The Storm

by Neil Broadfoot

I kick the back of his knees, forcing him down. Tighten my grip on his throat, ignore the pain shooting up my arm. Give him one last asphyxiating tug then let him go and slip back into the shadows.

  He collapses to the ground, gagging, coughing, spluttering.

  “Leave them alone!” he barks, his voice a ruined agony thanks to my grip. He sounds like me. “You want me, fine. I know the deal. But they were never part of this. Never!” The anger fades from his voice, replaced by a pleading so pathetic I feel a fresh urge to gut him there and then.

  “Please, they don’t deserve this. Please…”

  “No, Harvey. They didn’t. But they do now. Funny how the innocent suffer, isn’t it?”

  I steal back into the night, eager to be back to my nest to watch his next move. Just one more job to do, then I can enjoy what comes next.

  Padding silently through the dark, the pain and the fear and the uncertainty lost in the thrill of the night and the purpose of my mission, it takes me a moment to recognise what I’m feeling.

  Pleasure.

  I smile, juggle the knife from one hand to the other. The night is dark and there are monsters to slay. But there’s far worse than monsters out here tonight.

  Tonight, there’s me.

  30

  Burns had given up on any pretence of obeying the no-smoking rule and sat behind his desk, cigarette clenched between his teeth. At the door, a fan wafted from side to side lazily – his small concession to keeping up the illusion. Above his desk, the smoke alarm hung from the ceiling like an eyeball popped from its socket.

  Susie swapped a brief glance with Rebecca, who gave a small, grim, shake of the head. Bad news, the gesture said. Susie had seen it a lot recently.

  After hanging up on Mathers, she had called in to the CID suite, found that Burns, the Chief Constable and King were still at the press conference. She settled for sending a text to Rebecca – Get wrapped up ASAP, need to speak to Burns, got a lead – and jumped in the car.

  She had been in the CID suite for about five minutes, poring over the Pearson file again to see if there was anything she had missed, when Rebecca marched in, grim-faced and muttering curses under her breath. She grabbed Susie without breaking stride, hurried for the kitchenette alcove off the main suite where an ancient, toxic fridge hummed in the corner and a coffee urn bubbled lethargically on the worktop.

  “Bad?” Susie asked.

  “Fucking bloodbath,” Rebecca replied. “Chief made the decision not to overtly link the cases, wanted to keep that back in case the nutcase who did this decides to contact us. Keep it as critical information to flush out the lunatics from the genuine perp.”

  Susie nodded. Made sense. “So?”

  “So, nobody bothered to tell the reporters it was our little secret, did they? They were all over it the moment Burns had made his opening remarks.”

  Rebecca paused for a moment, thought back to her conversation with Doug.

  For all the good it will do you…

  It’s not Walter you have to worry about, Doug, it’s my boss…

  She had implied to him that the cases were linked, and he’d obviously got the hint. But had he then stitched her up? Told some others at the press conference, got them to push Burns’s buttons?

  Had he? Could he?

  She shook her head, aware Susie was talking to her. “So what happened?”

  “Like I said, bloodbath. Question after question about public safety.” She adopted a sarcastic tone. “‘What are you doing to assure the people of Edinburgh that they’re safe from the knife-wielding, gun-toting killers who are free on the streets?’ ‘How do you respond to those who say this shows that the decision to routinely arm officers was no effective deterrent?’ ‘Can you confirm that the murders of Charles Montgomery and Jonathan Greig are linked?’ ‘What are you doing to identify other possible targets?’” She rubbed her temples. “Christ, Susie, they just wouldn’t let up.”

  “And I take it Burns didn’t take kindly to it?”

  “I honestly thought he was going to stroke out at the lectern. Luckily, the Chief stepped in and stopped it from being a total car crash, but still, all those questions about guns and armed cops hurt. Fuck, the headlines are going to be shit tomorrow. Please, tell me you’ve got something to help with this, something…”

  “Summers, Drummond, my office, now,” Burns barked, his voice rough with swallowed-down fury.

