Robbing the Dead (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 1)

by Tana Collins

  He punched in Fletcher’s number. ‘What’s happening?’ he said. ‘Has the fire brigade contained the fire?’ He strained to hear her over the shouting in the background.

  ‘Yes, it’s under control, although it’s wrecked a total of five cars. But nobody’s been hurt – which is a miracle.’

  Carruthers let out a long breath. He’d been dreading the news that they’d found a body. ‘Does anybody know where Holdaway is?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘OK, find out Holdaway’s home address and get someone over there, will you?’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘OK. What have you learnt from Sadler? Anything useful?’

  ‘Bit of personal info on Holdaway. Mid-sixties. Been lecturing for thirty years. Published three books – the most recent on the failings of Welsh nationalism. Apparently he’s got some quite outspoken views.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Carruthers strode over to his computer and googled the words, ‘Bryn Glas 1402.’ The results confirmed his growing dread. Momentarily he placed the mobile phone down on his desk.

  ‘Look, what’s going on, Jim?’ demanded Fletcher.

  ‘Andie, I need to talk to Bingham. Keep speaking to people. Find out as much as you can about Holdaway, especially this new book he’s bought out. Has the fire brigade said anything official to you or Dougie about the cause of the explosion yet?’

  ‘No, sir. You don’t think the book–’

  ‘He needs to be found, Andie. Make it a priority. If he lives within walking distance, perhaps he popped home over lunch and is unaware of the explosion.’

  ‘I would think the whole town heard it. Would have been loud enough.’

  ‘I need to go. Keep in touch.’ With that, Carruthers finished the call and went to find Bingham.

  He put his head round Bingham’s door. Rapped on the inside of it. ‘Sir, I’ve found something out about Holdaway that you need to know.’

  ‘This is a bad business, Jim, a very bad business,’ said the superintendent ushering Carruthers into his roomy office.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Bingham, offering up one of his brown leather chairs. The room had a smell of stale tobacco smoke, and Carruthers often wondered if, despite the smoking ban, Bingham still smoked his pipe in his office late at night when the rest of the station had gone home.

  In his agitation, Bingham had pursed his thin lips so tight they had turned white, his frown was so pronounced it appeared that he only had one eyebrow. With his naturally pallid complexion, it gave him the appearance of a horror movie character. That twitching of the eye was a nervous tic that Carruthers knew only surfaced when he was extremely stressed or angered. He hoped this was stress.

  Bingham took off his jacket, and laid it thoughtfully and deliberately over the back of one of the leather chairs. He paused, as if composing in his mind what he was going to say next. His white shirt was crumpled, and pools of sweat were staining the armpits. He turned and faced Carruthers.

  ‘We’ve just had a call from the fire brigade. They’ve confirmed the explosion was caused by a bomb.’

  Carruthers frowned. Even with an explosion and the call to the paper he just couldn’t fathom the prospect of a lone bomber, let alone terrorists. It had been nearly a decade since the ramming attack at Glasgow Airport.

  ‘Has Holdaway been found yet?’ said Bingham.

  ‘No sir, not yet, but I’ve discovered something about him that you’re not going to like.’

  ‘Go on, man.’

  ‘Apparently Holdaway has some pretty outspoken views about Welsh nationalism and how it’s failed. He’s just published a book about it. There’s something else. I looked up Bryn Glas and found a reference to a battle between the English and Welsh in 1402. We could be looking at a new terrorist group.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve found the same information. Christ. If this lot are a new terrorist group… I never thought I would live to see the day Welsh extremists targeted individuals in Scotland. The IRA never did and amongst republican extremists, there’s always been an unwritten rule you don’t target your own. We have a lot of unanswered questions, Jim. Why has a professor of politics at a Scottish university been targeted, if indeed he was the target? And why now? If he’s been receiving hate mail, why hasn’t he reported it? Has the hate mail been sent by the same people who phoned the Castletown Citizen?’

