Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  Setting up this deal had been a clever move on Don’s part, she acknowledged with reluctant appreciation; all he’d needed was her confirmation that the statues were still out there, and he’d offered to find them. Lo and behold, a scant few weeks later, there they were. Perfect!

  Too perfect.

  How fortunate then, that she remembered Don Bradley of old. Rob Doohan had done his godfatherly duty and looked out for her, which included telling her about the barely perceptible flaw Dougie Cameron had built into the bases of the figurines her father had commissioned. Just in case, he’d said. No-one else alive knew about that flaw, and it was odds-on Andy was right, and that Don was trying to fob her off with fakes, but eventually his greed would lead her to the real thing, and the missing part of the Spence collection. All of it, including the most important piece. And then they would have a long talk about what he deserved for crossing her.

  Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX was a seething cliché of shrieking children, harassed businessmen and women, and sunburned tourists. Bradley… Christ, he was everywhere! Sarah was momentarily transfixed as the iconic clock tower came to life with its hourly show, then she shook it off and made her way to the British Airways desk. She tried to ignore the noise, focusing instead on the PA system announcements; delays were something she couldn’t afford if she were to make the connecting flight from Heathrow to Inverness. Time was short, and getting shorter well out of proportion to the tale told by that gorgeous clock… Thank goodness she only had cabin luggage, so at least checking in was quick and automated.

  She bought a magazine, and some pills for the headache that pushed at the side of her skull, and tried not to think too far ahead in case the frustration sent her over the edge. It was all taking so long, and in the meantime, in Scotland, things were getting rapidly out of control.

  Finally boarded and belted, Sarah tried to concentrate on the magazine, but it wasn’t working. All she could see was Don’s face, at least as she remembered it, but she had no idea how he’d fared in the battle with the last thirty years. He’d been quite attractive back in the day; six years older than her, a police officer, and therefore naturally quite exciting to a sixteen-year-old. He’d seemed such a man of the world – turned out to be more of a man in his own head, but it’d been okay for a while. Useful enough, and they’d kept their secret on-off thing going right up until she’d left Scotland. He’d probably still be handsome now; he’d had those sort of looks that would age quite gracefully as long as he’d taken care of himself. But no matter – if seduction turned out to be the key to getting back what was hers, she’d fuck a stoat if it asked nicely.

  She made short work of letting the woman in the seat next to her know she was not looking for a travelling companion, and then, left blissfully in peace, found she was able to focus on the task ahead without feeling that time was overtaking her; she would lose another fifteen hours on the combined flights, but still things weren’t as dire as they’d seemed. Everyone had to sleep, after all.

  Once in Inverness, she would be able to collect the one item she hadn’t been able to risk bringing with her, and the ammunition to go with it. Then, a hire car to the good, and armed, she should be able to make her old home by late Sunday afternoon. The little boy wouldn’t be a problem now, and she’d be able to deal with Don as the situation dictated.

  After that it was just a case of finding the Fury. She closed her eyes and willed the treasured image to the front of her mind. As always it took very little effort, and the glowing, shifting fire, vivid against the darkness of the stone, gradually changed to flames of a very different kind: fire that was almost as hypnotic, fire that instilled a sense of terror and awe, and that had led her to be sitting here, now, with enough money to buy and sell Don Bradley a hundred times over, with or without the missing third of the Spence collection.

  But that collection, and the glowing, dark heart of it, was hers by rights, thanks to her father’s enterprise, and she meant to have it. She wondered how good this private detective Andy had hired was, and if he had the local knowledge he’d undoubtedly need. Andy hadn’t told her much about him, just that the office was a shambles, the place was about to fold by the looks of it, and the agency was evidently relieved to have a high-paying client to take the financial load off. Good; he’d be more likely to want to do the job right.

