Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  Crossfire

  R.D. Nixon

  This edition produced in Great Britain in 2021

  by Hobeck Books Limited, Unit 14, Sugnall Business Centre, Sugnall, Stafford, Staffordshire, ST21 6NF

  www.hobeck.net

  Copyright © R.D. Nixon 2021

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  R.D. Nixon has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-35-7 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-34-0 (ebook)

  Cover design by Jayne Mapp Design

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  Created with Vellum

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  For my boys, Rob and Dom. I’m insanely and embarrassingly proud of you both. Thanks for letting me nick your initials!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hobeck Books – the home of great stories

  Prologue

  Glenlowrie Estate, Fort William, Scotland, New Year’s Eve 1987/8

  ‘We can’t keep it, Dunc.’

  The contents of the canvas rucksack remained untouched by the light of three straining candles, but Duncan Wallace stared into the depths nevertheless, feeling the satisfied smile start from somewhere in the middle of his chest. His prize was in there, tantalisingly within reach... His two companions wouldn’t know such a treasure if it were illuminated in pink neon, and this rickety wooden hut, hidden away in the foothills of the estate, was hardly a worthy place for it.

  ‘Dunc! I said—’

  ‘Shut up, Sandy, I’m thinking.’

  Duncan dipped his hand into the bag. He felt the shift and slide of velvet-covered boxes and smooth, heavy chains, and as he tilted the bag to let the meagre light dust the corners he saw where the Fury nestled, swathed in black silk. The inner smile turned into a tight thrill that was almost an ache; the fiery black Lightning Ridge opal, so far from his reach as to have been almost mythical, was now his.

  He withdrew his empty hand, and a loose earring caught in his own expensive watch and dropped onto the tea chest, giving off a muted glow as it lay, incongruously opulent against the splintered wooden base. Sandy Broughton tried again, looking to the third man for support, but Rob just shrugged.

  Sandy hunched forward, his expression more worried than ever. ‘Duncan, man, this is serious. A joke’s a joke, but now we—’

  ‘Now, my friends,’ Duncan broke in, ‘we’re richer than anyone’s a right to be.’

  Rob Doohan smiled. ‘We were already rich,’ he pointed out, his voice calm.

  ‘Not like this.’ Duncan picked up the emerald earring and examined it in the light of the nearest candle. A gust of wind surged against the side of the hut, shaking the walls and blowing the flame almost horizontal. He glanced at his companions. Shadows flickered across Rob’s features, creating hollows where none were, lights glimmering in eyes that had no depth. Yet Duncan trusted him.

  Sandy appealed once more. ‘This isn’t just any old collection – this belongs to Mick! Our friend, remember? This was supposed to be nothing more than a prank. Jesus, Rob, tell him. Maybe you’ll get through.’

  ‘He’ll listen to whoever he wants to,’ Rob said, still mild.

  Duncan dropped the earring back into the bag. ‘It’s quite simple, Sandy. Prank or not, I don’t want to give it back. Mick doesn’t need this. We’re going to split it three ways and stash it for a while. A long while.’

  There was a pause, heightening their awareness of the creaking trees that surrounded them. Sandy glanced up nervously, as if he expected to see a branch come crashing through the roof at any moment.

  ‘How long?’ Rob leaned forward, scooping up a handful of the rucksack’s contents. Duncan tensed, then relaxed as he saw that his friend’s questing fingers had not snared the black silk. He moved the bag closer to himself, then looked at his companions in turn, needing to gauge their responses.

  ‘Around thirty years.’

  Sandy stared, bemused. ‘Thirty? But we’ll be—’

  ‘In our sixties,’ Rob interrupted. ‘Think of it as extra pension credit. It’ll appreciate in value, and in the meantime we’ve no financial worries – we don’t need this, any more than Mick does. But Duncan’s right; why should we give it back? It’d only rot in some vault somewhere.’

  Duncan saw the fight going out of Sandy, and began the task of separating the spoils of their Hogmanay raid – careful to ensure that the silk-wrapped prize remained in the corner of the bag. The wind grew stronger; the candles burned low on their blobs of wax; tempers stretched, and were eased, and stretched again. But at last the job was done. Even Sandy seemed happier now; funny how hard it becomes to advocate giving something up once you’ve experienced the warmth of it on your fingers.

  After the other two had left, Duncan stared at the closed door, frowning. Rob was solid enough, but Sandy would likely be trouble; he was just too damned twitchy. Another face kept trying to push forward in his mind, but he shook his head and watched it fly away into dust; he couldn’t think about that now.

