The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  They had held on to his upper arms and wrists in a very professional manner. Their feet had crunched loudly on the rough gravel, legs moving in perfect synchronisation. The big house was impressive, the indoor swimming pool even more so. A heavy glass wall was pushed to one side and he stepped over the ridge. Barrie had been playing one of the pinball machines. The three sacks of money were propped up together on the snooker table. The brothers had moved into the background. ‘Remember what I told you?’ Barrie had asked in a confidential whisper. And then they waited until the glass wall was sliding open once more and Mad Mike’s widow was high-stepping into the room. For a brief instant as she soaked up everybody’s attention he had considered making a dash for freedom but fear had weakened his muscles. They would not react to commands from his brain. He had been rooted firmly to the spot. He still was.

  The bombs started to go off around Adamson as Barrie’s intention became more and more clear. The high-pitched screech of their imagined falling ripped through his brain, making him grimace. Involuntarily, he folded into a semi-crouching position. Sandy Jones was behind him, breathing harshly. When Barrie ordered him to act Sandy sneezed. Adamson felt the wetness on the back of his neck and it was the spur that sent him somersaulting forward and spinning on his back, just missing the woman’s legs. He swung the cue diagonally so that the lead-weighted end caught his attacker on the side of the head. The hollow thump of wood against bone froze Sandy Jones in mid-movement. The side of his face darkened instantaneously as if a cloud had obscured the sun. Blood splashed from the wound. It spattered down on to balled fists that held a vicious shining length of razor wire stretched tightly between them.

  The sight of it gave Adamson adrenalin-fed speed and strength. He swung the cue in a circle round his head and struck Sandy’s jaw with all the power he could summon up. It made a different sound, a crackling noise like something hard and brittle being crushed. Shock waves vibrated up Adamson’s arm. The cue snapped and a lethally jagged edge impaled Sandy’s throat, releasing a spout of blood. He fell sideways against the table but before he had rolled off on to the floor his brother Billy was jumping past him. Adamson kicked out but Billy was on him. The top of his skull hit Adamson under the chin and knocked him back. The force of the contact winded and dazed him. He lost his grip on the broken snooker cue and it bounced out of reach. He twisted desperately to escape from Billy’s embrace, steeling himself for the expected punches or the sharp blade of a knife sliding between his ribs.

  But nothing happened. Adamson’s whole body prickled with dread anticipation. He could not understand why Billy just lay there, a dead-weight pinning him down. His soft leather jacket was curiously warm and damp at the back. Over his shoulder he could see Angela watching him and Barrie scampering round the edge of the table. The fringed canopy rocked. Barrie’s face came into view and with it the gun he was holding.

  With all the mind bombs exploding around him, Adamson had not heard the crack of the gunshot. But it explained the red stains on the palms of his hands and Billy’s inertia on top of him. His instinctive defence of his brother had blocked the gunshot aimed at Adamson.

  The realisation produced another surge of energy. Adamson squirmed out from under Billy and ducked behind a pinball machine. The crack of another shot sent a bullet ricocheting off the metal corner and humming round the room. The entire glass wall fronting on to the swimming pool shattered but stayed whole, like a car windscreen hit by a flying stone. Adamson ducked behind the next machine as the next bullet crashed into it, setting the mechanics in motion. A tinny vaudeville tune began to play and the bumpers rang and flashed as a ball was injected among them.

  Adamson was aware he was a sitting target. He had no choice but to go on the offensive. There was not enough cover and not enough space in the room for him to hide.

  He ran out from behind the echoing pinball machine and another bullet singed the air in front of his face. He kept running straight at Barrie, charging straight at the barrel of the ridiculously small handgun. Another shot. A crack as loud as a booming gong and a sharp pain low down in his chest.

  But it did not slow him. It did not prevent him hitting Barrie hard in the midriff with his shoulder, slamming him backwards. They went straight through the opaque wall of bullet-shattered glass. It exploded at the first touch, disintegrating in a silvery cascade of blunt-edged shards that fell over them and bounced around them like hailstones. The momentum of their backward rush was not checked at all by the collision and they plunged into the swimming pool.

