Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  ‘All right! I’m putting the gun down. Here.’ She laid it on the floor and shoved it away with her foot. As Mulholland’s torch followed its path, Charis dug into her pocket and pulled out the stone she had put there earlier. No good as a weapon, perhaps, but beyond value now. She waved it quickly in front of Mulholland’s face. ‘Here’s your precious Fury!’

  She threw it, as hard as she could, and Mulholland instinctively lifted his arms to shield his face, but Charis had thrown it at the window, where it hit the last remaining pane and sailed out into the night beyond, amid the tinkling of broken glass. At the same time she heard a low thudding sound from the direction of the valley; she couldn’t place it, but Mulholland had heard it too. He stared at her in shock and indecision, and Charis was certain he was going to shoot them both. Then the noise from outside slotted into its recognised place; it was a helicopter.

  Mulholland took one last look at her and Mackenzie, and turned to run outside. It was the only sensible thing for him to do; at the moment he could still claim to be on the right side of the law. The helicopter was coming closer, but underneath the sound Charis could hear Mulholland scrabbling around outside, searching for the Fury before it became too late and he’d have to run. She tucked the real thing into her pocket and knelt beside Mackenzie, where for the first time she felt the terrifying heat of him through his shirt. He shouldn’t be this hot... She could only see the vague outline of his form, but when she tentatively placed a hand at his injured shoulder she felt the sharp edge of bone beneath her fingers and smelled the rich, metallic scent of fresh blood. His shirt was drenched in it.

  ‘Hang on, Mackenzie,’ she whispered, not even knowing if he could hear her. She scrambled across to where she thought Maddy’s gun had come to rest, and groped around the floor until she felt it, hard and icy, and no longer frightening to touch. If Mulholland came back in she’d be ready.

  But he didn’t. Instead, the heavy chopping sound of the helicopter’s blades grew louder, and a moment later light flooded the cottage and a calm, dispassionate voice urged everyone to come out with their hands raised. Charis willed her feet to move but they wouldn’t. She had nothing left. Her cheek throbbed, and she could feel it was slick with blood where Mulholland’s gun barrel had torn the skin. Besides, how could she leave Mackenzie? She ached all over; her heart was cramping with fear for him and for Jamie, and even for Maddy, and although she was taut as a zip wire and her nerves jumped with every new sound, she was utterly drained.

  The voice came again, and the hovering machine sent tiny stones pinging off the cars outside and in through the broken window. Charis finally found the strength to pull herself to her feet, and to leave Mackenzie where he half-sat against the wall. She emerged into the artificial light, blinking, her hands above her head, and only realising she still held Maddy’s gun when the voice ordered her to place it on the ground and lie down. To her horror she saw a tiny red light dancing across her sweatshirt, and dropped hurriedly to her knees. As she stretched out on the wet, stony ground she heard feet scuffling nearby.

  ‘Is anyone else in there armed?’ a voice demanded.

  She tried to shake her head, but she was too frightened to raise it, and her cheek burst into fiery new pain as it rubbed the ground.

  ‘Where’s Paul Mackenzie? He’s not in the valley. Where is he?’

  ‘Inside!’ she sobbed. ‘Please help him!’ The downdraught from the helicopter was tugging at her short hair, and she could feel the uneven, wet ground pressing into her as she tried to push herself flatter against it. Where had the help come from? Had Maddy found Jamie and called the police? Perhaps they were all safe back in Abergarry now…

  She heard a voice, closer now, and a hand on her back urged her to stand. The voice was kind, but the cuffs were real, and as they clicked shut she wondered bemusedly if they thought she was the one who’d hurt Mackenzie, and how long it would be before they realised their mistake and set her free to find Jamie. It was only as the officer’s words sank in that she remembered the gun.

  ‘Charis Boulton, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sarah Wallace. You do not have to say anything…’

  Abergarry

  An air of unreality still enveloped Charis as she entered the police station, but it was quickly dispelled by the sour smell of vomit and stale beer. Weekends in Outlander country bore a striking resemblance to those back in Liverpool, it seemed.

