20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  The sharp bend took him by surprise: he jerked the wheel violently to stay on the narrow drive. ‘Focus, man,’ he said aloud, chiding himself.

  The road straightened, he crested a rise, and there it was, in view, silhouetted against the sky, the farmhouse, a substantial stone building with two storeys and an attic floor above. If it had been for sale, an estate agent would probably have described it as a mansion. And it was in use. On either side of the main entrance there were two huge bay windows. They both seemed to be in darkness, but as he eased closer, Martin could see that the curtains in the one on the left were drawn. They were heavy, but a slit of light was showing. He looked up; in two of the four windows set into the roof, there were signals of occupation.

  The drive opened out into a garden, and forked. He took the branch to the right; and parked, in sight of the house, but well to the side, engine ticking over, but lights off. He reached out for his mobile, which was set in a dashboard socket, found Skinner’s number and called it.

  ‘Andy.’ The chief constable’s voice filled the car through the Bluetooth speakers.

  ‘Bob,’ he told him, ‘this place is not empty. Is Rod sure Grandpa’s tucked up?’

  ‘Hold on.’ He heard muffled voices. ‘Yes,’ Skinner told him as he came back on line. ‘They did another check twenty minutes ago. He’s watching TV and having a beer.’

  ‘I don’t know whether that’s a relief or not. Do you reckon there’s any chance the shooter’s holed up here?’

  ‘And advertising the fact?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Do any obvious alternatives occur?’

  ‘Ah,’ Martin exclaimed. ‘What did Goldie say? “Our Cameron goes there sometimes.” I’ll bet she wasn’t talking about her brother; she meant her niece.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘There are two Cameron McCulloughs. That’s why the first is called Grandpa. The other one is Inez’s daughter; she was named after him, and she’s the apple of his eye, his only soft spot. It’s probably her. I’ll go and check.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Skinner sharply. ‘Yes, you’re probably right, but it’s not impossible that we could both be wrong and there is a man with a gun in there. The memory of Stevie Steele is still fresh in my mind. I’m not having you knocking the wrong door unprepared. Hold on while I send Doreen’s team round to join you.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Bob, don’t babysit me. I can take whoever’s in there.’

  ‘Andy, I don’t know if I can give you orders any more, but this is one anyway. Do not move out of that car until back-up gets there. We’re going to be hosing brains off the roof of this barn. I don’t want the same to happen to you.’

  Before Martin could reply, the fist grabbed his stomach again, without warning, squeezing the adventure out of him. His mind was filled with a vision of the nightmare in the barn, and he started to tremble. ‘OK,’ he whispered, ‘I’m convinced; we’ll do it your way.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ his friend asked.

  ‘Yeah. It’s just that I can’t shake this daft question from my head.’

  ‘Google it while you wait. I’ll send them now. You let Doreen ring that bell.’

  The mobile went dead. Martin sat in the dark, feeling unmanned by his weakness. Still thinking of the horrors, he threw his head back and looked at the grey roof lining, but he seemed to see the two ravaged forms there, as if it were a cinema screen. He closed his eyes, but it made no difference. He thought about calling Karen; he reached for the phone once more, but when he opened his contact list and saw the first name and number that came up, he went no further. He pressed the call button and waited as the car was filled with the two-tone sound.

  ‘Andy,’ said a sleep-filled voice, ‘d’you know what time it is?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Are you alone?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody alone.’

  ‘Sorry, I meant, can you talk?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to. I was dreaming about Granada. I’ve just read a book that’s set there and so I’ve booked to go. It was a good dream.’

  ‘Sorry again. Mine was a nightmare. I won’t tell you what was in it. Alex, what the fuck is a hench?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know. A hench, as in henchman. What the fuck can it be? I can’t get the question out of my head and it’s driving me crazy.’

  ‘Andy. Are you all right?’

  ‘You’re the second Skinner to ask me that in the last five minutes.’

  ‘I hope you gave my dad a proper answer.’

