All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  Doug nodded, eyes locked on the keyboard and not the screen. Something missing? Yes. But if that was the case, why did he feel as if he had just found something vital?

  40

  The cream walls seemed to glow in the gloom, a solitary lamp throwing a small pool of light that sketched objects out in a relief of silhouettes and shadows. Alicia Leonard sat on the sofa, a glass of wine forgotten on the coffee table in front of her. She turned her attention back to the iPad on her lap, rereading the same paragraph of a Police Board paper for what felt like the hundredth time. With a sigh of frustration, she tossed the iPad aside, looked across to the sofa where the two policemen had sat earlier today.

  She felt a hard, impotent anger as she thought of the senior officer. What was his name? Bryan? No, Burns. Jason Burns. How dare the pompous little prick question her about the last time she had seen Paul? And how stupid had she been to rise to it? It was only for a second, but the irritation that seeped into her voice reverberated in her ears even as she said the words. And she had seen it in his eyes, of course, that look she had seen too many times before from men who thought they had got the measure of her or slipped her up. Gotcha, bitch.

  If only they knew.

  She sighed in frustration. Grabbed the wine glass and padded through to the kitchen, passing the door to Michael’s office as she did. He was out, again, either working or indulging his other passions. She was observant enough to know about the other women, but at least he did her the courtesy of not lying about it. Instead, the topic was studiously ignored by both of them as they lived the lie of a happily married couple. It was no great effort for Alicia. After all, Paul had given her the chance to practise for the role.

  She thought of him then, lying naked and pale on a cold steel table at the mortuary when she had gone to formally identify him. She had only seen his shoulders and face, but it was clear Paul had been given a hell of a beating. His skin, bleached grey by the draining of his blood and the inevitable onset of decay, was a patchwork of lurid greens, purples and dusky reds, almost as though he had been attacked by a murderous tattooist. His nose, which she vaguely remembered one of her friends referring to as a “perfect Roman nose – sexy”, was now a crooked mess, split open at the nostrils and bent towards his left cheek. And she could see the telltale swelling just below his ears which told her that his jaw had been broken. Looking down on him, on the man she had shared so much with, she felt a brief pang of sorrow. Crushed it down with the memory of all the pain she had caused him.

  She had received a call from the Chief Constable when she was driving back home, been assured that Police Scotland was “doing all it could to bring the culprit to justice”. The arrival of Burns and his minion was, she supposed, another attempt to show that the force was throwing everything it had at the case. It didn’t comfort her.

  She thought of calling John Wallace, using Paul’s death as a pretence, then thought better of it. He knew nothing of what really happened that night beyond what he saw at the bar. Calling him would only stir his suspicions and, worse, his memory. No, better to let it lie.

  She poured her wine down the sink, considered having a vodka while she waited for Michael to return. Instead, she headed for the gym in the basement – the gym Michael had insisted on installing with his last bonus – to lose herself in exercise.

  After all, she was a member of the Police Board, the woman whose ex had become front-page news due to the manner of his death. She was also the wife of a successful and well-respected figure in the finance sector who had a knack of snagging column inches in the business pages of papers. All that added up to publicity. Exposure. Opportunity. And with that in mind, it would be stupid not to keep in shape, make sure she was looking her best.

  Just in case the cameras came calling.

  41

  Doug lay in the spare room of Hal and Colin’s flat, staring at the ceiling in the dark and flexing his left hand slowly. The comforting silence was doing nothing to ease the pain in his arm or his mind. So Redmonds had put on another porn film while taking pics of Susie, so what? Fucking prick was obviously only interested in his own pleasure, probably put it on to jack off to as he took those pictures. But the time difference meant it wasn’t the “entertainment event” provided by the hotel. So whatever Redmonds had put on, he had taken with him to the hotel that night.

  Doug shuddered slightly, an unpleasant thought coming to him. Had Redmonds been that predatory, his plan all along being to pick someone up then watch whatever it was he had with him as he took pictures of them? If so, why?

