Our Little Secrets

by Peter Ritchie

  Grainger had a shooter pointed at him and he was wearing surgical gloves. He was smart enough to put it all together – it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out that he was the tit of the month in the biggest set-up of all time. He should have known, but it was all too late and he knew it, which calmed him down. There were so many times when he’d wondered what the fuck his life was about and the fear passed as he sat down and lit up another smoke.

  ‘Want a drink, Davy? Help yourself, son.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, Dominic.’ There was a decent shot of vodka left in a half-bottle he’d left on the table, and he didn’t bother with a glass. He lifted it to his lips and swallowed the lot.

  When he put the bottle back on the table Grainger leaned forward and put a syringe on the coffee table.

  ‘Let’s not fuck about, Davy. You know what to do.’

  Davy McGill had lived a shit life and he knew it, but in those last moments he found a kind of dignity. Grainger had expected him to beg for his life, even though it was worth shitpence, but the boy decided in that moment he’d show the bastard what he was made of. He spat across the table but missed the man who was going to kill him. Story of my fuckin’ life, he thought as Grainger lifted the gun a few inches higher.

  ‘Get the fuck on with it, Davy.’

  Tonto had fancied a shot of good dope and he guessed that what was in the syringe would be the equivalent of Semtex, so good enough. He was tired of hustling, running and of all those fuckers who seemed to use him like a football.

  ‘Fuck it, an’ fuck you.’ He grinned across the table, rolled up his sleeve and gritted his teeth as he stuck the needle in his arm, pushing enough heroin into his bloodstream to kill a horse. The grin gave way as he experienced the biggest rush of his life, and he felt no more pain as his life drained away.

  Grainger opened the rucksack carefully, saw the jemmy and box – which contained fuck all but crap – and was satisfied. Her prints would be all over it. The stink of spew hit his nostrils from the balaclava and he knew what must have happened. It was all good.

  He lifted Tonto’s left shoe and took out a hanky from a sealed plastic bag. It was soaked in her blood and he ran it along one of the treads. Just a smear was enough – he didn’t want to overdo it.

  He left the flat ten minutes later, stopped before he stepped out into the street and pulled a woollen hat well down over his head. Half an hour later, all his clothes were in a weighted bag at the bottom of the Water of Leith, and he was doing the rounds of the boozers to make sure he was covered as far as possible. It wasn’t a foolproof alibi, but in any case, the bizzies would have a gold-plated culprit, even though he was dead. He just needed all the pieces to fall into place, and he hoped his recent streak of luck stayed with him. You always needed a bit of luck.

  Grainger was an intelligent man and knew that the best-laid plans could always go wrong. He was tempted to go back to the house to check what exactly Tonto had done, but there was always the risk that he’d be seen and that would fuck the whole thing up. He needed to stay away from the house all night, which wasn’t that unusual, and their gardener was due in the morning. If Tonto had done the window he’d described it would be noticed.

  Jude always stayed in when the gardener was there and made him a coffee and sandwich. There was nothing else he could do but wait, and he was surprised how calm he felt. In fact, there were moments of elation when he thought about what he’d done. She’d despised him and it had been written all over her face right up to the point she’d seen the hammer. That expression had changed to abject fear, but it was only a moment, and she hadn’t even had time to scream before he’d hit her the first time.

  He had a couple of drinks in one last pub then called the escort.

  ‘Any chance of an all-nighter?’

  ‘That’ll cost you and cash up front.’

  ‘I’ll be over in a bit.’ He felt high and excited.

  The escort treated him like shit as usual, but it didn’t matter – he’d just taken the biggest gamble of his life, and there was nothing like it.

  42

  The gardener did everything according to Dominic Grainger’s script. Tonto had left the window open and the gardener saw right away that it had been forced. He was a timid creature and tried the door a couple of times before deciding it was someone else’s problem. He went to a neighbouring house to ask if they had a contact number for Dominic or his wife. The neighbour had the home number and tried that with no answer. She then went to have a look at the window and tried the doorbell again before calling the police.

  Two policewomen arrived fifteen minutes later. There was no doubt the house had been screwed, but there was always the remote chance some horrible bastard was still inside. They called for backup, and two detectives who were in the area arrived. They both climbed in the window and a few minutes later one of them came back out and told the PCs to seal off the area as far as possible. They were experienced DOs and got the show rolling – within half an hour a major investigation team was gearing up to deal with a murder. They’d already worked out that the recently deceased was the wife of Dominic Grainger and hoped that he was the culprit. That would make a nice headline.

  Grainger was in his office when his secretary knocked on his door and told him two detectives were there to see him. His performance was worthy of an Oscar, and he went to pieces before their very eyes. They were hopeful it was all an act and a bit disappointed when he said he hadn’t been home the previous night. It looked like he had an alibi, and they did their best to hide the dissatisfaction.

  ‘Look, guys, I might as well tell you that Jude and I had our problems and were planning to split up. Just one of those things, but she was a decent person and God knows she didn’t deserve this.’

  He managed to produce a few tears and even the detectives thought he might be telling the truth, but not quite. They asked him if he was able to provide a statement and Grainger nodded.

