In Harm's Way

by Owen Mullen

  In Harm’s Way

  Owen Mullen

  Copyright © 2018 Owen Mullen

  The right of Owen Mullen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him 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

  Contents

  Also by Owen Mullen

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  Day Four

  Day Five

  Day Six

  Day Seven

  Day Eight

  Day Nine

  Day Ten

  Day Eleven

  Day Twelve

  Day Thirteen

  Day Fourteen

  Day Sixteen

  Day Fifty-Six

  Day Fifty-Seven

  The Last Day

  Epilogue

  A Note from Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Owen Mullen

  PI Charlie Cameron Books

  Games People Play

  Old Friends and New Enemies

  Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead

  Delaney Books

  And So it Began

  Author’s Note

  While there are many similarities in practice between the jurisdictions of Scotland and England, one difference merits explanation. In England and Wales, the Crown Prosecution Service [CPS] is the principal public prosecuting agency for conducting criminal prosecutions, whereas, for the majority of crimes in Scotland a Procurator Fiscal [PF] or Fiscal Depute presents the case for the prosecution.

  Prologue

  The Lowther Hills, South Lanarkshire

  When the Passat pulled off the M74 into the Welcome Break petrol station outside Abington, he was waiting. The woman behind the wheel got out, walked towards him and introduced herself. They shook hands.

  ‘Shall we get a couple of coffees to take with us?’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, though it wasn’t. The coffee from the machine inside was vile; he’d already tried a cup and poured it away.

  ‘Great. What would you like?’

  ‘Cappuccino, please.’

  She smiled and went to fetch it. He watched her go: petite and bubbly; friendly and insincere. On the phone, two days before, he’d guessed she would be in her early thirties and she was. The ring on her finger and toys in the back seat told him there was a husband and maybe a couple of kids.

  The coffee hadn’t improved – if anything it was worse. He pretended to drink it to keep her happy and readied himself for the small talk which was sure to come. With females, control of the vehicle was well down their list of priorities. Inconsequential chit-chat was number one – always – that and taking their eyes off the road to look at whoever was in the car.

  ‘What is it about this part of the country that appeals to you? Most folk find it too remote.’

  He smirked behind his cup – it had taken less than thirty seconds for her to start. But without realising she’d answered her own question. He lied. ‘It’s peaceful.’

  She laughed and he noticed a smear of red lipstick on her front teeth. ‘It’s that, all right.’

  They took the country road on the other side of the motorway and drove into the Lowther Hills. Ten minutes later they still hadn’t seen another vehicle. Today, this remote part of South Lanarkshire was undulating greens and browns and straw with the occasional patch of purple, and the air was muggy. In the sky, a dull sun dipped in and out behind low-lying clouds washed with grey, heavy with rain. What would it be like here in winter? He wouldn’t be here in winter. Wouldn’t be here at all if it went the way he wanted.

  The estate agent prattled on. ‘It seems farther than it is. Only six miles.’

  With an effort, he stopped himself from telling her to shut up and just drive and settled in his seat while she droned on about the weather; it was going to be a long six miles.

  They stopped in front of the Hopetoun Arms Hotel and surveyed the rows of miners’ cottages from an age when there was lead in the ground. She spouted history which he filtered out. Finally she got to why they were here. ‘I’ve identified three properties which may fit what you’re after. The first is in Leadhills village itself.’

  ‘Where? Can we see it from here?’

  She pointed. ‘At the end of the row.’

  He dismissed it without getting out of the car. ‘Too small. Let’s go on to the next one.’

  The cottage in Wanlockhead didn’t meet the criteria either. His assessment, again, was instant so they drove on without speaking, the agent glancing at her watch, resigned to a wasted afternoon. Where they were going was close to derelict. Uninhabitable in its present state. A real no-hoper. So bad she’d almost left it off the list. ‘It’s a little further out, I’m afraid.’

  He gazed at the countryside rolling by. Nothing but hills and more hills.

  ‘No problem.’

  The first thing he saw was the sign on a stake driven into the ground.

  CUNNINGHAM AND McCLURE

  ESTATE AGENTS

  LANARK

  01555 964142

  The property was hidden from the road by a slope at the front and another to the rear. As they got closer, his pulse quickened. The agent turned the key in the rusty lock and made a face. ‘Welcome to the Baxter house.’

  She nodded at the horizon. ‘Storm coming. May as well tell you before you find out for yourself, the roof leaks.’

  She was joking: there was a hole the size of an armchair in the ceiling. Her client made no comment. Inside, in the semi-darkness, the smell of damp hit them immediately as they moved through rooms with boarded windows and peeling paint, gingerly picking a path across torn linoleum showing faded newspaper headlines, decades old. He knelt and fingered a dusty cable running to a grubby socket.

  ‘The electricity isn’t working, is it?’