  He waited a few minutes to be sure his friends had gone, before unwrapping the black silk with a reverence usually reserved by priests for the Holy Sacrament. The opal lay in front of him at last, and even the guttering candles seemed to pick up an extra source of light from its blazing heart. Duncan’s breathing eased, and as his mind cleared, he linked his hands on the tea chest, bowed his head, and began to think.

  The candles had long since burned out, and a thin, watery daylight was creeping under the door of the hut, when he finally straightened, grimacing as the cold air stirred around him. He folded the silk across the Fury again, feeling something inside him shrivel at the loss. The temptation to keep it was almost too much to resist, but he knew he’d made the right decision.

  Chapter One

  Abergarry, Scotland, 2nd August 1993

  The car came out of nowhere. One minute Dougie was striding along the empty road, enjo
ying a bit of Pink Floyd through his earphones, the next he was staring over his shoulder in disbelief at the BMW hurtling towards him. Heart hammering, he jumped for the drainage ditch, and felt a moment’s elated triumph until his boots slithered on the wet grass. He went down onto his hands, yelling out in pain as his right wrist bent sharply and his tailbone connected with the stony ground.

  The car purred its expensive way onward over the summit, and, as far as a stunned Dougie could see, the brake lights hadn’t flashed once. His wrist throbbed, and he cupped it in his left hand as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, looking both ways on the once more deserted road, then let out an explosive, but trembling breath. Tourists! Just because you could see for miles didn’t mean you could hammer along these roads at seventy-plus… There might not be a lot of traffic around at this time of the day, but there were other things to consider. Like people! Christ, if Floyd hadn’t gone quiet at the crucial moment, he wouldn’t have heard the car at all.

  Feeling queasy at that thought, Dougie brushed at the bits of grass that clung to his wet hands and tried to get his heart under control again. Fifty-one was no age, right enough, but it was also no age to be leaping about like a teenager; he’d be feeling that near miss for a good while yet. He shakily removed one of his earphones and lowered the volume on his Discman, then continued his walk into town, all the while keeping a wary eye on the road ahead and behind.

  Abergarry was one of those towns where businesses actually stayed shut on the bank holidays, and there was no-one around as Dougie turned into Inverlochy Court and took out the key to his shop. He saw that his hands were still trembling – that was anger, of course… He gave a soft snort and shook his head. Anger? Okay. Tell that to his fiercely skipping heart, which was still going nineteen to the dozen in there.

  He passed through the shop without turning on the lights; there’d be no-one around to buy anything today, and there was no sense in opening up just because he had nowhere better to be. At least that meant he had all the time in the world to work on his next collection, and be ready for the Christmas gift-buying season.

  He went through the door at the back of the counter into his workroom, and as the overhead fluorescent bulb hummed, then flickered into life, he began to feel some semblance of normality reasserting itself. A cup of tea and a custard cream, and he’d be all set. His wrist twanged uncomfortably as he filled the kettle, and he sourly wondered if he’d be able to do much work today after all, but there was too much to be done to consider taking the day off.

  An array of newly carved figurines lined one edge of the work table, marble chips littered the surface, and a metal box stood open, ready for his practised fingers to select the correct tool... Usually without looking. But today he was working with paints, and although he no longer had a wife to tell him off, he could still hear her voice: Douglas Cameron, do you think I’ve nothin’ better to do than sponge paint out of your shirt? It was a bitter-sweet memory, but it brought a smile to his face as he tied his apron and turned to find a tea bag.

  The sound of the shop door opening made him start, then sigh. Should have locked it. An apology formed behind his lips, but he managed no more than three steps towards the workroom door before it opened. When he saw who stood there he relaxed, though his irritation remained; distractions, however welcome the rest of the time, were not part of today’s plan.

  ‘I thought you were away down south this weekend?’

  His visitor didn’t reply. He had a strange look about him; his colour was high and his breathing rapid, and Dougie’s apprehension returned. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You were lucky back there.’ The visitor moved into the room until he was standing directly in front of Dougie, whose forehead tightened as he realised what the man was referring to.

  ‘You were driving that flash car? What—’

  ‘Lucky for a wee while, anyway. I didn’t fancy running the car right off the road though, just to make sure of you.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus…’ It came out flat and far-away sounding, as realisation hit. From the corner of his eye Dougie glimpsed the tool box again, and with a speed that would have surprised him if he’d seen someone else do it, his hand flashed out and his fingers closed on one of the larger chisels. He held it like a dagger in front him, but his would-be assassin didn’t seem fazed; instead of backing away, he rounded the work bench, brushing by the wavering, four-toothed tip, and reached for a box that sat on top of the cupboard.