  ‘No. The truth is I think I’ve lost my bottle. I’m just a wee bit confused. I’m not saying I don’t know who I am any more, but I don’t think I’m quite the same guy.’

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘Hell, no.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Sat in my car in Perthshire, waiting for a woman with a gun to make me safe.’

  ‘You’re not making a lot of sense.’

  ‘Not even to me, kid.’

  ‘Have you been in a stressful situation?’

  ‘You could say that. So has your old man, but he’s like a rock, while I’ve got the shakes. That’s never happened to me before.’

  ‘Welcome to the human race, love.’

  ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Slip of the tongue. Let me tell you about my dad. Whatever it is you’ve seen that’s shaken you up, if he’s seen the same thing, then at some point over the next couple of days, he will get quietly hammered. It won’t be too noticeable, for he’s got hollow legs for the drink, as you know, but he will. The next morning, he’ll either go for a run or he’ll go to the gym and he’ll knock ten bells out of himself. That’s his way; but you’ve never lived with him so you’re not to know that. As for the Glimmer Twins, I spoke to Paula the other day; she told me that when Mario came home last Thursday, from that fire scene, he drank two bottles of Albarino then started to cry. I’m glad you’ve got the heebies, Andy. To tell you the truth I used to be slightly scared that you never did before.’ She waited, filling the car with the sound of her breathing. ‘And you miss your babies,’ she added, finally.

  ‘Yeah,’ he conceded. ‘There is that.’

  ‘That’s the road you’ve chosen. That’ll be a lot tougher than looking at dead things. But you’ll make it, because you’re Andy Martin, and he’s OK.’

  ‘So’re you, kid.’

  ‘Too damn right.’

  He laughed, properly, for the first time since he had left his family behind. ‘Yeah well; Alex . . .’ He was cut off short as the beam of two headlights speared across the lawn lighting up the front of the house. ‘What the . . .’ he exclaimed.

  ‘The woman with the gun?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t make that much noise. Alex, I have to go. Something’s happening here.’

  Eighty-one

  ‘Where’s he heading now?’ Montell asked.

  ‘Depends. If it’s Perth, he’ll take the turn-off he’s just approaching.’

  ‘I don’t see an indicator flashing.’

  ‘No,’ said Cowan. ‘And he’s past it. He’s taking the Dundee Road, over the Friarton Bridge.’

  ‘Another fucking bridge? Is it as high as the last one?’

  ‘You won’t notice in the dark. Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing about heights.’

  ‘I don’t even wear cowboy boots.’

  ‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t fancy the spurs.’ She stared ahead into the night, focused on the red tail lights that were all she could see of the vehicle they were following. ‘OK, my boy,’ she murmured, ‘where are we bound?’

  ‘What’s in Dundee?’

  ‘Lots,’ Alice replied. ‘It’s our fourth city; used to be famous for the three Js, jute, jam and journalism. The last one’s still hanging in there, but the other two are pretty much rubber ducked.’

  ‘Nice turn of phrase.’ Montell paused. ‘And talking about turns . . . is he slowing down?’

 
‘Yes he is indeed,’ she said, excited. ‘And, thank you very much, indicating like the good driver he is, to the left, and there he goes. We’ll just back off a bit, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s no through road up there. We’d have seen a sign by now if there was.’ She let the Mondeo slow right down as she approached the turn. ‘There’s one, though, but not a proper road sign. Hillside Mains Farmhouse,’ she read. ‘That looks like our destination. I’m going after him; you can call it in.’

  She made the turn. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other. ‘We’ve got him, Griff. Get some orders.’

  Even as she spoke, Montell was on the radio, reporting their position. ‘Don’t lose them now,’ Maggie Steele’s voice boomed. ‘You’re off the highway and they know the territory. Close in and apprehend.’

  Cowan smiled. ‘Lovely,’ she hissed. She put her foot down, unleashing the power of their vehicle. Within seconds they were closing on the pick-up. She snapped her headlights on to full beam, then pressed a button to start the flashing blue lights that were hidden in the front air grille.