  Adamson snatched a deep breath before going under but Barrie swallowed water and his struggling was immediately panic-stricken. Adamson had his hands on Barrie’s throat and he kept them there. He climbed above him as they bobbed to the surface, using his head as a handhold, managing to gulp air to fill his lungs before they went down again. Barrie thrashed and writhed. His eyes bulged and bubbles streamed from his open mouth. Adamson simply clung to him, holding him under, knowing that he had the advantage. He could feel Barrie’s strength draining away.

  Once more they floated up and once more Adamson ensured that he was the only one to break the surface and reach the air. Barrie’s attempts to break free redoubled, frantic and jerky, and for a moment Adamson thought he was not going to be able to restrain him. Then, abruptly, he weakened and the hands clawing at Adamson’s face lost all urgency. Adamson held on, staying under the water until his lungs were entirely empty. Then he released the limp body and kicked away towards the light.

  Barrie sank, drifting in the crucifix position, his knees scraping the bottom. Adamson rose, bursting up to relish the sensuous taste of the cold air, but even as he did so the pain in his chest seemed to be acting as an anchor that was trying to drag him down. The water around him was pink from the loss of his own blood. He struck out to swim for the side and a teeth-gritting spasm of pain lanced through him. Three more muscle-wasting spasms shook him before he reached the side of the pool. His left arm was useless and, exhausted by the struggle, he could not pull himself out with only his right. He was close to tears, frustrated that he should get the better of three of the bastards and not be able to cash in. He hung on the side, panting, refusing to despair, preparing himself for one last supreme effort that would take him to safety.

  It was several seconds before he noticed the high heels, and the legs, and the foreshortened, curve-enhanced body of Mike’s widow standing over him.

  He had forgotten about her.

  Thank God.

  She would help him.

  46

  The press conference was in the lecture hall on the third floor. Fyfe and Munro sat at the front with the blackboard behind them and the steeply pitched rows of seats in front. The crowd of faces stared down like reflections in a shattered mirror. A clutch of cameras occupied space in the forefront with photographers kneeling in front of them. Microphones and tape recorders cluttered the edge of the table that separated the two policemen from the mob. Two uniformed officers stood on either side of the door like bouncers handing out lists of names of the murder victims. Both Munro and Fyfe had been on media-handling courses. Adamson was to be a surprise. It would give the reporters a new line and keep them happy. They would be eating out of the police hand.

  Munro coughed delicately to attract attention and the sound boomed out through the loudspeakers. The ranks of reporters fell silent. The cameramen ducked behind their machines. The sound engineers checked their levels.

  The photographers fired their flashes like a volley of shots. Munro played the showman, introducing himself and Fyfe.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You will all be aware that in the last forty-eight hours there have been five murders in the city. You have a list of the names and what biographical details we possess. Pictures should be available by the time we finish here. I must stress that as things stand we have no evidence that there is any link at all between the five killings. However, it would not be an unreasonable assumption to make
and I assume you have probably already assumed it.’

  Munro waited for a reaction and there was a dutiful murmur of laughter. He kicked Fyfe’s ankle under the table to prepare him to take over. The idea was to give them John Adamson’s name without revealing he was a neighbour of the redhead. Cause of death was to be neck trauma or strangulation with no mention of near decapitation. Byrne’s death was to be attributed to the fall from the crags and other injuries consistent with human intervention.

  ‘As always we are keeping an open mind. I’ll now hand over to Detective Chief Inspector David Fyfe who is acting as co-ordinator for the separate inquiries.’

  The entire room’s attention switched along the table. The cameras moved round on their tripods. Another volley of flashes was fired.