  Bingham let out a long sigh. ‘We need to find out what is it about this particular man at this particular time that has made him a target. Surely to God there must be plenty of individuals to target closer to home. What are Welsh terrorists doing travelling this far north? Why are they on our damn patch? Just doesn’t make sense.’

  Carruthers nodded. He couldn’t understand it either. ‘Unless it’s a cover to distract us from finding the truth,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve got to move quickly,’ said Bingham. ‘I’ve already made a call. I’m bringing in Superintendent Alistair McGhee from London to work on this one.’

  Carruthers stiffened. Christ, not McGhee.

  ‘With his background in explosives and counterterrorism both in London and Wales he’s an excellent man to have on board. We’re lucky he was available. He’s travelling up overnight from Scotland Yard. I want him to take the lead on the investigation into the explosion. You’ll be assisting him. But clearly, you’re lead investigator into Evans’ death.’

  Carruthers saw Bingham was watching closely for his reaction.

  ‘I’ve heard you two don’t always see eye-to-eye, but you’re going to have to make an effort. We need results and quickly. I don’t have to tell you what a bombing campaign in Scotland would mean for public confidence, or indeed how much money is generated by tourism in Castletown. Christ, man, we’ve got the Dunhill Cup here in October.’

  Carruthers was quietly fuming. Superintendent Alistair McGhee certainly had a background in explosives. McGhee particularly excelled at creating explosive situations. The last time he’d seen McGhee, which was over a year ago, Carruthers had punched him after he’d made a pass at Mairi. He wondered idly what he looked like with a broken nose, and hoped that it had ruined his so called-good looks.

  It was a moment before he realised that the Superintendent was still talking.

  ‘It goes without saying, all leave’s cancelled until we catch these people. I’m going to cancel my trip to Morocco. No doubt Irene will go spare when I tell her. What a week. A suspicious death, a disappearance, and now a bomb.’

  ‘Do you think they could be linked, sir?’ asked Carruthers dragging himself back to the conversation.

  ‘Linked? In what way?’

  ‘Well, they’re all Welsh – both the dead and missing aircraftmen. Now the possibility of a Welsh terrorist group, if they really are behind the explosion. Just seems too much of a coincidence otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t see what the link would be. If you’re implying Evans and Roberts could be members of this terrorist organisation, what on earth would they be doing in the RAF? Doesn’t make any sense. Think you’re barking up the wrong tree there. To all intents and purposes, looks like Evans was just a botched robbery. It happens. I want that wrapped up quickly. As for Roberts’ disappearance, probably homesick for the valleys. Leave it to the RAF to deal with. We’ve more than enough on our plates.’

  ‘It would be a good smokescreen though, wouldn’t it, sir? Joining the RAF whilst in a paramilitary organisation? And by the way, just for the record, Roberts is from Cardiff, not the valleys.’

  ‘Just for the record, you wouldn’t get past the security checks to get into the armed forces whilst in a paramilitary organisation, as well you know.’

  ‘Unless you were recruited from within,’ said Carruthers.

  Bingham banged his fist on the table. ‘Leave it, Carruthers. That’s an order.’

  Calling me by my surname again. Bugger, thought Carruthers. That only happens when he’s really pissed off with me.

  ‘You’re already treading on very thin ice,’ said Bi
ngham. ‘I’ve had a phone call from Group Captain Philips from RAF Edenside. Remember him? I certainly do. We were at school together. He was an annoying little bugger even then. He’s made a complaint against you about the belligerent way you were trying to gain entry to the rooms of those RAF boys. Why didn’t you tell me you were visiting the base? There are procedures to be followed. Not just by the lower ranks either. They’re there for you as well. Got it?

  ‘Sometimes procedure gets in the way of results, sir. You know that. I just thought–’

  ‘I don’t care what you thought. We all need to follow procedure. Christ, you know that. Now out. I’m sick of telling you this, but go through the proper channels next time.’

  As Carruthers was leaving the room, Bingham called after him once more. ‘I know you’ve had your differences, but Superintendent McGhee says he’s looking forward to working with you again. I don’t know what went on between you two, but he’s obviously willing to put the past behind him. I suggest you do the same. I’ll see you in the incident room at 9am tomorrow morning. Tell the rest of them, will you? And I want a full quota of staff.’

