Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Vicky looked across the lush garden towards the golf course. A few outside waiting to tee off. In the nearby rose garden, butterflies and bees seemed to be thriving. ‘We’re looking for Syd Ramsay.’

  ‘He’s just gone to the bathroom, ma’am.’ Buddy frowned. ‘He’s got troubles with…’ He pointed down at his nether regions.

  ‘Okay, we can wait.’

  ‘Well, we’re kinda in the middle of fish and chips here.’ The words ran together—fishanchipz—like it was a German speciality rather than British. ‘You give me your number, I’ll call you.’

  ‘It’s important that we speak to him now.’ Forrester smiled at him.

  Buddy’s lips twisted up. ‘You want me to have a look at your teeth?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I own a dental surgery in upstate New York. You need a lot of work.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my teeth.’

  Vicky cut in, taking the empty seat next to him. ‘Is Buddy short for something?’

  ‘Donald.’

  ‘Donald? Seriously?’ But she was getting lost in this. ‘Never knew that.’

  Buddy leaned in close to her. ‘You know he’s dying of cancer, right?’

  It seemed to hit Forrester in the balls. ‘Dying?’

  ‘Irene wanted to come over to see her brother one last time.’ Buddy pursed his lips. ‘And I could watch the golf. We’re at the Carnoustie Hotel. Costing a bomb, but hey, it’s a once in a lifetime thing. And I work my ass off.’ He looked at Forrester again. ‘You look like you got the sun there?’

  ‘Still paying for it.’ Forrester took the other free seat. ‘How bad is he?’

  ‘It’s bad, really. Irene is so angry with him.’ His cool bluster was torn apart by a snarl. ‘If Janice was still here, she’d have made him go to the doctor’s for his prostate exam every year. Instead, it’s—’

  ‘Janice was a good woman.’ Syd Ramsay had that giant frame that old cops like her dad all seemed to have, like anyone over six foot was automatically siphoned off into the police force. A long golf hat hung over his head. But he appeared to be a beacon of good health. Tanned and lean, strong arms and a polo shirt that fit his toned frame. He stared at them with the look of a long-serving police officer. ‘Davie?’ A glint in his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Come to see you, you old bugger.’ Forrester got up and clapped his arm. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘How does it look?’

  ‘Well, a bit surprising. You look well.’

  Syd sighed, then scowled at Buddy. ‘You daft sod. Big mouth strikes again.’

  ‘Come on, Syd. You have cancer.’

  ‘Aye, but I’m not dying.’ Syd took off his hat and flopped it on the table. He was completely bald, even his eyebrows gone. ‘Six sessions of chemo and it’s under control.’

  ‘But this lousy country, man. You’re not—’

  ‘Buddy, if you weren’t Irene’s…’ Syd smiled. ‘You mind giving us a minute?’

  Buddy looked hard at him, then smiled. ‘Sure.’ He grabbed his plate and moved to an empty table.

  Syd took his chair and picked up a chip. ‘Christ, eating with that guy is worse than having cancer.’

  ‘You didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘I’m fine, Davie. Almost in remission.’

  ‘Not the way he tells it.’

  ‘Listen, that guy’s a tube, don’t listen to him.’ Syd glanced at the next table, where Buddy was tucking in with some music playing from his phone speaker. ‘Seriously, if you could cover up me murdering him…?’

  Forrester laughed. ‘Prick was asking me if I wanted dental work.’

  ‘All that shite you’ve been eating, David.’ Syd coughed out a laugh. ‘But I know you. This isn’t a social visit, and you wouldn’t bring your daughter with you, if it was.’

  Vicky raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m not his kid, Christ.’

  ‘You must be twenty-five at most.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. George Dodds is my father.’

  ‘Old Dode Dodds.’ Syd smiled. ‘One of the best, him. Took me to my chemo last week.’

  Forrester shook his head. ‘And neither of you told me?’

  ‘When he turned up, Irene wasn’t going to let him in.’ Syd’s laugh was a wet rattle. ‘She’s a nightmare. Thank Christ they’re heading to Edinburgh tonight. Cramping my style, I tell you.’ He winked at Forrester. ‘You’re here about Atreus, right?’

