Blood in the Water: A DCI Keane Scottish Crime Thriller

by Oliver Davies

  He waded out, and I turned east, eager to do some exploring among the rocks. I knew there was a good chance there might be some grey seals around, and it was always fun to watch them in the water, so long as you managed to keep your distance. You could get a nasty infection from a warning bite, and I didn’t like what antibiotics did to my poor, innocent gut bacteria. Some grey seals could be pretty nasty too. One adult male had been observed killing and eating eleven pups in a week in the North Sea a few years before, and the behaviour wasn’t that uncommon among them. Nature might be amazing, but I’d never accused it of being kind.

  I didn’t see any seals, although there were plenty of other things to look at. Lots of edible crabs and a couple of small octopuses, sea urchins and an unexpected, colourful colony of jewel anemones. I gave myself a good twenty minutes before I decided that it would be a bit selfish to keep my cousin waiting for much longer.

  “What did Caitlin have to say?” I asked as we walked back up to the car after I’d got dry and dressed again. Conall shrugged.

  “Not much. She was too busy pestering me with every detail of my day. I think they’re all fine. Philips got them all together for a little chat first thing, then spoke to them one by one, getting updated on all our open cases. She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic about him, but she wasn’t actually complaining either. I showed her this place, and she said it looked great… if we could just bump the temperature up to the mid-twenties.” He grinned. “Can you imagine it! The whole place would be ruined in no time. I sent a few of our Callanish shots over to da too. He texted back that we should all come over for a mini-break sometime.”

  We dumped our wetsuits into the boot, and I finished emptying my water bottle before we got in.

  “Great minds think alike,” I told him. “I was thinking the same thing on our drive down to Tarbert. We could hire some scuba gear in Skye, maybe hit North Uist and Benbecula, and spend a day doing the Clisham horseshoe. Some of the gang might like to tag along too.”

  “Next year?” Conall got the car started. “I don’t fancy it in winter, and you’re not going to want to go anywhere until the house is finished.”

  “No, I’m not. Next year sounds good, though. Pull in by the Gress Raider’s Memorial for a minute on the way back, will you?” I wanted to see that properly.

  “Sure,” he agreed readily.

  After World War I, the returning servicemen from Lewis had found, surprise, surprise, that government promises were as worthless as ever. Some things never change. The new owner of the island, Lord Leverhulme, wanted the area divided into large modern farms, and the crofters weren’t getting the land and homes they’d been told would be theirs. They hadn’t taken the news lying down, not after surviving the horrors of the trenches, and not after growing up seeing so many of their community starving through the bad times. Eventually, in 1922, The Board of Agriculture had stepped in, dividing the disputed and much-raided land into a hundred crofts for them. I did like a story with a happy ending, and there weren’t enough of those in the real world.

  The memorial was by the main road, adjacent to the Tolsta bridge, which had been a focal point of the local conflict between 1918 and 1920. Built on a raised earth platform surrounded by a ditch and trench, it was built in three divided parts, like two, split halves of an upturned boat with a stone column between them. We stood before it silently for a time, and then Conall recited softly,

  “May you have -

  Walls for the wind

  And a roof for the rain,

  And drinks bedside the fire

  Laughter to cheer you

  And those you love near you,

  And all that your heart may desire.”

  Yeah, they hadn’t asked for much, those good, brave men. Damned right, they weren’t going to settle for less than a little place to call their own and leave to their children, and their children’s children. It was nice to see that the memorial was being well kept. Conall smiled up at it and slapped me heartily on the back.

  “A rare win for our side. Come on, let’s get cleaned up and order a takeaway in.”

  Sounded good to me. We got back into the car and headed for town.

  Eleven

  That little trip up to Gress had been a great idea. I think we were both feeling pretty good after the welcome exercise. Once I’d finished showering, I rinsed my wetsuit thoroughly and hung it on the shower rail to dry off. Dressed again, I went through the connecting door to Shay’s room. He was still in the bathroom which meant he’d stopped to check his laptop before getting started. He was usually faster than I was. The sound of running water cut off seconds after I sat down on his bed, and he soon came out, a bath towel draped around his waist while he attacked his dripping hair with a smaller one.

