Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  Jamie had only been out of sight for a couple of minutes. Sitting in the car, trying to ignore the swiftly descending twilight, Charis had managed a carefree wave as the boy rounded the corner of what appeared to be the local library-cum-council buildings, but the moment he was out of sight she had felt the familiar tension seize the back of her neck.

  She’d reminded herself that he always carried his inhaler, and that out of sight was a million times safer here than back home in Liverpool, but it hadn’t helped. What might have, would have been giving in to his frequent requests for a mobile phone, but she’d decided he should wait until he started secondary school. Then again, he’d probably end up getting mugged for it, unless he put more flesh and muscle on those bones before September... It was a moot point anyway; her own phone was sitting happily at home on its charger, so who could he have called?

  Charis tossed her cooling chip supper onto the passenger seat next to her son’s and got out of the car. She was just going to stretch her legs, nothing else. Perfectly natural. After all, she’d promised herself she’d loosen the reins a bit this holiday, and it was still light-ish, despite the miserable Scottish weather. The town was only marginally more lively than the local cemetery, and Jamie was just around the corner. This voice of reason tried to edge aside her swiftly rising paranoia.

  He’s completely safe.

  But he’s only little—

  He’s got to learn to stand alone.

  But he needs me—

  Daniel isn’t here.

  And there it was. Jamie’s father wasn’t here to rest dangerously glittering eyes on a child too young to read the warning signs, and to then turn back to her with a single, raised eyebrow that she could read all too well. He wasn’t here to take her aside and explain, in earnest and reasonable tones, exactly what he would have to do if a misdemeanour happened twice. He wasn’t here; he was locked up. Yet in Charis’s mind phantom hands were still raised against Jamie around every corner, even now, when all the poor kid wanted was a pee against the wall, out of sight of his mother. How long did it take to offload half a can of Sprite anyway?

  She walked faster. At the back of the building was a wide, flat, grassy area, with a few benches and no ten-year-old boy. By the time Charis reached the last corner of the building she was running, and as she rounded it, a small, bumpy tornado knocked the breath out of her and she stumbled, clutching at the wall. The rough stone scraped the skin from the tips of her fingers, and she sucked them, smothering her curses while a distracted Jamie apologised, flapping his hands in excitement.

  ‘But you’ll never believe what I just heard!’

  Charis removed her fingers from her mouth and kept her tone deliberately dry, to disguise her relief. ‘Try me.’

  ‘Well, there was this American on his phone, talking about statues or something, and…’ He paused, momentarily unsure. ‘It was a bit muffled – I thought he said something about buying two cards.’ He brightened again. ‘But it was dead dodgy, I could tell. We should go to the police.’

  ‘Jay…’ Charis began, then shook her head. ‘Never mind, your chips are getting cold.’ She started back to the car in his scampering wake, not sure whether to laugh or scream. Thanks to Charis giving him her own stash of childhood books, Jamie was now convinced everything was either part of a master plan by a mad scientist, or a plot to abduct some foreign dignitary or other... Charis had worshipped Enid Blyton growing up, but right now she could cheerfully have strangled her.

  She let her excited son into the car. ‘If you seriously think I’m bothering the police with this, you can think again.’

  ‘But he was American!’

  Charis hid the twitch of a smile. ‘Last I heard, that’s not a crime,’ she pointed out. ‘Being born in the States doesn’t mean you’ll grow up to kidnap the...the...Sultan of bloody Swing.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind, it’s a Knopfler thing. Give it a few years.’ She frowned at her congealing meal before screwing up the packet. ‘Anyway, you’ve not told me one single thing we can go to the police with. Now, are you going to finish those or what?’

  Watching her son’s dark head bend over his own supper, searching for the crispiest chips, she had to resist the urge to plant a kiss on the exposed back of his neck; he was growing away and wouldn’t welcome it – he rarely did these days. It both frightened and saddened her, but she had to accept it. Occasionally, however, she’d feel a wave of emotion too strong to ignore, and she’d pull him to her and tell him she loved him, trying not to let it hurt too much when he shrugged away.