  They followed him in and Susie laid the file on his desk as he rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Outlined her thoughts and what she had found on Gavin Pearson. “Which is why I asked for Rebecca to join us, sir. If there is a link, we’re going to want to handle the press on this closely.”

  Burns looked up at her, face twisting into a grotesque conspiratorial look as he threw her a slow wink that made her at once nauseous and furious.

  “And you know all about handling the press, don’t you, Drummond,” he said, flicking open the file.

  Gavin Franklin Pearson had been jailed for murder in 1993, after a bar fight had gone wrong. According to the report, he was running the door team that night at a club on the Grassmarket, Edinburgh’s main drinking strip, when a fight broke out on the dance floor. He and his team had intervened, and Gavin had taken exception when one of the punters decided a quick game of bottle-the-doorman was in order. The bottle had ended up in the jugular of the punter – Martin Everett, a third-year law student at Edinburgh University with a dad whose name was familiar to those in the car trade – and he bled to death right there and then. Pearson was sentenced to twenty years, no pleas entertained. So far, so run-of-the-mill, until you got to the service record.

  Pearson was former military. Signed up after school, did his training at Glencorse Barracks just outside a small town called Penicuik in Midlothian. Instructors stated he was a capable, tough recruit, physically fit, adaptable, disciplined.

  He joined the infantry, was just in time to be shipped out to the first Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm, in 1991. He was one of thousands of allied troops to move in to Kuwait to kick Saddam Hussein out, back in the days when a war in the Middle East wasn’t based on sexed-up dossiers or the private agendas of a leering megalomaniac and a would-be Cowboy with Daddy’s boy delusions and the inability to chew a pretzel without almost choking himself. Pearson’s service record up to that point had been nothing special: “acceptable and satisfactory” was the way the reports put it. But once he put his boots in the sand, Pearson’s reports went off the chart. He was charged with equipment maintenance, not an easy task when guns fell apart in soldiers’ hands and boots melted in the heat. But he proved to have an aptitude, especially with rifles.

  Part of the problem was the desert sand getting into the mechanics and jamming the weapons, so Pearson was put in charge of a strict regime of stripping and cleaning the rifles. He cycled the guns in service with those of soldiers coming off watch, making sure there was always a weapon available and stripping the others as soon as they came in. And, being a good soldier, he tested his work on a rudimentary rifle range he set up. Extensively. Over the five months he was there, Pearson was practising with a range of high-powered rifles every day. The benefits of this practice was clear in his record – he won the inter-forces sniper tournament that was organised to celebrate the end of Desert Storm in the May of that year.

  He stayed in the Army another six months, his once exemplary record starting to show signs of wear and tear, misconduct charges started to pop up like rust patches on a highly waxed car. He was medically discharged in November 1991, his confrontation with Everett just over a year away.

  Burns closed the folder slowly, as though it were a fine novel he was taking a moment to digest. He ground the cigarette out onto his desk very slowly and deliberately, then looked up at Drummond.

  “Suggestive,” he said. “But hardly conclusive.”

 
Susie felt her cheeks flush as though she had been slapped. Took a moment to make sure she had heard him right. “Sir? Sir, I’m not sure what you mean. He’s trained in the use of high-power weaponry, including the Springfield M1A that ballistics think is the most likely weapon used in the Greig murder. He’s got the skills, he’s got the form. Surely…”

  Burns stood up from his desk, arranged his belt around his pendulous gut. “All circumstantial,” he said, with a sigh that was half burp. “He’s not the only former soldier in Edinburgh, you know. For Christ’s sake, there’s an old soldiers’ home on the Royal Mile.”

  “But sir, his record, the timescale, they fit. Surely the least I can do is…”

  “Ah, and that’s the guts of it, isn’t it, Drummond? What you can do. As I said, it’s suggestive, and we should and will follow up on Mr Pearson, but what are you actually saying? That he blew away Greig, then visited his son in hospital and killed him before deciding to polish off Montgomery for breakfast the next morning? Jesus, Susie, if that’s true, he puts Charles Manson and Freddie Krueger to shame. And there’s nothing in there to tell us why. Why would he go on such a killing spree – especially his own son? Why now?”