  “Chinese, Thai, or Indian?” I asked. “Or do you fancy pizza for a change?”

  “Indian.” He decided, rubbing vigorously at his head. “Just pick me something medium hot and get a few nice sides and dips in. No rice for me, thanks. Naan bread will do. They hardly ever do brown rice.” I checked the menu. No brown rice on offer.

  “Naan, it is. Garlic or plain?”

  “Both?” He pulled on a pair of boxers and some loose black trousers and went to hang his towels up. Someone knocked at the door. “Get that, will you, Con? I phoned down to order drinks from room service before I hopped in the shower.” Good thinking! I went to open the door.

  “Good evening, Inspector Keane.” Mads Nielsen said, looking a little taken aback at the sight of me.

  “Herre Nielsen.” He was looking very stylish this evening, all dressed up for dinner? “What a surprise to see you here.”

  He had the grace to flush slightly.

  “Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Mr Keane. Your cousin, I believe?” Right. Gossip probably travelled fast in a place this small, especially if you were deliberately snooping around. I looked over to where Shay had halted in the bathroom doorway. What did he want me to do about this?

  ‘Let him in,’ he gestured. Yeah, we might as well deal with this, whatever it was, right away. I stepped aside, and Mads walked in. He froze momentarily, despite himself, as he turned and saw my half-dressed cousin staring emotionlessly back at him.

  “My apologies.” Mads turned away quickly, that image doubtlessly seared into his retinas, “I have called at an inconvenient time.” Shay stalked over to his bag and found a t-shirt to pull on.

  “Not at all, Herre Nielsen. What can we do for you?” he said politely, reaching up to sweep his wet hair out of his eyes. “Have you found some further information on Mr Jordan for us?”

  “Actually, no.” Mads’ wandering gaze took in the open, interconnecting door, paused doubtfully on me for a moment, and swept back to my cousin as Shay moved to push the lid of his laptop down. “I’m afraid you are probably better informed on that subject than I am by now. May I?” He gestured at a chair by the wall and seated himself. “I came to invite you to join me for dinner, so that I could discuss a job offer with you, Mr Keane.”

  “Oh?” Shay sat on the edge of the bed, facing him, “In that case, I’m afraid you’ve called at a bad time after all. We’re eating in tonight, lots of work still to do. I’m sure you understand.”

  I’m sure he did, with Shay going rigidly formal on him like that. Our room service finally did turn up then, and I thanked the guy and relieved him of his little tray. We’d leave a tip when we settled our bill. I put it down on the desk and opened my lager, allowing myself a good couple of swallows before uncorking Shay’s wine so it could breathe a bit. I took my bottle over to the bed and sat down too.

  “What kind of job offer?” I think I might have been glowering at our unwelcome guest. He just smiled at me pleasantly.

  “Your cousin is very hard to find any information on, Inspector, unusually so, one might say. But you must both have realised that his little linguistic display earlier would certainly arouse my curiosity. My young people all insist that he spoke each o
f their languages like a neighbour from their hometowns, and I was treated to a small sample of his perfect Danish myself.” He turned his attention back to Shay. “A remarkable talent, Mr Keane. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that your appearance was also so... unusual? I now understand perfectly why you would wish to keep a low profile.” He waved a dismissive hand, as if that minor detail was of little or no interest to him. “Nielsen International is always on the lookout for skilled, multilingual translators, and the salary we are prepared to offer, depending on how many other languages you are fluent in, would be very generous.”

  Well, that was surprising. He’d really come here to recruit Shay for the family business. Not that it would help. My cousin might be looking slightly less affronted by the intrusion after hearing that, but his disdain was all too apparent, no matter how polite he was trying to be.

  “I see,” he said. “Well, in that case, Herre Nielsen, I am pleased that you have only wasted a few minutes of your time here. Collecting languages is an enjoyable little hobby, but I have no intention of giving up my current line of work, whatever the offered salary may be. You must realise that I could easily make far more than I do now in a number of less interesting or challenging professions.”

