Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  ‘How’s Gavin?’ he asked Maddy. ‘Any sign of a wedding date yet?’

  ‘No. And you don’t have to ask that every time we come over.’

  He smiled. ‘Your mother would be spinning in her grave, you living in sin like that.’

  ‘She’d love the bones of him though.’ Maddy nodded at Tas. ‘She’d forgive us.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘How about you, Nick?’ Maddy asked. ‘How’s work? Still buying the lotto tickets?’

  Nick pulled a face. ‘As soon as my numbers come up, I’m out.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’ Maddy returned to her chair. ‘I’m amazed you’re still on the force at all, to be honest.’

  ‘I keep hoping things’ll change, and then, out of nowhere, they suddenly don’t.’

  Tony shrugged. ‘Can’t see it’ll ever improve, with the likes of Don Bradley at the helm. I’ve heard the sod’s up for promotion again.’

  ‘Aye, he’ll get it too. Did you see him on the news?’

  ‘Talking about our “precious senior citizens”?’ Maddy shook her head. ‘He gives good interview, you’ve got to give him that.’

  ‘No doubt they’ll run it again tonight, and every day for the next week.’ Tony pulled a face. ‘He’s probably bunged them to do it. You know they think he’s the reason I left the force?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Everyone I worked with back then.’

  ‘Well it was, wasn’t it?’ Maddy pointed out. ‘Not that I can blame you. The constant promotions can’t have helped. How did he swing that, when you were the one doing all the work?’

  ‘Ask Nick. He’s in the same boat I was.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Nick said, abandoning the Lego at last. ‘I never had the same ambition as you, so it never bothered me that I didn’t progress beyond sergeant.’ He stared into what was left of his drink and shrugged. ‘I’m forty-five now; if I’m going to make the leap, I’ll have to do it soon. But I can’t afford to jack it all in, so I just do as I’m told, and I keeping smiling at Bradley and that dead-eyed sergeant he hangs around with.’ He picked up the sodden tissues and went to the kitchen to throw them away.

  Is he okay? Maddy mouthed.

  Tony nodded. I think so. But he wasn’t so sure. For years Nick had only really come alive either at work or when he was spending time with his nephew. Now he was increasingly miserable at his job, to the point of wanting to leave, and Tas was getting older and about to start school – what would he have then?

  ‘Bradley’s just one of those who’ll climb over whoever he has to,’ he said aloud, ‘and Alistair Mulholland is shaping up to be the same, by all accounts. Rarely with his own team, and always sniffing after whatever Bradley tells him to.’

  Maddy nodded. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, Dad, I’m glad you weren’t like that.’

  ‘Thank God for integrity eh? Even if I don’t have a big square house at the posh end of town.’

  ‘I love this house!’ Maddy finished her coffee and checked the clock. ‘Right, time Tas and I were off. He’s got nursery tomorrow.’

  Tas looked up at the sound of his name, and his face fell. ‘Five more minutes?’

  ‘Nope, sorry. Uncle Nick and I will help you put this away.’

  ‘Or,’ Nick suggested as he returned, ‘you could put it away, while I take Tas outside for a five-minute kick-about. How does that sound, wee man?’

  Tas gave a whoop and leapt to his feet, and Maddy gave him a fierce look and appealed to Tony. ‘Was that sneaky or what?’

  Boy and uncle disappeared, and Tony helped his daughter pick up the Lego. Looking at her as she tucked her long red hair behind her ear, his heart lurched with one of those strange and wonderful surges of love that strike most parents now and again. She’d been a damned good nurse, and now she was a damned good investigator, but something was still missing in her; she was almost a cardboard-cut-out at times, even with him. Perhaps she’d have been different had her mother lived; perhaps he was the one at fault, and he hadn’t given her what she’d needed?

  And Nick too – he had always been lively and humorous as a child, but as a young adult he’d grown more and more withdrawn. Now they knew why, of course; coming out to Tony, after his mother’s death, had helped a little, but it had been easier for the boy not to engage at all than to try and answer questions he’d still been asking himself.