  ‘I’ll do anything to help, of course. I hope you get this bastard.’

  43

  When the detectives got back to the incident room in Leith, the SIO Ronnie Slade waved them into his office. He was one of the best in the business and he was flying through the ranks, not because of who he knew, but a successful string of major investigations. He was a good-looking man still short of his fortieth birthday, fit and easy company away from the job. His team would always go the extra yard for him, and the two detectives were there because they were the business as far as he was concerned, and the first names he asked for on a job.

  ‘What’s the story with Grainger then?’ He was hoping they’d at least come up with a gut feeling that would do for the moment if nothing else. Nine times out of ten those feelings were on the money.

  ‘Hard to say, boss. Puts his hands up that the marriage was on the rocks and he snivelled a bit, but he’s a hard one to read. He’s come up with an alibi or part alibi that he spent the night in some boozers and then with an escort he uses from time to time. He admits that he’s been seeing other women and they’ve had problems almost since he married the deceased. I’m not sure about him – doesn’t feel right to me.’

  The older detective scratched the stubble on his chin and turned to his partner who just said, ‘Agreed.’

  Slade was happy with that and even a suspicion gave them something to look at. It was nearly always someone close, so why not with this one? They already had it that the marriage was in trouble, and that was one of the oldest reasons in crime investigations.

  ‘Just to make it a bit more complicated, boss, do you know her old man is Big Arthur Hamilton?’ The older detective knew Hamilton from the past and it was definitely worth calling it a complication.

  ‘Yes, got it early on from the intel boys. Big Arthur in the mix definitely means it’s a bit more complicated. Christ, he’ll skin whoever it is if he gets to him before we do.’ He chewed his lip; this was going to be a problem no matter what he did.

  ‘Make s
ure Grainger’s available as soon as we get the body moved to see if anything’s stolen from the house.’

  Slade told the detectives to get a hold of the escort and work on her story.

  When they left his office, the lead SOCO came in to give him a heads-up on what they’d found at the locus. He poured out the coffees and loosened his tie. ‘Give me some good news,’ he said as he pushed the cup across the desk, which was already starting to disappear under paper. The SOCO was a stickler for detail and that’s what they were there for. He knew that the tiniest clue could unlock a case that might have seemed unsolvable.

  ‘I’ll just give you the main points and a full report as soon as. Entry through the rear window – the marks on the wood look like a good old-fashioned jemmy. We’ve got fibres at the bottom of the window that might be from the culprit’s clothes when he or she climbed in.’

  Slade nodded – it was a good start.

  The SOCO sat back and Slade watched the frown lines squeeze together on his forehead.

  ‘It’ll take time to examine the carpets – presuming that our man walked upstairs. Nothing at all obvious downstairs so if it was a break-in, it’s surprising that nothing’s disturbed, unless the thief got in and just didn’t realise she was at home. Then the question is: where did the hammer appear from unless it was part of their kit? Anyway, from what we can see, there’s blood and hair on the hammer and we have to presume that’s the murder weapon.’

  Slade nodded again.

  ‘So the killer should have some blood on his or her clothing and hands?’ The answer would be crucial in the early hours and days if they could make a quick arrest.

  ‘Definitely. There’s the blood on the wall, and it looks like she hit it on the way down.’ The SOCO took a sip of coffee. ‘In the corner nearest her feet there’s the area where we presume the killer threw up and what looks like saliva next to it, so guess they were spitting after throwing up. There’s a hair on the surface of the pile of sick and a good chance it’s from the killer because the colour’s definitely not hers.’

  ‘So good chance of DNA?’ Slade liked what he was hearing so far.

  ‘Be disappointed if there’s not. Now we come to the cupboard in the room. It’s been forced, so maybe something away from there. There’s spots of blood on the carpet going back to the stair and looks like the killer had some on one of their shoes. But then it gets complicated.’

  There was always something complicated and Slade pulled open his notepad.

  ‘The bloodstain from the killer’s feet is going away from the body to the corner with the spew then to the door, so we can presume that’s all after the killing. Fair enough, so he must have done the cupboard before the killing, because there’s no blood near the door or the approach to the cupboard door. Thing is, where did she come from? She was in her PJs and dressing gown. Did the killer break in and go upstairs without knowing she was in? Did she hear something and actually go towards danger?’ He shook his head. ‘That only happens in movies.

  ‘The killer seems to have gone straight upstairs to the cupboard. If that’s the case, they had knowledge of the house. But nothing seems to have been disturbed inside the cupboard and that doesn’t quite make sense, though half the time I suppose that’s the case. Only other thing is that from a first look at the blood patterns, it looks like the killer hit her again when she was on the deck, so there was certainly an intention to finish the job.’

  Slade liked the SOCO, and like the detectives who’d been in the room with him, he’d wanted to know what his senses had told him. Facts would get an arrest and conviction, but he knew that instinct had its place.

  ‘So for the moment we’ll take a close look at Dominic Grainger.’ Slade smiled when he said it and saw the SOCO was trying too hard to make sense of it. ‘We would look at him anyway but keep the options wide open. Always the same the first few hours – seem to be puzzles all over the place but it’ll come. Go get something to eat and I’ll see you at the next briefing.’

