Red Mist

by Angus McLean

  Dan considered himself and the contents of the envelope he held. He didn’t feel like he was throwing in the towel. The circumstances left a bitter taste, no question of that, but he was finally starting to feel positive about it.

  It was a new opportunity.

  The black leather folder he had tucked under his arm was his old, issued when he qualified as a Detective. It had the Counties-Manukau CIB crest embossed on it and his name, Detective D. Crowley.

  But the contents were new.

  CP had put him onto a designer he used, Tori Martin-“a freakin’ genius,” according to CP. Brand new business cards and letter head already printed up, client contracts just waiting to be filled in, a slick website ready to launch. Tori was a genius alright, so much so that when she told him Chase Investigations was going to be the sharpest PI outfit in Auckland, he even believed it himself.

  All they were waiting for was to get today’s meeting out of the way to finalise things with the department. That would allow him to obtain his PI licence and everything would be official. The hours he had spent with CP had paid off. He felt ready for it now, jazzed about the new venture, tinged with trepidation and sadness.

  As soon as CP’s lawyer mate had got involved, things had moved surprisingly fast indeed. A small amount of carefully worded information had been leaked to the media, who took an immediate interest, and things had quickly snowballed.

  According to Dan’s rep from the Police Association, it had been one of the fastest resolutions he’d been involved in. It hadn’t all been a bed of roses though. There had been plenty of stress along the way, doubts by the bucket load, and a lot of very honest conversations at home.

  The good thing was that Molly was on board with it one hundred percent. Dan knew he was a lucky man. He couldn’t have asked for a better wife than her.

  The department had not just laid down and taken it, either. There had been intimated threats, procrastination and hand wringing before they had reached today. Dan had experienced a side of the Police that he’d never seen before, and it had not been pleasant. What it had done, though, was confirm his decision for him.

  He had run his race and he knew it. It was time for a new challenge.

  As he understood it, there had been big changes upstairs too. Buck was in place in Ellerslie already, jammed into a tiny Community Constable’s office and beset by elderly residents demanding that he solve the latest episode of pavement fouling.

  Dan popped in frequently to scrounge a biscuit and a cup of tea and to chew the fat. He felt terrible that young Buck’s dreams of being a detective had been smashed, all because he had the guts to say it as he saw it.

  Ace had been pulled off the Programme and was waiting to move squads. With his face splashed all over the media and Facebook, thanks to mobile phone footage of the robbery arrests, he was of no use for undercover ops.

  He wasn’t a great fit for mainstream policing, and Dan doubted he would stay around for long if he couldn’t do UC anymore. He hadn’t heard from him for some time. Another on the “must catch up” list.

  Joe was still around somewhere, but again, Dan hadn’t heard from him. Not that he expected to. Things had not ended well there.

  Dan realised the internal door to the corridor had opened and Inspector Newlands was there, watching him. He broke away from his thoughts and crossed the foyer.

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Biddy.’ He took great pleasure in using her Christian name. Earlier in their dealings she had told him somewhat snootily to call her by her rank, which he had delightedly ignored.

  She led him along the corridor and he had a momentary flashback as they passed the scene of his crime. She ushered him in to a small meeting room, where he found a pudgy man named Wilson waiting for them. Wilson was from Human Resources, and Dan had met him previously.

  They nodded to each other. Newlands shut the door behind them and gestured for him to take a seat. He did so, deliberately positioning himself in the seat nearest the door, where he guessed she had planned on sitting.

  Wilson opened his folder and wordlessly slid a document across the table to him. He placed a fountain pen on the table beside it. Dan ignored the pen and pulled the paper to him.

  It resembled the document he had already been emailed, a copy of which he had brought with him. He quickly scanned it. It was a formal agreement acknowledging that the charges against Dan had been withdrawn by Police and there was no further evidence available to support fresh charges.

  It further acknowledged that the investigation into the incident, and his treatment by the department, had been flawed and unreasonable. At no stage did it name Detective Senior Sergeant Kennedy or any other officer, of which several had been identified by Dan and his lawyer.

  The document did, however, offer an apology. It also offered a substantial sum of money as recompense for this, in settlement of the personal grievance filed against the department.

  Dan frowned, reread the document, and looked up at the inspector. She shifted uncomfortably and avoided his gaze. He shifted his attention to Wilson, the HR bod. The pudgy man fixed him with a hostile gaze.

  ‘Are you the idiot?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I said, are you the idiot? The one who amended this agreement?’

  ‘This is what we agreed,’ Wilson returned. ‘The apology...’

  ‘The apology is there, for what it’s worth.’ Dan put the document down and tapped his finger on it. ‘If you think you’re being funny, Mr Wilson, you’re sorely mistaken.’

  Inspector Newlands shifted again. ‘I don’t think there’s a need for aggression, Dan...’

