“I’m sorry, Susie,” he said, trying to crush down the tears. “I really, really am. I think this was what they were looking for. Which means we’ve got an even bigger problem.”
“Doug, what the…?” Susie began, her voice filling with impatience, her eyes telling him she thought he was losing his mind. Maybe he was.
He nodded to the door. “Go get a couple of clean glasses from the kitchen,” he said. “Trust me, we’re going to need them. While you’re doing that I’ll get my laptop. Then you can see for yourself.”
• • •
He set his laptop up on the coffee table, poured her a large Jameson, then retreated deeper into the living room, standing with his back to the bay window that looked out on to the flats opposite.
“Just open up the file that’s on the flash drive. There’s only one there,” he said, his voice a shaking whisper. He didn’t bother with a glass for himself, just swigged straight from the bottle. Felt the whisky burn down his throat, knew he deserved much worse.
Susie gave him a confused glance, then lowered her head and got to work on the laptop. He watched the light from the screen play across her face, found he couldn’t bear the silence that slowly filled the room. He heard the soft double-click of the track pad, the screen turning brighter against her face. Saw the moment of incomprehension, the flinch as she made sense of what she was seeing, heard her breathing turn harsh and sharp and shallow. Saw her eyes narrow then redden, the stress rash he knew all too well surging across her chest like wildfire.
He shuffled forward on numb legs, took another greedy slug of whisky. Started to talk quickly, the words tumbling out as he sought to fill the maddening silence between them. Told her about the phone call from Redmonds, the meeting in Portobello, how he had reacted when he had shown him the image on the flash drive.
Susie rocked back in the sofa, hands scuttling up to her mouth. The tears were flowing now, glistening in the light from the laptop screen. She shook her head slowly, eyes not moving from the screen. He realised she wasn’t listening to him, felt something with sharp teeth and dull, poisonous eyes roil in his chest as he wondered if she would ever listen to him again.
The shame coursed through him again, burning his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Susie,” he mumbled, retreating back towards the window. “I’m so, so sorry. I just didn’t know what else to do. The thought of that bastard having that… I just, I…” He trailed off, the words drying up in his throat.
Susie blinked once, closed her eyes, shook her head. He could see her chest heaving, nostrils flaring as she fought to control her breathing. The cords on her neck stood out against her pale skin, as though she was screaming. She wiped at her cheeks angrily, as though the tears offended her. Then she opened her eyes and locked onto him, the fury and, yes, hatred, in her glare forcing him to recoil.
“A day?” she whispered, her voice as cold and hard as a marble tombstone. “You had this for a day? You had this when I was here, in this flat, sobbing my eyes out to you? You knew about this then? And when you called me about the Redmonds case, when I, I…” – she broke eye contact with him, staring up to the ceiling as if there was an answer there – “when I texted you about the preliminary findings. You had this? You knew what had happened?”
“Yes, Susie. I’m sorry, like I said I just didn’t…”
“Fuck’s sake, Doug!” she roared, exploding from the couch and covering the space between them in a moment. She stood in front of him, chest heaving, eyes wide, searching his face for something he didn’t understand.
And then she hit him. A fast, hard jab at his ribs, forcing the breath from his lungs in a whooping cough that doubled him over. And as his head fell, she followed up with a hammering slap across the face, the blow rattling his teeth and blurring his vision.
“A fucking day!” she shouted, her voice a thunderclap as she turned away and stalked to the other side of the room, hands clamped firmly to her sides as though she couldn’t trust them. “And what did you do with it in that day, Doug? Hmm? While I was running around wondering if Redmonds’ death was going to further fuck my career? Did you have a few sneaky looks? Enjoy a wee wank over it with a whisky? Not that you need a fucking excuse to have a drink these days. You fucking BASTARD!”
She rushed back across the room to him, tears flowing faster. He saw her right hand bunch into a fist as she drew it back, eyes darkening.