  Forrester raised his eyebrows. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Davie, I might be on the way out but my mind’s still working.’ Syd tapped a bony finger against his temple. ‘And so much of police work is reading between the lines. At least as much as actually reading the lines. Saw this morning’s paper, had a piece about how you’ve got a lad with his eyelids cut off. And a lassie who might’ve escaped. Doesn’t take much to put two and two together, does it?’

  ‘We found another two this morning.’

  ‘Related?’

  ‘Wife of the first victim.’

  ‘I meant… Wait, so the second set of victims, it’s the wife of one of the first?’

  ‘Looks like adultery on both sides.’

  ‘Which would match our old friend’s pattern.’ Syd shook his head, his face screwed up tight. He locked eyes with Vicky. ‘Atreus comes from Greek mythology. He was a—’

  ‘I know where it comes from.’ Vicky folded her arms. ‘The reason we’re here is we need to know whether this is a copycat, or the original killer.’

  Syd stared at her for a few seconds. ‘But he’s—’ He started coughing, loud rasps that boomed through the room. ‘Atreus is dead.’

  ‘Jim Sanderson is dead.’ Vicky left a pause, watching his reaction. ‘But what if it wasn’t him?’

  If Syd knew anything, he wasn’t giving it away. ‘Davie, what the hell is she on about?’

  ‘You need to be straight with us, Syd. Is it possible we caught the wrong guy?’

  ‘Absolutely no way.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘What else does “absolutely” mean?’ Syd swivelled round to stare at Vicky. ‘George is a good guy, but he made a massive cock-up.’ He shrugged. ‘Fail to see the problem. Man loses knife, man pays for losing knife. Roll credits.’

  ‘You’re adamant it was his fault that knife went missing?’

  ‘Christ, you’d think I was on trial here. Yes, it was his fault. Much as it pains me to admit it, it was Dode’s mess. We found a knife in the bin downstairs. Covered in blood. And then we didn’t. I was grooming your old man as my deputy. Made him Acting DI but he was on a fast track. I fucking trusted him to get that to the lab. It just never showed up.’

  ‘So you busted him for it.’

  ‘I had no choice.’ Syd rested his head back against the chair and folded his arms. ‘Look, I know you think you’re helping here, trying to show that it wasn’t your dad’s fault the knife went missing, but it was. He screwed up, big time. And I tried to keep him on, but… Well. I had no choice but to put him back into uniform. I’m not saying being a detective is better than a uniform, but he needed a fresh start and to be kept away from murder cases. Besides, Forfar was an easier commute for him, so he could see his kids more. And nothing happens in Forfar.’

  Vicky stared out of the window. She could see the church spire, not too far from her home. A couple of miles to Dad’s home.

  And Syd was right. She was digging up the past to try and save her father. Maybe even at the expense of solving the current case. And Dad was big enough and ugly enough to fight his own battles, so maybe it was time to let this go.

  But she just couldn’t. ‘You did well out of the whole mess. You were a DCI at the time. You became the Chief of Tayside Police.’

  Forrester shot her a glare. ‘Come on, Doddsy, that’s enough.’

  ‘No. My dad lost out, but Syd here benefited.’

  ‘Listen to me, missy. We could’ve caught Sanderson, but your dad fucked it r
ight up. You might not like to hear it, but it’s the God’s honest truth.’ He held out his palms. ‘We caught him but we didn’t have a case because that knife went missing. We were lucky he took his own life.’

  Vicky wanted to jump in again, wanted to tear and claw away. But she was just tormenting an old man.

  Not that Syd was giving up. He popped a chip in his mouth but kept on. ‘That Atreus case was hell. I was up to my nuts in shite for months until we caught Sanderson. And on our fucking doorstep too.’

  ‘But he died on remand.’

  ‘Aye, and everything we did was pored over by that prick. What was his name?’ He clicked his fingers a few times. ‘Big fancy Edinburgh lawyer, always soaking up the attention, when he should’ve been keeping Sanderson in prison where he deserved to be.’ More clicking. ‘Campbell McLintock, that’s it. Total fanny. Had it in for the cops. Threw money at that case, which meant a ton of resource, just to make us look like clowns. Kept on insisting that Sanderson was innocent and or that we’d had him killed or whatever he wanted to suggest. Heard the prick died recently, but I tell you, I wish he’d died a long time ago. Maybe I’ll meet him in hell.’

