The remaining mourners all fell in behind the hearse, walking forwards, slowly and solemnly, heads bowed, towards the final resting place of Tam Hardie.
*
‘Fuck me, anyone would think this was a Hollywood gangster set. Look at the state of them,’ DI Ross Fraser barked between chews of the greasy-looking meat pie that he clutched in his hand. They were all watching the video screen mounted on the wall in the office of the Serious Organised Crime Team, at Gartcosh.
‘I think it’s what they would refer to as a “good do”, Boss,’ said Max as he looked at the live feed, from one of the cameras that had been secreted at several locations throughout the graveyard. They had decided that it was a gathering not to be missed.
The previous night the technical support team had covertly accessed the cemetery and hidden a number of cameras on trees, in buildings and on lamp posts. They had considered hiding a surveillance team in the grounds but had rejected this on the basis that no one would want to get caught in the process of observing the largest gathering of the Scottish underworld in many years.
The cameras were all working beautifully, focusing in on the hundreds of mourners gathering around as the coffin was lowered into the yawning grave.
‘Zoom in on camera four, Janie,’ said Ross, looking intently at the screen.
Janie worked a computer mouse and the camera went full screen and zoomed in on the Hardie brothers, all stood graveside watching their father’s coffin disappear into the ground. There were no tears, just blank and emotionless faces behind dark sunglasses.
‘Pan left, who’s that there – dark suit, dark tie?’ Ross said.
‘Doesn’t help me, Boss; you may need to narrow it down,’ said Janie.
‘Big nugget back there, next to the ugly, fat wifie bint with the stupid fox around her neck.’ Ross stopped chewing his pie and swallowed, clearly concerned that his sexist rant could be misconstrued.
‘So eloquent, Inspector,’ Janie said, smiling as she zoomed in on a square-shouldered man with buzz-cut grey hair, wearing a dark, silk-lapelled suit. The camera was so clear that you could see the long thin scar on the man’s cheek.
‘Shit. That’s Driller Jock. Enforcer for hire and a right bastard. Not long out of Saughton for GBH. Drilled a poor little bastard’s kneecaps out after he forgot to pay for some skag he owed. I didn’t have him as being close to the Hardies, but he’s almost graveside.’ Ross puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s like a who’s who of Scottish crime.’
‘Not just Scottish, either. Zoom in on the big black guy stood a row back to the left,’ said Max.
‘Who’s that?’ Ross asked.
‘Eustace Fielding, also known as “AK” as his weapon of choice is an AK-47. He’s the top man in the MDK posse in Tottenham. He had most of the skag dealing sewn up in London and was running loads of kids who were county-lining the product to all the home counties and several of the coastal towns. I had no idea he was buying from the Hardies. The Met’ll be interested in this down south, and that always results in a bit of quid pro quo. He’s a very bad man.’ Max whistled.
Ross finished eating and they all watched as the funeral party began to break up, some of the mourners returning to their cars, many pausing to commiserate with each of the brothers in turn. Small knots of individuals began to mingle for furtive conversations among the gravestones.
‘Where’s the wake?’ asked Janie.
‘Back at their place. No chance of getting a camera in there; it’s like Fort Knox,’ said Ross, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve a meeting with the chief super in a wee while. Can you finish up here, Max? We need stills and screen-grabs of any meets of interest, then feed those into Sally Smith’s team, ready to be used in the Leitch trial as unused material. Copy to our intel team as well for dissemination where it’s required. That’s pretty much it, for us. There’s a new job that’s going to be a real bastard – Albanian trafficking gang, and I think it’s coming our way.’
‘No bother,’ said Max his face fixed on the screen as Ross turned and left the office, muttering to himself and limping slightly.
They continued staring wordlessly at the screens as a long line of mourners remained behind to pay their respects to the new head of the Hardie crime empire. This was a funeral to be seen at, to be able to say you were at and to make sure that Hardie knew that you were there.
After about twenty minutes, the line of rough-looking mourners had dried to a few stragglers.
‘Shall I start winding this up?’ Janie asked.
‘Give it a few minutes more,’ said Max his eyes on a tall, lean man who was standing away from a small remaining knot of mourners all paying their respects to Tam Hardie. There was something about the man. He was fairly unremarkable. Slim, possibly going to seed a little with a small pot belly. Not classically tough-looking like the other body-builder types who were currently fawning over Tam Hardie. He wore a plain, dark suit, had greying hair swept across his head and thick-framed glasses.
