Robbing the Dead (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 1)

by Tana Collins

  ‘Is this the man you saw on the stairs? Could it be the same person?’ urged Carruthers.

  ‘Can I see it again?’ asked Holdaway.

  Carruthers rewound and ran it again.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Same stocky build. Same square jaw. When I saw him he wasn’t wearing the baseball cap, but I’m sure it’s him. I can’t get over the fact he’s so cocky. The way he’s looking at the CCTV camera.’

  ‘Probably thought there was a tape in the camera and that it would be damaged beyond repair in the explosion. It’s not far away from where your car was.’

  ‘Who is he? A member of Bryn Glas 1402?’

  ‘We believe he’s this man, Dave Roberts, aircraftman, based at RAF Edenside. Do you recognise him from this photograph?’ Carruthers passed over a photograph of Roberts that the RAF base had provided. It showed him in his uniform.

  ‘He’s in the RAF?’ Holdaway asked incredulously. ‘Is he Scottish?’

  ‘No, he’s Welsh, from Cardiff. And although he’s a member of the BNP, he has no known association with any Welsh terrorist outfit.’

  As Carruthers was talking the CCTV footage was still running. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something, some movement in the shadows.

  ‘Hang on. What was that?’ Carruthers played it again. He screwed his eyes up and watched intently. There was definitely the blurry image of another shadowy figure in the background. Carruthers froze the footage.

  He turned to Holdaway. ‘Do you see that, Professor? That second figure.’

  Holdaway shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. I can’t make anything out, but then my eyesight probably isn’t as good as yours.’

  ‘There’s definitely a second person there when the bomb’s being planted. Almost out of the picture. It’s hard to see but it’s there.’

  Holdaway leant forward. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t see it.’

  Carruthers picked up his mobile. ‘Brown, it’s Jim. Can you get hold of one of the techies for me? I’ve seen something on the CCTV. I want to see if we can enlarge it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Holdaway, ‘what would someone in the RAF be doing blowing up my car? Oh my God, you’re not telling me the terrorists have infiltrated the military, are you? Do the Home Office know about this? Where is this man now? Have you managed to arrest him?’

  ‘That would be difficult. He was found dead a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Dead?’ said Holdaway. ‘Christ. None of this makes any sense. Can you please explain to me what is going on? How is the RAF involved? If this man, Roberts is– was a member of the BNP, what was he doing coming after me? And who killed him? If the man who was trying to kill me is dead, does this mean that I’m now safe? Perhaps it isn’t Ewan Williams after all.’

  Carruthers saw a glimmer of hope in Holdaway’s eyes. He felt a wretch for being about to extinguish it. He didn’t answer Holdaway, but rather opened a buff A4 envelope which he handed to him.

  ‘We’d like you to look at some more photographs.’ Carruthers brought out several photographs including those of the three known members of Bryn Glas. ‘Do you recognise any of these men? Take your time.’

  Holdaway studied each in turn. With each photograph he shook his head, until his gaze settled on the photo of Williams. Carruthers saw him hesitate. Holdaway picked the photograph up and brought it closer to his face.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘I’ve seen him recently.’

  ‘How recently?’

  ‘Maybe last week. In Castletown.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Doing? Smoking a cigarette in a doorway. Across the road from the department. I walked past him. He looked up. I felt he recognised me, but I didn’t recognise him. Yet even when I saw him I felt I knew him from somewhere.’

  ‘So you do know him.’

  ‘No, I don’t, except… there’s something familiar about his face.’

  ‘So you do know him,’ he urged.

  ‘No, I’ve just said I didn’t,’ he snapped. ‘It’s just… there’s a familiarity about him. I don’t know him, but I feel certain I’ve seen him before. Before last week. I can’t place where though.’

  ‘When? When did you see him before?’

  ‘The only feature I really recognise are the eyes. It’s the eyes that are really familiar.’

