by Tana Collins
Mark Of the Devil
Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 3
Tana Collins
Copyright © 2018 Tana Collins
The right of Tana Collins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
This book is dedicated to Miller Brown. Loved and missed by so many.
Contents
Also By Tana Collins
Praise for Tana Collins
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
Robbing The Dead
Care To Die
Also By Tana Collins
Inspector Jim Carruthers Series
* * *
Robbing The Dead ( Book1)
* * *
Care To Die ( Book 2)
* * *
Dark Is The Day (Book 4)
Praise for Tana Collins
"I’m already a fan of this series and as Collins as a debut writer and am anxious for the next book to be released." Amy Sullivan - Novelgossip
"I have to say how much I love this authors style of writing. She's certainly one I'll be following." Sue Ward - Sue And Her Books
"I read this story in one and I hadn’t a clue where it was going to go but it mixed history with modern day and came up with a belter." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn
"This is a very enjoyable book, made so by the depth of the characters." Misfits Farm - Goodreads
"An author to keep an eye on and a series that will be one to watch in the future." Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club
"A very good emotional read. I liked the story and the characters." Susan Angela Wallace - Goodreads
"Altogether a first class read and a worthy 5 stars." Alfred Noble - Goodreads
"This story is about past evils ,so dark ..a story of murder ,buried history and an innocent caught in the crossfire..An Excellent read..." Livia Sbarbaro - Goodreads
"The story is exciting and convincing: it won't disappoint, it certainly didn't disappoint me." Owen Mullen - Author
"I would highly recommend this well-written book. The pace is fast and the characters believable." Nicki Southwell - Goodreads
1
Joe peered over the edge of the cliff. Her body lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the rocks; pink skirt bunched up around milk-white thighs, one sandal still on her foot, the other gone. The man squinted in the warm sun, tasting rancid sweat on his top lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand then he dug deep into the large pocket of his wax jacket until he found the bulky object he was searching for.
Overhead, gulls of huge wingspan screamed as they dive-bombed the rocks, their movement accentuating the stillness of the girl’s body. Only her skirt rippled in the wind. Despite the heat of the day the man was being buffeted by the strong north-easterly wind. It whistled around his head, making his eyes water and nose run. He steadied himself as he looked through the binoculars, taking in the sweep of the beach for any other sign of human life, but the silver sands were empty, cut off by the rocky outcrops and dangerously crumbling cliffs. He trained the binoculars once more on the body, adjusting the lens for a clearer view.
The woman was lying on her front, head turned to the side. He could now see the deep gashes in her legs and arms, the sand discoloured where the blood from a head wound had bled out. His eyes widened in horror and revulsion. There was a gull pecking at her face and in that instant he knew she was beyond help. He opened his mouth, sucking in salty damp air. His shout was swallowed by the cries of the birds.
The man stumbled back from the cliff face and turned to where he had last seen his colleague. Derek – Deek – was spreading the fresh meat above some rocks. He straightened up, putting a penknife back into his pocket.
‘Havenae seen a sign of them. No’ like those fucking seagulls. Christ, they’re aggressive. One of them nearly took ma heid off. What’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Joe’s breaths came out in sobs. He wiped his wet nose with the back of his hand. ‘Worse than that. A dead body. On the beach. We need to ring the police.’
‘What you on about?’ said Deek. ‘Are you mental? And get caught? We could get a prison sentence for this. And what would the boss say? By the time he’d finished with you, you’d end up wishing you had gone to fucking prison.’
‘But…’
‘Look.’ Deek grabbed Joe’s arm and shook him. ‘Just show me where the body is. Then we’ll tell the boss. He’ll ken what to do. But I tell you one thing for nothing. He willnae want the cops sniffing round, so keep your mouth shut.’
DI Jim Carruthers sipped his lukewarm coffee and sighed in frustration. Placing his glasses further up onto his greying head he searched his desk for the latest report on the recent spate of art thefts. Pushing away other paperwork, he managed to knock over two nearly empty polystyrene cups. A trickle of liquid spilled onto the report he had been searching for and in attempting to blot it with his right hand he only succeeded in smearing it right across the page. He swore. The heat and the broken air conditioning were making him cranky.
‘Don’t forget the brief in five minutes,’ DS Andrea Fletcher, with her elfin face and short dark hair, said as she entered his office. He looked up, thinking her new bob suited her.
He smiled at her. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ He stood, gathering his notes as she left.
The briefing started when they’d taken their seats. Dougie Harris, as ever, was the last to arrive. Carruthers cleared his throat as soon as the middle-aged detective sergeant squashed his bulky frame into a chair, slapping a copy of the Racing Post onto the table in front of him.