  Charis twisted the ignition key and settled for ruffling Jamie’s hair again as she gestured to his seat belt. This time he smiled, his face showing her sweet echoes of the toddler he’d been. Intrepid detective, hungry child – sometimes you just had to cater for both.

  The phone started vibrating just as Paul Mackenzie hooked his crash helmet over the Kawasaki’s handlebar, and he dragged his glove off with his teeth and fumbled the phone out of his pocket. He saw the name flashing on the screen and cursed, but it was unsatisfyingly muffled by wet leather; he spat the glove out and, against his better judgement, answered the call.

  ‘Mr Stein. What can I do for you?’ He sank back down into the saddle, trying not to sound too pissed off, but the caller made no such effort.

  ‘There was a kid here.’ The American’s voice was abrupt and flat.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I was calling Sarah at the time, and I don’t know how much he overheard.’

  Mackenzie briefly closed his eyes. ‘Well, what were you doing calling her out in the open anyway?’

  ‘You have any idea how many places around this shit-hole don’t have a signal? Of course you do – it’s your town.’ Stein’s voice melted into disgust. ‘I take one where I can get it.’

  ‘Aye, right. Look, I’m about to go into a meeting.’ Mackenzie glanced at the impressive old building with the inviting lights glowing at the windows. True enough, it was a meeting of sorts, and despite the outward appeal of the place it was no great pleasure to be here. ‘I can’t just—’

  ‘Whatever. Check it out, okay? Find him, and make sure he’s not going to be any trouble.’

  ‘Find him? You mean he’s gone?’

  ‘Yeah, his mom just drove out of town.’

  ‘His… So he’s an actual kid?’ Mackenzie took a deep breath and spoke again, more calmly than he felt. ‘Mr Stein, why are you calling me, exactly?’

  The voice in his ear grew hard, reminding Mackenzie who was in charge. ‘If this kid convinces his mom to go to the police, we’ll have to pull back. Which means we don’t find what we’re looking for. Your job, you seem to be forgetting, is to make sure we do. That’s why you’re getting paid. That’s why I’m calling you. Now, are you going to check it out or not?’

  Mackenzie lifted the phone away from his ear and longingly eyed a puddle in the middle of the car park. ‘I’ll get onto it first thing tomorrow,’ he said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’ll come to your hotel for breakfast, and you can give me a description. I assume you have a good one?’

  ‘Eight-thirty sharp, Mackenzie, we don’t have long.’

  Mackenzie made sure the connection was broken, then glared at the phone. ‘Jumped up bawbag.’ He looked up at the building again and sighed. Time to get it over with.

  As he walked up to the door, he felt the usual heaviness settle over him; all these years and he’d never been able to bring himself to stick two fingers up and go for a ride instead. The girl on duty smiled, as usual, and showed him to the TV room, as usual. He returned her smile and indicated his preference for coffee, as usual. And, as usual, when Mackenzie took the chair opposite his father, there was no expression of warmth to greet him.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How’ve you been this week?’

  ‘Right enough. For someone who can’t brush his own teeth.’

  Mackenzie counted t
o three and tried again. ‘Had an e-mail from Adrian the other day. You heard anything from him?’

  ‘No.’

  A volunteer assistant arrived with Mackenzie’s coffee and he took it gratefully; anything to provide a distraction. He was aware of his father trying to see round him to the television and moved out of the way, pretending it wasn’t just another of Frank’s ways of making his indifference obvious.

  ‘Does he know you today, Paul?’ the volunteer asked.

  Mackenzie gave her a bitter little smile. ‘He always knows me – that’s the problem.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean there’s nothing wrong with his memory. The stroke hasn’t affected him in that way.’

  ‘Ah, I see. I just thought...well, he never seems...’ The assistant looked flustered, and Mackenzie softened his attitude.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s no secret he’d rather I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Oh, now surely not? Big, handsome lad like you? I’m sure he’s very proud of you.’ At forty-one, ‘lad’ was pushing it somewhat, but Mackenzie gave her a look he hoped conveyed flattered modesty, combined with a polite wish to be left alone. Something appeared to be working today at least, since the woman relaxed.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to your visit. If you need anything, just ask.’