  As Carruthers walked away, his face was impassive but his knuckles were clenched. So Alistair McGhee was coming, was he? Would he never be free of that man? And what the hell had McGhee said to Bingham? He could neither forgive nor forget. Bad enough the man had made a pass at Mairi, but the context in which he had done it was unforgivable.

  He had first met fellow Glaswegian Alistair McGhee when working on a case in London about the murder of an illegal immigrant. McGhee was already working in counter-surveillance. Their paths had crossed when McGhee’s people-trafficking investigation had led him to look into the suspicious death of the same illegal immigrant. There had been connections between the traffickers and a terrorist organisation with links to Al Qaeda. The work McGhee had been engaged in had been both sensitive in nature, and exhausting in the long hours it demanded. Carruthers had given McGhee all the help he could, and for a while there, they had been close, sharing drinks and confidences about their respective lives.

  Looking back, Carruthers had realised that McGhee had been pumping him for information about the state of his marriage, under the guise of a friendly and supportive shoulder. He had been left feeling used and manipulated. He was almost as angry at himself as he had been with McGhee.

  Mairi had told Carruthers she had rejected McGhee’s pass at the police charity ball, but there had always been that little seed of doubt at the back of his mind. It had been like a maggot eating away at him. Carruthers’ constant badgering of Mairi over McGhee had ultimately been the final straw. On top of all their other problems, the whole relationship had disintegrated like a pack of cards. Mairi accused him of suspicion and jealousy, had told him that she could no longer live with him. Carruthers had pleaded with her not to leave him. He loved her that much. They managed to patch things up for a few months but the relationship had never been the same. Finally, she left him.

  SEVEN

  FRIDAY MORNING, 1ST JUNE

  At 9am the next morning, they all assembled in the incident room back at the police station – Carruthers, Fletcher, Harris, McGhee, Superintendent Bingham and the rest of CID. There’d been some discussion about setting up an incident room close to the politics department but with the police station being in the same town, albeit on the outskirts, Bingham had deemed it an unnecessary waste of resources. They’d decided on a mobile unit outside the politics department car park instead, manned by two officers, as the first point of contact for the public.

  Despite the early hour, the air was charged with a sense of anxious anticipation. Carruthers glanced round the room noting that for once Harris wasn’t reading The Racing Post. The man’s eyes were on McGhee. Carruthers also caught Fletcher looking McGhee over. They were sizing him up. As the last man assembled, a hush descended, the tension mounting, as the station members waited for the super to speak.

  Andie looks decidedly peaky. Carruthers worried about her as he studiously avoided making eye contact with McGhee. Less than a moment later Fletcher put her hand over her mouth and dashed for the door. Carruthers watched McGhee study Fletcher’s retreating back, appraising her as if she were a piece of meat. He could feel his blood pressure rise even if the man so much as breathed. As if aware of Carruthers’ steely blue eyes boring into him, McGhee turned round.

  ‘Sorry sir, something I ate,’ apologised Fletcher returning a couple of minutes later. ‘I’m fine now,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Good,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘This investigation won’t wait.’

  ‘First things first. Has Holdaway been found?’

  ‘We sent a uniform to his home, sir,’ said Fletcher. ‘He’s not there.’

  ‘I take it someone went inside?’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry. Uniform made an error. Thought a search warrant was needed. I’ve only just been informed.’

  ‘He’s not a suspect. Get back there as soon as you can. See if you can find anything in the house to suggest where he might be. He needs to be found.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Right. I’ve just heard back from the fire brigade,’ continued Bingham. ‘They’ve confirmed the explosion yesterday was indeed caused by a bomb. The damage at the scene is characteristic of plastic explosive, though we’re waiting on residue analysis to confirm exactly what the explosive was. We’ve also had a call from the Castletown Citizen to say a group calling themselves Bryn Glas 1402, are claiming responsibility. Thankfully, we’ve been able to persuade the press to keep quiet about this, at least for now, whilst the investigation is in its earliest and most crucial stage. Just to warn you, this may well be a fast-moving investigation so you need to be on your toes. We’ve got a very serious situation on our hands. Thankfully, there were no casualties, but the intended target may have been Professor Holdaway. He’s a controversial figure, I understand, who in his time has had a lot of damning things to say about Scottish and Welsh Nationalism.’