  The agent told him it wasn’t.

  ‘Needs complete rewiring, anyway.’

  She apologised a second time and he caught coffee on her breath. ‘I tried to warn you. It’s worse than I thought. Sorry again. We’ve had this place on our books for years. As far as I understand, a family rented it in the late nineties. Hasn’t been occupied since. No prizes for guessing why. The owner moved to Australia in the 1950s. Somebody in the office said he’d died and it’s his grandson who’s selling. He stays in the Caribbean. I haven’t met him.’

  She shrugged, regretting bringing anyone here. ‘Getting a mortgage will be difficult with something in this condition, and even if you could, you’d need to completely renovate it. Would you be up for that?’

  He grunted a reply which told her nothing.

  ‘I’ll email him. See if he’s prepared to lower the price before the whole bloody thing falls down.’

  The edge of a rotted floorboard crumbled in his hand. The agent watched, not comfortable with trying to sell something in such a bad state. Nobody in their right mind would buy this wreck. His question was casual, almost an afterthought. ‘Your schedule said there’s a cellar?’

  Behind him, she coloured with embarrassment. ‘Was afraid you’d ask about that. Not the best feature. Don’t think it’ll be good for much.’

  ‘Sho
w me.’

  He followed her to an unlocked door at the end of the hall. She took a chrome torch from her handbag, switched it on and played a circle of light against the darkness. ‘Be prepared, eh.’

  He didn’t smile.

  They went down wooden steps which groaned under their weight. Apart from some cardboard boxes piled on the flagstone floor and rat droppings in one of the corners, there was little to see. Thick beams ran across the ceiling supporting the room above, some kind of fungus was growing on the rough plaster walls and it was noticeably cooler, cold even – he guessed they were ten or twelve feet underground. His eyes ran over the empty space, remembering how far they were from any other building, picturing where the heater, the chemical toilet, and the bed would go.

  And the chain.

  Back in the car she said, ‘Shall I speak to the owner?’

  He seemed distracted. ‘Mmmm. What did you say?’

  ‘I can contact the owner about doing something on the price.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, do that.’

  ‘Can I tell him you might be interested?’

  ‘Tell him to get real on the money or bring the bulldozers in.’

  He wasn’t serious; he wouldn’t buy it at any price, he’d never intended to. But the decision was already made.

  It was perfect.

  * * *

  Mackenzie Crawford had made a decision: today, she wouldn’t have a drink.

  Not the first time she’d made that pledge to herself or her husband – there had been dozens like it – too many to count. One by one, because she was feeling good or bad, happy or sad, she’d broken them, often with disastrous consequences.

  “ – We judge ourselves by our intentions. The world judges us by our actions – ” she’d heard someone say. And, of course, it was true. If it depended on willpower – wanting to stop – she’d have quit years ago. The reality was more complicated: what was once a habit was now a need. At thirty-one, a figure that had turned so many heads was beginning to thicken, her skin losing its freshness, the long dark hair its lustre. Mirrors weren’t friends anymore; she’d noticed the lines, like tiny cracks in porcelain on the once flawless complexion, running from the corners of her bloodshot eyes after yet another half-remembered night.

  But this morning the sun was shining and she felt strong, stronger than she’d been in a very long time – strong enough to make promises.

  She collected a trolley from outside the supermarket, thinking about Derek’s refusal to accept she’d crossed an invisible line, that the days of choosing to drink or not were past. His solution was the same as his solution for everything: control. Two glasses of wine with their evening meal, poured by him, of course. When it didn’t work because it was never going to work, he took it as a personal affront, got angry, and wouldn’t speak to her. They’d rowed about it again last night and he’d slept in another room. It seemed they rowed about everything these days. Mackenzie had tried to get him to understand total abstinence was the only way – one drink was too many, a dozen wasn’t enough.

  Derek saw life in black and white. For him there were no grey areas. He didn’t get it and sneered at the idea. ‘You mean you can’t drink at all? Not even at New Year? And what about our wedding anniversary? Are you seriously saying we won’t be able to celebrate the best day of our lives? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s about discipline. Restraint. Accepting your responsibilities as a wife without hitting the sauce every time somebody says the wrong thing or looks at you the wrong way. You’re weak. If you weren’t, there wouldn’t be a problem.’

  Mackenzie had stopped trying to convince him.

  In the supermarket she avoided the alcohol section and went through her list: chicken breasts for tonight, sirloin steaks for Sunday; milk and yogurt; breakfast cereal and vegetables. Did they have pasta? She tried to remember and got some anyway. Pappardella. Derek liked Pappardella.

  She sensed she was being watched and turned. At the end of the aisle a man in a black coat was staring at her, his face expressionless. He was tall – almost as tall as Derek – with short fair hair and broad shoulders. And he wasn’t just watching her, he was ravishing her with his eyes. It was obvious he didn’t mind that she’d noticed. It didn’t bother him. He didn’t care, clearly trying to intimidate her. Mackenzie drew him a look and pushed her trolley past. He stood his ground and didn’t move.