‘Zoom in on the mannie to the left of Hardie, stood on his own, swept-over hair and glasses.’
Janie moved the camera and zoomed in on the man. He had forgettable features, everything in proportion, no scars, no blemishes, and no facial hair. It was how he carried himself. He stood there, a much smaller man than the bull-necked, shaven-headed mobsters who were all around, but he had a kind of seedy nonchalance. As Janie zoomed in further, he seemed to be looking into the lens of the hidden camera. His eyes were flat and dove-grey behind the spectacles and projected nothing. Simply nothing.
‘Keep the camera on him. I want to see if we can put him to a car,’ said Max.
‘Recognise him?’
‘I’m not sure, but there is something about him.’
‘He looks a little familiar to me, but I’m not the greatest with faces,’ said Janie, zooming in even further, with a confused frown. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I just for the life of me can’t remember where,’ she added.
The group of mourners left Tam Hardie, and the innocuous man approached him. There were no smiles and no acknowledgements. This wasn’t paying condolences; this was business.
Hardie nodded at him and they began to talk. Hardie was in full flow, the anger palpable as his jaw worked up and down and the man just looked on, impassively.
The innocuous man looked at Tam Hardie and said a few words. Max had no idea what he said, but whatever it was it seemed to satisfy Tam, who extended a hand and they shook, briefly. Hardie then strode off, not looking back, all business, once again.
Max wracked his brain, trying to pin down what it was about the man that was bothering him. ‘Can you crop me that encounter between Hardie and that guy and send it to me and also get me a few full-face stills of him?’
‘Sure thing, Sarge,’ Janie said, tapping at the keys.
‘Janie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘If you call me Sarge again I’m going to put you back on traffic duty.’ Max smiled.
Janie stopped typing and turned to face Max, open-mouthed.
‘Joke, carry on,’ Max said, still smiling.
Max’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Looking at the display he saw it was Ross. ‘Ross?’
‘Turkish Joe has been murdered. They’ve just found him off Sauchiehall Street, neck slit and his gut skinned.’
‘Jesus, when?’
‘Within the last twenty-four hours. MIT 4 are taking it,’ said Ross, his voice flat.
‘What do they want from us?’ asked Max, nodding at Jane.
‘Nothing,’ said Ross.
‘What? This is obviously linked to Hardie’s death.’
There was a long pause. ‘They aren’t convinced. Being chalked as a gangland hit. Let’s face it, Turkish Joe had enemies,’ said Ross.
‘What? They know Old Man Hardie’s nickname was “Peeler”, as in peel people’s skin off, right? We all knew Turkish Joe’s been selling skag to Hardie. This is a message, Ross. A message to the underworld that the Hard
ies are still running the streets. This won’t end here.’ Max was surprised to hear the strength of feeling in his own voice.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but I’ve just been with the chief super and he wants us on the trafficking job. I’ve made my feelings clear, but he wouldn’t discuss it. The job is being taken by MIT 4. It’s nothing to do with us.’
‘This is madness. The Hardies are going to keep killing unless we stop them, and it’s all being swept under the carpet.’
‘Fortunately, this isn’t your concern. We hand all our intel over to the MIT for the Hardie murder and we move on. You and Janie need to get back to Burnett Road again. Take them all the surveillance footage from today and sign the production labels for the cutlass and stuff you seized. It’s all back from the lab, tested positive for Hardie’s blood. Job’s a slam dunk and they want it all sorted and put away until Leitch is out of the nuthouse. Half of their team are helping on the Turkish Joe murder. We tidy the loose ends up, then I want you back here tomorrow for the trafficking job, okay?’
‘This is nuts. Why are we on a trafficking job, when we have rampaging Hardies running around Scotland?’
‘That’s enough. Just get on with it and I’ll see you in the morning.’ Ross hung up.
Max felt a little sorry for his DI, who was clearly under pressure from above, but it didn’t feel right. None of it felt right.
‘Janie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can you get all the footage ready to go? We need to head north again, and make sure you have the clip of the man speaking to Hardie. There’s someone I want to show it to,’ said Max.
‘Sure. Give me ten minutes to cancel the date I had rearranged from the last time you messed up my social life.’
‘Sorry, but what can I do?’
‘Nothing, it’s cool. I want to get this job done properly, and I’m not so fussed, anyway.’ Janie picked out her mobile and clicked at the keys, composing a brief message.
‘Done, I’m all yours,’ she said, smiling.
Max had a feeling that the interaction between the stranger and Hardie was important, and he had an inkling of an idea as to who could help him work it out.