  ‘So, perhaps it’s someone you met or saw a long time ago?’ Carruthers knew he was asking leading questions of Holdaway but if he got the answer he wanted it would be worth it. ‘The face has changed because it’s aged. That’s why you only recognise the eyes. People say that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, don’t they? Imagine these eyes in the face of a much younger man. What would he look like? Where would he be?’

  Just at that moment, there was a shout from the other side of the door. Harris, never a quiet man at the best of times, was barking some instruction to Brown. The shout seemed to unnerve Holdaway.

  ‘It’s OK, Professor. Just two of my officers. Take your time.’

  This did little to calm Holdaway. If anything, he looked even more agitated.

  ‘Was it the shout that bothered you?’ Carruthers prompted, with a sudden brainwave. ‘Was this man shouting when you saw him?’

  Carruthers carefully brought out a fifth photograph and slid it towards Holdaway. The photograph was old. At least forty years old. It showed a young man with longish hair and a beard, wearing a plaid shirt with a wide collar. Carruthers waited for Holdaway’s reaction, as he showed him a picture of Ewan Williams as he had looked in the mid-1970s.

  ‘No, it can’t be. It just can’t be. It’s not possible.’

  ‘What isn’t possible, Professor?

  ‘I’ve seen this man before. I’m sure of it. He was shouting.’

  ‘What was he shouting, Professor? What was he shouting?’

  Professor Holdaway put his head in his hands and started crying. ‘“You’ve shot her. You’ve shot her, you English bastard.” He was the man from the march.’

  Carruthers gave Holdaway a few moments to compose himself before continuing, ‘Look, there’s no easy way of saying this. Before interviewing you, professor, I’d just come from interviewing Dave Roberts’ parents. I found out they knew the Williams’ family. Thing is, Ewan Williams’ sister died a couple of months ago. We think her death has been the catalyst for the attacks on you.’

  Holdaway put his head in his hands. He looked like a man whose past had finally caught up with him. He seemed to collapse back into his chair, his face the colour of parchment. ‘I always dreaded this day coming. Somehow, deep down, I knew it would.’

  Carruthers wondered how other soldiers who had been present on that day now felt. Did they still constantly look over their shoulders? Still check their cars for bombs? Feel guilt or regret now they knew what they did had been deemed unlawful? Or did they feel they’d simply been following orders?

  ‘We’re going to arrange for you to join your wife in Spain while we catch Williams. In the meantime we’ll organise for you to stay somewhere safe until we can get a flight booked. How soon can you be ready to leave your house?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why not later today?’

  ‘I want one last night in my own home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend that, but it’s your decision.’

  ‘It’s what I want.’

  ‘Fine, I can organise for one of my men to stay overnight with you.’

  Holdaway shook his head. ‘I’d sooner be on my own.’

  ‘Look, we want to make sure you’re safe. If you don’t want anyone in the house we’ll get someone to stay in a car outside your house.’

  ‘If you think that’s best.’

  ‘I do. OK. We’ll arrange for a car to pick you up tomorrow morning. I’ll get DS Harris on to it.’ Carruthers made a mental note to also get a man posted on the door.

  Holdaway nodded mutely.

  There was a rap on the door. Harris popped his h
ead round. ‘Can I have a word?’

  Carruthers excused himself and left the room. They talked quietly in the corridor.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from the lab,’ said Harris. The results of the blood analysis on the T-shirt are back.’

  ***

  The man sat in the kitchen of the farmhouse drinking a beer. The fridge door was standing open. An overflowing ashtray stood on the kitchen table, the air was thick with stale smoke. He’d been informed of the arrival of their captive. He knew she was in the barn. He’d told the boys no rough stuff and to look after her. He touched his bottom lip with a calloused finger. His mind wandered. Dave Roberts had defied his instructions. Had helped Holdaway stay alive.

  The man didn’t react well to being defied. He reached over and wrapped his hand round the handgun. He stood up. He wanted to talk to Mathews himself about how much she knew and what she’d said to the police. But first there was one more job to be done. And this time it was going to be done properly. Grabbing his cigarettes and car keys he left the farmhouse.

