All the Devils

by Neil Broadfoot

  “Ah, Mrs MacFarlane, what an unexpected pleasure,” the voice oozed from the phone, the undercurrent telling her the absolute opposite was true. “Tell me, how is your husband?”

  Janet’s veneer of control shattered. “How the fuck do you think? You beat him half to death ye fuckin’ psycho!” she spat.

  “Ah, but I didn’t kill him, did I, Mrs MacFarlane? Just as we agreed when you called me to tell me what he was doing.”

  Janet crushed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I thought you were going to gie him a skelp, is all! Woulda done him nae harm to know there are things he shouldnae be looking into. But this? You crossed a line.”

  “Oh, did I, Mrs MacFarlane? I apologise if I was over-enthusiastic with your husband, but please, try to remember you came to me. And that, in case you were in any doubt, was the right thing to do. I would caution you not to ruin that choice now by being foolish.”

  “Foolish?” Janet cried, then bit her lip. Calm. Strong. For Rab. And Douglas. “Ye didnae have to hurt him so badly,” she whispered.

  There was a pause on the line. When he spoke again, the voice was warmer. Marginally. “I am sorry, Mrs MacFarlane. Truly. You see, I get so few opportunities to express myself, and, as you can imagine, it’s been a trying time. So I was a little exuberant. Is there anything I can do to atone?”

  Janet bit back the response that seared across her mind, along with images of knives and bolt cutters and power tools.

  “Ye can leave us alone for a start,” she said. “I saw everything that happened wi’ that bastard Leonard on the news. I’ll keep quiet, nae one will hear about you from me, but you leave us alone, alright? Me, Rab and Douglas. You call that psycho McBride off, now. Alright?”

  “You have nothing to fear on that score, Mrs MacFarlane, I’ve already seen to it that Mr McBride will not be an issue anymore.”

  There was a cold amusement in the response that made Janet’s skin crawl. “And whit about Douglas?” she asked. “The boy might keep asking questions. If he does, I dinnae want him hurt. Because if he is, I promise I’ll gie him and his pals all the answers they want. And I don’t gie a fuck who you are, who you know or what you could do to me. You’ve used up yer favours with what ye did to Rab.”

  “Mrs MacFarlane, are you threatening me?”

  “Naw, son,” she said, suddenly craving another cigarette, “ah’m promising. You hurt Douglas or anyone of mine from now on and I’ll scream your name from the rooftops. I promise.”

  The hiss of static filled the line again. When he spoke, his voice was colder than mortuary steel. “Very well, I shall leave Mr McGregor alone. But if he persists in an awkward line of questioning, I trust I can rely on you to deal with him?”

  “Aye, I’ll watch out for the boy, you can count on that.”

  “Very well. Goodbye, Mrs MacFarlane. I hope your husband recovers soon. And when he does, I trust you will ensure his silence.”

  The line went dead before she could reply, leaving her with a mouthful of expletives and a gutful of fury.

  She lit another cigarette, held it close to her face, the heat caressing her skin. She had, she told herself, done the right thing. Warning Rab off was better than letting him blunder around and get killed for what he might find. She knew secrets her husband never would, never could, and she had bought her safety through years of favours, blind eyes and payoffs. Sorting problems that needed to be sorted, making sure the Falcon’s Rest was watched when it needed to be. Protected when it had to be. It was business.

  But it wouldn’t have been to Rab. Janet could rationalise it, he would not. If he had found out about the Devils, and what they were interested in, he would have gone to Doug. And then torn the whole thing down around their ears. And he would have died for it.

  As it was, he was lying in a hospital bed, bloodied and broken. But he had the chance to recover. To live. The doctors had told her. Cautious optimism.

  It was a high price to pay. But then, she thought, deals with the Devil were always costly.

  • • •

  He placed the phone on the desk slowly, considered it for a moment. While frustrating, he had been expecting the call, and he had already guessed what she would want.

