All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  “Do? Now that is the question, isn’t it? But you are right, this is exactly what my associates would want to know. So thank you.”

  “Fuck yer thanks,” the caller snarled. “Just remember what I said. Shut him up, fuck him up, but nae killin’. You kill him, or anyone connected with him, I’ll burn you. Guaranteed.”

  James hung up without saying anything else. Rocked back into his chair. Considered. Rab MacFarlane, an agent of Doug McGregor? It was an interesting connection – and a troublesome one. The logical thing to do would be give the task to Vic, get him to have a word with MacFarlane, persuade him to stop poking at a hornet’s nest. It would be quick, final, unequivocal.

  But…

  Vic had already failed him. He had delivered the message as discussed, the morning papers told James that much, but he had failed to secure the missing key from McGregor. And James was too cautious to believe that such an error hadn’t alerted McGregor to the fact that he was in possession of something valuable. It raised the tantalising possibility that Mr McGregor would have to be dealt with more definitively than he had first envisaged. Which was a shame. He had seen potential in the man.

  So what was he to do? Send Vic to MacFarlane’s door, have him deliver another message? And if he did that, could he guarantee one or both of the men would end up dead? He cared little for Vic’s fate, but he knew the caller had been sincere in their threat that, should MacFarlane be killed, they would all be exposed.

  He nodded to himself, satisfied, the vague glow of anticipation tickling at the base of his spine. He would send Vic after McGregor, make sure there were no mistakes this time, that the key was retrieved. And if the reporter was fatally wounded while giving up the location of the key, then so be it. He had taken his chances the moment he had stolen it.

  Which would leave him free to handle the precision work. A personal conversation with Rab MacFarlane. He felt a smile play across his lips. Looked down at the pen he was still holding in his hand, remembered the last time he had used it, stabbing it deep between the knuckles of a scrappy little shite who thought no one would know he was skimming extra bonuses from expenses on a regular basis.

  But he knew. James always knew.

  He remembered the man’s screams, the soft, liquid sucking noise as he tore the pen from between his knuckles, blood gouting from the wound in a gloriously enthusiastic arc. He remembered lunging forward, stabbing the bloody tip of the pen into the man’s chest, just below the collar bone, clamping his other hand over his mouth and squeezing his jaw, the man’s eyes wide and wild with pain and terror.

  He wondered what it would take to elicit such a look from Rab MacFarlane. Found he was eager to discover the answer. And he would.

  He always did.

  27

  Susie arranged to meet Eddie at a small Italian café-restaurant she knew in Leith, not far from where the body had been found on Dock Street. It would have been more natural to meet him at Gayfield police station and go over the files they had there, but the last place Susie wanted to be right now was a crowded police station. Everyone looking at her, side glances and hidden smirks. Would they know? Worse, had they seen?

  She felt a cold wave of disgust pucker her skin into gooseflesh, felt the familiar prickle of her stress rash. The urge to retch churned her guts, swallowed by the acidic rage and hot skewer of violation that rose up whenever she thought of the picture Doug had shown her.

  Revenge porn. She had heard of it often enough, even worked on a couple of cases. It was an all-too common phenomenon in a world that was increasingly obsessed by likes, shares, retweets and posts. Take a few intimate snaps with your lover in the height of passion, have them leaked online as a petty act of revenge when it all goes wrong. She knew there were websites dedicated to pictures of people’s exes, had read the tabloid spreads where young girls described how a former partner had emailed pictures of them to his friends and hers.

  Shuddered at the thought that she was one of them now. One of those who had been used, whose trust had been violated.

  A victim.

  The anger bloomed in her again and she turned her thoughts to why Redmonds had taken the picture. Obviously he had known she would object, so he had waited until she was passed out. Was that his plan all along? Was that why he had spoken to her at the bar? Why he plied her with champagne? To make her vulnerable, pliant? Worse, was it for his enjoyment only, or had he shared it? She shuddered at the thought. The image of that cowardly little shite wanking himself off over the picture was bad enough, but to not know if anyone else had seen it – seen her – was a creeping torture that was almost unbearable.

