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

by Ed James

  Alan walked inside, hands in pockets like he owned the place. ‘Nice paint job, George. Do that yourself?’

  Vicky stayed standing by the door. The low light level meant she didn’t have to focus too hard on the little creep.

  Alan took the chair, facing her, eyebrows raised.

  Dad stood by his murder board, now completely covered in prints and connections. Despite what he said, his obsession was deepening. ‘So, let’s see your evidence, then.’

  Alan smirked like a schoolboy. ‘Not so fast.’

  ‘Son, I’m really not in the mood for your bullshit.’

  ‘The deal is you go on the record and—’

  ‘Or you won’t share the information?’ Dad looked at Vicky. ‘You want to hold him while I beat the living shite out of him?’

  She smiled back. ‘More than happy to.’

  Alan folded his arms, the glint back in his eye. ‘Suits me. I’ll get a decent pay-off.’

  ‘You have to still be breathing, son.’ Dad cracked his knuckles. ‘Doubt there’ll be many people at your funeral.’

  Alan blinked hard a few times.

  ‘Son, I know you’ve enjoyed making my daughter feel like shite as part of this whole thing. So you can’t just sit there and act like I’ll share anything with you. This comes one way, you to me, then if you’re a good laddie, I’ll maybe speak to you.’

  ‘I’m not a good laddie and I’m not—’

  Dad lurched forward, grabbing Alan’s right shoulder with his left hand, and drove his right thumb behind Alan’s ear. Vicky knew the exact spot, where the jaw connected to the skull, had seen it used a few times. Sickening pain and no marks.

  Alan crumbled onto his knees, fingers scrabbling at Dad’s hands. ‘Let me go!’

  The stupid prick had misread the whole situation. He was used to dealing with modern cops, people like Vicky and stupid arseholes like MacDonald, not with monsters like her old man.

  ‘Now, son, are you going to play nicely?’

  Alan nodded, fast and strong like a kid promising not to kick his ball over the wall again.

  Dad let go of him and stepped away. ‘Out with it, then.’

  Alan opened and closed his jaw a few times. Then wiped a tear away. It hurt like hell, they all knew that, but he didn’t want to show it. ‘Okay, so like I told your daughter, I found some evidence at the North East News, dating back to the 1992 case in Broughty Ferry.’ Alan was rubbing behind his ear. ‘The way I see it, someone was working with Sanderson.’

  Dad looked like he was struggling to keep his cool. ‘Sounds like shite. Smells like shite.’

  ‘You can taste it if you like.’

  Dad was staring at the murder board now, shaking his head.

  ‘George, you were a convenient scapegoat for the bungles on the case. And Sanderson dying inside, that wasn’t suspicious to you?’

  Dad swivelled round. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It’s possible Atreus was a cop.’

  ‘Son, I’m this close to swinging for you.’

  ‘Cool. Go for it.’ Alan held his gaze. ‘I have something you definitely will want to see.’

  ‘Oh, fantastic. What is it, a new entrance to Narnia?’

  Alan reached into his pocket for his phone and fiddled with it for a few seconds before holding out the screen. ‘No, it’s the catalogue sheet for this knife that went missing. The prints, and who ran them.’

  ‘How the hell did you get this?’

  ‘In the archives. They had a copy of the entire discovery for the court case from the defence side. It’s got full copies of all the police files. Someone at Sanderson’s law firm must’ve leaked it.’

  Dad looked up at Alan. ‘Why didn’t anyone come forward with this?’

  ‘I wondered that myself. Turns out my editor worked the story. Douglas Johnstone. Know him?’

  ‘I did. Reporter, right?’

  ‘Was, but he moved on up to Edinburgh and climbed the slippery pole and now he’s the editor of ten papers, all one big happy family.’

  ‘And he knew all along?’

  ‘He didn’t, no. It was all locked away in a vault in Dundee, like I say. I mean, it was marked for destruction ten years back. But it wasn’t destroyed. The old Dundee editor carked it in 2008. Heart attack on the golf course.’

  Dad got to his feet, slowly, and towered over Alan. ‘You’re full of shite, son.’

  ‘Dougie thinks his predecessor was keeping it as leverage.’