  NINETEEN

  Siobhan opened her eyes. It was pitch black. She was lying on a cold, hard surface. Rough scratchy rope bound her wrists and ankles. A foul-smelling cloth was tied around her eyes. Her head thumped. She felt woozy. And cold. Colder than she had ever felt in her life.

  She lay perfectly still and listened. There was a stillness about the place. Outside she could hear birds. She breathed in through her nostrils, becoming aware of another smell. It was a strong familiar smell. Reminded her of cows. A farmyard. She had no idea how long she had been here. Time had no meaning. She tried to move. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back, so she felt on the ground with her fingers to see if they came into contact with anything. They didn’t, but the rope dug into her flesh, making her wince. She fanned her fingers out best she could, feeling dry dirt and clumps of what she could only imagine was straw. Her lower back ached and there was a raw soreness between her legs. Her thighs felt bruised. Memories of the two men came flooding back to her. She was so frightened, she whimpered. She started feeling more woozy again. Within seconds she’d blacked out.

  ***

  Carruthers stared at Harris. He found he was holding his breath. Finally the man spoke. ‘The blood on the T-shirt matches that of Rhys Evans. We’ve also found Roberts’ blood.’

  At last. A breakthrough. If they could nail Dave Roberts for Rhys Evans’ murder perhaps Siobhan Mathews would ultimately be able to get some closure. His mobile rang. He took it out of his breast pocket. ‘DCI Jim Carruthers.’

  ‘Jim, it’s Ian Green from Ballistics. We’ve got the results on the bullet used to kill Dave Roberts.’

  Carruthers looked at Harris. ‘Dougie, you got a pen? Also some paper?’

  Harris disappeared for a couple of seconds. Came back armed with both. Carruthers grabbed the pen. Cradled the mobile against his shoulder and accepted the spiral notebook from Harris.

  ‘OK, said Carruthers. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Bullet came from a 9mm Browning handgun. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.’

  Carruthers thanked Green and finished the call. He looked over at Harris who was still hovering. ‘Dougie, Holdaway’s still in the meeting room. I’m popping back in to see him. But will you organise for someone to take him back to his home? I want someone to stay with him. Then in the morning he’s to be taken to a safe house until we can organise a flight to Spain. When you’re done getting this sorted, join us in the meeting. It’s in Bingham’s office.’

  Gripping his notebook he walked back to Holdaway before heading to the next meeting.

  ***

  The first thing she heard was birdsong. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. Her mouth was dry. She needed the toilet. She tried to break free from the rope around her wrists, but it was tied too tight. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. She wondered if her rucksack was close by. If she could only get to it, her mobile was in the pocket in the front. But as she was blindfolded and she didn’t have a clue where her rucksack was. She heard a noise. It sounded like a barn door being opened. Then footsteps growing louder. A voice echoed in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t be doing anything stupid. I’ve brought you some food.’ The accent was Welsh.

  She felt a rough hand on her shoulder. She was hauled into a seated position. The blindfold was torn away from her eyes, the gag taken out of her mouth. She was pushed down on to a chair. She blinked. Her captor loomed above her head, wearing a balaclava, dressed all in black. He crouched down beside her. She screamed. He put his hand against her mouth.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ he hissed. He kept his hand over her mouth. ‘You won’t, will you?’

  She shook her head, wide eyes betraying her fear. Slowly he took his hand away and pushed a metal plate and cup in her direction.

  ‘Eat.’

  There was silence.

  ‘I said, eat!’

  ‘I can’t whilst I’m tied.’

  The captor knelt once more and untied her hands.

  ‘I need the toilet.’

  He took his time to make a decision. Finally he untied her ankles and hauled her to her feet. ‘I’m coming with you. No funny business.’

  He led her towards the back of the barn.

  ‘I can’t go in here,’ she protested.

  ‘You’ll have to. You’re not allowed out of the barn.’

  ‘Why have you brought me here? I don’t know anything.’