“And did you even fucking think about the damage you were doing to the case? For fuck’s sake, Doug, this is material evidence. You beat the shit out of a man then left the scene with evidence that could be directly related to his murder! And then” – she spat a bitter laugh, rolled her head to the ceiling again as though just coming to understand the punchline to a bad joke – “you write up the story in which you’re implicated and run it in the Tribune. So now you’re fucked, I’m fucked and, yeah, Rebecca is probably fucked too. Jesus, Doug. What the fuck were you thinking?”
The words hit him harder than her slap, washed away the pain and the fuzziness and the buzz from the whisky. He remembered lunging at Redmonds, his savage joy at the sounds of his pain, the feel of his body bucking beneath his kicks.
He stood up straight, locked his eyes with hers. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, deliberately, “that I didn’t want anyone else seeing that, that…” – he gestured towards the laptop with the bottle – “… that fucking obscenity and leering over you. I wasn’t thinking about me or the story or the case or even Rebecca. I was thinking about you, Susie, that’s all.”
She stared at him dumbly, mouth dropping open then snapping shut. He saw the tension bleed from her shoulders, her fist uncurling. She put both hands to her face and covered her eyes, and he watched as she fought back harder, deeper tears.
“Look, Susie, I…”
She stepped forward and he braced for another blow, refusing to move. Instead, for the second time in two days, she wrapped her arms around him and sobbed. He felt a rush of awkwardness, slowly, stiffly returned the hug. Muttered something meaningless about it all being okay. Glanced over her shoulder at the laptop on the coffee table. Knew what a crock of shit that really was.
23
Alicia Leonard lived in a gated development in Inveresk, a small conservation village south of Musselburgh. It was typical picture-postcard East Coast Scotland, the main road through the village was bracketed on both sides by high stone walls over which privet hedges spilled and ancient trees loomed. Behind the walls, huge houses crouched in immaculate gardens.
DC Eddie King turned the pool car up a small driveway that led off the main street, opposite a couple of houses washed orange and umber, their slate-grey roofs only accentuating the splash of colour in the drabness of the day. He pulled up to the gate slowly and hit the intercom. Waited a few seconds, got a harsh, static bark, “Yes, Mr and Mrs Leonard are expecting you,” before the black metal gates slid open.
From the passenger seat Burns surveyed the estate’s huge buildings crafted in granite and sandstone, their massive white-framed bay windows carefully shuttered against the outside world. He checked off the brands of cars sitting in driveways – Porsche, Audi, Land Rover, BMW. It was, he thought, a long way from the home Leonard had shared with Redmonds in Brunton when they had been married and on the force together.
When they had split, he had moved to Trinity, while she had stayed in the family home for a couple of years until meeting her current husband, Michael Leonard. According to what Burns had been able to pull together, Leonard was a big shot in investment banking, working for one of the main players who made their home on George Street in Edinburgh. It explained the house they were drawing up to now, and the six-figure car sitting in front of it. A former copper’s pension wasn’t that good. A fact Burns knew all too well.
King eased the Mondeo to a halt outside the house, killed the engine.
“So, boss,” he said, eyes not moving from
the double front door of the house, “how do you want to play this?”
Burns let the cop show cliché pass, happy that Eddie was at least using his brain and thinking seriously about the situation. That much was apparent from the suit he was wearing, which looked brand new, the high polish on his shoes, perfectly styled hair and the small nick behind his ear where he had obviously cut himself shaving that morning.
“Respectfully,” Burns said as he popped his belt. “We’re here as a routine part of the investigation. The fact that Mrs Leonard sits on the Police Board is of no concern to us. But, that said,” – he turned his gaze to Eddie, let the weight of it settle on him and cause him to squirm a little – “Mrs Leonard has some good friends among the high heidyins. So we answer her questions, play nice and say nothing that is going to blowback on us. Okay?”
“Okay,” Eddie replied, sounding a lot less convincing than he should. Poor kid would never make it as a detective if he didn’t work on the poker face, Burns thought.