  ‘You know what we were just saying, Mads,’ he said, his gaze going to the window through which he could see Nick and Tas getting happily muddied.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Superintendent Bradley.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I was thinking of asking Nick to help. You know, to get something on him.’

  Maddy stared, and he could see at least a hundred questions flit across her face. ‘What?’ was all she managed.

  ‘I think he’s probably in the perfect position to help me find the evidence that’ll break the bastard wide open.’

  ‘You suspect Bradley of something in particular, don’t you? What is it?’

  Tony hesitated, then shook his head. ‘I don’t want to say yet. But if Nick can—’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Maddy picked up the Lego bucket and stood up. ‘You haven’t got a hope in hell’s chance anyway, but you can’t ask him.’

  ‘I think he’d help.’

  ‘He wouldn’t! He’d never do it before, when you ran the agency, would he? He’s straight down the line, you know he is. He takes his lead from you and your reputation.’ Maddy cast about for somewhere to put the bucket, and Tony half-expected her to throw it at him. ‘If he gets caught helping you, particularly with anything to do with Bradley, he’ll lose everything.’

  ‘He won’t get caught,’ Tony said calmly. ‘I just want him to find out a couple of things.’

  ‘And then what? Anything you find will be inadmissible anyway, and Nick will be kicked off the force. It’s lose–lose!’

  ‘I’m not planning on taking it to court. I just…need to know.’

  ‘In that case, whatever it is, just leave it. And anyway you heard him – he can’t leave yet for his own reasons, so why should you make him leave for yours?’

  Tony looked out at Nick and Tas again, and wished he hadn’t said anything. ‘All right. I’m still going to mention it, but I promise I won’t try and force him.’

  ‘Good.’ Maddy sighed and dropped the confrontational tone. ‘I worry for Nick, you know that. He’s not nearly as robust as he seems.’

  ‘The lad’s fine!’ Tony protested. ‘He might be a bit quiet now, but he’s a different man once he’s in uniform—’ Too late, he realised he’d played into her hands.

  ‘Exactly. And you’d risk that?’ She shook her head. ‘Give them a shout while I nip to the loo. I’ll give Nick a lift home too.’

  After the three of them had left, Tony sat in his chair musing over what Maddy had said about the Wallace woman, Sarah, and her inheritance. Why now, after all this time? Had Sarah only just learned of it? If so, who had told her, and why had they waited?

  He told himself to switch off the police brain, or he’d never sleep that night, but that was easier said than done, and eventually, despite his determination to steer clear, his mind turned to the other major event of 1993: the murder of Dougie Cameron.

  Dougie had been ten years older than Tony, but they had got on well enough. He had owned the little knick-knack shop now run by his son in Inverlochy Court, and Tony had quite often bought twee little gifts there for his wife, and then for Maddy. It was the son who had made the gruesome discovery, the day after the bank holiday, when he’d noticed the shop hadn’t been opened up… Poor lad. Twenty-one years old, just back from a music festival with his pals, full of the joys of a new relationship, and then to find his father, slumped in a pool of blood on the workroom floor. Dougie had been well liked in Abergarry, and this kind of crime was rare and frightening in such a quiet town.

  DI Bradley had been on leave since the Sunday
before, and Tony Clifford was seconded to CID in his place. The shop in Inverlochy Court had been gone over with a fine-toothed comb, but after several weeks of intense search, all they had was the weapon. The murderer hadn’t even attempted to hide it, but the only prints on the chisel were Dougie’s own. Motive for the break-in was clear enough though; the place was a wreck, and the till and safe both empty. Dougie’s decision to work on his bank holiday had ended up costing him more than a weekend’s takings.

  The time of death was an odd one too: sometime in the mid-morning, not night-time, as you’d expect for a break-in. Tony also queried this, but the DCI in charge shrugged.

  ‘Probably didn’t want to alert anyone in the buildings nearby. Noises during the day are far less likely to attract attention, even if the shop’s not open. It’s a workshop, after all.’

  ‘Didn’t any of the shops have CCTV running?’