‘What do we know of the latest break-in?’ Carruthers made eye contact with DS Gayle Watson as he said this.
Her large brown eyes were serious in her heart-shaped face. ‘Similar MO to the last two,’ she said.
Carruthers frowned.
‘They don’t seem to have touched anything except the works of art.’ She consulted her notebook. ‘Got away with a Jack Vettriano.’
‘I seem to know that name,’ said Carruthers.
‘Local boy,’ said Watson. ‘Comes from Methil. You’ll know him from The Singing Butler.’
Carruthers frowned. He couldn’t recall.
‘Elegant couple in evening attire dancing on the beach under umbrellas?’ prompted Watson.
Carruthers nodded. He could now visualise the painting. ‘Do we know what the stolen painting was worth?’
Watson flicked the page of her notebook over. ‘Last valued three years ago at £200,000.’
Harris whistl
ed. ‘These people mean business. You could buy a fucking racehorse for that.’ He idly glanced at the horse-racing paper in front of him.
Fletcher snorted. ‘A Vettriano’s worth a lot more than a racehorse.’
‘Any leads?’ asked Carruthers, ignoring Harris and Fletcher’s petty squabbling, which he was used to.
‘None, at least not yet,’ said Watson. ‘No unexplained fingerprints. Thief must have been wearing gloves.’
Carruthers looked over at her. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything?’
Watson turned the sheet of her notebook over. ‘Burglar alarm went off. Burglars made a lot of noise by shouting. They woke up the owners who were in the upstairs bedroom. Where they stayed, too scared to come down–’
‘Which was the purpose of all the shouting,’ said Carruthers. ‘To keep them upstairs. Who are the owners?’
Watson riffled back over her notes. ‘Couple called McMullan. In their sixties. Live out near Cupar.’
‘Did the neighbours see or hear anything?’ asked Carruthers.
Watson shook her head. ‘Nearest are half a mile away.’
Carruthers stroked the bristles on his chin. He needed a shave. He could also smell the sweat on him over the heat of the room. He strode over to the incident board. ‘So burglars target yet another isolated location. The fact their victims are at home doesn’t deter them. Nor, it seems, does the fact they set off the burglar alarm.’
‘Apparently they were in and out within a few minutes,’ said Watson. ‘And did the robbery in the dark.’
‘Which suggests an intimate knowledge of where everything was in that house,’ said Fletcher. ‘The likelihood being that they’d been in the house before.’
‘Or seen photographs,’ said Watson.
‘What are your thoughts?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Same feelings I had after the first two robberies,’ said Carruthers. ‘These are no amateurs. They have all the hallmarks of a professional gang of art thieves.’
‘Three robberies within a few weeks. They’re targeting the area,’ said Fletcher. ‘To pull this off and leave no leads must have taken a huge amount of research. And manpower. Not to mention luck.’
‘You’re looking at a highly organised bunch of crooks,’ said Carruthers. ‘And unfortunately, they’ve landed on our patch.’
Fletcher scrutinised the incident board that had three red pins in the map of Fife. ‘There’s got to be a common element that links all these robberies,’ she said. ‘They’re so well planned. The question we need to focus on is whether the person or persons behind the robberies are known to their victims in any way.’
The door opened and Detective Constable Willie Brown put his balding head round. ‘Jim, we’ve just had a call. Burning vehicle in a field five miles from Cupar.’
Carruthers stood and grabbed his notebook. ‘Doubt it’s joyriders.’ He was thinking back to the abandoned burning cars that had been found after the first two robberies. Turning to Brown’s retreating back he said, ‘Any reports of stolen cars come in yet?’
Brown swivelled round. ‘No. Things have been as quiet as the grave.’
‘Owners are probably away,’ said Fletcher, leaping up. ‘Let’s get forensics down there.’
Carruthers nodded. ‘I’ve got Superintendent Bingham breathing down my neck. This latest victim is a friend of his. We need results. At some point their luck has to run out. Let’s pray it’s sooner rather than later.’
Harris sniffed. ‘A little redistribution of wealth doesnae bother me,’ he said, standing up, burying his Racing Post under his right arm. ‘That lot’s got too much money.’
‘Whatever your personal view of our class system, a crime’s a crime,’ said Carruthers. ‘And with the value of what’s being stolen, this one’s big. We’re lucky nobody’s been hurt or worse.’ Carruthers grabbed his coat. ‘C’mon, Andie, we’ll head to the scene and then pay the McMullans another visit.’