  ‘Come on, Syd, you’re not going to hell.’

  ‘I’d settle for an eternity in limbo.’

  It seemed to stack up enough for Vicky. She’d heard of Campbell McLintock. An old flame of hers from the deep distant past had enough run-ins with him over the years to know how bad he was. But he was thorough and taking appeals through the court system would have brought any discrepancies to light.

  ‘And then that woman did that radio thing. What do they call them…?’

  ‘A podcast.’

  Syd scowled at her. ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s… Never mind. Did you speak to her?’

  ‘I did. Carnoustie lassie. Louise something. And you know something? It was actually quite cathartic for your father too. I went for a pint with him afterwards. He said he could see the whole story, see how little of it was his fault. See how I’d backed him to the hilt.’

  ‘So what exactly happened? At the crime scene, you gave the knife to my dad?’

  Syd’s glare cut right through her. ‘No, he had it. Took it in his pool car, all wrapped up. He was supposed to give it to this lab tech in Dundee, but that’s where the story ends.’

  ‘You don’t think he got rid of it?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Syd sprinkled salt over his food and crunched into the fish. ‘Christ, that’s salty.’ He sipped at water, then dabbed at his lips. ‘Whatever you think you can achieve here, your old man isn’t the real victim. The Sanderson family were.’

  It hit Vicky like a truck. ‘He had a family?’

  ‘Wife and a son.’

  ‘Christ. I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s kind of my point. You’re obsessed with proving how your old man was innocent. They went through hell. Imagine finding that the man you loved, or your father, was a serial killer? I spent so much of my time supporting them through the prosecution.’

  And he was right. Vicky was focusing too much on the there and then versus the here and now. But surely that’s where she needed to focus her attention on a case like this. Right?

  Forrester was on his feet, hands in pockets. ‘Syd, you think it’d be worth us speaking to them?’

  ‘Why?’

  Vicky caught a look from Forrester that mirrored her thoughts. ‘You’re thinking his son could be the copycat?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, Doddsy. Like Syd told us, imagine finding out your old boy was a serial killer? What would that do to someone?’

  25

  Broughty Ferry bustled around her in the sunshine. The posh bit of Dundee and way snootier than Carnoustie. Definitely an upmarket cousin, separated by Monifieth and Barry, and full of galleries and cafes.

  Vicky sat back in her car seat, chewing on a lardy supermarket sandwich from the Ashworth’s round the corner, and flicking through her notebook. There was a door there, a strand on the case, that she could knock out pretty quickly.

  But it meant opening up a wound that she thought was long healed and just wasn’t.

  Bugger it.

  She found his number and hit dial, then put her phone against her ear.

  And it was ringing. ‘Cullen.’ Sounded like he was in an office somewhere.

  ‘Scott, it’s Vicky.’

  ‘Can you narrow— Wait, Vicky Dodds?’

  ‘The one and the same.’

  His sigh wasn’t exactly welcoming or encouraging. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘Campbell McLintock. You’ve dealt with him a few times, right?’

  ‘Sadly. You know he’s dead, right?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. Murdered last year. Sorry, Vicky. Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘So that’s it, Scott? McLintock was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Vicky. It was all over the papers last year. We know who did it.’

  ‘You catch them?’

  He paused. ‘Ish.’

  ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘Vicky, that’s a story and a half and right now I don’t have the time or inclination to delve into that for you.’ He sighed. ‘Look, Elvis is acting up so I’d better go.’

  Before Vicky could ask who the hell Elvis was, he’d hung up. Superb.

  Well, that was a closed door at least. Two, more like. Still, it felt like someone had punched her in the throat.

  Vicky finished her lunch with a glug of lukewarm cola and tried Rob’s number, but just hit his voicemail. She had visions of him stuck in traffic up on the Kingsway with Jamie and Bella screaming at each other, not being able to rely on Vicky’s police officer’s glare to stop their malarkey.