  The DCI raised an eyebrow. ‘In Inverlochy Court?’

  ‘Well, they probably will now,’ Tony said grimly. ‘Too late.’

  And so the investigation remained unsolved, and life moved on. There was just that little thing. That tiny little thing that might not have meant anything, but had been the advent of Tony’s and Don Bradley’s icy relationship.

  Janet Bradley had been in the front office at the Abergarry station, waiting for her husband to take her to lunch; Tony, back to his usual role, was duty sergeant. It was a quiet day; no-one else was there, and the silence had become embarrassingly acute. Tony eventually cleared his throat and asked after the Bradleys’ recent Spanish holiday.

  ‘Oh God! Never travel on a weekday,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘We thought once the bank holiday was out of the way we’d be fine, but it was a complete nightmare.’

  He smiled politely, then her words registered. ‘Weekday? I thought you were flying out on the Sunday?’

  ‘No, Tuesday. Don was called in to the Inverness station over the weekend, covering for someone.’

  Tony said nothing, but later, when he and Bradley were working in the same office, he brought the subject up again.

  ‘Would you recommend Alicante? I was thinking of taking Maddy away for a few days.’

  Bradley stopped his laboured, one-finger typing and looked at him, surprised. They didn’t actively dislike one another at that point, but small talk wasn’t something in which they usually engaged either. ‘How old’s your daughter?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  Bradley considered. ‘Aye, she’ll like it well enough.’ He returned to squinting at his screen.

  ‘What about flying? Was it packed on the weekday flight?’

  ‘We flew out on Sunday. It wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  In the ensuing pause, Bradley’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Only…your wife said you left on Tuesday.’

  Bradley’s face froze for a moment, and Tony could see the cogs whirring. He began to get an uneasy feeling, then Bradley smiled.

  ‘No, you’re right. I was thinking of our last trip out there. We did fly on the Tuesday this time. As I recall it was a bit crowded, but that’s probably because of the bank holiday. You should be fine.’

  Tony had smiled back, he remembered now, but from that moment he’d never quite been able to trust the man. Had he lied to his wife about where he’d been that weekend, or to everyone else? The thought had naturally and immediately occurred that Bradley had something to do with Cameron’s death, but even as he worked through every possible angle, he could find no connection between the two men, and no motive. Still, the niggling doubts had never gone away, and the re-ignited suspicions were burning again. There had to be a link somewhere.

  Chapter Four

  Inverness DHQ Police Station

  FAO Superintendent Donald Bradley

  Dear Sir,

  As president and spokesperson of the Abergarry Senior Residents’ Group, I am writing to express our concern over the way crime against the elderly and other vulnerable groups has escalated recently. It has been noted that you are one of the few high-ranking officials who actually seem to care about this, and our letter to the new Chief Constable, when he or she is appointed, will reflect our gratitude – Bradley smiled. We would like to ask if you’d be so kind as to come and give a talk on how best to protect ourselves against...

  ‘No, thanks.’ Bradley tossed the letter onto his desk and checked his watch for the fifth time. Perhaps Mulholland had misread his text and was waiting for him over at Abergarry station instead, though he’d told him he was here in Inverness this week. As he reached for the phone there was a brisk knock, and a narrow face peered around the door.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, sir, traffic on the A82—’

  ‘Bollocks, sergeant.’ Bradley folded his arms and waited until Alistair Mulholland had seated himself opposite, noting with satisfaction how the younger man kept to the edge of his chair, his hands tucked under his thighs; it wouldn’t do for him to get too comfortable and forget his place.

  ‘Right,’ he said, when Mulholland had stopped fidgeting, ‘first things first. Has Stein finally made up his mind to buy the figurines off us?’

  Mulholland’s tone was as flat as ever. ‘He said he had to call Sarah. Needs her to give him the go-ahead.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘Yesterday, around six.’

  ‘Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Call him. Not on this phone, you numpty! Use your mobile.’