  ‘At this early stage we have yet to establish many details,’ Fyfe said, reading off the prepared statement that had been approved by Sir Duncan. ‘However, in connection with our inquiries we would like to question John Adamson, a thirty-two-year-old white male who was released from Saughton Prison yesterday morning. Pictures of Adamson will be provided before you leave.’

  They were all writing furiously, heads down. Fyfe looked up and smiled. Beyond them, a narrow window at the back showed a slice of dark grey sky. Things are happening out there, he thought. The raw material of future press conferences.

  ‘Adamson was released on parole after serving nine years of a twelve-year sentence for armed robbery. His present whereabouts are unknown.’

  Fyfe folded the piece of paper in half as he finished and sat back.

  ‘Any questions?’ Munro asked.

  They all hesitated and then all began shouting simultaneously. Eventually they resorted to putting their hands up. Munro chose a young woman in the second row.

  ‘Is this person Adamson suspected of the murders?’

  ‘We believe Mr Adamson would be helpful in advancing our inquiries,’ Munro said, moving on to a middle-aged man with a ravaged face and a drinker’s nose directly behind her.

  ‘Is this the guy that was involved in the gun siege all those years ago?’

  ‘I understand that his arrest followed the discharge of a shotgun.’

  ‘And you were one of the arresting officers, weren’t you, Dave?’

  Fyfe didn’t recognise the reporter. ‘Yes, I was,’ he agreed.

  He enjoyed the fact that he was the only person present who knew the real reason why Adamson had been let out on parole. Fyfe had kept the potential link to Gus Barrie to himself as well. Maybe it would turn out to be as tenuous as his own involvement in Adamson being set free.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ the unknown reporter asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  A television reporter butted in from the front row. ‘This dead priest. Has a priest ever been murdered in the city before?’

  Fyfe and Munro looked at each other. ‘Ask the Church,’ Munro said.

  ‘Drugs. Is there a drug involvement?’ somebody shouted from the rear.

  ‘It is a possibility,’ Fyfe said. He was thinking about the Transit van and Gus Barrie and the long-dead brother Mike and beautiful Angela and the soft touch of her foot rubbing against his leg.

  ‘Is the neck trauma caused by garrottes of razor wire?’

  ‘We cannot disclose the exact nature of the fatal injuries at the moment,’ Munro said. ‘Forensic tests have not been completed.’

  ‘Was the priest a drug dealer?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  ‘Is it being viewed as a drug war between rival gangs?’

  ‘Not at this stage.’

  ‘Wasn’t this bloke Adamson the legman for Mad Mike Barrie?’

  ‘He was arrested nine years ago after Barrie had shot himself. He was convicted of armed robbery.’

  ‘A million quid, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Substantially more.’

  ‘And it was never recovered.’

  ‘It was incinerated in a fire. We found the ashes.’

  Fyfe could see their minds working. The questions came thick and fast. He and Munro were well practised in constructing sentences that sounded impressive but said nothing on close analysis. Everything was a possibility. Nothing had been ruled out. It was up to the Press to speculate and offer their own interpretation of events.

  Munro brought the lively question and answer session to an end when the supply of pictures arrived. It had lasted more than an hour. The radio and television crews immediately moved in to corner them. They needed sound and vision bites apart from the actual conference. Munro took the radio reporters and went to find a quiet room away from the milling newspaper hacks checking the quotes in their notebooks. Fyfe led the camera crews up to the back of the lecture hall and watched them set up beside the window. On the other side of the glass tree branches shimmied silently back and forth in the blustery wind. He combed his hair and brushed dandruff from his shoulders as he prepared to repeat his statement and the bland replies to the same questions.

  Outside it was very dark. He looked at his watch and realised he was going to be late collecting Jill and Number Five.

  Sleeping dogs, he thought, can’t be left to sleep for ever.

  47

  Angela stood with stiff starfish hands on either side of her head as the carnage raged around her. It all happened so fast she could not count the number of shots fired. She was transfixed, watching Adamson scrambling away and hearing the sudden crack of the shattering glass and the surrealistic music of the pinball machine. Then Adamson out of nowhere, hurling himself against Gus and knocking them both through the wall and into the swimming pool.