  She tried to think rationally, to be the person she was trying to prove to everyone she was – competent, professional.

  Except she wasn’t that, was she? Thanks to what Doug had done, she was now actively involved in lying to her boss and covering up the existence of evidence that had direct bearing on an active murder investigation – and for what? To save her skin, make sure a drunken mistake she made with a fuckwit who deserved everything that came next didn’t become public knowledge or titillation.

  What was it Doug had said? I was thinking of you. Susie writhed in her seat, embarrassment flushing through her. She thought of how she had hit Doug, how he had refused to back off when she rushed at him again. Her accusation that he had kept the image for his own pleasure. Thought of him looking at her, naked, exposed, vulnerable, suddenly ashamed that she was curious at to what his reaction had been.

  Against her objections, he had insisted on keeping the flash drive and Redmonds’ laptop. She had argued that, as someone had already broken into his flat looking for them once, he was a target. But Doug had waved her objections aside, assuring her that he had “a safe place” in mind to store both items and that it made sense for him to keep them so he could get them to Colin more quickly.

  She had agreed, grudgingly, but only after getting him to promise he wouldn’t look at the image again, that only Colin would see it now. Doug had promised with his usual lopsided “trust me” grin, but she had seen the fragility behind it, and wondered what effect all this was having on him. He was already brittle from the Pearson affair. How had thinking he was a murderer affected him?

  She remembered the whisky bottle on his coffee table, of his half-muttered promise to stay away from it. No grin with that, just a flat-eyed stare that scared Susie even more than the thought of the image on the flash drive.

  She was seized by the sudden desire to move, to act. Grabbed her jacket and slid out of the booth, headed for the door. Barged into Eddie at the counter, just about taking him off his feet.

  “Whoa,” he said, arms up in a mock “I surrender” pose. “Sorry I’m late, traffic from Gayfield after I dropped the boss off was shite as usual.”

  Susie studied Eddie for a split-second. No half-hidden smirk, no arrogant “I’ve seen it” glint in his eyes. Christ, was this how she would size everyone up from now on? She waved away his apology, acted casual. “Sorry, Eddie, my fault. Wasn’t watching where I was going. I was just going to walk back to the crime scene, meet you there, show you round.”

  Eddie glanced wistfully into the restaurant then straightened up. “No problem, boss,” he said, turning and opening the door for her.

  • • •

  They walked along a cobbled back street to the crime scene, the sky above heavy with cloud that threatened yet more rain to come. As they walked, Eddie filled Susie in on the interview with Alicia and Michael Leonard. He seemed obsessed by their obvious wealth and the fact that Alicia Leonard “was definitely used to getting her own way” and “didn’t like being questioned by anyone”.

  Susie thought about that. Maybe what she had heard was wrong. Maybe Alicia Leonard didn’t like attack dogs, after all. Maybe she was the attack dog. Not surprising. Being married to Paul Redmonds would have anyone straining at the leash.


  They arrived at the industrial estate a few minutes later. The crime scene was still marked out by police cordon tape that fluttered gently in the wind. The SOCOs had long since gone, taking the body with them back to the city morgue on the Cowgate. Susie fought back a shudder. She knew she’d have to visit the place soon enough, see the body for herself, listen as Stephen Williams, the pathologist, described what had been done to the poor bastard in excruciating detail. Perfect end to a perfect day.

  “So,” she asked Eddie, “what have we got?”

  Eddie shot her a quizzical look then smiled. Susie pushed back a smile of her own. He had bought it, thinking this was a test to see how up to speed he was. Truth was, with everything else that had happened, she hadn’t had the time to look at the files.

  So much for competent and professional.