“Right,” Burns said, “let’s get it over with, then. Wouldn’t do to keep Mrs Leonard waiting.”
• • •
The door was answered by a tall man with dark hair and skin scrubbed tight and flawless. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that no doubt cost more than Burns’ entire wardrobe. He smiled warmly at them, the sentiment not reaching the eyes behind his elegant rimless glasses, and offered a hand to Burns. He took it, surprised at the firmness of the man’s grip.
“You must be DCI Burns,” the man said, a trace of somewhere south of the border in his soft voice. “I’m Michael Leonard.”
Burns nodded. “Yes, sir, good to meet you. And this” – he gestured slightly to Eddie – “is DC Eddie King. Thanks for taking the time to see us today.”
Leonard released his grip on Burns, leaned past him to shake King’s hand. Burns watched the young officer, saw the skin around his collar flush darker as Leonard took his hand and shook it. Burns had seen it a thousand times before – the attempt to assert early dominance with a firm handshake that left you in no doubt who the alpha male was. He’d long since given up on these pissing contests, content in the knowledge that his grip was hard enough to crush the balls of whoever he needed to when the time came.
Dispensing with the pleasantries, Leonard ushered them along a wide, tiled hallway to the living room at the back of the house. It was a massive room, a piano tucked in one corner, peppered with family photos, a huge flatscreen TV mounted on a wall above a marble fireplace. The colour scheme was light cream and tasteful greys, chosen, surely, to maximise the light from the bay window that dominated the far side of the room, the Pentland Hills visible in the distance.
Leonard gestured for them to take a seat on one of two couches that sat at right angles to a low, dark-stained wooden coffee table. “Please, gentlemen, take a seat. Alicia will be with us in a moment. As you can imagine, this has been quite a shock for her, so I’d appreciate it if we made this as brief as possible.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Burns agreed. “This is purely routine given Mrs Leonard’s previous relationship with the deceased.” He paused for half a beat, made a decision. “Speaking of whom, did you know Mr Redmonds at all?”
Leonard shook his head, glasses glinting gently. “Only from what Alicia told me,” he said, his voice adopting the appropriate level of respect for the recently deceased. He would, Burns thought randomly, make a good politician. “Alicia and I only met after Paul had filed for divorce and, as you can imagine, she was in no rush to introduce us after. He was, to be blunt, somewhat selfish in his demands.”
“Oh, how so?” Burns asked. Curious. The rumour he had heard was that Alicia had been planning to file for divorce before Redmonds’ dalliance at the Christmas party had become the source of copy shop gossip and innuendo – that the relationship was effectively over before that.
Leonard shrugged, non-committal. “Oh, the usual. Property. Money. He was quite aggressive in the divorce settlement, I understand. That kind of fight leaves wounds, DCI Burns.”
Burns nodded. Wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if his Carol ever decided to leave him. Not that they had much to fight over other than the kids, but still…
“Anyway,” Leonard said, “where are my manners? Can I interest you gentlemen in a tea or coffee?”
“Coffee,” a voice came from the entrance to the living room. “We’ll have coffee please, Michael.”
Leonard crossed the room to greet his wife. She was every bit as striking as Burns remembered from a brief meeting with her years ago: tall, thin, cold green eyes framed in a face that was just a little too angular to be attractive. He thought he detected a hint more grey in her hair, but other that that, the years seemed to be kind. Remarriage and money, not a bad anti-aging formula.
Leonard kissed Alicia on the cheek then headed out of the room in search of coffee. Burns and Eddie rose from the couch, took Alicia Leonard’s cool hand as she offered it to both of them in turn then gestured them to return to their seats as she perched on the other couch.
“So, gentlemen,” she said, just a hint of Perthshire dryness in her measured tones, “how can I help? As you know, I identified Paul and gave a statement shortly after, so I’m not sure what else I can offer.”