  Susie glanced between Rebecca and the file on the desk. She had been so sure when she had received the information. But now…

  “Sir, I’m merely suggesting that this is significant new information. Surely it’s no coincidence that Greig, Montgomery and his son were all killed within twenty-four hours of each other. There must be a link, sir.”

  “Oh, and why’s that?” Burns asked. “Because it makes sense? Or is it because you’re so desperate to be involved in these cases that you’re seeing links where there aren’t any, merely to prove how valuable you really are?”

  Susie felt a sudden flash of anger – cold, hard – rush through her like ice water. She was aware of the dull ache in her hands as she bunched them into fists and squeezed as hard as she could. She was staring so hard at Burns that the rest of the world began to fade out. She was dimly aware of Rebecca saying something, trying to interject about handling this for the press, making sure the line was…

  “Sir,” she said slowly. “It is my opinion that the discovery that Daniel Pearson’s father is a former soldier with experience of weapons similar to that likely used in the Greig murder is highly suggestive and relevant to several other inquiries. It is my belief that we should make Gavin Pearson a person of extreme interest, either to identify him as a suspect or eliminate him from our inquiries.” She heard a small voice in her mind: Enough now, Susie, you’ve made your point. Enough.

  But no. Too late. Fuck that. She was sick of everyone second-guessing her professional opinion, thinking of her as little more than the daft lassie who fucked her boss and now fucks around with the crime reporter – who’s probably also fucking her pal.

  Fuck. That. She swallowed, made sure she enunciated every word. “It is also my opinion that this gives the Chief a perfect opportunity to pursue his pet project of keeping as many armed officers on the streets as possible. It is further my opinion that by keeping me on the sidelines of this case, you are depriving the investigation of a valuable asset. Sir.”

  Burns studied her, ignoring the horrified looks from Rebecca and the cold fury in Susie’s gaze. He pulled the file to him, flicked through it again. Then closed it, up-ended it, and tapped it on the desk like a newsreader at the end of a bulletin.

  When he spoke, his voice was almost fighting the whisper of the fan to be heard.

  “Drummond, what did I say would happen the next time you spoke to me like that?”

  Susie felt the world open up under her, reality rushing back in and extinguishing her fury like water thrown on a fire, leaving nothing but smoke and ash. “Sir, I…”

  “I said you wouldn’t have to worry about upstairs killing your career, didn’t I? Well, now you don’t have to worry.” He slid the file over to her slowly, deliberately. “As I said before you decided to go off on me, this is suggestive, but not conclusive. So find me a conclusion. Either rule out Pearson, definitively, or find me a link between him and Greig and Montgomery. And do it quickly, Drummond. Because if you don’t get me some answers – and show you can do some proper police work without fucking things up for me – then I’m going to let upstairs do what the hell they want. Understood?”

  Susie lurched forward for the file. “Completely. Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”

  He nodded, eyes never leaving hers. “Yes. Oh, and Summers…” His neck turned slowly, like an old millstone grinding round in a forgotten mill. “This conversation remains off the record, understand? Because if I read one word of this in tomorrow’s press, just one, I’ll be forced to ask how the press knew we were looking at a link between Pearson and the murders. We look for him, but we do it quietly. No shit in the press, no leaks to your reporter pal.”

  Rebecca took a half step forward. “Sir, I can assure you I…”

  “I don’t care about assurances, Rebecca,” he said. “Keep this quiet, or you’ll find the press aren’t the only one who can spread rumours and false stories. And believe me, my audience is a lot, lot scarier than theirs.”

  He reached for another cigarette, clamped it in his mouth and leaned back in his chair. Watched them leave the room, then put the cigarette back in the packet slowly and tossed it into the bin.