  The SOCO closed the door behind him and Slade chewed through a chocolate biscuit, which was probably all he’d get for a while. Everyone and his auntie would be trying to speak to him, which made it difficult for an SIO to just get on with the job in those first few hours. Having a class deputy could make or break the job, but he had a good one, and she always took a weight off his shoulders when he needed it.

  He’d worked with DCI Lesley Thompson in the past and she’d gone from someone regarded as weak and untrustworthy through a reincarnation into one of the most committed detectives in Police Scotland. She’d had her trials, especially when she’d been badly injured while she was working with Grace Macallan and too close to a car bomb planted near the old Lothian and Borders HQ. But she’d recovered, and although it had looked like she was going to get an easy seat somewhere at the back of the action, she’d forced her way back to the front line and was proving that she was a star. Slade saw so much of Macallan’s influence in her, and as far as he was concerned, that was good for him.

  He called her into the office and she came in carrying her own mug of coffee. Her hair was tied back and she looked like she was glad of a break as she’d been fielding all the calls that Slade had missed.

  ‘How goes it, Les?’ They were close, and he was the only one who called her Les.

  ‘Well, considering a Grainger’s involved and she’s Big Arthur’s kid, the reporters are going into a spin and I think there’ll be a million theories in the morning. Gang war and all that.’

  She sat down, leaned over and grabbed his last biscuit.

  ‘You owe me ten biscuits, Ronnie, remember?’

  She grinned, watching his lips purse, because he loved a biscuit so much he was constantly robbing everyone else.

  ‘Any updates?’ He knew that although he’d only been less than an hour with the two detectives who’d spoken to Grainger and the SOCO, the whole story could have morphed into something new.

  ‘Big Arthur’s been on the phone again and wants to speak to you personally. We sent two DOs and a family liaison officer to see him first thing to break the news, and he more or less threw them out of the house. Raging is the word so I’m not sure how we do this bit.’

  She passed the ball that no one wanted back to Slade.

  ‘Okay, Les. I could do without it because I could write the script, but let’s do it together. I had a run-in with the big man years ago and don’t think he’s the type who forgives and forgets. Still, it’s his wee girl, so let’s give him the benefit. Suppose that’s why I get paid the extra lolly. Make an arrangement at the same time for us to see Dominic before or after the big man. I want to be at the locus when we take him inside.’

  ‘By the way, Ronnie, the SOCOs have got a couple of excellent boot prints in the earth near to the entrance point. Quite interesting apparently, with distance wear on the soles, so should be a good bit of circumstantial if we get the boy.’

  ‘When we get him, Les. When we get him.’

  44

  Arthur Hamilton opened the door and for a moment Slade wondered whether the old gangster was going to start swinging. He hadn’t seen him for years, but he still looked a handful, and guys like Hamilton never lost it. He remembered a piece of intel a couple of years earlier that a drunk bampot had started hassling him in Inverleith Park when he was out with his dog. The bampot had asked if he had any change and when Hamilton had ignored him and walked away, the bampot had put on a show.

  ‘Naebody turns their back on Benny Elgin. Yer askin’ for a severe punch in the pus, auld yin.’ The bampot thought he was a hard man, even though he’d taken more second prizes than most.

  Hamilton’s spaniel wasn’t going to do much to protect him, but then he didn’t need the old dog for that. The bampot made the mistake of booting the harmless old mutt in the arse, and it rolled along the tarmac path, squealing like a child. Apart from his daughter, the dog was the only other living thing that Hamilton cared about. Years of experience had trained him
not to react without thinking or weighing up the options but though the dog would survive, he turned round to face the half-pissed or drugged arsehole who couldn’t see the red warning lights flashing. In his mind, the man was ancient and that meant he couldn’t defend himself.

  ‘You any idea who I am, son?’ Hamilton looked to the left and right, making sure there were no witnesses close up. There were a few dog walkers, as there always was, but they were on the edges of the park, well away from them and close to the intersecting paths in the middle, which gave them some cover from the trees there. The dog was back on his feet and stood perfectly still, seeing something the bampot couldn’t.

  ‘Ye famous or some fuckin’ thing? Just empty yer pockets an’ let’s see what ye’ve got.’

  Hamilton didn’t move; he just stared at the radge as if he was measuring him up, which was exactly what he was doing. He looked at the guy’s legs and hips. There was almost no muscle bulk there, so he definitely didn’t work out and was a lightweight. His shoulders were narrow and wasted.

  Hamilton was old enough and wise enough to know that lightweights with a weapon could still hurt and he waited for a moment just after telling the would-be robber, ‘No fuckin’ way, son.’

  A sensible robber would have worked it out by then, but the bampot turned up the heat by producing a set of dusters and pulling them over his fingers. That’s when the lights went out, and when he came to about twenty minutes later, he couldn’t remember seeing the blow coming. Three teeth were gone and his jaw was fractured. A couple of old ladies had called the police when they’d spotted him lying in the bushes, and he had the nerve to report it as an assault. The local guys recognised the description, and they’d seen Hamilton themselves often enough walking the dog, so they applied common sense to the situation.