Burns smiled, feeling as though he had been blindfolded and sent into a minefield. With the Chief Constable set to arrive at any time, the last thing he wanted was to piss this woman off.
“We won’t take long, Mrs Leonard,” he said, producing his notebook, “and we appreciate your time. But, being a former officer yourself, you know there are procedures we have to follow, steps we have to take.”
She nodded, eyes not leaving his. “Not part of the job I miss,” she said. “So please, ask what you need to. I’m not sure what help I can be, though. As I said in my statement, I hadn’t seen Paul in months before he, ah” – she cleared her throat – “died. Tell me, have you made any progress in the investigation?”
Burns felt Eddie shift slightly on the couch beside him, found it impossible not to be impressed by Alicia Leonard. She had subtly turned the conversation back on him, knowing that her position on the Police Board ensured her an answer. She must have been a hell of an interviewer when she was on the force.
“Well, we’re following the standard lines of enquiry, Mrs Leonard,” he said. “Processing the evidence, trying to build a picture of Mr Redmonds’ life. You said you hadn’t seen him in months. When was the last time you saw him?”
“At a retirement party for a former colleague – John Wallace? Perhaps you know him? I dropped in as a courtesy to John, didn’t hang around when I realised Paul was there too.”
Burns murmured his thanks. He knew old John, had been on the beat in Craigmillar in the late 1980s when he had been a desk sergeant there. He was a good cop, maybe a little heavy-handed at times, but he knew the job. He had been sorry he hadn’t been able to make his retirement party, but he was duty CID officer that night and, unsurprisingly, no one wanted to swap the shift or cover him.
“And your husband wasn’t with you that night?”
“No,” Alicia replied. “Michael was in London on business. He wasn’t back until…” – she paused, made a show of considering – “the following day, I think it was.”
Burns scribbled a note: Speak to John. It was most likely pointless, he had probably been too pished to see straight, but it might be useful. And besides, he didn’t have much else to go on.
“And you didn’t speak to Mr Redmonds that evening? Didn’t get the impression there was anything bothering him?”
“As I said,” Alicia replied, a subtle shard of impatience creeping into her tone, “I dropped in to John’s leaving do as a courtesy. When I saw Paul there, I paid my respects to John and left. I didn’t speak to Paul. Frankly, didn’t want to.”
Burns nodded, made a mental note that she didn�
�t like being pushed. Could be useful.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Paul dead?” he asked. “The violence of the attack suggests a personal motive. Is there someone who would have had enough reason to kill Paul in such a violent manner?”
Alicia Leonard laughed suddenly, humourlessly, the sound of glass shattering on stone. She saw Burns’ and King’s reaction, held up a hand in apology.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I am. You obviously didn’t know Paul. I can’t think of many people who knew him who didn’t want to slap him about or knock a few teeth out. You see, he had that effect. He was totally oblivious to how he affected other people, used his over-confidence in his own abilities and arrogance to ignore what he didn’t want to see. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he could be charming when he wanted to be, but he was, bluntly, a selfish bastard. He used people. Said what they wanted to hear to get what he wanted, didn’t give a shit about the wreckage he left behind. So yes, I can imagine there’s a long list of people out there who wanted to give him a good slap. But beat him like that? Kill him? No.”
It tallied with what Burns had heard of the man. An arrogant little fuck who charmed his way to where he needed to be, was how one detective had summed up Redmonds. He found himself wondering again what Susie had seen in the slimy little prick.
He was about to ask another question when Michael Leonard returned, laden down with a heavy silver tray, which held a cafetière, cream, sugar and an array of biscuits. He sat it down on the table, poured coffee and then distributed the cups before perching beside Alicia and wrapping a protective arm around her shoulder. She stroked his hand gently, murmured thanks.
“So gentlemen,” he said, “where were we?”
Burns looked again at his notes. Wished he knew.
24
“So,” Susie said, considering Doug coolly over the lip of her coffee mug, “what the fuck do we do now?”
All the Devils Page 10