  A text pinged. Forrester:

  “Still with Syd. Nothing to report. Lemmeno how it goes.”

  She pocketed her phone. Over the road, Karen was making a royal mess of a reverse park. Vicky got out and jogged across in time to weather Karen’s frosty glare as she got out. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘That bloody podcast.’ Karen was shaking her head. ‘I mean, if it wasn’t for the fact the woman was already dead, I’d want to kill her.’

  Vicky laughed at that. ‘Take it you’ve got nothing?’

  ‘Well.’ Karen pointed at a flat above a pub. ‘I listened to one with the family.’

  ‘Louise spoke to them?’

  ‘Right. I mean, when Forrester announces that this podcaster is a victim, it’s going to explode, right?’

  ‘Which is why he’s keeping it under wraps for now.’ Vicky tried to play it through. Louise Craigen was kicking up a hornets’ nest. Gave them a connection between suspects. ‘On that podcast, how did they seem?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Mum and son were on at the same time, so I don’t think she got the full story out of each of them.’

  ‘Only way they’d speak on the record is with support. Figures. Did she speak to the defence lawyer?’

  Karen nodded. ‘Not that he said much. Just a lot of fluff about justice and all that. Tried calling his office, but it’s shut?’

  ‘Syd said the lawyer died. Confirmed it with someone who worked the case.’

  Karen raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, that old flame of yours from Edinburgh?’

  ‘Old flame? How old are you? Going to dance the Charleston next?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘He’s not an old flame. Christ.’ Vicky walked over to the door between a gallery and a café, and pressed the buzzer. ‘But it’s not connected, no.’

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, heavily distorted by the intercom.

  ‘Mrs Sanderson?’

  ‘Speaking?’

  ‘It’s the police, ma’am. Need a word.’

  ‘Right.’ The door buzzed open.

  Karen entered first. ‘But it is that Edinburgh cop you were shagging, right?’

  ‘No, Karen, it’s not.’

  Karen was raising
her eyebrows. ‘You did shag him, though. In London.’

  ‘Fine. Once. But it was ages ago.’ Vicky barged past and climbed the steps. ‘Ancient history.’ She broke out onto a landing.

  Just two doors and a load of pot plants basking in sunshine from the large windows overlooking a garden. The door on the right was open and a woman stood there, hands on hips and wearing an apron covered in flour, shrouded in the smell of baking scones and the sound of Northern Soul. Silver hair cut short into a bob and barely five foot, but her fervent gaze made her look like she wouldn’t take any nonsense. ‘Can I see your credentials, ladies?’

  ‘I’m Vicky Dodds.’ She unfolded her warrant card. ‘This is Karen Woods. We’d like to—’

  ‘And Karen Woods won’t mind if I see her ID card?’

  Karen frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a police officer showed up here with a journalist, pretending to be a cop.’ She took Karen’s ID and checked it. ‘Right, what do you want?’

  Vicky tried a smile. ‘It’s probably best if we do this inside.’

  ‘Fine.’ She led them inside to a long hallway. A couple of open doors with the din of a TV coming from a closed one. Stairs up, meaning it was a maisonette rather than a flat. She led into the kitchen and opened the oven. With the heat outside, she was baking cakes. Unreal. And she pulled a tray of scones out of the oven with her bare fingers. Crazy. ‘You can call me Ann, if you wish.’ She gestured at a pair of stools at the breakfast bar. ‘Can I get you a coffee or tea?’

  ‘Tea, thanks.’ Karen perched on a stool. ‘Just milk.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ann filled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘So, what do you want to know about my husband?’

  ‘We didn’t say it was about him.’

  ‘It’s not going to be about anything other than Broughty Ferry’s serial killer, is it?’ And there it was. Years and years of confusion, frustration, denial, rage and acceptance. ‘My husband, Jim Sanderson, killed ten people. That we know of. I’ve accepted who my husband was, what he did and what the world thinks of me. I’m in my sixties now and he’s dead.’ The kettle boiled but she didn’t move. ‘So I take it you’re here because of what’s in the papers today?’