  He gasped softly as he turned his hand the wrong way, needles of pain rippling up from his ring finger to his wrist. Thought again of the first blow he had landed on Redmonds, the pain a joyous wildfire. Knowing what he did now, Doug wished he had hit the bastard harder. Killed him himself.

  He stopped, Hal’s warning in his mind again. The only way you’re going to get through this is by being honest.

  If he was being honest, he didn’t want Redmonds dead. Not really. Yes, he wanted him to suffer for what he had done to Susie, but dead? No. He thought back to the shock and terror that had screamed through his mind when Susie had told him Redmonds was dead. The revulsion at the thought he was responsible, the weight of another man’s life weighing down on him, crushing, suffocating…

  No. Doug knew he was no killer. But someone was. The question was who? And why?

  He swung his legs off the bed, sat up and clicked on the light. Dug around in his bag for his notebook and opened it to the page of notes he had scribbled down at the airport, going over what he knew.

  Redmonds. Falcon’s Rest. Dessie Banks.

  Doug made a mental note to chase Rab for anything he had found as soon as he got home. He grabbed a pen, flicked to a new page of his notebook. Tried to lay the whole picture out in his mind again. Asked himself what he knew. And what he didn’t. Started writing.

  Redmonds was scared by something I was doing. Scared enough to try to blackmail me. Where did he go after I – he paused for a moment – beat the shit out of him?

  Why did someone kill him? Because he confronted me? Because he told them he showed me the picture of Susie?

  Doug looked at the page. Was that it? Was that why he had died? But then why would someone kill him over a nude pic of a cop? The only person with motive was Susie herself, and Doug knew she wasn’t the killer.

  So who was?

  He massaged his forehead, as though trying to coax his brain into gear. There was something missing, something that he was almost seeing, something that connected all this, made the picture make sense….

  He was startled from his thoughts by the chirp of his mobile on the bedside table. He picked it up and peered at the screen, cursing when he saw Susie’s name on the display. He had promised to call her with an update after Colin had looked at the laptop, and forgotten. His thumb hesitated over the Answer key. What could he tell her? Sorry, nothing new to report, every chance he had more dirty pics of you and we can’t tell if he uploaded any of them to the Internet. On the bright side, you do have amazing breasts.

  He shook his head, embarrassed by the thought. Hit the screen.

  “Susie? What’s up? Look, sorry I haven’t called, we were –”

  Susie cut him off. “Doug. Forget about that now. What time are you flying back tomorrow?”

  “Early,” he said, an alarm starting to ring in the back of his mind, unease making his breath short. “9am flight. Why?”

  “We just got a call. Seems like a man has been found severely beaten and stabbed in the New Town. Late fifties.”

  “And?” Doug coaxed, not sure he wanted to hear what was coming next.

  “Doug,” – and something in Susie’s businesslike tone softened – “the call came from Forth Street. The victim was taken to the ERI, he’s in surgery now. Outlook is 50-50 at this stage.”

  “F
orth Street,” Doug said, his tongue clicking as he forced the words out. “You mean…?”

  “Yes, Doug. The victim has been identified as Rab MacFarlane. Janet’s been informed and is being taken to the hospital. But you better get back here as soon as you can. I’m not sure how long he’s going to last.”

  42

  Doug staggered out of the arrivals gate at Edinburgh the next morning, addled by too much coffee and too little sleep. After the call from Susie, his first move had been to phone Janet, see what she could tell him.

  “It’s nae looking good, son,” she’d said, voice hard and brittle. “Someone got him at the office when he was on his own. Bastard kicked the shite out of him then stabbed him as well. Doctors say he’s got one collapsed lung, internal bleeding. They’re working on him now.”

  Doug made some supportive comments, mind racing and eyes glued to his notepad, fixed on the other name written there and circled. Dessie Banks. Was that who was behind this? Had Rab asked a question he shouldn’t, and paid the price for it? If so, then this was on Doug’s shoulders.

  Fuck.