  ‘Why now, sir?’ asked Fletcher clearly trying to redeem herself. ‘I mean, he’s been lecturing for thirty years, and has always been outspoken. Why has he been targeted now, unless it’s got something to do with the result of the Scottish Referendum?’

  Superintendent Bingham cleared his throat. He looked tired but was more smartly dressed than the last time Carruthers had seen him. He looked like he was once more in total control.

  ‘That’s a good question, DS Fletcher,’ said Bingham. ‘There’s a few theories in circulation. First, as some of you already know, the group claiming responsibility, as I said, is Bryn Glas 1402. We all need to bring ourselves up to speed with who these people are. Nine months ago, Holdaway took part in a discussion on BBC Radio Wales, which tackled various political issues until they got side-tracked into a conversation about the English buying second homes across the border. What seems to have kick-started the discussion is that Holdaway admitted he was thinking of buying a second home there himself. As you know there’s been a lot of trouble in the past with English holiday homes being fire-bombed by Welsh militant groups.’

  ‘That was years ago, though,’ said Fletcher. ‘I believe the last fire-bombing took place back in the mid-90s. Didn’t most of the main players get sent to prison? I think Welsh politics has moved on. It’s more about Westminster rule and the failure of the Assembly to gain more money-raising powers now.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Bingham. ‘To be honest at the moment we don’t have much to go on. We’re currently looking at every avenue.’

  He took off his jacket and laid it on the back of his chair. ‘Now the question with regard to the professor, assuming the bomb was planted by a new strain of Welsh terrorist, is were they trying to kill him, or was it just a warning? Is it a one-off, or the start of a campaign in Scotland? Are they working on their own, or are they linking up with Scottish extremists?’

  ‘To be honest, sir, I just can’t see Scottish extremists linking up,’ said F
letcher.

  ‘Still cannae believe it was a “no” vote,’ groaned Harris, slapping his notebook down on his desk. ‘We could have been finally free of Westminster and the fucking Tories.’

  ‘Extremists are not always governed by logic,’ said Bingham. ‘And let’s be honest: we don’t yet know what their agenda is, if it is them. We’ve brought in Superintendent Alistair McGhee,’ he indicated the man with a look and slight smile, which McGhee acknowledged with a small nod, ‘a leading expert on home-grown terrorists. He was a major player for the security forces in the Glasgow airport bombing, even has experience of counterterrorism in Wales. We shall be relying heavily on him and the explosive ordinance disposal boys from Edenside and further afield. Alistair will be leading the investigation. I want you to give him your full cooperation. Over to you, Superintendent McGhee.’

  Alistair McGhee stood up, drew himself to his full five foot ten, and purposefully strode to the front of the room clutching a sheaf of papers. The grey-suited Glaswegian exuded an air of confidence and efficiency. Carruthers studied him. It rankled that despite the broken nose he’d landed on McGhee, there was still enough symmetry to mark the man as classically attractive. Mairi had always said that McGhee’s looks and personality were magnetic. He’d never really agreed with his wife’s assessment but had to give it some credence: even he could see what the ladies saw in the man.

  ‘Good morning. I’ve just spoken to the fire brigade so I’m going to start with what we know about the bomb,’ said McGhee briskly. His Glaswegian accent was still broad, even after his years in London and Cardiff.

  ‘The Forensics Science Lab at Dundee is going to be responsible for all further examination and testing. I’ve called in a few favours and they’re going to give it top priority. In fact, they’ve been working through the night.’

  He just has to get that bit in about calling in favours, thought Carruthers. A friend to everyone, trusted by none – if they had any sense.