  She pondered the name: Paul Mackenzie. The name was as neutral as it could be, but still something about it tugged at her memory. She had a vague image of a tallish kid, but he must have been a lot younger than her, otherwise she’d have paid more attention; she’d always liked them tall. Andy was tall too, and athletic – even after all this time she responded to him physically, but he was weak. As long as he did as he was told he’d be fine, but loose ends were loose ends, and Sarah was nothing if not thorough.

  Glenlowrie Estate

  Jamie coughed. It was a dry, hacking sound, signalling the onset of another attack, and he instinctively raised his inhaler before he remembered and threw it away miserably. This had all begun to feel like a dream, too terrible to be really happening. Even now, as he sat huddled around his knees on the cold stone floor, it all seemed removed from him in some way; as if he were reading about it, or even watching it on TV. He coughed again. That was how it had all started, back there in the safety and warmth of the hotel, a simple dry cough.

  He’d lain in his deep, comfortable bed, wondering what had triggered it this time. Then he’d felt the scratchy prickle on his cheek. Feather pillows. Ugh! He sat up and reached for his inhaler, and then his T shirt, and spread the shirt on the pillow as a barrier.

  The cough came again, and with it a familiar tight feeling across his chest. Wheezing and frustrated, Jamie flung his pillows onto the floor and gave himself two puffs of Salbutamol. His airways loosened, but when he looked around for something to freshen his mouth he saw the glass of water by the bed had gone cloudy, and probably wouldn’t taste any better than the medicine. At least the room had a little bathroom on the side, which was pretty cool.

  On his way to re-fill the glass, he remembered the vending machine he’d seen at the far end of the corridor, and his taste buds woke up; a Coke would be way nicer than warmish water. Practically feeling the fizz dancing on his furry tongue already, he quickly dragged his jeans on over his pyjamas, stuffed his inhaler into the pocket, and pulled his jumper on in case anyone saw him.

  He’d kicked his shoes right under the bed when he got undressed, but he didn’t need them anyway; this place had carpets posher than anywhere he’d ever seen. He patted his pockets for the last two-pound coin to his name, then padded barefoot to the door and unlocked it, hoping his mother wasn’t on her way back; Coke was a no-no, even on holiday – it was water or nothing at this time of night. He considered wedging the door open with one of their bags, but picked up the key instead. If she caught him outside the room against her orders she’d be annoyed enough, but leaving the room unlocked, especially after what had happened with the tent, would send her ballistic.

  There was no-one in the corridor, and Jamie carefully locked the door behind him and fixed his gaze on the glass-fronted machine near the top of the stairs. Maybe he could even spend the rest on a Mars Bar, then claim he’d lost the coin on the moors.

  Suddenly sure his mother would appear on the stairs, summoned by the lie that had popped into his head, he ran to the machine. He punched the button for the chocolate first, that being the bigger offence.

  His change clunked too loudly into the little tray, and as Jamie double-checked the number for Coke, he heard someone coming up the stairs. They hadn’t rounded the corner yet – it could be anyone, but equally, it could be his mother; she’d been downstairs for at least twenty minutes and was probably getting twitchy by now, as usual. He bit his lip, glancing at the machine, then at the stairs... He’d never have time to run back to his room without being seen, and if she caught him running she’d want to know what the hell he was doing anyway.


  Nothing else for it; he’d just have to wait, and if it was her, he’d sacrifice the Coke and select water instead. Pretending to stare intently at the choices, he felt his heart speed up as his gaze slid sideways and he recognised the figure who rounded the corner. Not his mother, but the American. Jamie felt the grin spread over his face; this was his chance to prove he wasn’t just playing, and his mother couldn’t be annoyed with him being out of bed if he were performing a public duty.

  He could see it now, like they did in the old films Mum liked watching. Black and white newspapers spinning up, bigger and bigger until the headlines filled the screen:

  Whizza Whizza Whizza Whizza – BAM! Ten-year-old Solves Highland Mystery!