  Dan arched an eyebrow and gave her a cold glare. ‘I’m not being aggressive, Biddy. I’m being pissed off. All I want to do is walk away, knowing that everything has been sorted. Instead some clown cuts the settlement amount in half and expects me to sign it. Hardly showing good faith, is it?’

  ‘So after all the good service you’ve given, after all the good times you’ve had with the department and everything we’ve done for you,’ Wilson droned, his fat jowls bouncing as he spoke, ‘you want to stick the knife in and act unreasonably? Is that the case?’

  ‘No,’ Dan returned, leaning forward and locking eyes with the man, ‘the case is that you guys have acted unreasonably and without good faith, right from the start. Unfortunately for you,’ he plucked his phone from his shirt pocket, and waggled it at them, ‘you are being recorded. So unless you want to face further legal action, not to mention another formal complaint, I suggest you get that fancy pen of yours into action and amend this settlement agreement sharpish. Are we all clear on that?’

  The room went silent. Newlands squirmed a bit more and left it to HR. Wilson glared at Dan, but couldn’t hold it. With a heavy sigh he picked up the pen, crossed out the figure, and amended it to what it should have been. He shoved the paper back across to Dan, who checked and signed it, then repeated the process with the copy Newlands gave him.

  He took the copy, freshly signed by Wilson, and slipped it into his folder. In return he removed a separate document, already signed by him. It was headed up Detective Dan Crowley-Resignation from Police.

  He slid it across to Wilson. The pudgy man took his time reading it, just to make his point.

  ‘Minimum period of notice,’ he observed, licking his lips. ‘Fourteen days.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘It’s all that’s required,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure you don’t want me hanging round any longer anyway, do you?’

  Without further comment, he stood and opened the door. Newlands scrambled to keep up as he made his way back down the corridor. Reaching the door to the foyer, he turned the handle and paused to look at her.

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ she said, with more than a hint of arrogance in her eye. She had regained her composure now the hard bit was out of the way. ‘I trust that is the end of the matter.’

  ‘So long as the money hits my account and there are no more dirty t
ricks from you guys,’ Dan replied, ‘I’ll be happy to never see any of you again.’ He started to open the door, then paused. ‘Oh, and please pass on my worst wishes to Mr Kennedy. I hope he undergoes some intensive therapy to address his shortcomings.’

  Newlands looked down her nose at him; no mean feat considering she was a good four inches shorter than him. ‘That would be Detective Inspector Kennedy, to you,’ she said.

  Dan’s lip twitched under his slug. He ran an appraising eye over the shiny pips on her shoulders. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. The department does like to promote incompetence, doesn’t it Biddy?’

  With that he pushed through the door, leaving her to bite back a retort as he crossed the foyer. The glass doors slid open and Dan emerged into the sunlight. He took his Wayfarers from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. They were a recent present from Molly and he loved them.

  He crossed the car park to where the newly acquired company car sat waiting. It was a standard silver Holden Vectra, comfortable and reliable with nothing distinguishing about it at all. A perfect vehicle for a private eye.

  Dan bleeped the locks, opened the driver’s door and tossed his folder onto the front passenger’s seat. He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and tossed the jacket on top of the folder.

  He was about to get in when he turned and looked back at the station. He took a moment to reflect, knowing that the next time he came back things would be different. He had spent a lot of time here, done a lot of good work with a lot of good people. It had been a life changing time, and it was a wrench to be leaving.

  But it was over now. He had a meeting in forty five minutes in Ponsonby with a potential client. Chase Investigations was underway.

  Dan got in, started the car and turned up the stereo. It was Cheap Trick’s classic 1979 album, Dream Police. He cranked up the title track and smiled to himself.

  It was time to move on.

  THE END

  Message from the Author

  Thanks for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed it, this is the third in The Division series. I’ll be returning soon with the latest case of the Chase Investigations crew. Please take the time to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.

  If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to my Hitlist.

  Cheers,

  Angus McLean

  About the Author

  Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.

  His experience as a cop and a private investigator give his writing a touch of realism. He believes reading should be escapist entertainment and is inspired by the TV shows he watched as a youngster.

  His real identity remains a secret.

  http://www.writerangusmclean.com

  http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00LQH8VXE

  Twitter: @AngusMcLeanKiwi

  Facebook: Writer Angus McLean Sign up here to my Hitlist, to get free books and advance excerpts, plus competitions and other cool stuff!

  Discover My Other Titles

  Chase Investigations series:

  Old Friends

  Honey Trap

  Sleeping Dogs

  Tangled Webs

  Dirty Deeds

  The Division series:

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Call to Arms

  The Shadow Dancers

  The Service Series:

  The Service: Warlock

  Nicki Cooper Mystery Series (writing as Gemma Russell):

  The Country Club Caper

  Bonus Chapters

  The Shadow Dancers

  (The Division #3)

  Chapter One

  London

  May

  The hotel room was small but adequate and smelt of sex in the mid afternoon. Moore rolled onto his side and propped his head up so he could see into the bathroom.