  At the end of the cheese counter he was there again.

  It spooked her and she hurried on, grabbing whatever came to hand. When she glanced back there was no sign of him and she relaxed, telling herself her nerves were getting the better of her. But in the next aisle he was waiting and Mackenzie knew she hadn’t imagined it. It was possible he was just a man who’d taken a shine to her, chancing his arm, unaware he was freaking her out. She didn’t believe it. There was a coldness to him, and the undisguised way he eyed her up and down scared her.

  She rounded on him, forcing assertiveness into her voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  He didn’t answer, unfazed by her directness, and continued his appraisal of her.

  ‘Then stop following me. Just stop it.’

  At the checkout he was behind her, then suddenly he wasn’t. The young assistant noticed Mackenzie seemed flustered. ‘Are you okay?’

  She answered nervously. ‘There was a weird guy following me. Did you see him?’

  Concern furrowed the girl’s brow. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, he just startled me.’

  ‘Do you want me to call security?’

  The suggestion was well-meant but laughable. ‘And tell them somebody was looking at me? Don’t think so. Knowing my luck the poor guy couldn’t remember what he came in for.’

  The girl started putting the items through the till. ‘Most men are the same. Their wives ask them to pick up a loaf and they come home with half-a-dozen cans of Newcastle Brown Ale.’

  They laughed, but the incident had rattled Mackenzie. Her hands shook as she packed the groceries into a bag. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, almost as if somebody else was speaking.

  ‘Can I add a bottle of gin to this? A litre, please. Ring it up separately.’

  Another promise was about to be broken.

  * * *

  Ring a ring o’ roses,

  a pocket full of posies;

  atishoo, atishoo.

  We all fall down.

  Day One

  Derek and Mackenzie Crawford

  When they came out of Central Station into Gordon Street, the city looked fresh and clean in the spring sunshine and Derek was glad he’d suggested spending the day in town together, something they hadn’t done in ages. Birds rose into the sky from a rooftop in Hope Street and flew towards George Square. Hope Street. Ironic. Because, for the first time in months, that was how he felt. A line of black taxis across the road made him think about his car, safely in the drive at home. Parking in Glasgow was a nightmare. All it took was some moron on his mobile not paying attention to scratch the paintwork and spoil the whole bloody look. Derek Crawford had learned the hard way. The world was full of fucking idiots: fact.

  He took his wife’s arm in his. ‘Let’s start with a coffee, eh?’

  Her reply was dull and unenthusiastic. Mackenzie hadn’t wanted to come. ‘If you like.’

  Her husband tried to ignore the apathy. ‘Or would you rather hit the shops?’

  ‘I’m not bothered.’

  Derek felt impatience rise. ‘Make an effort, will you? I am.’

  Not the beginning he’d wanted.

  For most of the morning they wandered aimlessly in Buchanan Galleries, her monosyllabic and uncommunicative, him scanning her face every few minutes for a sign she was enjoying herself and finding none. On the way out she stopped on the steps in front of the concert hall to drop coins into an old beggar’s outstretched hand – a toothless emaciated man, shrouded in poverty and the grey days of age – certain De
rek wouldn’t approve. As he never tired of boasting, he’d overcome his own modest origins, and if he could, so could anybody who wanted to.

  He waited for her to catch up and shook his head. ‘If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t encourage people like that. Whatever you gave him will go on drugs.’

  ‘Have a heart, he’s old and he’s sleeping rough.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  She couldn’t be bothered getting into it with him. ‘Hardly going to change his life, is it?’

  In a jeweller’s, he encouraged her to buy a pair of earrings she hesitated over, offering to get them for her. They left without them because – apparently – they didn’t suit. Further down the street, at the Lancome counter in the House of Fraser, a pretty dark-haired woman with ‘Sharon’ on her name tag described the fragrance notes of an expensive scent – sandalwood and amber were mentioned – and for the first time, Mackenzie seemed less distracted. Her husband stayed in the background and let her get on with it.

  Perfumery took up a huge space on the ground floor of the cavernous and ornate department store. Chanel, Dior and Givenchy sat beside names he didn’t recognise, and at every island the girls were lookers. Though not as beautiful as his wife.

  Derek Crawford had everything he wanted in life and he’d made it happen all by himself. For a guy who’d left school at fifteen without a qualification to his name, he’d done all right. His teachers hadn’t been sorry to see him go – they couldn’t reach him. He wouldn’t be told anything so he couldn’t be taught. Mr Drummond, the head of the history department, predicted a ‘brilliant’ future ahead of young Crawford; on the graveyard shift, stacking shelves in Asda.