  The driver in front swerved, but corrected and accelerated. They could see a house ahead, then an opening. The pick-up raced through it, then braked hard, and spun through a hundred and eighty degrees until it was heading back towards them.

  ‘No danger,’ Cowan muttered. She swung the Cosworth around, blocking the exit.

  The pick-up made to turn again, but before it could complete the manoeuvre, another car, another Mondeo, appeared out of nowhere and drove across its path, leaving it no space to move further.

  Montell snapped his belt free and jumped out of the passenger seat. ‘Police,’ he shouted.

  ‘Me too,’ another voice replied, as the occupant of the other car reached the driver’s door of the white truck and tore it open. The detective constable saw the man’s eyes widen. He looked through the passenger window. Inside were two figures, each dressed in black jumpsuits, and wearing black woollen hats, from which strands of blond hair had escaped. ‘Bloody hell, Inez,’ the man on the other side exclaimed, ‘what have you and your daughter been up to?’

  ‘Robbery,’ said Montell. ‘We’ve tailed them from Edinburgh.’ He opened the door on his side, took the older woman by the arm and pulled her firmly, but not roughly, from her seat.

  The younger of the two stepped out unaided, tugging off her hat and shaking her hair loose. She glared across the top of the vehicle, not at him, but at his captive. ‘Mother,’ she snapped. ‘You are a complete tit.’

  ‘Mr Martin?’ Cowan exclaimed, as she reached the scene.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Hello, sir. This is DCC Martin,’ she told her colleague. ‘He was one of us before your time. He’s just been appointed to run the SCDEA. What are you doing here, sir?’

  ‘I just happened to be passing,’ he replied, casually. ‘Who’s in the house, Cameron?’ he asked the younger woman.

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘DC Cowan may have to, but we’re not there yet.’

  ‘Look, I have no idea, honest. I haven’t been here in weeks.’ She nodded at her mother. ‘You’d better ask her.’

  As the truth dawned, Martin’s smile almost lit up the night. ‘Let me guess, Inez,’ he laughed. ‘There’s eight of them, they’re female and they speak Estonian.’

  Eighty-two

  ‘I was out by one,’ he said. ‘It turned out that there were nine people in the house, the Estonian girls and the guy you told me about, Marius Ramanauskas. He couldn’t wait to talk; he told us that he’s entirely innocent, and that he was only there because Inez told him to come and look after them while she arranged transport home.’

  ‘Did Inez say anything to that?’ Skinner asked. They were at the murder scene. The whole area had been floodlit, but they stood to the side, in the darkness, as crime-suited technicians made their way across the ground.

  ‘As it happens, she backed him up, in a way. She said that since his crowd had got the two youngest ones on drugs, it was down to him to help them get clean.’

  ‘Have you searched the house yet?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Your two did that. It has a bloody enormous cellar, mostly filled with golf clubs . . . Callaways, Titleists, TaylorMade, Ping and a few other top-of-the-range makes . . . and expensive clothing, Hugo Boss, Ashcroft and so on. We’ll have to consult the manufacturers to work out the total value. As for returning it to its owners, that’ll be a nightmare. How will we know whose is whose? It looks as if they’ve been stockpiling. My guess is they weren’t going to sell it in Britain; it was all going south in a container, to France, Spain . . .’

  ‘Or east, to Scandinavia,’ Skinner suggested. ‘Russia even; they’ve got the golf bug. Where are the women now?’

  ‘I’ve had everybody taken to Perth. The Estonians will be kept in a youth hostel, under guard. Inez, Cameron and Marius are being locked up for the night, and Goldie will be taken there in the morning, to be interviewed. According to Neil, she’s in shock. He decided to tell her about Henry, after Murtagh had gone, and she cracked up. I’ve sent a woman DC to stay with her overnight.’

  ‘And what about Grandpa? What are you doing about him?’