  Dougie’s skin broke out in a clammy sweat, prickling along his hairline, but he still couldn’t move. ‘Don’t,’ he whispered, less an order than a plea, but the intruder ignored him and lifted the handgun from the box.

  ‘You won’t be needing this any more then,’ he said. ‘Pity to have wasted it.’

  ‘Look, I won’t—’

  ‘Put the chisel down.’

  Dougie tightened his grip instead. ‘That thing’s not loaded,’ he said in a thin voice, nodding at the gun. ‘The ammunition’s in another box.’

  ‘What, you go to the trouble of obtaining a gun for your own protection, but don’t have it ready to use? I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I never really thought I’d need it,’ Dougie confessed. ‘But aye, it’s the truth.’

  It wasn’t, but the momentary hesitation on the part of the intruder was enough; in the split second afforded him by a glance at the top of the cupboard, Dougie lunged with the chisel.

  He immediately knew he’d missed his chance. He’d have had to use every ounce of strength he possessed to drive this tool through a heavy cotton jacket, and then into flesh, and he had neither the conviction nor the faintest inkling of what it would feel like. His sprained wrist flared with a white-hot pain and lost all its strength, and a moment later he felt the iron grip of gloved fingers on his arm before the chisel was ripped from his grasp. His blood froze and he tried to take a step back, but there was nowhere to go. Even as his back came up against the work bench he knew it was over.

  The blow took him low in the chest, then he felt a wrenching sensation and the spill of warmth down his apron. There was no pain yet, just a deep sense of shock, and he slumped against the bench, praying blackness would take him away before the pain hit.

  He dragged his gaze back to his attacker’s face, and to his bewilderment it was the face of a suddenly uncertain man, one who nevertheless knows he has gone too far to turn back, and must finish. Even as the thought passed through Dougie’s mind, the crimson-slicked chisel moved again, and somehow, hopeless as it was, he brought his arm up and stopped the metal teeth from driving through his throat. The tearing pain in his forearm brought his focus back, and although he could still feel blood pulsing from what must be a grievous wound in his chest, he was wrapped in a kind of cold calm. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not him. He had all the time in the world… Hadn’t he just thought that?

  He shoved with every bit of strength he had left, and for a second there was clear space in front of him; hope leapt, fierce and bright, before the gap closed again. His attacker’s eyes glittered with a kind of barely suppressed desperation, and he was panting as the chisel slashed through the air. Once more Dougie’s sluggish movements were just enough to save him, and his fingers twisted into the man’s sleeve, dragging the arm downwards. The gloves were awash with blood, slick with it, and the chisel slithered out of the man’s grasp.

  The clang it made as it hit the stone floor was like a triumphant bell – to Dougie’s increasingly confused mind it was a signal to seize this second chance. He bent down to scoop the tool up, but when he tried to rise again his chest was suddenly full of molten lava, and he found he had to fight for every shortening breath. The chisel dropped once more, and this time his assailant’s boot put it far out of reach.

  Dougie gave up the struggle to stand straight again, and sank to his knees, dragging in a thin, whistling breath. Terror returned in a rush, quashing his cold refusal to succumb. Mocking it. He looked up to see a strange, revolted fascination on his
attacker’s face, as if he were studying a creature pinned live to a dissection board. Dougie’s mute appeal for mercy was met with a closing down of that expression. The floor beneath him was slippery with blood, and the smell rose rank and metallic, tightening his throat. All the strength was running out of his limbs… And all the time in the world was running out with it.

  Dougie’s head drooped once more, and he stared at the thick smear of his own blood between his splayed knees. Helpless tears gathered, blurring the image, and began to fall. Tiredness crept over him, turning his limbs to lead and his thoughts to shadows, and more than anything now, he wished it were over. His killer squatted opposite him, and together they waited.

  Chapter Two

  Abergarry, August 2018

  He was dead.

  Dead in a ditch with his throat cut, or tossed carelessly onto the verge by an enormous speeding lorry, or... Charis slapped at the steering wheel of her stationary car and took a calming breath. For one thing there were no lorries in this ridiculous little town, enormous or otherwise, and if there were, they’d have been crawling along to accommodate the annoyingly narrow road.

  Fine.

  Which left the passing cutthroat... Shut up – shut up – shut up!