  ‘Interview room three,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘I’ll call through for Sergeant Clifford to sit in.’ A moment later he hung up. ‘Right, apparently he’s called in sick.’ He sighed. ‘Put her in a cell then, while we arrange for someone. Do you want a solicitor?’

  Charis blinked, confused. Should she ask for one? Didn’t they always assume that that was an admission of guilt?

  ‘Charis!’

  ‘Maddy?’ Charis looked around, suddenly frantic. ‘Where’s Jamie?’

  ‘He’s safe. He’s going to be fine.’ Maddy, pale and tired, came over. ‘What happened to your face?’ The arresting officer, seeing Charis’s silent plea, and evidently recognising Maddy, gave a brief nod. ‘Be quick. And I’ll be listening.’

  ‘Jamie’s at The Belford. The hospital in Fort William,’ she clarified, as Charis looked blankly at her. ‘He faked an attack to get away, but it turned into a real one, so they just want to keep him overnight to be sure.’ She smiled. ‘He’s sitting up and asking for a Coke as we speak.’

  The relief was almost too much for Charis, and she swayed slightly and steadied herself on the countertop. ‘Did you hear about Bradley?’

  ‘Aye, they fished him out from the river at the foot of the Linn of Glenlowrie. What about Mulholland though?’

  ‘No idea. Hiding? Waiting for them to finish up at the cottage so he can go back to hunting for that bloody rock?’

  ‘Or going after Ben Cameron,’ Maddy said grimly. ‘Seems he’s the other loose end.’

  ‘What do we do about that?’

  ‘I’ve told the police; they’ve put a guard outside Cameron’s house.’

  ‘They think I murdered Sarah Wallace,’ Charis began, but at those words the police officer cut her off.

  ‘That’s enough. Come on.’

  ‘Do you need a legal rep?’ Maddy called after her.

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘I’m going back to The Belford, but I’ll call Gavin.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ the officer insisted, punching a code into the lock. ‘You’ll have to arrange a visit once you’ve been processed.’

  Beyond the bustle of the front office, Charis felt that veil of unreality descend again. She was no longer handcuffed, but the walls seemed to press in, separating her from the world, from Jamie, from Mackenzie… The confidence of a few minutes ago was starting to dissipate. What if they didn’t believe her after all?

  A door banged at the far end of the corridor, and Charis’s fearful musings were cut short as she recognised the voice drifting down to meet her. ‘Ah, there’s the one who’ll tell you. Charis-with-a-c-h!’

  She stopped, her heart slithering with revulsion and a resurgence of fear. ‘What are you still doing here, Daniel?’

  ‘A big misunderstanding. Your friend seems to think I’m the one who gave you that bruise. Tell them I’d never hurt a fly.’

  ‘Good news for flies.’ Charis fingered her jaw and wondered if, between his blow and Mulholland’s, she even looked like herself any more. ‘I could do you for assault on top of everything else.’

  Daniel’s tone was reasonable, as ever. ‘Love, be sensible. Think of what it’ll do to the…to Jamie if we’re both arrested.’

  ‘He’d survive.’ Her cold tone was clearly having an effect now; the last vestige of his false charm fell away, and he gave her a tight smile as he was drawn past her down the corridor.

  ‘I saw your friend’s little dress-up kit on the back seat of her car. That’s up to six months.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mad
dy wasn’t stupid; she’d have whisked the incriminating uniform out of the car before she called the police in. ‘I won’t lie to protect you any more, Daniel. You’re a coward and a thief, and if I’ve learned anything off the telly, you’ve just broken your parole conditions.’

  The officers exchanged an interested glance, and Charis smiled. ‘Yes, he’s out on licence for car theft, fraud and three counts of aggravated assault. Probably destroyed a police tag, too. Call Birkenhead, they’ll tell you everything.’

  Restrained as he was, Daniel could only glare at her with impotent anger, but she shrugged. ‘I’ve beaten bigger and scarier things than you, Thorne.’

  ‘Yeah? Surrounded by coppers and private dicks, you’re all talk. But I won’t be in prison forever, and what about when life goes back to normal?’

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘When you come home.’