  ‘The boss wants to speak to you.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. How long am I going to be kept here for? People will start missing me.’

  ‘You’ll stay here until the boss says otherwise. That’s enough questions. Just behave yourself and you won’t get hurt. You are going to behave yourself, aren’t you?’

  Siobhan nodded, swallowing down a sob.

  ***

  ‘OK, gentlemen, we now know that the weapon that killed Roberts was a 9mm Browning handgun,’ said Carruthers. He put his glasses back on the top of his head. He looked round the room. As he did he made eye contact with the three unsmiling faces of McGhee’s men. He hadn’t said more than a few words to them. He addressed his next comment to McGhee. ‘Alistair, do you know anything about this particular handgun?’

  ‘American,’ said the tallest of McGhee’s men.

  Carruthers was trying to remember his name. Matt Rodgers.

  The tall man continued, rapping out his memorised facts. ‘Used in the Second World War. Very desirable as a military issue pistol. It was reliable, accurate. Certainly had a lot of stopping power. Had a thirteen-round magazine capacity. Still in circulation today, although it’s old. But it’s also interesting because back in the 70s and 80s it was the IRA’s weapon of choice.’

  McGhee spoke. ‘Matt is our resident firearms expert.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘The gun’s still at large,’ said Carruthers. ‘As are Williams and his accomplices. Professor Holdaway’s flight to Malaga leaves at eleven tomorrow morning. He’s been notified.’

  ‘If we assume the gun belongs to Williams,’ said Bingham, ‘perhaps he was going to use it to take out Holdaway. Maybe he wanted to use a firearm that was as authentic to the time his sister got shot. Perhaps it was given to him by members of the IRA. However, with his criminal connections he would have no difficulty getting his hands on more recent weapons.’

  Carruthers’ thoughts turned to Holdaway. He felt increasingly uncomfortable letting Holdaway stay the extra night in his own home, even with a police guard. An image of a fairground came into his mind and of a man shooting a sitting duck.

  The door opened and Harris joined the meeting. Carruthers addressed his next question to him. ‘Everything organised for Holdaway?’

  ‘Aye, boss. I’ve got one of the uniform’s taking him back. And he’ll have a guard overnight.’

  Carruthers nodded his approval.

  ***

  EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING, 6TH JU
NE

  The man lit a cigarette, smoking it whilst keeping his eyes on the house on the top of the hill. He could see the police officer sitting in his car keeping watch. He knew the officer would need to answer the call of nature at some point. He would just have to sit tight until that time. He was fortunate that the professor lived somewhere isolated.

  Several hours later he saw the door of the car open and the officer get out. The officer walked away from the car. The man felt for the bulky cold object in the pocket of his jacket. It was in place. He followed the officer keeping his distance. When the officer unzipped his trousers the man increased his pace. Hearing a noise the officer swung round. The man was ready. Before the officer had even cried out the man had smashed him in the face with the butt of the gun.

  The man approached the front door of the house. Was just about to ring the doorbell when he realised the door was ajar. Wasn’t sure whether this was unusual for the Fife countryside. He slipped on his leather gloves and slowly pushed the door open. There was no movement in the dimly lit interior but he could hear faint music. Something classical. He screwed his eyes up and could just make out a long hall with various doors off it and a spiral staircase at the end of it. Silently he went in the house and softly closed the door behind him.

  He hesitated in the large hall. Cautiously he put his head round the room to the right and looked in. It was a living room. Unlit. And empty. He retreated. Light-footed, he walked down the corridor and opened the door to his left. It was a small bathroom. Next left he found he was in a large kitchen. Door to the drinks cabinet open; there was an empty Highland Park box on the table. He walked towards the back of the hall. The music became louder. Coming from behind a door to the left of the stairwell. No voices. Just music. He took his gun out. Gripped it tightly. Very slowly he turned the handle and walked into a huge dining area. The lights were blazing from a large crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the room. The long table beneath was set with silver service. A phone rang. The man slipped behind the door. Nobody answered, yet he felt the presence of someone in the house.