‘I don’t know,’ Carter said. ‘But here’s another text he sent today.’ He showed them the screengrab of the message and waited for their reaction.
‘Oh, my God.’ Ellen exclaimed. ‘He’s going to kill you, Leccy.’
‘Maybe Dr Flowers should investigate your background.’ Mason said. ‘I’ve had threats worse than this in Glasgow. Your man here is all mouth, trust me.’
Carter switched on the whiteboard and ignored Mason’s comment. He wasn’t the one in J’s sights. ‘This is the data you authorised, Nick. From the mobile operators and UK tech companies. Signed-off and approved by DCI McKinlay. Every mobile device in the area around the Reverend and Dalry Burial Ground. Names and addresses of bill-payers and minute-by-minute locations. It’s been pre-filtered by Gavin Roy. I’ve spent time on it too.’
‘OK,’ said Mason grudgingly. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘The analysis is inconclusive on its own, but somewhere in here “J” hides. I’ve identified twenty-eight people to be interviewed,’ Carter said. ‘Names and addresses are in your inboxes. Most are local, five are from Glasgow, three from Livingston and one from London. All are priority.’
‘No surprises there, then,’ said Mason. ‘You’ll want to doorstep them?’
‘I’ll interview the shortlist if uniform finds any good candidates. Last night, I returned to the graveyard and found a down-and-out who sleeps there, Duggie McLean. He saw the rape, but can’t give a clear description, and won’t make a statement because he’s scared.’
‘We’re police officers, we’ll drag him to the station if necessary,’ said Mason. ‘What is there to be frightened of?’
‘Jimmy Logan.’
‘He saw Logan rape Alice?’ Mason replied, astonished.
‘The description he gave me matches Logan’s build. I think you need to take that to the boss, see what she says.’
‘I know what she’ll say.’
Carter’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, then at his watch. ‘I have to go.’
‘Wait, Carter,’ Mason said. ‘No secrets. Who’s on the phone?’
Carter hesitated. ‘It’s an informer.’
27
Delia’s Kitchen
Carter got off the number 41 bus in Cramond, at the north-western edge of the city, where it touched the Forth Estuary’s golden sands. He crossed the street and walked down Cramond Glebe, a narrow thoroughfare that forced cars to squeeze past each other like jousters. Stone-built walls hemmed him in on both sides, hundreds of years old, punctuated by expensive gates that protected private driveways. Tall, leafless trees hibernated inside these walls, awaiting spring. The Glebe curved steeply downwards, its slope telling on his knees. He hoped for a lift back up.
Half-way down on his right side was the entrance to Cramond Kirk, where old man Dunsmuir had wished his daughter to marry. Kelsa, however, had other ideas. Carter stood at the churchyard gate, gazing in. It was beautiful, even in winter. An English-style church with a crenellated bell-tower, a manicured graveyard of weathered Roman tombstones, and a chocolate box picture of what Midsomer implied all Englanders had at the bottom of their Cotswold acreage.
Despite Dunsmuir’s wishes, spontaneity and passion had overtaken them on a pre-Christmas holiday – they tied the knot in the desert heat of Las Vegas. She wanted to have a second ceremony right here in spring, but Dunsmuir wouldn’t hear of it. Spitting in the face of God, he’d said. It was one of the few arguments with her father she lost. Carter didn’t mind; her soul was his, no matter what God’s view was. No tears consumed him here. He accepted the sadness and realised it would always be this way whenever he stumbled across a place that had meaning for them. He was coming to terms, nothing more. He moved on.
Cramond Village would give the East Neuk of Fife a run for the cutest village-on-the-coast title because every village needs an inn. The Cramond Inn was a weel-kent place, hidden away on a tidal beach that offered a haven for pleasure craft. It promised warmth, good food and a hearty welcome. But he walked past these adjectives towards the beer garden, where an indistinctive man sat at a weathered picnic table nursing a distinctive Edinburgh pint.
‘Lenny Yule?’
‘Carter?’ Yule replied, in the voice of a fully qualified drinker, bored and hoping someone would turn up and buy his next pint.