  Charis found the words slipping out before she’d even thought about them. ‘I am home, you berk.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tony Clifford’s phone buzzed on the bedside table, vibrating its way to the edge. He grabbed it just before it fell off, and blinked at the screen before answering, then at the clock. Just after three am. Instantly his blood started pumping faster and he sat up in bed.

  ‘Mackenzie?’

  ‘No, Dad, it’s me.’

  ‘Maddy! Are you okay? You never turned up for Nick’s birthday.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m fine – don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Why are you using Mackenzie’s phone? Is he okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he will be, but he’s pretty bashed about. He…’ she hesitated, ‘he came off his bike. Look, I’m at The Belford with him. I wondered if you could do me a favour?’

  ‘Aye, of course.’

  ‘I should probably have waited until a more sociable hour to call, but I’ll have to go back to the police station in a bit so this might be my only chance—’

  ‘Police? What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Long story. I’ll explain later, as much as I know, at least, which isn’t a lot.’ Her voice lowered until it was almost a whisper. ‘Look, Bradley’s dead, but I’ve—’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Drowned. I’ll explain later, but I’ve found out which investigation he sabotaged.’

  Tony pressed the phone closer to his ear. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was before we moved here.’

  Tony listened to the story with growing interest, and a great sense of relief. ‘I knew he was dirty.’

  ‘We all did, we just didn’t know how far he’d go to protect Wallace. Look, the other reason I’m calling is that Paul’s going to need some clothes – his are pretty ragged after the crash, and they’ve had to cut them off him anyway.’

  ‘I could lend him some of mine until I can get into his place.’

  ‘It’s okay, there’s a set of his things at the office. You’ve still got your key, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘Good. Later on, when you can, will you fetch them over here for him?’ She sounded tired. Drained. And no wonder.

  ‘Okay. If you need me or Nick to help out, just call.’

  ‘I will. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘And you’re sure you’re okay? You weren’t on the bike with him?’

  ‘No. Look, I’ve got to go. The doctors are ready to let me know what’s going on.’

  ‘Okay, love. Keep me in the loop.’

  She murmured something unintelligible and broke the connection, leaving Tony staring at the screen. He replaced the phone on the bedside table, and lay down again, but kept looking at it, daring it to glow and buzz with more strange news. Eventually he abandoned any attempt to find sleep again, and threw the duvet back; he’d get the stuff now, and then get some bloody answers.

  At the Clifford-Mackenzie office he spotted the pile of crumpled clothes on the edge of the desk, and as he picked them up his glance fell on the notebook page filled with Maddy’s neat handwriting, and an ornate set of doodles. He stopped, frowned, looked harder. Three sets of initials: DC, DB, SW. All together inside a circle. DB and SW were at the front of his mind and easy to connect, but DC?

  Maddy’s words: Wallace hid his share in some little statues…

  Tony’s forehead tightened. There it was. The connection: Dougie Cameron, locally renowned for his beautifully crafted gifts; murder unsolved. Don Bradley lying about his alibi for the time of the murder… Christ, he had been right about that all along. He almost laughed aloud, but it turned into a growl of fury against the smug, self-serving officer who’d ruined so many lives. It was time to put an end to it all, which meant a brief but vital detour, before heading out to Fort William with Mackenzie’s clothes and his giant bombshell.

  The little housing estate was still draped in night as he pulled up outside Nick’s house, and Tony wondered whether he oughtn’t to wait after all. Max’s car was no longer parked outside, so he must have gone home; he and Nick had had words during the birthday tea, and the atmosphere had turned pretty sour without Maddy there to defuse things. Nick had begun to drink a bit too much as a result, and was likely in a pretty deep sleep by now.

  But the knowledge of Bradley’s crimes was burning holes in Tony’s patience, and he had to know whether Nick was prepared to confirm or deny that flimsy tale of working at the Inverness office on the days before Cameron’s death. They were within inches of serving up the superintendent’s just desserts, albeit posthumously, and after twenty-five years the moment couldn’t come soon enough.