  “Look, Janet, I’m in London. I’m on an early flight back up tomorrow morning, I’ll come straight to the hospital when I get in.”

  “Bloody right you will!” Janet said, her voice jagged with something different now. Something dangerous. “He was poking around on your behalf so I think it’s well past time we had a wee word, don’t you?”

  He had agreed and hung up, spent the rest of a sleepless night turning everything over in his mind, hitting dead end after dead end. The only thing that seemed to connect everything was Dessie Banks. But why would Banks kill Redmonds over a dirty picture or an empty laptop? And what was he so desperate to cover up that he had Rab almost killed to keep his nose out of it?

  At Edinburgh Airport next morning he was so preoccupied with thoughts of getting to his car and rechecking Redmonds’ laptop bag that he almost didn’t see the man mountain looming up in front of him. The doughy colossus who had driven him back to Becky’s flat the other day, steering wheel digging into his gut.

  Chris.

  Doug stopped just before he walked into him, pulling up short at the last moment. He blinked in confusion. Chris saw the look and smiled. Doug swore he could hear children start to cry in the distance.

  “Mr McGregor,” Chris said in his slow, deliberate voice as he offered Doug his hand. It was like watching a digger swinging its shovel arm into position. “Mrs MacFarlane told me to come and see you, drive you to the hospital.”

  Doug took Chris’s hand. The shake was surprisingly gentle, the bones only bruised, not broken. “Ah, sorry, Chris, wasted trip for you. I’ve got my car here.”

  Chris widened his smile, exposing slabs of dirty, yellow-white concrete roughly hewn into the shape of teeth. The children’s screams gave way to sobs and groans. “Naw, Mr McGregor,” he said, voice growing lyrical with humour, “we know that. I’m here to drive you. Not to worry though, I’ve already had a shot of your RX-8. Got a feel for her now. I’ll be gentle. Promise.”

  The drive was mostly uneventful, the only moment of excitement when Chris gave the car too much gas at the roundabout leading from the airport to the bypass and the back end kicked out.

  “Rear-wheel drives,” he said happily, “fucking love them.”

  When they got to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, Chris pulled up to the main entrance, stuck the RX-8 in neutral and kept the engine running. “You go on in,” he said, “I’ll stay with the car. Mrs MacFarlane says she’ll call me when you’re done and I’ll get you here.”

  Doug was about to protest, the thought of Chris just driving off in his car not sitting comfortably with him, especially with Redmonds’ bag in the boot, but then he looked at the stranglehold Chris had on the steering wheel and changed his mind. The bag would be safe with Chris looking after the car.

  He got out and headed for the high-dependency unit. Just outside it were three of Rab’s men sitting in the cheap, orange plastic waiting-room seats he knew all too well from his childhood. Which was apt, as the three made them look like toy furniture.

  “Mr McGregor,” the man sitting in the middle growled. Doug thought he recognised him, was sure Rab had introduced him once. Eric, Eddie…

  “Ernie,” Doug said as the man stood up. “Good to see you. Wish it wasn’t like this. How’s he doing?”

  Ernie’s brow furrowed, the creases becoming dark crevices running across his head. “Boss is a stubborn bastard,” he said, the pride obvious in his voice. “He made it through the night. Doctors seem to think he’s got a good chance.”

  Doug nodded. “Good, that’s good. Can I see him?”

  Ernie held up a hand. “Stay here a minute,” he said. “Mrs MacFarlane said I was to tell her the moment you arrived. She’s with the boss now.”

  Doug murmured agreement and Ernie lumbered off into the ward. From the plastic seats, his two colleagues stared up at Doug impassively. Maybe, he thought, they were marvelling at this strange sub-species of human that was under twenty-five-stone and had clear definition between the end of the shoulders and start of the neck. Or maybe they were just jealous that he had two eyebrows to their one.

  The minutes crawled past, the sounds of the hospital filling the silence: gentle coughs and splutters, the squeak of rubber soles on the floor, the plaintive beep of a monitor. And then there was a new sound, the staccato of heels on the floor, marching towards him.