  ‘Against who?’

  ‘I don’t have the full story here.’

  ‘No, you clearly don’t. Six constabularies were involved in that case. You’re saying there was a UK-wide conspiracy? And they knew that the killer was still at large?’

  ‘No. You lot needed to close it down. A serial killer hitting different cities was close to causing mass panic. Nobody knew where he would strike next. Sanderson was good for the other cases. Apparently there was some sort of forensic match that put him there. So they threw the book at him. It was in everyone’s interests to secure a conviction — the press could switch from scaring people to covering the trial, and the cops could take credit for the collar.’

  ‘He denied them all.’

  ‘And he died on remand, so the problem went away. And I know who made it disappear.’

  Dad’s mouth hung open. ‘Who?’

  37

  Vicky stood in Barry, a gentle dusting of traffic whizzed past, making her ponytail flail around like it was attached to a horse. She needed to cut it short, despite what Rob wanted.

  She caught that smell of chicken shit from the farm down the road. She could tell the time by it now. Bang on five o’clock. Every night. It stank of shit half the day, so no wonder a high school PE teacher and a cop could afford one of the better houses in Carnoustie.

  Syd Ramsay’s house seemed empty, like it hadn’t been lived in for years, even though she’d just visited that morning. The gates were pulled back, no sign of the cars.

  Forrester parked just ahead and got out, his face like thunder as he stormed over to her. ‘What cars were here earlier?’

  ‘A Honda, I think.’

  ‘You think? Come on, Doddsy. You’re better than that.’

  She got out her notebook and searched through it. Damn. ‘No, it was a Volvo. A blue SUV. 67 plates.’

  ‘Attagirl.’ He thumbed over the road. ‘That one there.’

  Certainly matched her note.

  Forrester tried to wrestle the gate open, but it didn’t budge so he kicked it and got it. ‘Syd Ramsay…’ He started crunching along the diagonal path towards the front door. He stopped to ring the bell. ‘The old bastard knew how to get away with it. He’s just unlucky that he didn’t take his secret to the grave.’

  ‘We can stop him doing any more.’ Vicky walked over and peered through the side window. Seemed empty. She looked back at Forrester. ‘He’s not here, though.’

  Forrester banged on the door, loud and hard. ‘Police!’ He kicked it now. ‘Open up!’ He held the bell down but clicked his tongue a few times. ‘This is no bloody use.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  Forrester shrugged.

  Vicky took another look inside, like she was searching for an answer as much as a person. ‘You got a better idea than breaking in?’

  ‘Nope.’ Forrester was scowling at the door. ‘Syd bloody Ramsay… Christ, he probably arranged for Sanderson’s death inside. It’s… it’s brutal.’

  Vicky had to agree. ‘But serial killers just don’t stop like that, do they? They keep going until they get caught or killed. Syd just stopped.’

  ‘See what you mean.’ But it didn’t look like it. ‘Not long since Janice died. And his cancer. Getting diagnosed, maybe it awakened something in him.’

  She held his gaze until he looked away. ‘But they weren’t raped, were they?’

  Forrester frowned, creasing his burnt forehead. ‘No, but he’s killing again, just without his wingman to rape them first
.’

  ‘What the hell do we—’

  Something smashed. Sounded like it came from round the back of the house.

  ‘You hear that?’

  ‘Aye.’ Forrester was walking across the pebbles, heading away from the entrance, the opposite direction from the way they’d come. ‘You go round that side. Meet you at the back.’

  Vicky retraced her steps until the small gate leading to the garden. No sign of anyone.

  Another smash. Glass tinkling. Definitely came from over there.

  She snapped out her baton, opened the gate and stepped through onto the lawn to dampen her approach. At least the sprinklers were off. She crept along the side of the house but couldn’t hear anything except her soft footsteps and her breathing. She stopped at the end and peeped round.

  Someone was standing on the patio, facing away from her. A man, but she couldn’t tell who. He wore a raincoat, with the hood pulled up. Two bottles of beer lay smashed across the slabs.

  ‘Police! Identify yourself!’

  He didn’t move. Sounded like he was saying something.

  She stepped forward onto the pebbles.