  Whizza Whizza Whizza Whizza – BAM! Villains Caught by Intrepid Young Investigator! Whizza Whizza Whizza Whizza – BAM! American Gangster Outwitted by Liverpool Boy!

  Jamie checked for his notebook; it was still there in his back pocket, complete with the tiny pen he’d ‘borrowed’ from the Lotto station at the motorway services on the way up. He slid, without really thinking, into the gap between the vending machine and the wall, but the gap wasn’t very big and the American only had to glance to his left to see him there. As he did so, his expression was a strange one; narrow-eyed annoyance fading quickly into a tight smile that didn’t look at all happy.

  ‘I’m, uh, just getting a Coke,’ Jamie croaked, not even sure why he felt he had to explain his presence. The excitement of imagining those headlines was replaced by sudden fear as the American flicked a glance behind him to check they were alone, then stepped close, effectively pinning Jamie into his little corner.

  ‘I’ve about had it up to here with you,’ he said, ‘but you’ve saved me a job.’ The accent didn’t sound at all cool any more; his voice was flat and held no expression at all. Jamie squeezed further back, and yelped as a hand shot out and seized his wrist. He tried to tug away, but the grip was hard and didn’t budge.

  ‘You’re coming with me, and if you so much as whisper, I’m going to take this key and shove it right through your eyeball until it pops. Got me?’

  Jamie’s breath clamped off as the key appeared in front of his right eye, close enough to brush the lashes. He closed both his eyes tight, scared to nod in case the key jabbed him anyway. The notion that anyone could have been play-acting was wiped away completely; this was too real.

  He grunted as he was pulled out into the corridor, and stared at the stairwell in the frantic hopes of seeing a friendly face; his mother, a comfortingly outraged fellow guest, anyone. But no-one appeared, and the next moment he was pushed into a room identical to his own. It smelled horrible, like his dad’s car used to.

  Immediately the cough started up again – that smell always did it. Aftershave or something; it tickled, made him cough, and then it got hard to breathe. The moment the thought crossed his mind, it became reality. His chest locked up and his fingers found the inhaler in his pocket, but before he could take it out, the American seized both his arms and pulled them behind his back.

  ‘No, please!’ It came out as nothing more than a thin, wheezing whistle, and Jamie struggled to turn, but the man’s grip was too strong.

  ‘What did I tell you? Shut your mouth!’

  The American’s grip changed, and as Jamie felt something cool and rough wrapped around his wrists, he did the only thing he could think of; he let his knees buckle and slumped to the floor. It hurt his arms but it was worth it; the half-tied leather belt whipped apart, and as the American reached down to drag him up again, Jamie wriggled away, giving himself enough time to grab the inhaler from his jeans. He slammed it into his mouth, triggering relief in the same moment. Able to breathe again, his focus on the man standing over him cleared, and Jamie saw with surprise that he seemed suddenly uncertain.

  ‘Shit. I’m...sorry. That must have been – look, I’ve got orders, okay?’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone anything, I promise,’ Jamie said, hope propelling him to his feet, but the man shook his head.

  ‘Like I said, orders.’

  Jamie was mortified to feel the prickle of tears at the back of his nose and eyes. He gripped his inhaler tight, and the man glared at him with mounting exasperation.

  ‘Okay! I won’t tie you – you look like you’re gonna need that thing again.’ The tone hardened again. ‘But you’re coming with me, and there’s a new deal on the table, okay? You make me wish I hadn’t laid eyes on you, and I’ll see that your mom regrets it.’

  Cold swept Jamie from head to toe and he started to shake. The accent might be different, but the words might as easily have been his dad’s. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Me? Nothing. But you know that big Scottish guy you’ve seen hanging around with me? I guess you know he’s got a pretty mean streak. He already has reason to think your mom is trouble, and he’s just a phone call away. See?’