  “Indeed.” Nielsen didn’t look at all comfortable by then, although he was doing his best. “Well, I was duty-bound to approach you. I am expected to look out for exceptional talent wherever I go. May I ask, to satisfy my curiosity, how many languages you have learned?”

  “Fluently? Only seventeen so far, Herre Nielsen.” Another nod, even more regretful this time.

  “Somehow, I find that I am not surprised.” He stood, eager to extract himself from an increasingly awkward situation. “Thank you for your time Mr Keane, Inspector.” He let himself out, and Shay bounced up again and went to sit at the desk.

  “Bloody cheek of him, snooping around like that!” He wouldn’t have found anything. Any pictures of Shay’s face that appeared online, any mention of his name, all disappeared again very quickly. No wonder Nielsen had become curious. “I’d better just let the Ids know it was harmless before they start anything.”

  I finished my beer and got my jacket on. The takeaway was only a couple of minutes’ walk away.

  “At least it was your mind he was after. Well, until just now anyway,” I told him cheerfully.

  “With his endless, gourmet smorgasbord to pick from?” Shay snorted. “I think I’m safe enough. Are you fetching the grub, or do I need to get my shoes on before I starve to death?”

  “On my way,” I told him. “Order me another cold beer, will you?” With that, I got going.

  Our takeaway was really good, and we demolished it thoroughly after opening up the little top windows to let some air through. I bagged up the packaging, and the loo roll we’d used for napkins, and took it all straight out to the bins once we were done. The smell in the room would soon clear.

  Shay was at his laptop when I walked back in, looking rather subdued as he cradled his steaming cup. Having polished off his work night wine allowance with dinner, he’d set the bottle aside and made us some peppermint tea. Both our rooms were provided with kettles and cups, and of course, he’d brought a little selection with him.

  “Come and look at this, Con,” he said, and I went over to see what he’d put up on the screen for me.

  “Okay, what am I looking at?”

  “This,” he pointed to the photo on the left, “is Mr Angelo Barclay, aged 41, a respectable restaurateur from Perth. And on the right, we have Mr Cory Phelps, aged 39, who kindly left his fingerprints all over the rental van for us.”

  I cross-checked the two photos. Similar features and hair but not a very close match. They both had similar brown eyes, curling dark hair, and rounded faces, but the noses were not quite the same lengths, and Barclay had a slightly longer face than Phelps did. His eyes were a bit smaller too.

  “And Cory Phelps? Who’s he?” I asked.

  “Get your laptop. You’ll want to read the file for yourself, and I need to keep digging.”

  I went to fetch it and settled on the bed. I opened up his email and saw that he’d attached a copy of the case report he’d found in the PND, given me a brief history of Phelps’ time in custody and a few added notes on the Category B prison where he’d been held on remand before his trial.

  Cory Phelps, like Brian Jordan, had also been a merchant seaman, up until twelve years ago when he’d been arrested as a minor player in a big smuggling operation that had been busted open by an NCA taskforce down in Felixstowe. Unfortunately for him, the items he’d been bribed to assist with on that trip were not just another shipment of the usual Moroccan hash, as he’d sworn he believed, but had also contained firearms.

  The sentencing judge had taken both Phelps’ minor role in the organisation and his alleged ignorance into consideration before handing down a six-year sentence, instead of hitting him with the maximum penalty for firearms smuggling. It still seemed a bit harsh to me. By then, Phelps had already been held on remand at HMP Pentonville, in north London, for over a year. Shay’s notes on that place were no news to me. It had a reputation for being an absolute disgrace to the Prison Service, although not the only one by a long shot. ‘The Ville’ was understaffed and underfunded, which was true of nearly all British prisons. Access to showers, clean clothing and even bedding was insufficient; rats and cockroaches had infested the place, and prisoners had even been temporarily removed to Wandsworth before official inspections occurred, in order to fudge the population figures. Apart from the totally unacceptable overcrowding and substandard facilities at Pentonville, stabbings and other attacks between inmates were far too frequent, and the suicide rate was high.