  Yes, he had gone too far with MacFarlane. The price of losing control, allowing himself to vent. It had been a foolish risk to take, but he had been unable to resist, especially with the stupidity of McBride and the incompetence of Hayes adding to his problems.

  But, he thought, Mark had done his job in the end: changing the website logs and phone records to point the focus onto Michael Leonard. When – or if – he woke up, he would deny everything, but to no avail. The evidence was overwhelming, cemented by his own desperate bid to take his own life to avoid justice. And Alicia could be trusted to stay quiet. She always had.

  He smiled as he pulled the letter opener from his desk drawer, considering it. It was a beautiful item, an elegant and understated sculpture in polished steel, identical to the one he had given to Michael Leonard when he had joined the Devils all those years ago. He remembered plunging it into Redmonds’ chest, the look of surprise on his stupid face replaced by a growing terror as he realised something was terribly wrong.

  The only small irritation was McGregor. Despite Janet MacFarlane’s promise, he would watch the reporter closely. And if he got too close to the truth, he would act.

  He placed the letter opener back into the drawer and stood, ready to leave his office. He had a busy day ahead. An interminable meeting of the Justice Committee, speaking in a debate on police funding in the main chamber, then the long, slow torture of constituency business. At least he had the reception in the Garden Lobby of the Parliament to look forward to later. It was, according to the press release, a gathering to celebrate the passing in the last parliament of the Abusive Behaviour and Sexual Harm Bill – or the ‘Revenge Porn Bill’, as it was more commonly known. It was designed to make the sharing of intimate pictures of former partners a criminal offence. He had voted in favour of it enthusiastically, spoken in support of it during the debate process. And tonight he would celebrate the passing of the Bill.

  And no one there, from the catering staff to the First Minister, would give his smile and good humour a second thought. But he would know. And he would remember. If the conversation became tedious, he would smile more widely, nod attentively, secretly feasting on the sweet reminiscences of earlier in the day. Of his last conversation with Vic McBride. Of the look of confused terror in those dull, feral eyes as he drove the letter opener up into the soft, yielding flesh under his jaw. Of the satisfying crunch and meaty shudder as the blade hit the top of McBride’s mouth and dug into his upper palate. The glorious warmth of hot blood peppering his face; the feral pleasure of jerking the blade back then burying it in his temple as he fell, the metal passing through the bone and into the pathetic lump of tissue that passed for McBride’s brain.

  He smiled at the memory. Tonight, he would be a sated predator, prowling amongst his prey. And as he did, he would also think of the Devils, of the images and videos and memories they had shared. He might even nod hello to one or two of them who were attending tonight.

  They would be there. In plain sight. Amongst the sheep and cattle.

  And they would be watching.

  58

  The key chittered around the lock, tapping out an erratic beat that echoed down the stairwell. He cursed under his breath, flexed his hand and tried again. He got the key into the lock and turned it smoothly, a gentle ripple of cramp running up his arm in protest at the movement.

  Better.

  Once inside the flat, he paused for a moment to make sure the locks were secured and the cricket bat was close to the door. With Michael Leonard in hospital and the laptop and flash drive in police custody, Doug didn’t expect to see Vic McBride any time soon, but it still paid to be cautious. Just in
case.

  He made his way through to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Retrieved the bottle of whisky from underneath his seat and placed it on the coffee table. He felt he deserved it, especially after the day he had just had. Another round of interviews at Gayfield Square police station accompanied by a lawyer arranged by Walter. When he heard what had happened at Paradigm, he had made sure Doug had a lawyer with him at all times, sensing a series of articles about an embarrassed police force attempting to flay the brave Tribune reporter who uncovered a sex abuse conspiracy and unmasked a murderer.

  The Chief Constable – Calamity Cameron as he had come to be known after his live press conference – made grave statements about fully investigating Doug’s involvement with the case, and uncovering any procedural errors that officers may have made. “And rest assured,” he had said, staring into a camera with all the authority and gravitas he could muster, “if there are charges to be laid, we will lay them.”