Carter sat down, feeling the dampness from the wooden bench seep into the seat of his trousers. An offshore breeze made it chilly enough for him to snap up the collar of his Crombie. The tide was out, and the causeway to Cramond Island saw a few brave souls crossing before the tide reverted. Yule poured the remainder of his beer down his neck, then dumped it decisively on the table. Carter stood up and lifted the empty. ‘Innis and Gunn IPA?’
‘Aye.’
He came back minutes later with the pint for Yule and a Coke with ice for himself.
‘Hope that’s a voddy,’ said Yule derisively.
‘Do you make your own?’ Carter replied in a level voice. DS MacIntosh had said Yule was flighty.
‘As a student at Strathclyde Uni, aye, I did. Way beyond legal proofs, one shot and you were legless. We got ourselves a wee customer base, and things looked rosy. Called it Goldfish, because you forgot your name within five seconds of a swally. Then someone shopped us to your lot.’
‘Busted?’ asked Carter, smiling.
‘Naw, got off with a slap on the chops. They were going to confiscate the equipment until I told them we had an unlimited supply and they’d get a bill from the university, new for old.’
‘And now you’re here. Where did it all go wrong?’
‘I could just fuck off. Then what would you do?’
‘Call MacIntosh. What would you do?’
Carter stared at Yule, and he stared back. It could go either way, one of those moments where the blink of an eye made an enemy or a friend. Yule was forty-something, dark-haired, had an easy way with words, probably attracted more women than he could handle and hung in there swinging. His clothes were decent, old and frayed, but Carter concluded he regretted past sins while content with them at the same time. He stank of alcohol-laced depression. In ten years, Carter could be Yule Mark II if he let himself go.
Carter lifted his Coke and tipped it towards Yule’s half-consumed IPA. Yule acknowledged homage and nodded.
‘Shoot.’
‘Scoop,’ said Carter.
‘Method, ingredients, supply, toxicity, distribution? You’ve got your own people, you know?’
‘What’s on the street just now?’
‘I’m strictly Delia and my kitchen’s clean. Are you religious?’
‘Eh?’ Carter queried.
‘A doubled-edged death in the Middle Ages, religion was. A wrong word in the wrong ear at the wrong time could see a man up at the Inquisition, know what I mean?’
‘A girl was drugged, raped and thrown from a bridge. Word is it’s difficult to dose, with a reputation like your Goldfish. We think the rapist has experience.’
Yule swallowed more beer while Carter spoke, listening carefully. He placed his emptying glass carefully on the weathered table. ‘I’m not 118 118. What do you want from me?’
‘Can you ask around?’ asked Carter.
Yule laughed uproariously. ‘Aye, no problem, there’s a conference next week. I’ll ask when I’m at the bar.’ He stood up to leave. ‘You haven’t got a clue, Carter.’
Carter stood up too. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I don’t know this stuff. Educate me. He could do this again.’
‘I’m not your teacher.’ Yule walked away through the garden hedge, crossing the grass, heading for the promenade to join a brace of dog walkers making for Granton.
‘McCalman or Logan,’ shouted Carter to Yule’s disappearing back. Yule stopped but didn’t turn around. Carter thought he heard a word blown in the breeze that sounded like ‘fuck’.
Still, Yule stood, clearly wrestling with loyalties. Carter’s shot in the dark had inflicted a flesh wound that might putref
y if not cauterised. Yule spun around and marched back over, collapsing defiantly onto the bench. ‘You getting another round in?’
‘You going to be here when I get back?’
‘Hurry up, the nuts are freezing.’
Carter returned with the drinks and Yule gulped at his like he’d been drouthy for months.
‘A first-year chem student could make Scoop, or just about any other psychotic drug. All you need is excipients, heat and distillation. It’s a recipe, so imagine baking a cake when you’ve got a fabulous picture in Delia’s Winter Cookbook to go by. Does your cake come out of the oven like that? Probably not. Same problem with Scoop. It looks OK, but you won’t know till you taste it.’
‘I get it,’ said Carter. ‘So, what’s the solution?’
‘Smart cunt, eh?’
‘Some would say.’