  There had even been a quickly forgotten scandal back in 2006, when fourteen officers were suspended after allegations of trafficking had been made. Drug use among inmates was another major problem. The corruption had been all-pervasive, and I gathered that conditions had become even worse since then. I doubted that most of the British population either knew or cared about any of that. Most people liked to believe that none of our prisons had been that bad for decades.

  Somehow, I didn’t think that his time in Pentonville had done anything at all to rehabilitate Mr Cory Phelps, quite the opposite in fact. No wonder Shay was looking so gloomy. Right about now, he probably wished he could dump every person responsible for allowing places like Pentonville to keep running in there themselves for a while to see how they liked it.

  The truth was that the overcrowding problem in all our prisons was getting steadily worse, and only a major shake-up of the judicial system, combined with real government action, could offer any hope of alleviating the situation. Too many assholes on the benches were handing out ridiculously harsh sentences to keep the politicians and electorate happy, and it was clogging up the overstrained system. Unless a lot more funding was allocated and more facilities built and staffed properly, it could only get worse.

  I’d never been surprised that Shay wouldn’t join the force. As long as he could make sure that he wasn’t responsible for putting anyone but the very worst offenders away, he could live at peace with himself. He’d always refused to touch assignments he didn’t like the smell of. Even his ‘boring’ cybercrime cases mattered enough not to trouble his conscience. Swindling thousands of people might not be murder, but the knock-on effect of what financial disaster did to many of the victims was certainly significant enough to tip his moral scales in favour of action. As for the money laundering operations he’d exposed, there was no question that his work on those had led to the arrests of some major players who definitely deserved whatever they had coming.

  But stupid, money-hungry kids like Cory Phelps? Yes, obviously, smuggling arms was no minor matter, but he’d just been a dumb little accessory accepting a bribe, probably genuinely unaware of the real contents of the illicit cargo. How did the punishment fit the crime in his case? What kind of reform process had Phelps undergone? He was
just another statistic, one of many lawbreakers who simply didn’t belong in a place like Pentonville.

  God! I hated it when shit like this turned up. I knew exactly where my cousin’s thinking would be taking him. This always happened when the deficiencies of the judicial system were shoved under his nose. Yes, whoever killed Damien Price needed to be put away where they couldn’t do any further harm or destroy any more lives, but Shay was absolutely right about the government just wanting to sweep all their dirty, unconscionable cost-cutting under the carpet.

  My cousin must have been cross-checking Brian Jordan’s and Cory Phelps’ work histories while I was reading and thinking. “Our two guys were shipmates for about three years, on and off. They served together on a few different ships.”

  “What’s Phelps been doing since he got out?” I asked.

  “He was unemployed for a couple of years, then moved up to Aberdeen and got a job with Locke Imports. You’re familiar with Malcolm Locke, right?”

  I was. Mr Locke had been investigated several times by the North East Division, without success. Apart from his perfectly legitimate business dealings, Malcolm Locke was also suspected of being a successful wholesale buyer and distributor of cannabis products. He never dealt in any of the more profitable Class A substances, though, not as far as we could tell. With a multi-tiered network of underlings shifting his stock for him all the way down to street level, it didn’t matter how many of his lower-level personnel the police swept up. So far, he’d been careful enough to remain untouchable.

  “Daniels said they’d taken Jordan on in Cadiz,” I commented.

  “And he’s made a lot of short runs to Spain over the past few years too. Handy for the sherry triangle. I wonder if Angus MacLeod uses any sherry casks at his distillery?”

  It was definitely worth looking into. We already knew he had Rioja casks from Spain, anyway. I tried to put myself in Locke’s shoes. Why risk losing a big shipment of hundreds of kilos when you could easily split up a bulk order into lots of smaller ones? Losing twenty or thirty kilos here and there was a much lower risk, and there had been a lot of large seizures around Europe over the past few years. In fact, thinking about it, with the number of distilleries importing Spanish casks regularly, that could easily add up to a very large quantity of hashish coming in. Shay finished his tea and twisted round to look at me.