All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  The first title in this series, Falling Fast, was shortlisted for the Scottish Crime Book of the Year Award 2014 and was a finalist for the Dundee International Book Prize.

  Advance praise for All the Devils

  “An excellent addition to the series. Cracks along at a great pace, with all of Broadfoot’s trademark grittiness.” James Oswald

  Praise for Falling Fast and The Storm

  “Falling Fast by Neil Broadfoot: Scotland isn’t going to run out of great crime fiction any time soon.” Chris Brookmyre

  “The chapters are a series of stabs, swift, to the point… The knots in the plot unravel with timely stealth.” Tom Adair, Scotsman

  “Neil Broadfoot has established himself as something of a heavyweight newcomer in the world of Tartan Noir. The Storm … is a swift, clean-cut thriller.” Rebecca Monks, The List

  “Fast-paced and extremely disturbing, this book is a must-read for lovers of Tartan Noir. Extremely highly recommended.” Amanda Gillies, Eurocrime

  “There are dead ends and shocks aplenty before this story pans out in spectacularly dramatic fashion. … Another cracker from an author on the top of his game.” Crime Fiction Lover

  “A perfect whodunit.” Edinburgh Evening News

  “With The Storm Neil Broadfoot has established himself as a professional author and a member of the growing house of Tartan Noir. The Storm is a great read.” Edinburgh Reporter

  “A gripping page turner with prose like a sniper’s bullet – straight, true and hitting the mark. Falling Fast was an astonishing debut. The Storm shows it was no fluke.” Douglas Skelton

  “Neil Broadfoot is the one to watch.” Magnus Linklater

  “Broadfoot is the real deal. A superb debut.” Crimesquad.com

  Previous crime novels by Neil Broadfoot

  Falling Fast

  The Storm

  ALL THE

  DEVILS

  NEIL

  BROADFOOT

  Contents

  Previous crime novels by Neil Broadfoot

  ALL THE DEVILS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Copyright

  For Joe – who first convinced me that words really can have power – then proved it with a late-night lamppost run. I owe you, old man.

  1

  The key chittered around the lock, tapping out an erratic beat that echoed down the stairwell. He cursed under his breath, wrapped his right hand around his left to steady it and tried again. Finally got the key in the lock, heard the click, hissed as he turned the door handle and a flash of pain lanced up his arm. Shouldered his way into the flat and kicked the door shut behind him, taking a moment to make sure it was securely locked. Threading the chain only took three attempts.

  He stood in the dark and fought to slow his breath, stop the sour tingle of adrenalin that made it feel as though his lungs were on fire and his heart was about to explode from his chest. Forced himself to pause, listen to the quiet. The ticking of a cooling radiator; the faint, almost comforting swish of traffic from the main road. Tried to soak it in, let it calm him, stop the trembling that hit him like aftershocks from a quake. The bag in his hand suddenly felt intolerably heavy, and he dropped it onto the small chest of drawers that sat below the coat rack. He stared at it, felt the rage begin to snarl and unfurl in the back of his mind again. That sudden, insatiable need – no, hunger – to lash out, act. Take revenge.

  He remembered the voice. Smug, arrogant, cultured. The world was his, everyone in it merely there to do his bidding. I think you’ll find this very, ah, interesting. Very educational. Smile! I’m about to make your dream come true.

  Bastard. Fucking bastard.

  He walked towards the bathroom, a stumbling lurch on legs that felt heavy and alien, partly from the spent adrenalin, partly from the effort of the kicks he’d delivered. He hadn’t meant to, he told himself as he remembered the meaty thud of his foot connecting with yielding muscle and fat; his victim lying on the floor, belching a hacking grunt as the need to breathe and the agony it caused waged a war in his shattered torso. He felt his stomach lurch and he staggered for the toilet, his wretch a silent scream as ropey, burning bile splashed into the bowl.

  Standing slowly, he turned to the sink. A face he didn’t recognise looked back at him from the mirror. Eyes sunken into dark pits, glittering with a feverish, manic look that made his stomach give another sickening turn. Skin grey and sallow, the colour of old concrete blocks left out in the rain too long. His hair stood up in jagged spikes, like an experiment in Eighties backcombing that had gone tragically wrong. His cheekbones, which were always prominent, threatened to burst through his skin. To test the theory, he pulled his face into what should have been a smile, producing only an empty leer that exposed teeth streaked with blood from the bites he had sunk into his bottom lip. Otherwise, his face was untouched, showing no trace of what had happened. He felt a savage stab of pride at that. His attack had been so sudden, ferocious and, yes, out of character, that the bastard hadn’t even been able to land a blow on him. He knew he should feel shame about that. Wondered what it said about him that he didn’t.

  The least of his problems.

  He stripped stiffly, his clothes a sweaty, fetid bundle on the floor, then stepped into the shower. Turned it up as hot as he could bear and stuck his head under the showerhead, hoping the hissing static of the water would drown out the sound of his blows raining down, the pathetic, mewling pleas to “stop, just stop, please, I was wrong, I know I was wrong”. It didn’t work.