  ‘This is all wrong. I’ve got to end this. Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Stop!’ Vicky took another step, brandishing her baton. Not far away from him now. Another step and she was in striking distance.

  But the man jerked towards her. She swung blindly towards his shoulder but he sidestepped and drove a low kick into her shin followed by an uppercut to her chin.

  She went down, sliding across the pebbles.

  She tried to move but all she could do was groan. Footsteps raced away from her. She tried to get up, but everything felt distorted and dampened, and she just couldn’t even move.

  And she must’ve blacked out, maybe, because an engine kicked into gear and a car shot off with squealing tyres. All she could think was it was heading away from them, back towards town, back towards Rob and Jamie and Bella and her parents. She knew that at least.

  Vicky got up, but her shin was burning, and it felt like she’d lost half her teeth. She had to check, but a full set of teeth bit into the fleshy part of her hand.

  Was that Syd Ramsay who attacked her? An old man who’d just undergone chemo? Had he really battered her and got away?

  She tried to look over at the patio, to where he’d been standing, but her head was on fire. Made her think she…

  No.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Syd Ramsay sat on a rattan chair like he was at a barbecue, but his white shirt was reddening, blood spreading out from his heart.

  38

  Vicky stood over the body, phone pressed to her ear. ‘No, he’s very much dead. Christ, you know how many crime scenes I’ve visited?’ She shook her head. ‘Get as many as you can from the golf course. And an ambulance, even though it’s probably too late. Thanks.’ She stabbed the screen and killed the call.

  So it wasn’t Syd after all. Who the hell was it?

  And where the hell was Forrester?

  She raced along the other side of the house, her shin burning worse with each step. A jagged rose bush caught her arm.

  Hard panting came from the side.

  Vicky slowed to a stop, tightening her grip on her baton.

  Forrester lay there, moaning. He looked up at her. ‘Vicky? Ah, shite.’

  ‘Christ, are you okay?’

  ‘Very far from okay.’ He gasped. His black trousers were a mess of torn fabric and blood. He screamed.

  Vicky inspected the wound with her fingers. Small and tight, but deep. Blood pooled out now, soaking the fabric.

  ‘Hold still.’ She reached over and tugged his polo shirt over his head. She folded it and put it over the wound. ‘No major arteries or you’d be dead by now, so he’s just cut muscle. Hold that tight, you’ll live.’

  Forrester shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. ‘In the name of—’

  ‘There’s an ambulance on the way.’

  Forrester was grimacing like he was trying to ignore the searing pain in his thigh. ‘I let him go.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No. He hit me from behind.’

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Voices came from the road, but they didn’t have the telltale rhythms of police chat, so most likely the paramedics.

  ‘Stay here.’ Vicky raced down the path and through the gates. She flagged down the paramedics. ‘He’s up there!’

  Both of them hurtled past her, big brutes both carrying half a hospital each.

  On the street, the Volvo had gone, leaving just Forrester’s car and the Subaru.

  Lying back there after she’d been attacked, it sounded like the car had headed towards Carnoustie. Vicky could get in the Subaru and follow it.

  But he could’ve taken either road towards Dundee. She was in the dark here.

  She got out her notebook and her fingers were covered with Forrester’s blood. Jesus Christ. She rubbed them together, drying most of it off. Then rifled through and found the page, then tapped the licence plate into a message and sent it to Karen, then called her, putting her phone to her ear. ‘Can you get me a location on that car? It’s a Volvo.’

  ‘What car?’

  ‘I texted you it.’ A wave of shivers ran up Vicky’s spine, making her teeth chatter. She needed to pull herself together and fast. ‘Run the plates. Please.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘You can listen to that podcast while you do it, can’t you?’

  ‘Christ. Fine. Bye.’

  Vicky killed the call and walked over to the car. She opened the boot and found a bottle of half-drunk water, lukewarm and putrid. She tipped it over her fingers and started washing the blood away. She dried her fingers on her trousers, but they still had that lingering redness.

  She checked her phone again like it’d make Karen call her, but nothing, nothing, nothing, so she walked back up the path. She stopped next to the paramedics dealing with Forrester.