  31

  I stagger my way through the trees back to my impromptu camp, hardly feeling the branches that claw at my face and arms in the dark. The pain is back and snarling; acid races through my legs with every step, scalding, agonising, as my lungs turn to lumps of burnt wood in my chest, blackened, spent, unable to take in the cool night air that taunts me with the promise of relief.

  Finally, I make it to the clearing, feeling the notch I cut into a tree on the perimeter to know I’m in the right place and it’s safe to use my penlight. I flick it on, the sudden light stabbing my eyes and filling my head with a cold fist of pain that presses against my temples, threatening to push my brain straight out of my skull. The hunter from earlier is gone, replaced by the shambling abomination I am now – a broken, spent shadow of the man I once was.

  I collapse into the snug I’ve dug for the tent and zip it shut tightly. Lie on my back for a moment wheezing, tasting bitter, hot blood in the back of my throat. I fumble into my pocket for another wrap, desperate for the cool, sweet oblivion it will bring.

  I pull the wrap out of my pocket and train the light on it for another moment. Force myself to pause and take stock while my mind is clear, ensure I’ve not missed anything and that discipline and control have been maintained.

  The car was more time-consuming that I would have thought, complicated by the lack of light and the constant threat of one of those cackling idiots leaving their over-priced meal and under-educated conversation for a smoke or, more common these days, to check their phone. Luckily, I was left in peace to do my job, which was relatively simple. Car alarms and security systems are simple, vulgar things, designed only to protect cars from obvious threats, not the more subtle dangers I have in mind. The main purpose of the car alarm is to make a lot of noise. But noise can be silenced. You just have to know how.

  I grunt a laugh too painful to enjoy as I remember Robertson, his empty threats and the way he screamed to leave McGregor and his wife out of it. Pathetic. Surely he realises the choice was made years ago, that they became a part of it the moment he took them into his life?

  Empty noise, I think to myself as I fumble at the wrap, just empty noise.

  I take the wrap in one glorious snort, feeling it race up my nose and into my brain like a trail of ice, cooling, numbing.

  I collapse back onto the floor and close my eyes. And, for the first time in years, I realise that the thought of opening them again does not fill me with dread.

  There is a mission to complete, monsters to slay and promises to keep.
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br />   32

  After the bollocking from Burns, Susie and Rebecca weighed up their options. They had rejected hitting the pub or getting a carry-out – Susie guessing that drinking would make her angrier and more liable to do something she regretted – instead opting for a quick visit to the gym and a chance to unwind in the spa. Which is why they found themselves sitting in the jacuzzi, sharing an arch glance and stifling grunts of laughter as a man with the upper body of Schwarzenegger tottered past in a pair of budgie smugglers on legs that a ten-year-old would have been proud of. His skin almost glowed with false tan, which gave him a strangely orange hue.

  “He jumps into the water, it’s gonna be like dropping a Bisto cube into the pool,” Susie said with a shake of the head.

  Rebecca snorted. The muscles-on-muscle look had never appealed to her, she preferred men who were lean, fit and could think beyond reps and sets. Having their natural skin tone was a bonus, too. A thought of Doug flashed through her mind, the pale skin, high cheekbones, hair that was permanently unkempt. Eyes that always seemed to be searching for what you hadn’t said, the way he sounded when…

  She shook her head, felt heat that was nothing to do with the jacuzzi. Susie glanced over at her, tilted her head in a question.

  “Nothing,” Rebecca said. “Just thinking about today. What a fuck-up. And Burns, who the fuck does he think he is suggesting we’d leak anything? What, does he think we’re that stupid?”

  Susie gave an exasperated sigh, ran her hands down her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s obvious he’s getting it from upstairs, especially with all the heat around the use of firearms, and the Chief will be shitting bricks now there’s a link between the two murders. But I would have thought the information on Pearson would have given him more than an aneurism. There’s got to be link there, Rebecca. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be.”

  “Any luck with it?”