The fire brigade had put the blaze out, and left the burned wreckage dripping wet. The SOCOs were already busy on the scene. As he parked his car, Jim noticed one SOCO slip in the wet and glower at the firefighters as they were packing up their gear.
Carruthers and Fletcher stepped out of the car. The air was still acrid in the aftermath: burnt oil and upholstery fumes that would take time to dissipate. It caught Carruthers by the throat, making him cough. It was a warm summer’s day in August and the heat trickled over Carruthers’ shoulder blades and down his back. Within minutes his white shirt was stuck uncomfortably to his skin. The thought of going back to an office with broken air con was not a pleasant one. He surveyed the burnt-out wreckage, taking in the vast expanse of scorched earth where the barley had also caught fire.
He strode towards one of the SOCOs. The man looked up from his painstaking search of the ground. ‘It’s a tinderbox over there. Surprised the whole field didn’t go up.’
Carruthers rubbed his hand across his damp brow. ‘We’ve had an unusual spell of weather.’
‘That’s global warming for you,’ said the SOCO.
Carruthers frowned. He didn’t think global warming worked like that, but kept his mouth shut. He said instead, ‘Farmer won’t be happy. Anything turn up yet, Ian?’
The SOCO grinned. ‘Not yet. Be patient.’
Carruthers grimaced. ‘A commodity in short supply, I’m afraid.’ He noticed that the SOCO had beads of sweat on his forehead, too.
‘We’ll give you a call when we find something,’ said the SOCO.
‘Must be hell, dressed like that, in this heat,’ said Carruthers, grateful he wasn’t wearing the latex gloves and what looked like boiler suits. He kept as far back as he could.
‘You get used to it.’
‘In Scotland? Give me a break.’
The SOCO grinned.
Carruthers addressed his next comment to Fletcher. ‘These robbers are making us look like fools.’
She pulled her notebook out.
‘A four-by-four,’ said Carruthers. ‘Just like the others.’ He spotted a ruddy-faced man in mustard-yellow cords briskly walking towards them, a sheepdog at his feet. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘let’s leave the SOCOs to their jobs and go interview the farmer.’
Walking towards the man, Carruthers flipped open his ID before the farmer had a chance to speak. The dog barked excitedly at Carruthers’ heels.
‘Rambo, quiet,’ the man shouted. The dog obediently sat by his owner’s feet.
‘DI Jim Carruthers and this is DS Andrea Fletcher,’ said Carruthers. ‘Do you own this land?’
‘Aye. What the hell’s been going on? Looks like I’ve lost half my field. I’ve been away to Dundee to pick up some supplies. Some of the fencing’s down.’ He nodded over to the blackened vehicle. ‘Is it joyriders again?’
‘Have you had problems with joyriders before?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Not me. Friends of mine. Couple of years back.’
‘Where was this?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Gargunnock, just outside Stirling.’ He shook his head, looking through narrowed eyes at the blackened charred remains of part of his barley field. ‘I’ll have to get hold of my insurers.’
‘We don’t think it was joyriders, Mr…?’
‘Adamson. Charlie Adamson.’
Adamson frowned at Carruthers for a second then looked to the burnt-out vehicle, his face pale. ‘You don’t mean someone was…’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Carruthers assured quickly. He noticed the dog was starting to wander off. ‘We need to ask you a few questions, though. We believe this vehicle may have been used in a recent robbery. It’s likely been stolen for the job. Have you seen anything suspicious, recently? Anybody hanging around? Strangers you haven’t recognised?’
Adamson shook his head. ‘No, nobody. You’re talking about those art thefts, aren’t you? I’ve read about them in the paper.’
‘The gang haven’t been caught yet. We believe they are still in the area,’ said Fletcher.
Carruthers gave Adamson his card. ‘If you think of anything you want to add…’ he said.
The man was already striding off.
Carruthers touched Fletcher’s arm. ‘Let’s get over to the McMullans. You drive and I’ll call some of my old colleagues at the National Crime Agency. They might be able to give us an idea about who this bunch might be.’
Carruthers turned to Mr McMullan, a portly man in his late sixties whose bulbous red nose and vein-lined face told of someone who undoubtedly liked his drink. He reminded Carruthers of a cockerel in his roost. ‘Can you go over a few details again?’ he asked the man.
He and Fletcher had been ushered into the kitchen where they were sitting at a heavy oak table opposite an original Aga. Mr and Mrs McMullan sat opposite them, their chairs angled away from each other, indicating that they’d had some sort of argument.
‘Have you had any tradesmen in the house in the last few months?’ Fletcher addressed her question to Mrs McMullan.