  Doug knew that Burns was on the warpath, looking for an excuse to charge him with everything from perverting the course of justice to the Burke and Hare murders, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t get too far. With the links to a high-ranking member of the Police Board, this was a story that had the potential to embarrass Police Scotland for a long time to come. The last thing they needed was a crime reporter trawling over the details in the witness box every day for a month in a trial. No, they would let it go. But Doug would give Burns a wide berth for a while. Just in case.

  Unless, of course, Becky spoke to him.

  She had grabbed him as he was leaving Gayfield Square. He had known there was trouble the moment he saw her, the stiffness in her walk and the hard, pinched set of her face telegraphing her mood before she even spoke.

  “Hi,” she said, her eyes refusing to meet his. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said, beckoning for the door. “But not here, okay? How about across the road?” He nodded his head towards Leith Walk, and the row of pubs across from Gayfield Square.

  They walked in silence, finding a small booth at the back of the bar. Doug went to get the drinks, ordering Becky a soda and lime, and a Guinness for himself. He set the drinks down and slid in opposite her.

  “So,” he said, trying to ignore the growing knot of tension in his gut. “What’s up? Imagine you’re run off your feet with the Chief and the Leonards fallout.”

  She twitched a smile at him, toyed with the straw in her glass. “You could say,” she said then fell into a silence that Doug felt compelled to fill.

  “Look, Becky, I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve caused with this. Really I am. I just had to see him, you know, after everything that happened…”

  She jerked her head up, tears in her eyes. “Tell me about that, Doug. What has been happening? From the morning that Susie turned up at your flat after hearing Redmonds died to you confronting Leonard, what the fuck has been going on? ’Cause there’s a hell of a lot I don’t seem to know.”

  He took a gulp of his Guinness without tasting it. “Becky, what do you mean? Susie came to me because I knew about her and Redmonds. I helped her out the best I could. Then I got sent the laptop and the flash drive, and you know the rest from there.”

  “Ah, but do I Doug?” she asked, rummaging around in her bag. “You told Burns and Susie that the laptop was sent to you. Tell me, was that before or after you went to London to see Colin and Hal? And was it after you’d taken a wee night-time drive to Portobello the night Redmonds died?”

  Doug felt his mouth go dry. “What?” he said, his voice a coarse whisper. “What do you…?”

  “This,” she said, handing him a print-out. “It came back the other day. Taken on a CCTV camera at Lauder Road on the junction down to Portobello High Street.”

  Doug studied the image. It was a grainy black-and-white shot of the junction with a time and date stamp in the bottom right corner. Just to the left of centre, heading towards the traffic lights and the camera there was a three-quarter shot of a sleek, grey car, a shape hunched over the steering wheel. Doug couldn’t make out the details, but he didn’t need to. He knew his own car when he saw it.

  “Don’t worry,” Becky said, easing the image out of his hand, “Burns hasn’t seen it. Nothing conclusive anyway, just another vehicle in the approximate area we were able to track Redmonds to before he died. But it got me thinking, Doug. How come you were up when Susie called on you? She said you were, felt guilty about disturbing you. And when did you get that laptop?”

  Doug felt his mouth drop open. “Becky, I… I…”

  She slammed her hand down on the table, the drinks jostling precariously. Doug felt the collective gaze from the bar fall on them. “For fuck’s sake, Doug,” she hissed, leaning into him, “please, tell me what the fuck is going on. I know there’s more to this than you and Susie are saying. I want to help. But I need to know. So, please,” –an edge of pleading quivered in her voice and eyes – “just tell me.”

  Doug looked at her dark eyes and the slightly crooked set of her mouth that he always liked. Tell her, he thought. Tell her the truth. Tell her everything.

  But if he did, it wouldn’t just be his secret and guilt he would be exposing, it would be Colin and Hal’s. And Susie’s. After everything, could he do that to her? Leave her exposed and vulnerable again, when he had already given so much to try and keep her safe?

