

  McKenzie noted the slight intonation on the words 'little shit' and the way they were said a shade faster than the others in an almost monotone sentence.

  "Like who, for instance?"

  "You think I'm going to say a name? Don't be silly, McKenzie. I'm no snitch."

  "But you're a businessman. Or so you claim. And if you know who did this, and it would be economically beneficial if someone else was to be found guilty of Urqhart's murder, I know you wouldn't hesitate to drop a clue. That's not grassing anyone up. It's just business."

  McNunn raised his eyebrows.

  "Your coffee's here."

  Campbell turned around, reached up and took the proffered Latte from Wessex. He nodded, and Wessex walked back towards the counter, standing close to McNunn's men.

  Campbell took a sip, ripped open the sugar sachet that Wessex had handed him, and added it into his drink, stirring it slowly with the usual little wooden stick.

  "Well?" he asked, then went silent, leaving a pregnant pause in the conversation.

  McNunn looked at his watch, and then over at his two men, both distractions designed to mask his thoughts.

  "Ivor notion that if you look hard enough, you'll always find the truth." McNunn said quietly.

  Campbell nodded.

  "My thoughts exactly. Well, thank you for your time, Tommy. Hopefully, the next time we see each other it will be in celebration of a more joyous occasion."