  Mackenzie turned his attention to his father again, gritting his teeth as the old man feigned an interest in a pair of antiques collectors and their finds. The silence stretched until Mackenzie ended up twisting to watch the TV himself, just to ease the embarrassment.

  ‘What does Adrian say?’ Frank asked suddenly. Mackenzie turned back carefully; this was a breakthrough of sorts, but it was better not to read too much into it.

  ‘You know him,’ he said. ‘Mostly talks about how great the weather is over there, and how I should have emigrated with him.’

  ‘Aye, well maybe you should have, then you wouldn’t have to put yourself out to visit me all the time.’

  Mackenzie closed his eyes. What, and miss out on all this fun? He kept his voice steady, patient. ‘I’m not putting myself out, Dad. I like to see how you are, and if you need anything. If you don’t want me to come, just tell me.’

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Leave me to rot here without a spare thought.’

  So it went.

  As usual.

  Mackenzie found himself taking stupid risks on the ride home, but made no effort to curb them. The wet roads glistened, ribboning away into tight, dark curves, and he slammed down his visor and wound the throttle open, discarding any respect for the unpredictable camber as he leaned into the corners. By the time he got home he was breathing hard, and could feel the high colour in his otherwise icy cheeks and the adrenalin still fizzing in his blood. He glanced up at the scudding clouds overhead, and, deciding the rain had probably done its worst for now, he dropped his leather jacket onto the sofa and swapped his bike boots for trainers.

  He set off into the night once again, with no idea why it was taking so long for the emotions to subside this time. Often the ride home would do an admirable job; a skip of the back tyre on wet leaves was enough to jolt anyone out of their bitterness, but tonight he felt the residual tightness in his muscles, even after a two-mile jog through town. He wasn’t even really sure who the anger was aimed at: his father for all those years of heaping guilt upon shoulders too young to bear it; Adrian for buggering off to New Zealand and leaving him to deal with it alone; or himself, for not standing up to his father and telling him exactly how he made him feel. Every week he visited, every sodding week – never missed. And all he got was grief.

  He was jerked out of his sour ruminations by the sound of a car coming up the hill behind him, and he moved in to the side of the road, aware that in black overshirt and black jeans he was hardly a poster boy for Be safe, Be seen. A gleaming Land Rover Discovery, on an 18 plate, rumbled past with a familiar figure behind the wheel: Superintendent Donald Bradley, bless his shrivelled little heart. He must be prematurely celebrating his imminent promotion by getting rid of the Mondeo he’d had for all of twelve months. Should have waited; the new plate came out in a few weeks.

  Mackenzie braced himself for the slowing down of the car, the electric buzzing of the window, the caustic comments... But they never came. He didn’t even think he’d been recognised, which was just as well; he was in the mood to rip the overblown bastard’s wing mirror off and chuck it through the window. Make a bit more trouble for himself, why not?

  Back home, he grabbed the last can of cider from the fridge and drank half the contents in one swallow, then wiped his face on his shirt before flopping onto the sofa and flicking on the TV.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

  There on the screen, Bradley came across as calm, authoritative and, above all, dependable. He had evidently been filmed several hours earlier; daylight still lit his crinkling brown eyes as he talked, with a deep concern even Mackenzie could almost believe, about the crime rate in the Highland region. The interviewer sounded as if he was talking from the muffled confines of the superintendent’s arse – how the hell could so many people be taken in? Bradley wouldn’t care if his own granny got burgled, but if it gave him a chance to show his caring side, he’d be on the telly demanding justice faster than you could say ‘knighthood’.

  By midnight Mackenzie was yawning so widely it was starting to hurt, and he dragged himself off to bed, sighing at the thought of the breakfast meeting that awaited him. He knew exactly how it would go: he wouldn’t be able to hide his irritation with Stein’s constant fussing, Stein would get all up himself, and Mackenzie would go away feeling like a reprimanded child. And sooner or later Don Bradley was going to discover what he was up to.