  The soap stung his bruised and cut knuckles, cold agony against the heat of the water. He lashed out, driving his fist against the tiles, a monstrous bolt of pain raging up from his hand all the way to his shoulder. He drove his fist forward again, smears of blood standing out against the sterile white of the tiles.

  When he couldn’t stand to be under the water any longer he shut the shower off and stepped out, avoiding the mirror as he reached for a towel. Scooped up his clothes and carried them to the bedroom, picking out the flash drive from his jeans pocket. He turned it around in his fingers. It was a small piece of black and grey plastic, about half the size of a pack of chewing gum. An everyday item – he must have a dozen of them himself, filled with stories and research and pictures. But he knew the truth about this one. It may have looked like just
another flash drive, but it wasn’t.

  It was a bomb. An armed one. And when it went off, it would destroy the lives of everyone around it.

  He headed for the living room, stopping in the hall to pick up the bag, which contained a laptop, and then detouring via the kitchen. Sat down on the couch, laying the bag on the coffee table in front of him along with a glass, joining a bottle of Jameson that was already there. He was tightening his hand around the neck to unscrew the bottle when he stopped, considered. Juggled the bottle to his other hand and twisted with his right hand instead. Better. No pain, just the awkwardness of unfamiliarity.

  He closed his eyes for a second, remembering what had happened all those months ago: another night of violence and pain. He could still feel Diane Pearson’s foot stomping down on his hand, the sound of his bones snapping and grinding together. He lifted his left hand and looked at it now. The scars were almost healed, the bones knitted together with the help of surgery and steel pins. But the pain lingered deep in his bones, a gnawing ache that no whisky or painkiller could reach. He flexed his fingers slowly, then tightened his hand into a fist as hard as he could, slow waves of pins and needles washing from the tips of his fingers and up his wrist to his elbow. Trapped nerves due to the break and the way his arm had twisted when his hand had been stamped on; the doctors had said he was lucky not to have any loss of sensation or motor control.

  He snorted at that. Lucky. Right.

  He poured a large measure into the glass, paused then topped it up. Lifted the glass to his lips, close enough to feel the fumes nip at his eyes, when he heard the voice. The voice he always heard. The voice he hated. The voice he wanted to silence forever.

  Don’t fall into the bottle, it whispered.

  “Go fuck yourself,” he said aloud, downing half the glass in one acidic gulp.

  He topped up the glass then sat back, considering the bag in front of him and the flash drive in his hand. It felt hot, heavy. Should he look at it again? Could he? Or should he just destroy it, forget he’d ever seen it? But if he did that, how would he know that it was one of a kind? That his victim had been telling the truth and what was on it existed there and only there? His mind turned it over and over again; whirling and sparking like a Catherine wheel. He swallowed more whisky then made a decision. There was nothing else for it, he would have to look at it again, see what else he could find, if anything.

  He just hoped he could be forgiven for doing it.

  He was reaching for the laptop bag when the buzzer went, making him start. His head jerked towards the living room door, eyes wide, as if he could see the answers to his questions through the door.

  Had he come for a rematch? To retrieve his property? Sent his pals to even the odds? Didn’t matter, the answer would be the same.

  Downing the last of the whisky in a gulp, he grabbed the bottle by the neck as though it was a club and headed for the door. He imagined swinging the bottle at the first head that appeared as he opened the door. Felt a tickle of revulsion at the back of his throat as he realised he was eager to find out what sound it would make as it shattered over his victim’s skull. He lifted the wall-mounted security phone, pressed the button that activated the CCTV camera. He stopped dead, the whisky curdling and giving an oily roll in his stomach as shock and panic shot through him in a stuttering electric current.

  She stood framed in the small, black-and-white screen, glancing nervously about. Her arms were crossed over her chest tightly as she rocked from side to side. When she looked straight at the camera, he was sure he saw the glint of tears on her cheeks.

  Fucking bastard. He had told her. Everything. His final revenge. And now she was here. For what? To confront him? To take the flash drive? To ask him what the hell he had been thinking? Arrest him?

  He pressed the talk button with a shaking finger, struggled to keep his voice neutral. His lips were numb, his tongue a dead slug in his mouth.

  “Susie? It’s late. What’s…”

  “Doug, I, ah… Look, I’m sorry it’s late, but can I come up please? I really need to talk to you.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, fragile and roughened by tears. His panic bled away, replaced by a dread that leached the warmth from his body.

  “Sure,” he said, buzzing the lock release. “Come on up.”

  He heard the main door to the tenement creak open then bang shut. Turned and dived back into the living room, grabbing the bag and stuffing it behind the sofa. He glanced at the flash drive, thought about hiding it, decided it was pointless. That was why she was here. She knew about that. When she knocked on the front door, he forced his breathing to return to normal, to ignore the hammering of his heart. Struggled to think of some first words, found there was nothing he could say but the obvious.