  He'd got out of his car and was halfway to the front door when he remembered Nick was on shift tonight, and he stopped with a little exclamation of frustration. He’d have to drop by the station instead. He turned to go, but registered that, although Max’s car wasn’t there, Nick’s was, and he turned back; the lad must have pulled a sickie, which wasn’t like him. Peering through the glass panel in Nick’s front door, he realised his son was still up; there was a light spilling down the stairs, and he could see the bathroom door open a crack. Rather than knock, he pushed open the letter box.

  ‘Nick! It’s me.’ There was no reply, and Tony called louder. ‘Nick!’ Still no answer. Tony sighed and straightened, then tried the door handle. Surprised to find it unlocked, he still hesitated; he might be the lad’s father, but it was still rude to just walk in. Then Bradley’s face floated into the front of his mind, cloaking the niggling sense that he was intruding, and he went in anyway.

  ‘You awake? I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t…’ He fell silent, his words trailing away as he heard a sound that made his heart shrink. Sobbing. Gulping, gasping sobs coming from the bathroom. The row with Max must have hit Nick harder than Tony had realised, and Tony’s protective instincts rose as took the stairs three at a time and pushed the bathroom door wider. If Max had hurt his boy…

  Nick sat on the floor, leaning against the bath, his long legs cramped up against the wall on the other side of the tiny room. He was dressed only in boxer shorts, and in his right hand he held a Stanley knife. His left leg was a mess. Blood smeared from knee to heel, and ran in rivers down his thigh to soak into his underwear. He looked up at Tony, but the tears that spilled down his face turned his eyes into glassy, unseeing pools.

  Tony couldn’t speak. His mouth was dry, his throat too tight, and a hundred questions were making it impossible to find one he could bear to ask. Nick – quiet and good-natured at home, laughing and sociable at work; there were old scars on that lacerated leg as well as new cuts. How long? And why?

  ‘Oh, my boy…’ He squatted beside his son and reached for the knife. ‘Give that to me, lad, come on.’

  Nick relinquished the knife without argument; his hand fell open and limp to the floor at his side, and he made no protest either as Tony tore a length of toilet roll from the holder and used it to wipe his son’s eyes. The blood was another matter; toilet tissue would have disintegrated into useless mush. Tony ran the hand towel under t
he cold tap instead, and draped it over Nick’s raised knee, hiding the mutilation in an attempt to break the spell of silent hopelessness that held them both.

  Tony sat beside his son and wordlessly took his bloodied hand. Only Nick’s breathing, hitching as he controlled his emotions, and the dripping water, from towel to linoleum, made any sound.

  Eventually Tony had to speak. ‘Why?’

  ‘It helps.’ Nick’s voice was low, hurt. ‘Makes me think…’ he lifted his free hand in a vague wave, ‘…in other directions.’

  ‘Other than what?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Nick, please.’ Tony grasped the hand tighter. ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘At least let me—’

  ‘I did it for you!’ Nick tore his hand free and stood up; the towel fell from his leg, and the dozens of small cuts welled with blood once more. He took a deep breath. ‘I killed Ben Cameron’s dad.’

  Tony sat very still, staring at the blood pooling on the bathroom floor. Had Nick lost his mind? ‘I don’t get it,’ he managed at last. ‘I was coming here to tell you… It was Don Bradley.’

  ‘His orders, aye. But not him.’

  ‘I don’t… Wait, what do you mean, you did it for me?’ Tony shook his head, suddenly frightened that Nick was starting to make sense. ‘I had nothing against him back then.’ He took a bath towel and draped it around his son’s shoulders. ‘Come downstairs, let’s talk about this properly.’

  In the front room Tony put on a low-watt side light, and the two of them sat side by side on the sofa. Blood was starting to soak through the towel, but Nick paid it no attention. He was shivering, and tears were standing in his eyes again, but somehow he got the whole story out.

  ‘Duncan Wallace never trusted Bradley. We’d only just moved here in ninety-three, and I was still new to the force, but I was mates with Ben Cameron. So when Wallace needed someone, he came to me. Told me nothing, except that Mr Cameron – Dougie – was worried he was being targeted by someone, and that his business was at risk. I was to keep an eye on him, and if anything happened to him, Wallace would have my hide. And my career.’