‘Practise and feed it to your kids. Or go down the supermarkets and get a professionally made one. Most take option two ’cos it’s easier, but you need big coin. Even then, dosing is problematic; big girls, small girls, heavy or light, there’s still an element of luck in what happens. The big drug companies test, test, test and test. The crims don’t test.’
‘And around here?’ asked Carter, wanting to know the answer to his question.
Yule stared at him. ‘Bought in. From London. That’s all I can tell you.’ He stood up, necked the rest of the pint and walked away.
‘The Reverend?’ Carter called.
Yule gave him the finger. Carter watched him go.
One man’s Jesus is another man’s prophet, and Yule was a priest of alchemy, collar he wore.
28
Lennymuir
Carter had almost reached the top of the brae of Cramond Glebe when a Mercedes Benz GLS with blacked-out windows passed him, then hit the brakes. A man he recognised from the Reverend’s snug got out and held the front passenger door open. Carter’s path was blocked, so he took out his phone and started fiddling with it.
‘Get in,’ instructed the man.
Carter surveyed the street. It was 4 p.m. and quite dark, nobody else was about. The passenger door was closed behind him, and the man climbed into the back seat directly behind him. Jimmy Logan put the Merc into drive and pulled away.
Carter’s pulse raced, but outwardly he tried to appear bored. The SUV had come from the direction of the Cramond Inn. Had he been seen talking to Yule? His thoughts brought up names: McKinlay and her ‘understanding’ with Logan and Mason’s Glasgow connections. All very convenient and a bit too coincidental.
‘I liked your style last night, Sergeant,’ said Logan conversationally. ‘Few men can scare the shite out of Carver. But he’s seen your likes before, it’s what got him his rep. If you ever tire of Nick Mason’s crap come and see me.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Carter tightly. ‘I’ll pass on that one.’
‘Did you get hurt last night?’ Logan asked.
‘Bruises, that’s all.’ Only Mason knew he’d taken one in the ribs.
‘So, this girl you’re lookin’ for—’
‘I’m looking for the man she was with. You got somebody for me?’
The GLS turned onto Gamekeeper’s Road, heading west, out of town. The streetlights were warming up, and a deeper cold was settling in, but the interior of the Merc was soft and warm, even if its owner wasn’t.
‘I might do, but I won’t just give you a name. I don’t know you, not the way I know your boss. Now if Cheryl asked, I’d just tell her, reel it off just like that. What’s it worth to you, Sergeant?’
‘If you’re holding back information that can help this case, I’ll arrest you.’
Jimmy Logan burst out laughing, encouraging the other man to laugh too. ‘What do you think, Justin, should we tell him?’ Logan nodded slightly.
Carter felt his head yanked back onto the headrest. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Something pliable was wrapped around his throat, constricting his breathing. Instinctively, he tried to loosen it. It was a scarf of sorts, but he couldn’t get his fingers between it and his neck. Something hard was sown into it, something that was crushing his larynx.
‘My car, Sergeant Carter, my rules. I hate disrespect. Understand? What was that? I can’t hear you.’
The seat belt held his body firm, and the choker put more pressure on his neck. His vision blurred. Then the choker was released. He grasped at his neck and sucked air in huge gulps, coughing, leaning forward as far as the seat belt would let him. He had no idea where they were going or why they were going there, but he wanted out of the car. He pulled at the door handle, but nothing happened.
‘You don’t get out until I let you out. Do you want out, Leccy? That’s what your friends call you, isn’t it? I’m your new friend, and friends do favours for one another, don’t they? Call me Big Jim. You’ve asked me to find out the name of the man who sat beside Alice Deacon in my pub. That’s a favour, Leccy, so if you want to know, I want a favour from you too. Quid pro quo. What’s it worth, Leccy? A promotion? I’d like to see you promoted. Cheryl was once like you, now look where she is, eh?’
‘You’re lying,’ coughed Carter, regaining some composure. The car had stopped. It was pitch dark on one side of the road and lit up like an airport on the other side. The bright side did indeed have about a dozen Boeing 737s lined up on the apron. This was the Turnhouse side of Edinburgh Airport, used for cargo and VIP flights. He could see the main passenger terminal half a mile away. Razor wire topped chain-link fencing, ten-feet high all around the perimeter. An EasyJet flight sat on the runway two hundred metres away, awaiting ATC clearance. The road ended at unmanned double gates further forward, but the Merc was in the shadows, back from the CCTV cameras.