  “Susie, I’m so sor…” he started as he swung the door open.

  She didn’t so much walk into the flat but fall into it, grasping for him as she did. Wrapped her arms around him, buried her head into his chest and sobbed. Doug felt as though the room was spinning around him. Too much was happening too quickly. Why was she here? What did she know? Who had told her? He blinked, bit down on his lip and tried to concentrate as he returned her rough hug, ignoring the pain in his hand and arm as he held her close and let her cry against him.

  He felt the sobbing ease, her arms loosening and pushing him away. She took a half-step back, looked at him hard, something halfway between anger and apology in her grey-green eyes. He saw her jaw tighten, knew only too well that it meant she was chewing on unpleasant words.

  “Sorry,” she said, wiping a pale hand across her eyes. “It’s just that, well…” She paused, the words she was grasping for as elusive as smoke. “Sorry,” she said again, her voice hardening as she fought to project the illusion of control. Typical cop trick. Command every situation. “Look, I know it’s late, if this is a bad time? If Rebecca…?” She let the sentence linger in the air, made a show of looking over his shoulder and back into the flat.

  He gave his head an abrupt shake. “Becky’s not here,” he said. “Look, Susie, what’s…?”

  She held up a hand as she moved past him, heading for the living room. He tried to get in front of her, double-check he hadn’t missed anything, but it was impossible. When Susie set her mind on something, it was easier just to get out of the way. She sat on the sofa he’d stuffed the laptop behind, hunched forward, arms hanging between her knees. Doug could see that the flash drive was directly in her line of sight; he felt a cold sting of shame as a memory darted across his mind.

  Hair tousled, cheeks flushed. The thin sheen of sweat on her naked skin. The sheet a twist of white cotton, pulled down below her stomach, revealing…

  He blinked, forced the image back and sat down opposite her, the coffee table a barrier between them, the bomb sitting unexploded in no-man’s-land.

  She looked up at him, a small, rueful smile twitching at her lips as she nodded to the whisky bottle. “Got a glass?”

  What the fuck? He wanted to grab her, scream into her face, ask her what was going on. Was this a game? A trap? Get him to tell her what he knew first? Instead, he gestured to the glass sitting in front of her, the one he had been using only a moment ago.

  “Use that one, I’ve got another one here,” he said, reaching down for the glass that sat abandoned on the carpet. He couldn’t remember leaving it there, remembered only waking in the chair with a start at 4am the morning before, heart hammering, the same nightmare he’d been having for months seared into his thoughts.

  She nodded, pulled the bottle and glass to her. Poured a measure that was at least a quad and drained half the glass. She took a moment to consider it as the colour rose in her cheeks and her eyes shimmered with fresh tears. When she spoke, her voice was flat and dead, as cold as graveyard dirt.

  “He’s dead,” she said. “Third Degree called me about half an hour ago, wanted me to hear before…
well, before you know…”

  Doug felt the room give a lurch. “What?” he said, his own voice little more than a cracked whisper. “Who? Who’s dead? Susie, what the hell is going on?”

  She fixed him with a look he had never seen before. Cold, broken; rage and heartbreak flitting across her eyes like a fast-moving weather front. “Paul Redmonds,” she said finally, nodding slowly as if confirming it to herself. “You remember him? Best known for shagging a stupid young detective at a Christmas party in Glasgow?” Her voice hardened, eyes locking with his. “You should remember that story at least, Doug. After all, it’s how we met.”

  Doug sat in his chair, pinned. He couldn’t talk, fought to breathe. Panic and terror raged inside him, churning like the sea in a hurricane.

  Paul Redmonds. Former Assistant Chief Superintendent Paul Redmonds. Recently retired, now under investigation for alleged links to one of Edinburgh’s biggest gangsters. Paul Redmonds, the married man who had been the focus of the gossip columns a few years ago when he had a one-night stand with a young DS at the police Christmas party in Glasgow. Hadn’t taken long for Doug to be put on the story and find the details and who the DS was – she was sitting across from him now. Not the best way to start a friendship, but somehow it had worked for them. Most of the time.

  Paul Redmonds, who Doug had seen only an hour before, lying in front of him, begging him to stop as he drove kick after kick after kick into his guts.

  Paul Redmonds, whose stolen laptop was wedged less than a foot behind Susie’s back.

  Paul Redmonds. The man Doug McGregor had just killed.

  2

  The generator chugged and spluttered, the sound abrupt and harsh in the streetlight-stained hush of the early morning before dawn, the spotlights it powered dimming and brightening in time with the grunts of the engine. In the centre of the spotlights, the SOCOs’ tent covered most of Paul Redmonds’ driveway, the officers’ shadows playing across the surface of the tent like circus mimes as they went about their work, dancing around the silhouette of a car.