  “White male, late twenties,” Eddie began, voice slipping into the clipped, even tone he no doubt practiced for court appearances. “Discovered by a dog walker at approximately 6am. Initial examination shows the victim had been extensively beaten, and there was a severe wound from a bladed instrument to the chest and face. Initial trawls of CCTV at the junction of Commercial Street and Ocean Drive” – Eddie pointed off to Susie’s left – “show a light-coloured Transit van being driven away from the area at speed about forty minutes before the body was found.”

  Susie looked up, trying to keep her expression professionally bored, not show Eddie he was telling her something potentially interesting. “Any number plates?” she asked.

  “Funnily enough, the van didn’t have any,” Eddie said, giving her a knowing look. “It was headed in the direction of Seafield though, so we’ve got officers looking for it.”

  Susie snorted. “We’re looking for a Transit van in Seafield, down by the industrial estates and the MoT centres? Aye, good luck with that.”

  “It’s something,” he said softly, his tone unconvinced.

  “What about the victim?” Susie asked.

  “No ID yet, wallet and cash weren’t found on the body.”

  “So we’re thinking robbery gone wrong?”

  Eddie chewed his lip, looked back to the cordon. “Maybe,” he said at last. “But it’s just…”

  “Just what?” Susie asked.

  “I dunno, boss, just doesn’t feel right. A beating and a stabbing just for a wallet seems like overkill to me. You’d do one or the other to get what you wanted, not both. And, with the similarities to the Redmonds killing – the beating and use of a bladed instrument – you’ve got to consider the possibility the two are linked.”

  Doug’s words in her mind now. You grab Eddie, look into the Leith body. The beating isn’t connected to the shit-kicking I gave Redmonds. Jesus Christ, was she really doing this?

  “…you think?” Eddie asked.

  She snapped her attention back to him, cursing herself for being distracted. “Sorry, Eddie, what?”

  “I asked what you thought.”

  “I think we should keep an open mind. Two beatings and killings in two days could be the start of a pattern, but they could just be coincidental. After all, violence and robbery do go together. We’ll look into this just now. If we find something that would appear to connect this to…” – she paused, unwilling to say the bastard’s name – “… Redmonds, then we’ll report it to Third Degree.”

  Eddie murmured agreement. “So what’s next?”

  Susie looked down the street. “For me, a trip to see Dr Williams and the body of the deceased. For you…”

  Eddie rolled his eyes. He was about to be served what his grandfather had called a shit sandwich. And he was going to have to eat it.

  Susie noticed his expression, smiled. “It’s not that bad,” she assured him. “But this has derailed me from looking into a theft from a graphic design firm down the road, called the Docking Station. They’re on the lane opposite the Scottish Government building. Know the place?”

  Eddie nodded. Victoria Quay was a massive structure, a central stone cylinder flanked by two squat wings of stone and glass.

  “Well, get along there, “Susie said. “The boss is a guy called Brian Coulter. He was expecting me but I got, ah, sidetracked. Offer our apologies and get his statement about what’s been taken. And a client list.”

  “Client list?” Eddie asked.

  “Burns said they had some big-name clients. I’d like to know who. Probably means nothing, but it’s worth looking at.”

  “You want to meet up later, compare notes?” he asked.

  Susie glanced at her watch. 3.30pm. The last thing she wanted was to be feigning interest in any of this with Eddie long into the night.

  “Nah,” she said. “If there’s something important, let me know, otherwise take an early cut, I’ll see you tomorrow. 7am. Gayfield, okay?”

  Eddie’s smile widened. Another reason why working with Susie wasn’t too bad. Not bad at all.

  28

  The text that accompanied the picture message was only six words long, but it spoke volumes to Mark. Shaking, on the verge of tears, feeling his bowels loosen, he now truly understood what he was involved with. And who. He had thought it easy money, all he had to do was turn a blind eye to some of the more extreme things he had seen, keep everything running smoothly and pocket the cash.

  But now he knew the truth. Six words had forced his eyes open, shaken him from his oh-so convenient self-chosen ignorance, shown him the fangs and claws of the monster he was involved with and told him his life was in very real danger.