The passenger door was opened from the outside. Logan’s man Justin undid Carter’s seatbelt and hauled him out onto the damp concrete. He landed shoulder first.
‘I don’t lie, I’m a man of my word.’ Logan stood over him, placing his foot on Carter’s chest. ‘Ribs. Don’t snap easily but can be painful if bruised. Take some advice, Leccy, because you don’t know me. Next time you want a lift, be prepared, eh?’
Both men climbed back into the car and drove off, leaving Carter lying on his back, grimacing in pain, gasping for cold air and coughing. EasyJet spun up the throttle and sprinted down the runway, heading into the west wind. He sat up painfully, the bruising in his ribs competing with the throbbing in his throat. The stone chips from the paved road cut into his backside. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opening up the taxi app. It showed him his location as Lennymuir, outside the city, so he punched his home address in, chose ASAP from the pick-up options and pressed ‘book now’.
While he waited, he scrolled to the recorder app and pressed save. Then he listened back to the conversation, wondering just what Jimmy Logan had on Cheryl McKinlay.
29
The Simplicity of Karma
The taxi dropped Carter home just after 6 p.m.
He went straight to the kitchen and noticed a small, slightly crumpled yellow Jiffy bag lying on the kitchen table. There was no stamp or address. Nothing to say it was for him. He tested its weight and texture, turning it over in his hands. It was light and spongy. How did it get there? The house was warm, but to him, it had just become as cold as his wife’s grave.
He took a microwave dinner from the freezer and a bottle of beer from the fridge, all the time staring at the Jiffy bag, a bad feeling sitting hard in his stomach. The encounter with Logan played on his mind. Did this package contain a more personal warning from him?
The microwave bell dinged: chicken jalfrezi with pilau rice.
He took his time eating and sipped at the beer. Someone had been in his kitchen. Instinctively he knew it wasn’t Logan. The doors had been locked when he got home.
Sometime after 8 p.m., the message he’d waited on arrived.
[2019-01-17:2009] I said it was bollocks at first. It was too coincidental and deep in the past, but then I saw the simplicity of the karma.
We was meant to be. Her, me and you.
Carter read the message rapidly. His hands shaking as he held the phone, willing the text to stay on screen so he could grab it. His biggest fear in the next seconds was that the message would be erased before he understood what it meant. The absence of control buttons annoyed him, but he’d guessed that at some point J might allow him a reply, but not tonight. The message bell pinged again, and he dropped the phone in surprise. Carefully he picked it up off the kitchen floor, handling only the casing edges as if any inadvertent touch might cause it to vaporise. A new message had arrived, but the first one was still visible.
[2019-01-17:2014] Not knowing will be your downfall, but I will tell you when the time comes. When you stare at me pleading for your life, you will know then why you have to die.
[2019-01-17:2015] She is the one who truly loves me, she has proved it. My love is vengeance, Carter, so you had better be worth the stinging. Now open Pandora’s Bag and weep. J.
Carter found scissors in the kitchen. He was about to cut off the top of the Jiffy bag when he remembered to wear gloves, just in case there was some forensic trace on the outside of the package. He settled for far-too-tight washing-up gloves. He composed himself, aware he was breathing hard. J knew about Kelsa, but this was more than knowing. He spoke as if she was alive and urging him to finish the job.
He snipped the top off the bag and tried to gently shake out the contents onto the table, but whatever was inside wasn’t budging. He put a hand in and pulled it out, instantly dropping it onto the table like it was hot.
Carter stood back against the sink, staring at a pair of black knickers.
30
A Spider’s Web
They were just black knickers. A pair that could’ve been worn by any of thousands of women in the country. A minority of his brain cells attempted to convince him they were just a pair of average knickers. His other major organ disagreed because the stink of Calvin’s Obsession rose up from them like a witch’s brew.
A Wife Worth Dying For Page 10