  Bradley had been waiting for thirty years for this, but suddenly every minute stretched interminably. He unfolded his arms and turned to look out of the window, glad for once that the weather made his view flat and grey. He needed no distractions; he had to think. No second chances – if Stein discovered that these figurines were fakes it would all be over. He could hardly believe that, after all this time, it was resting on the report of some American lapdog who’d never even seen the originals.

  Mulholland had evidently reached Stein’s phone, and Bradley’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair as he listened. Funny how the sergeant could sound as friendly as the next person when he really wanted to.

  ‘Andy? It’s Alistair. I trust you slept well? Aye, it’s a great wee hotel. Great prices too, eh?’ A laugh. ‘It’s worth it though. Listen, I don’t want to push, but have you decided yet? Only, these are quite beautiful pieces in their own right, and of course I’ve others interested. Have you no seen Cash in the Attic?’ Another quick, dry laugh. ‘No, of course. I’m sure you have your own versions though. Anyway, I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast. Bye then!’ He tossed his phone onto the table, and Bradley waited, outwardly patient but feeling the scream building behind his eyes.

  ‘Well?’ he blurted at last.

  ‘He’s going for it. He’ll call me later, let me know the details.’

  Bradley resisted the urge to punch the air, and instead nodded. ‘Thank you, Alistair. Now, on to other matters.’ As if anything else could matter. Still, life went on, and he suddenly felt well disposed towards everyone. He picked up the letter he’d cast away just a few minutes ago. ‘I need to arrange a visit with the A.S.R.G. to discuss personal safety issues. Send the admin assistant in on your way out, would you?’

  As Mulholland left the room, Bradley allowed a smile to stretch across his face. It felt strange, as if he hadn’t smiled properly in weeks, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t. Since he’d first commissioned the new versions of these figurines, he’d been checking over his shoulder, acutely aware of the vulnerability afforded by his rank. Thank God then for a willing, if dense, dogsbody.

  Alistair Mulholland was basically what he himself had been thirty years ago, when Duncan Wallace had approached him with a proposition that would take thirty years to yield its rewards. Though he abhorred the knowledge that he’d in fact been nothing more than some privileged landowner’s errand boy, Bradley couldn’t deny he’d been paid generously for it, and here was Mulholland carrying
on the tradition. Granted, the wages weren’t on the same scale, but Mulholland seemed a man of simple tastes, and as such didn’t have the same high expectations as the young PC Bradley. Besides, Bradley had worked a lot harder for his money; Mulholland hadn’t had to kill anyone.

  So far.

  The Burnside Hotel, Abergarry

  Mackenzie laid down his fork as Stein ended the phone call. ‘You’re not actually going to buy them?’

  ‘What do you think? All I’m buying is a little time. Sarah’s relying on me, and while she is, she’s not going to be cheated out of her rightful property by some greasy pork belly in a uniform.’

  Mackenzie began to eat again, quietly enjoying the description of Bradley, but had to ask. ‘And you’re sure these are fakes?’

  ‘Absolutely. Sarah told me about this inbuilt flaw in the bases of the ones that had belonged to her father, so she must have known this son-of-a-bitch would try to rip her off someday. I checked these three; they’re smooth as a Mercedes sales pitch.’ He sat forward. ‘Look, we’re almost there with nailing this creep, and what I don’t need is for him to get the wind up his tail and run. That kid hanging around could jeopardise this whole deal.’

  Mackenzie dropped his fork again. ‘Oh, come on! You’re not serious about that, surely? How old did you say he was?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t do kids’ ages. I’d guess maybe eight, nine?’

  ‘And you think he—’ Mackenzie held up a conciliatory hand as Stein fixed his cool grey eyes on him. ‘Okay, I’ll keep an eye out. But if you want me to track down your girlfriend’s actual inheritance, you’re going to have to stop calling me to heel to deal with stuff like this.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Am I pulling you off a major lead?’

  Mackenzie let the sarcasm ripple over him, but his insides tightened. ‘Why don’t you just let me do my job, Mr Stein? I’ll check out the boy for you, warn him off, but your dealings with Bradley really don’t have anything to do with why you hired me.’