  ‘Nothing tonight, for sure. Inez is declaring loud and long that her dad knew nothing about the robberies or the stuff that she and Dud were keeping there. She said it was all Dudley’s idea, and that Grandpa was never involved. I’m going to back off now and leave it to Rod, but my view is that the next time we lift Cameron, it’s got to be for good.’

  ‘So how’s it going to pan out?’ the chief constable asked.

  Martin scratched his stubbled chin. ‘Good question, with more than one answer. I think Inez is fucked; we’ve got her for the robbery in Edinburgh, and as a minimum for possession of the stuff in the cellar. But we can’t lay a glove on Goldie for any of that, or for trafficking. The most we can do her for is harbouring illegal immigrants, and I would not dream of asking the fiscal to proceed with that charge. The state itself knowingly harbours illegal immigrants, for fuck’s sake. She’ll be released. I don’t know about Marius, though.’

  ‘He’s bailed on minor drugs charges that won’t even make court, so you’ll have to cut him loose too. But,’ Skinner frowned, ‘couldn’t you do Grandpa for possession? The gear was in his cellar, after all.’

  Andy chuckled. ‘Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,’ he exclaimed. ‘I know I said earlier that he had a farm, but technically, he doesn’t. The name on the land register is Cameron McCullough, all right, but it’s not him. It’s his granddaughter. She’s his heir; everything he does is for her eventually.’

  ‘And is she worth it?’

  ‘She is to her grandad. She might be only a kid, but he’s closer to her than anyone else. As soon as she turned twenty-one she was appointed to the boards of CamMac plc and all its subsidiaries. She’s well smart; it’s as if all the female brains in the family by-passed her mother and her aunt and went straight to her. Put her and Alex in the same business, and they’d rule the fucking world in five years.’

  ‘Speaking of my daughter,’ Bob murmured, ‘I had a call from her, about an hour ago. She asked me if you were all right. Are you?’

  ‘I wasn’t then: I am now. Thanks to her.’

  ‘Good. Now, young Cameron,’ he continued, quickly. ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘Apart from telling her mother that she and Dud make Fred and Wilma Flintstone look like intellectuals, she’s saying nothing at all. She’s cool. My suspicion is that she expects her grandfather to reach in and pull her out the fire.’

  ‘He’ll have a job. She took part in a robbery, and she was followed from there to here.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m having difficulty understanding why. She’s much brighter than that. How many of these robberies have there been?’

  ‘This was the tenth. The pattern was the same until tonight; patrol cars diverted by fake calls, so there was nobod
y to respond.’

  ‘What was the difference tonight?’

  ‘According to Maggie, the earlier calls were made by a man; these were by a woman. By the way,’ he added, ‘when can she have them?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin.

  ‘When can she have Inez and Cameron? They’re hers. This was her operation, they committed the robbery in Edinburgh and that’s where they should appear in court. Maggie deserves the credit, and so does Alice . . . and Griff: he could use a gold star on his record right now.’

  ‘I can appreciate that, but we have to charge them here, in Tayside, with possession.’

  Skinner looked at his friend. ‘We’re not getting into a turf war here, are we, Andy?’

  ‘Not at all; you know I’m right. I’ll tell you what; we’ll charge them with what we’ve got and stick them up in court tomorrow. We’ll have them remanded in custody, then hand them over to you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Cowan and Montell can interview and charge them after that.’ Skinner broke off as Rod Greatorix approached, looking haggard and exhausted. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked him.

  ‘They’re just getting to work. The door of Henry’s car’s peppered with heavy gauge shotgun pellets, so that’ll give them a starting point, but. . . they’ve looked out round the back and found a bin. There’s a lot of stuff been burned in it, paper underneath, files and the like, and something else on top. They reckon it’s a suit like the ones they wear. Meticulous, eh?’

  ‘We’ve seen something similar,’ the chief constable remarked, ‘in an investigation we had long ago. A guy dressed himself up in protective clothing for his kills.’

  Greatorix brightened up as he clutched at a straw. ‘Any chance of a link?’