  Jamie nodded, silent, but the tears spilled over as the American pulled him towards the door. The corridor was still empty, and it only took a moment for them to reach the fire door to the back staircase. As he passed his own room, he gave it a longing look. If he’d left the door wedged open after all he would have seen the messed up bed, and the pillows on the floor where he’d shoved them in a fit of annoyance... The sheets were probably even still warm.

  The door at the end led out to a chilly stairwell, and as they descended the bare concrete steps Jamie felt a cold pressure on the back of his neck, at the base of his skull.

  ‘We meet anyone out here and you paste a smile on, okay? This key could do as much damage to your spinal cord as it could to your eyeball.’

  Jamie didn’t answer, but he couldn’t help wondering why, if this man was such a big villain, he hadn’t threatened him with a gun, or at least a knife – what was all this stupid key stuff about? He found a spark of hope in it, simply because it was stupid, and with that came the confidence to ask for something to drink.

  ‘You made me leave my Coke in the machine,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I’ll see what I’ve got when we get in the car. Now move it.’ The American really sounded worried now; his voice was tight, and Jamie could tell without looking that he was checking behind them, as well as ahead, to ensure they were still alone.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Jamie saw the corridor that led back in to the lobby, but the idea of catching someone’s attention faded, as they went out through a side door instead and emerged onto a path beside the river. To Jamie’s surprise it was still quite light, and he heard the American curse under his breath as if he were surprised too. And annoyed.

  He saw their own hire car, parked slightly skewed in his mother’s typical hurried way, with her favourite smiley-face air freshener and the mess of sleeping bags and clothing on the back seat; it all looked so normal he felt like crying again. His bare feet shrank from the hard ground, and he stopped still, wanting to reach down and brush the soles to loosen the gravel that was stuck in his skin, but not daring to.

  Pressure from the key on the back of his neck forced him to limp onwards. He might have thought the key a stupid weapon, but it was starting to hurt – it was easier to believe now that it could do him some real harm. He still had his own in his pocket, but there was no question of reaching for it and trying to return the threat. The American hustled him across to his own vehicle, and as Jamie lay trembling on the back seat of the big posh car he’d admired so much earlier, he wondered how real that threat to his mother was.

  The Scottish man had seemed okay, but tough. Jamie remembered the coldness of his expression when he’d looked at his mother, and she clearly hadn’t trusted him either. Maybe she would go to that nice bloke in the shop where they’d found Aunty Suze’s present, and ask for his help; she’d liked him, and he’d seemed like he would be good in a fight. In the meantime he himself would do exactly as he was told, and it would all be okay. As soon as whatever the American was doing was finished it would all go back to normal; it had to.

  The drive s
eemed to last for hours, and it had grown dark, but Jamie’s watch was back on the bedside table in the hotel. He’d been allowed to sit up once they were out of town, but the road wound through tight bends, rose and dipped, and rose again, leaving him feeling queasy nevertheless.

  The car doors were all locked, but one glance out of his window told him that, even if they hadn’t been, to try and jump from the car would be the very worst thing he could do. On one side was the high, steep mountainside, where he’d be caught instantly, and then who knew what would happen? The other side fell away from them, the bottom too far down to see, the ground littered with boulders and gorse bushes; it was lit up by the car’s headlights for a second, then plunged back into cold darkness.

  Finally they stopped outside an old stone building, crumbling at both ends and with gaping, dark holes in the roof. There was a sound from the hill nearby, which was hard to identify for a moment, but which Jamie finally recognised as tumbling water. The thought of it, cold and fresh, made his mouth feel dryer than ever.

  The American left the car’s lights on and the engine running, while he half pulled, half carried Jamie to the broken front door and kicked it open. Once inside, Jamie felt his chest tighten immediately in the musty, mouldy atmosphere. He coughed, the loud barking sound coming back at him strangely from the uneven walls and ceiling. He couldn’t stay here...

  ‘I’ll die,’ he pleaded, beginning to cry again. He took a blast from his inhaler and tried to hang back as his captor strode to the end of the short passage, pulling him along.