  The text, blazing out from the screen of his phone, was: I trust you received my message?

  The accompanying image was of that morning’s Capital Tribune, the front page headline announcing, Murder hunt as body found in Leith above an image of a cordoned-off industrial estate that Mark knew all too well was on Dock Street.

  He glanced around the flat, eyes bulging, terror clashing with adrenalin in his blood and squeezing his heart in a cold, clammy fist. He thought about ignoring the message, realised that would only make things worse, enrage Mr James further.

  And that was the last thing he wanted.

  With trembling fingers, he typed in a one-word reply: Yes. It was all he could think of to say. Watched as the message turned blue on the screen, felt a fresh wave of dread pulse through him when the bubble that showed James was typing again popped up.

  The reply was business-like. Direct. To the point. The menace Mark infused into it was all in his mind. But he knew it wasn’t a delusion. Good. Then I trust there will be no further sloppiness or mistakes on your part? You are an important part of the team, Mark. I would hate to see that change.

  Jesus. Part of the team?

  Mark tapped in his reply, pausing to proofread it three times before hitting Send. A mistake at this point would be absolutely fatal.

  No more mistakes. I promise.

  Again, the interminable wait as the message went from delivered to read then the bubble popped up. Good, read the reply. Then get to work. You know what to do. Co-ordinate with Vic. I want results.

  Mark tossed the phone aside as though it was diseased. Toppled sideways onto the couch, grabbed a cushion and screamed into it.

  James had killed him. The Tribune story didn’t name the victim, but Mark didn’t need it to. He knew who the victim was as surely as he knew his own name. James had had him killed purely to send a “message” to Mark – don’t fuck up again or this is what will happen to you.

  He desperately wanted just to go to the police, but thoughts of some of the things he had seen, and the faces doing them, told him that wasn’t an option. He’d be dead in less than a day. Running would be the same. They would find him. And he would die. Badly.

  But wasn’t that how this was going to end anyway? With him dead? Either at James’s hand or that psychopath, Vic? And if that was true, wouldn’t it be better just
to do it himself? Wash down a bottle of pills with wine or vodka, open his wrists in the bath – remember to cut up the wrist, not along, a small, vicious voice in his mind whispered – end it on his terms? His way?

  But no. That wasn’t an option. Not for Mark. He had been an awkward teenager, the late onset of puberty and his total lack of physical co-ordination and desire to fight back singling him out as easy prey for the school bullies. One afternoon, after one of the bigger kids – a child mountain of testosterone, zits and bad attitude called Luke Smith – had mercilessly ripped into Mark about “his balls dropping” in front of the class after PE, he had thought about just ending it all. He had no real friends to speak of and it wasn’t as if his parents would miss him. As an only child, they had made clear their disappointment in him at every turn. He was quiet when they were outgoing. Bookish when they were outdoorsy, dragging him on camping trips and to football matches and other sporting events whenever they could.

  He spent weeks plotting all the ways he could do it – step out into the road, pills, knife, jump from the top of the school – but every time it came to the moment, he backed away. Despite how miserable his life was, there was some small part of him that wanted to endure, refused to quit. His parents, he thought bitterly, would be proud. The irony was he could never tell them.

  He sat up, wiping the tears and snot from his face with the sleeve of his jumper, realised that he only had one option.

  Get to work. You know what to do. Co-ordinate with Vic.

  He stood up on numb legs and shuffled across to the computer table. Booted up and got to work. He had Doug McGregor’s mobile number, access to his work and personal email and the details of all his bank accounts. He would track him. He would find him. And then he would pass that information on to Vic, who would do the rest.

  No more mistakes.

  29

  John Wallace looked like he was treating retirement like a title bout – and winning. To Burns, he looked almost unchanged since he had last seen him more than five years ago: the thick, silver hair still sat on his head like a halo glowing in the lights of the pub, his skin remained tight across his face and around his jaw, his massive barrel torso radiated the same sense of innate strength.