  She remained standing rigidly in the games room. Slowly she wrapped her arms tightly round her body in a token gesture at self-defence. While Gus Barrie and Adamson fought to the death in the pool she was looking the other way, staring in deep fascination at the snooker table and the overflowing sacks of money on the green baize. Billy Jones lay on the floor, stone dead, with large crescents of shiny red blood ballooning like a child’s fancy-dress wings from his sides. His head was to one side and his tongue was a disconcerting shade of bright blue. Sandy looked like a disused ventriloquist’s dummy. He was sitting on his backside, propped up by a leg of the table, with his legs splayed out and his hands curled pathetically in his lap. His battered head drooped. His chin rested on a bib of blood. He wasn’t breathing. The light canopy over the table swung slowly to and fro sweeping a silent wind of shadows over the three fat sacks and the cascading pile of pale, colourful banknotes.

  Angela came out of the trance gradually. The pinball music slowed and stopped. The money was hers, she was thinking, all hers. If they were all dead, the money was hers and no one would know about it. Mike would have fulfilled his promise to make her rich and she would be free, no longer dependent on anyone. This was her chance. There would be no witnesses. It would be her secret. This was what she had been waiting for.

  She turned and the pieces of broken glass crunched under her feet. The debris made an unstable surface as she walked to the poolside. Gus’s body was on the bottom, distorted by the diffraction of the light, seeming to ripple and flex as if it was still alive. Adamson was hanging on to the side with one arm, his whitened face screwed up with the pain and effort involved. Blood leaked from him in a dark cloud that faded and dispersed in the water. He looked up at her and his eyes pleaded for help. He was holding on to the smooth, slippery surface with the flat of one hand. His other arm hung uselessly at his side. She knew he was at her mercy. Without her, his grip would give out and he would slip back into the water and drown.

  ‘It wasn’t the real money,’ he sobbed, each word acting as a determined slap to his own face to keep him conscious. ‘It wasn’t from the robbery. Gus had it and he told me to tell you it was from the robbery. He gave me the sacks. It was so he could impress you. He wanted you to think it was the money Mike stole, but it wasn’t. Mike burned it. He really did. Gus put this money together. It was his
own money. It didn’t have anything to do with me. I had never seen it before.’

  Angela believed him. He was too far gone to lie and it all made perfect sense. What a sweetie Gus was to go to all this trouble for her. He was as mad as his brother Mike. All that money in untraceable notes. She would have been obliged to stay with him if he had survived. Poor Gus. Lucky Angela.

  She stepped closer. This was her chance. No witnesses, she thought. It will be my secret. The sharp stiletto heel of her shoe stabbed down on to Adamson’s hand. He snatched it away, sinking immediately, clutching once more at the side. She stamped on the hand again, grinding the heel down hard. Adamson cried out once but it was cut short as he slid under the water.

  Angela stood on the edge of the pool. She held her breath as long as she could and then sucked in air in short rapid gasps. Adamson stayed below the surface, apparently curling into a tight ball at the bottom as if he was going to sleep.

  He was dead. There were no witnesses. She was free.

  When she heard the sound of footsteps behind her she didn’t turn round. She froze. Muscles tightened painfully in her neck and legs. Silence screamed around her and then fled as the quiet sound of more footsteps circled round her.

  ‘Well, well,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  48

  David Fyfe stood at the limit of the tidal wave of glass shards and took in the scene in front of him. He saw the two obviously dead bodies beside the snooker table and slowly walked round to the other side of the swimming pool to look down on the other two dead bodies in the water.

  Angela stood opposite him, looking tremendously vulnerable in her short black figure-hugging dress. He was not surprised to see her. She did not look up until he spoke. In the few seconds it took to raise her head he relived every intimate detail of the intense love affair that had briefly united them after Mike’s death nine years before.