  The woman in the shower was tall and curvy, with shoulder length blonde hair and heavy breasts. She had a pale birth mark shaped like a speech bubble on her inner left thigh. He watched as she turned the water off and stepped out, grabbing a towel from the rack. She dried herself quickly and caught him watching.

  ‘Didn’t you see enough before?’ she enquired with a cheeky grin.

  Moore pushed up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the worn carpet.

  ‘I saw plenty,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s enough.’

  She finished drying herself and applied deodorant and perfume from her handbag. She stepped back into the room and found her knickers on the armchair by the window. They were flimsy pale blue satin.

  The woman’s name was Michelle McGregor, and she was thirty eight years old. She was also Alan McGregor’s wife, which for Moore added a thrilling extra dimension to their affair. Any chance to get one over that brown-nosing prick was an opportunity that had to be taken. He knew the consequences of being caught would probably derail his career, but at the moment he really didn’t care.

  Moore watched her get dressed before standing himself, naked before her. He was an even six feet with a thick dark rug on his strong chest. He was greying at the temples, his dark hair cut short. His torso was lean and hard.

  Michelle secured her gold necklace and tossed her hair. She straightened her red sundress before grabbing her handbag.

  ‘Best I get a move on, lover,’ she smiled, and kissed him hard on the lips.

  Moore kissed her back, touching her hips and pulling her to him. She pulled back momentarily before he felt her relent. His tongue found hers and he pressed harder against her, hoping she would respond, eager for more. He started to ease backwards towards the rumpled bed, but she put a hand firmly on his chest and pushed away.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I can’t. I need to go.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, trying his best boyish smile. ‘You don’t need to go just yet...’

  ‘I do.’ She was definite now, and he knew there would be no changing her mind.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed anyway, watching as she checked she had everything. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what. He wanted her to stay but knew she wouldn’t, and couldn’t.

  ‘Happy birthday, big boy,’ Michelle smiled, leaning down and giving him another quick kiss on the lips. ‘Hope you’re having a good day.’

  Moore gave a small smile in return. ‘So far, so great. Thank you.’

  She tapped his nose with a painted nail and moved to the door.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said as she opened the door. She checked the corridor outside before turning and blowing him a kiss. ‘See ya.’

  Moore nodded and watched the door close. The lock clicked into place and silence fell on the room.

  He was alone again.

  He hadn’t seen her for three weeks, what with her own commitments and him in Singapore for half that time. Far from being an R&R trip, it had been an annual exercise with other operators from The Division. It had been wet and exhausting, and had ended with an Anzac Day dawn service and too much rum.

  Now here he was in a budget London hotel, celebrating his birthday by screwing the wife of a colleague.

  Moore shook off the gloom that threatened to descend. It didn’t matter. She was someone else’s wife; no point mooching around like a love struck school kid.

  He checked the G-Shock on the bedside table. 11am. Time to get back to work.

  He headed for the shower.

  Chapter Two

  When Moore got back to Haymarket an hour later he parked the silver Mondeo in a public car parking building in a nearby street and walked the last distance to the office.

  The office was at New Zealand House, the High Commission that was home to various diplomats and Government departments including Immigration and Defence, and a number of private businesses.

  Tucked into a small office on the sixth floor of the tower was the resident Intelligence Officer, carrying the ostensible title of Staff Officer. In New Zealand House that role was held by Alan
McGregor, an experienced Senior Intelligence Officer. He was also an eternal bore and an unabashed sycophant who was trying his best to work his way into the diplomatic ranks.

  Practically every embassy around the world had at least one such position, and everybody knew the real reason for their presence. McGregor had been perturbed to hear he was being joined by a second officer, and a former SF operator at that, and had gone out of his way to isolate and minimise Moore’s position as an Intelligence Officer.

  Moore responded by building his own contacts and networks, and most recently by screwing McGregor’s wife behind his back. A further point of resentment for McGregor was the fact that Moore was not just an IO and technically under his supervision, but he was also in the direct line of command of Division 5. The existence of this unit was ultra-secret, and McGregor only knew because he had to.

  Known as The Division, the small hand-picked team were all ex-Special Forces or counter terrorism operators. They reported straight to the Director of the SIS, and their brief was the black operations that were required from time to time by the Government.

  Moore took pleasure in the fact that he could blackball McGregor on any tasks he received from the Director. He just wished there was more demand for his special skills.

  The intelligence services of the host nation and other embassies all tried to keep tabs on each other, and Moore was confident that he was widely known within the circles. He made no secret of it within the Five Eyes group and had always found that approach useful, although the South African Resident always grated on him, but was far more reserved with other services.

  The Russian FSB had a strong presence in London-Moore was always careful not to meet contacts at a sushi bar after the Litvinenko assassination-and the Chinese and North Koreans always took an interest in the Kiwis.

  Some of the embassy staff themselves resented the intelligence presence and others were excited about having a real spy working amongst them.