  The knife lay in a pool of blood. Not the usual thing she’d find in a Menzieshill flat, but more like the kind of scalpel she’d see in Arbuthnott’s lair.

  She got out her phone and called Jenny. ‘You about?’

  ‘Just about to clock off for the night. Why do I get the feeling that’s about to change?’

  ‘Can you get down to Carnoustie? We’ve got another body. Found a knife, need to confirm if it’s the same one as the other four victims.’

  ‘Right.’ A long sigh distorted the speaker. ‘Text me the address.’

  ‘It’s in Barry.’ Vicky crouched down to inspect it. ‘It’s a surgical knife. I think. That’s what we’re looking for, right?’

  ‘Sounds like it. Be there soon.’

  Vicky ended the call and stood there.

  The nearest paramedic looked up at her. ‘Hear you’ve got a body?’

  She pointed towards the patio. ‘Up there.’

  ‘With you in a minute. You mind keeping an eye on it for me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Vicky made her way up to the crime scene, her heavy footsteps thumping on the pebbles.

  Syd Ramsay still sat on the chair, tortured and dead.

  Vicky took a deep breath and crossed the mossy patio until she was close enough to cast her inexpert eye over him. Wild slashes cut across his face, across his forearms too. The cuts on his eyelids looked the same as the three other victims, but she just didn’t know for sure.

  Whoever did this was still out there. And why had he done this? Why kill Syd?

  And now she was up close, she could see another knife, plunged into his heart. They had evidence. Whoever had done this, the person who’d attacked her and stabbed Forrester, they’d left the knife behind. Jenny would get prints off it. They’d find them.

  Just like her old man thought he would way back when…

  The blood still poured down his face, and now soaked into his shirt.

  Wait a second…

  Vicky reached over.

  Syd jerked forward and slapped h
er hand away. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  He was alive!

  Vicky cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Need some help here!’

  Syd tried to winch himself up to sitting, but couldn’t. ‘You’re Dode’s girl?’

  ‘I am. We met at your golf club at lunchtime.’

  ‘Christ.’ Syd was staring at the knife in his heart. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Stay still!’ Vicky grabbed his wrists and tried to stop him pulling the knife out. Probably the only thing keeping him alive was where it was sitting.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Something clattered behind her. Vicky wheeled round, reaching for her baton.

  Someone stumbled over a rattan chair. ‘Christ on a bike!’ The paramedic managed to shake it off with a final kick.

  ‘My head’s pounding.’ Syd tried to push himself up again, then tumbled to his knees with a scream. He held up his arm. All of the fingers on his left hand were bent back.

  The paramedic barged between Syd and Vicky and started inspecting his wounds. ‘Christ.’

  Vicky sat next to him on the sofa. ‘Do you know who did this?’

  Syd winced as the paramedic popped the buttons on his shirt. ‘John.’

  ‘John? John Lamont?’

  ‘Aye.’ Syd flinched again, pulling his head away from the paramedic. He tried to stand up, but the paramedic held him in place. ‘I need to—’

  ‘You need to sit still.’ The paramedic spoke into his radio, deep and inaudible to Vicky.

  Vicky took Syd’s hand. ‘You need to tell us everything. Starting with John Lamont. Why was he trying to kill you?’

  ‘You need to record this. I’m not long for this world.’

  Vicky had her phone still in her hand. She started the voice recorder app. ‘DS Vicky Dodds with Sydney Ramsay.’ She put it in front of him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Atreus was two people. Jim Sanderson and John Lamont. Jim raped them, John killed them.’ Syd looked around the paramedic at Vicky. ‘They were old schoolfriends who worked together for Kjaer Oil in Aberdeen. The way John told it, they were in the bar at a conference in Birmingham in 1988, when Sanderson spotted this woman. She worked in their Birmingham office and was known to chase anything not in a skirt at conferences, broke up a marriage or two. Lamont was sickened, said she needed to pay the price. So Sanderson waited until she pounced on this young lad, followed them to their room and he attacked them. Knocked the lad out, then raped her. John was watching, but it wasn’t enough for him, no. He realised they were only targeting half of the equation, so they cut off her eyelids so she could watch them murder the poor lad. Then he killed her.’