  He pushed away from the table. “I’m sorry, Becky,” he said, finding he couldn’t hold her gaze now. “But I don’t know what you mean. Yeah, I was out for a drive that night before Susie arrived – you know I don’t sleep well with my arm being the way it is. But that’s it. The laptop was sent to me, I don’t know by who, and as soon as I found the website, I called in Susie. I went to see Colin and Hal to collect my thoughts after everything that’s happened. I know I’ve been a bit all over the place. And I want to fix that.”

  Doug leaned forward, trying to give her his best reassuring smile. She studied his face for a moment, her skin pale, eyes magnified by tears, and then she shook her head slowly.

  “No, Doug, no. I know you’re lying to me, keeping something from me. And you’re not the only one. I’ve put up with a lot of shit from you, Doug – the drinking, the late nights, the times you’ve asked me to pull a few strings, or get you a step ahead of everyone else in an inquiry – but this is too much. You’ve crossed a line.”

  “Becky, I…”

  She shook her head again as she stood up, pulling on her jacket and turning away from him. The sound of her heels on the bar floor were like gunshots as he watched her go. He thought of following her, of trying to catch her up and explain.

  But he knew he wouldn’t. There were some things he just couldn’t tell her. For both their sakes.

  Now, sitting alone in his flat, he felt a prickling in his eyes, wiped angrily at the tears that were forming there. She was right, he had put her through a lot of shit, expecting her to be there. He had taken advantage and used her, fallen into the comfortable illusion that she was getting as much out of their relationship as he was.

  He grabbed his phone as he reached for the whisky bottle, unthreading the cap. Noticed a text message from Susie, unlocked the phone and left it unread. He flicked through his contacts, got to Becky’s number. Hit Dial. Listened as it rang and went straight to voicemail. Hung up without leaving a message.

  He flicked over to the text message Susie had sent him. He must have missed it earlier, the phone on silent when he was in the police interview room. He read it slowly, as though it was in a language he had never seen before. In a way, he supposed it was. He sat for a moment, listening to the quiet of the flat around him. The gentle swish of the traffic outside, the tick of the clock in the hall. He laid the phone on the arm of the chair, then replaced the cap on the whisky bottle and tossed it onto the opposite couch.

  Despite himself, Doug gave a coughing laugh.
Then he picked up the phone and slowly, ignoring the pins and needles that crawled up his arm as he moved his hand, he keyed in an answer.

  59

  Rebecca looked at the phone on the coffee table in front of her, the screen glowing gently as it told her of the missed call from Doug. Not that she had really missed it, she had sat on the couch watching the phone buzz gently on the table, resisting the urge to pick it up and talk to him.

  But she couldn’t. Not when he was lying to her. Not now. Especially not now.

  Rebecca felt her stomach give a sudden watery lurch and launched herself from the sofa for the bathroom, making it just in time. She heaved up the contents of her stomach, gasping for breath as she spat out the last viscous wads of saliva. She closed her eyes for a moment, then flushed, watching as the half-digested remains of dinner swirled down the toilet.

  She turned to the sink, grabbed the bottle of mouthwash and took a slug. As she rinsed, her eyes were pulled to the small shelf that sat below the mirror. As well as her toothbrush, toothpaste and floss, it held another item, not much bigger then a pen.

  She picked it up, looked at it again with a sense of numb disbelief and wonder. You’ve crossed a line, she had told Doug. Was she trying to tell him then, to drop a hint? The truth was, they both had. Not just one line, but two. She looked again at the small window in the pen, at the two clear pink lines that sat there and the printed word Pregnant that seemed to scream out at her.

  Rebecca took a deep shuddering breath, placed the test back on the shelf, stared at it. She thought of telling Doug. Would he be excited, terrified, overwhelmed? Would he want to be a father or would he run a mile? And would this bring them back together, compel him to tell her the truth about what really happened that night, or would it drive them further apart?