  Then it would really hit the fan.

  Chapter Three

  Culloden Place, Abergarry

  Tony Clifford watched his daughter as she, in turn, watched her son. Four-year-old Tas was solemnly building a tower out of Lego, and since his uncle Nick had gone upstairs to use the bathroom the carefully selected colour scheme had gone more than a little haywire. Maddy was grinning, no doubt in anticipation of her brother’s return.

  ‘How’s business?’ Tony asked, handing her a mug of coffee and putting one on the table for Nick.

  ‘Pretty grim if I’m honest. A couple of background checks on potential employees, and I’m about to wrap up something for an accountancy firm that Gavin knows. I bet you’re wishing you’d not handed it over to me now.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Tony sank into his chair with a little grunt. Arthritis was a bastard. ‘I couldn’t have done any better.’

  ‘If Arnie were still alive, you could. Brent-Clifford was his baby, so more than either of us, he had that drive to make it work no matter what. And you didn’t need to retire when he died.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that,’ Tony said. ‘Sitting around in the cold, waiting for people to act badly, it was taking its toll on these stupid joints of mine. It’s a youngster’s game.’ He sighed. ‘I still miss Arn.’

  ‘I know you do.’ Maddy gave him a sad little smile over the rim of her cup. ‘He left big shoes to fill.’

  ‘You’ve more than adequately filled them, love. I always worried you’d discover it was a mistake, and go back to nursing.’

  She shook her head. ‘Five years was enough for me.’

  ‘Good news for me, not so good for the NHS.’ He glanced up as his son re-entered the room. ‘Coffee’s on the table, lad.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Nick picked up his drink and sat down cross-legged on the floor again, to resume playing with Tas. He glanced at the new colour scheme, then at his nephew, and gave an exaggerated sigh and shake of the head, making the boy giggle. Tony thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame Nick’s marriage had collapsed before it had given him the chance to be a father. But that marriage had never been anything but a shout of denial anyway, to himself as much as anyone. At least the lad was happier out of it, and
he was a brilliant uncle to Tas.

  Tony returned to his conversation with Maddy. ‘So, all pretty pedestrian then?’

  ‘Yep.’ Maddy blew the steam off her coffee. ‘Our other job is only marginally more interesting; some American is trying to trace his girlfriend’s inheritance. Figurines, apparently not worth much, but of deep sentimental value.’ She sketched air quotes with her free hand. ‘She’s probably seen some antiques show and got all excited.’

  ‘Sounds riveting,’ Tony grinned.

  ‘Aye.’ She flashed him a wry smile. ‘But it’ll probably be the saving of us, for now. You know how badly those employer jobs pay, but the woman’s keen enough, so we’re getting a good fee off that one.’

  ‘Is she local then?’

  ‘Not any more. Used to be, evidently, but she moved to America in ninety-three.’

  ‘Shit!’ Nick stood up, flicking coffee off his hand. ‘Spilled it in the Lego.’

  ‘Uncle Nick!’ Tas’s eyes were round and delighted. ‘Mummy says that’s a bad word!’

  ‘Lego? Aye, well she’s right. Ever knelt on a piece?’

  ‘Go and get some kitchen roll,’ Tony said, and turned his attention back to Maddy. ‘Not the Wallace daughter, is it? From Glenlowrie?’

  ‘Sarah Wallace, yes. You know her?’

  ‘Knew of her family, though we’d only been here a year when the house burned down and she moved away.’

  Nick returned with the roll of paper, and Maddy joined him on the floor, dabbing at the plastic bricks worst hit by the cascade of coffee. ‘You’ve got blood on your sock,’ she pointed out. ‘Cut yourself shaving again?’

  Nick snorted as he adjusted the leg of his jeans again. ‘Very funny. Picked a scab if you must know.’

  ‘Ugh, you’re so revolting.’

  Tony watched them for a moment, sipping at his own drink and enjoying the little domestic scene. Speaking of which…