  Janet.

  He turned and there she was. Her hair was still immaculate, held in place by enough spray to punch a hole in the ozone layer, but the deep mahogany stain of her false tan exposed and accentuated every wrinkle and crease on her face. She looked pinched, reduced somehow.

  Doug stepped forward, took her in a hug. She didn’t move, her body a flick-knife encased in dough. Then, after a moment, he felt her soften, and her hand go around his back.

  “Douglas,” she whispered, “thank you for coming.”

  He thought of Chris. Wondered how much of a choice he had. Let it go. “No problem,” he said. “How’s Rab doing?”

  She pushed him away then, glanced at the two thugs sitting outside the ward. Doug could see tears glisten in the corners of her eyes. “Not here,” she said. “Let’s take a walk. Rab’s sleeping. And if I don’t get a fag soon, someone is going to end up in the bed beside him.”

  “So,” he said, once they were outside. “What happened, Janet? Who would do that to Rab?”

  She lit the cigarette she had fumbled from her bag then stopped and turned to him. Eyed him coolly as she took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing hot and angry as she did. She spat the words out with the smoke from the cigarette, both issuing from her mouth like poison. “I don’t know, Doug,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Doug cocked his head to the side. “Sorry, Janet, I don’t know what –”

  “Dinnae give me that shite, son,” she snarled, stabbing the cigarette at him like it was a weapon. “You asked Rab to look into Dessie Banks, and then this happens. What the fuck do you think happened? You’re the investigative reporter, why don’t you put the clues together for me?”

  Doug stared at her, knowing she was right. “Look, Janet, I’m sorry, I had no idea that, this…” – he raised his hands impotently – “that Rab…”

  She held up a hand, eyes fixed on his. “Look, son. You know Rab thinks the sun shines out of your arse. He would do anything for you. I would too. But whoever did this to him, they were sending a message. So now I’m sending one. Whatever it is you’re looking into, whatever it is you think you’ve got, walk the fuck away. Otherwise it’ll be you in there next time, not Rab.”

  Doug was lost for words. He had heard about this side of Janet, but never seen it. He knew protective mother hen, the loyal wife, the shrewd operator. But he had never seen… this before.

 
“It’s not as easy as that,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Janet, but it’s complicated. I’m not sure I can leave this alone.”

  She took another draw on her cigarette, shook her head. Something Doug couldn’t read twisted across her face, like an undercurrent rippling across the surface of still water, then it passed. She tossed the cigarette away, didn’t bother to stub it out with her toe.

  “Then I’m sorry, Doug,” she said. “Just be careful, okay? Rab would be broken-hearted if anything happened to you. And…” – she paused, considering – “so would I.”

  “Thanks, Janet,” he said with a lot more warmth than he felt.

  “No bother son. I’ve got to get back. I’ll tell Chris to meet you at the main entrance.”

  He watched her walk off then, a small woman stooped over by the weight of the world. What was that? A warning? A threat? A plea? Just what the hell was going on? And what had Rab found out?

  Doug started walking back towards the front door of the hospital. He didn’t notice the car parked outside the Casualty unit, its window cracked open, a squat man in a light grey suit jacket watching him closely.

  43

  Burns sat in his office, print-outs, folders and old newspapers fighting for every available inch of space on his desk. A coffee cup sat forgotten on top of one pile that was taller than the others, like a flag planted by a mountaineer.

  The morning conference had gone as well, and as briefly, as he had hoped. Officers reported that the sifting of CCTV – to try and trace Redmonds’ movements on the night of his murder – should be completed by the end of the day. They’d picked him up heading along the coast towards East Lothian, so were now checking the cameras in Portobello and Musselburgh. The final forensic report was also back, confirming what Dr Williams had sketched out in his preliminary findings: death was caused by a slim, incredibly sharp blade puncturing the chest cavity and rupturing the inferior vena cava, which then caused internal bleeding and, ultimately, Redmonds’ heart to stop.