The Hardies were on a mission. He could feel it in his gut.
18
Sally Smith was typing furiously at her computer when Max and Janie arrived at Burnett Road, just over three hours later in an otherwise empty open-plan office.
‘Quiet here Sally. Hi by the way,’ said Max as they walked into the office.
She smiled, tiredly. ‘Aye. Lost most of my team to a drug war murder in Glasgow. Turkish dealer got bloody skinned alive and his throat cut.’ She shook her head.
‘I heard. Any links to Hardie?’ Max asked.
‘Other than the flaying of the unfortunate Joe, no. Intelligence reports in from a couple of well-placed informants are convinced it’s a new gang trying to take over from the Hardies,’ she said, and the tone of her voice suggested she wasn’t so sure.
‘You happy with that?’
‘What, losing most of my team when I have the murder of the biggest gangster in Scotland to finish up? No!’ she said, shaking her head.
Max opened his mouth ready to offer an opinion, but then closed it again. There really was no point, so he asked another question instead. ‘Are you all wrapped up?’
‘Pretty much. Weapon only has Leitch’s prints on it and the blood on it is Hardie’s. Blood all over his clothes and hands all belongs to Hardie, as well. Plus, a confession of sorts. The psychiatrist tells us Leitch was delusional, that he was fulfilling some old family legacy. His rambling journal seems to confirm all this. He won’t be fit for some time. It could end up as a hospital order, but we are ready if he’s declared fit.’
‘Well, that’s good, I guess.’
‘As good as I could hope for. Family seem fine; I understand you had surveillance on the funeral?’
‘Aye, it’s all here,’ said Max, handing over a disc.
‘Cool, I’ll have it looked over.’ She smiled. ‘Meg over there is finishing the productions off.’ She pointed to a harassed-looking officer in the corner of the office surrounded by boxes and bags. ‘I think you need to sign a few things if that’s okay?’
‘Sure thing.’ Max paused. ‘But do you mind if I ask a question?’
‘If you’re trying to query why we aren’t looking into an accomplice, can I say no? Other than that, fire away.’
‘Who was the original occupant of the grave?’
‘Well, theory is that it could possibly be an ancestor of Hardie’s. There are skeletal bones that hadn’t been officially buried, in that there was no coffin. There were also some remains inside the remnants of an old coffin. We have sent samples away for possible DNA extraction, but that will take some time, particularly as the bones are really degraded. It doesn’t help that there was some serious flooding in the area many years ago, which not only destroyed the records and the chapel, but has also damaged the remains. And we have another problem,’ Sally said.
‘Can I guess?’ said Max.
‘Go on.’ Sally smiled, tiredly.
‘The Hardie boys won’t consent to comparison DNA samples?’
‘Correct. We have post-arrest samples for Frankie, but we can’t compare that unless he’s suspected of the crime, which, of course he isn’t. We had a bullshit letter from the solicitor when we asked, giving a myriad of reasons, none of which made any sense.’
‘Any clues on where the cutlass came from?’ asked Janie.
‘Leitch claimed it was Hardie’s ancestor’s, and the initials obviously bear that out. We have dug out old records that a Tam Hardie was born in Caithness in 1795 and later joined the Royal Navy. He left in 1829 where he found work as an exciseman. Apparently, he was quite successful in seizing and collecting duty on whisky on illicit stills at the time, until he disappeared without trace in 1830. Records are limited from what we can see, and it’s unclear what happened to him. Working theory is that Tam Hardie’s great-great-grandpa was murdered and secreted in that grave in 1830.’
‘Jeez, so it sounds like Leitch could’ve been telling the truth?’
‘Well, his version of the truth, but we have nothing to confirm it, and in reality, it makes no particular difference. Leitch’s motive is driven by his condition.’
‘Do the Hardies know?’ asked Max.
‘What do you think?’ Her face told him that the Hardies knew it all, whether or not they had been officially told.
‘Are you comfortable with all of this?’
Sally just stared at Max with a look that spoke volumes.
‘Not even a little bit. Not even a little, tiny bit. It stinks to high heaven, but I’m only a DI and I’ve been told to turn my attention elsewhere. This job is done, as far as the management are concerned.’
19
‘Do you fancy a cup of tea before we head back south?’ Max asked Janie as she pulled out of Burnett Road and back into the busy early-afternoon Inverness traffic.
‘Sure, why not.’
‘Well, it’s only that I haven’t seen my Auntie Elspeth for ages, and she’s only fifteen minutes from here.’
‘Auntie Elspeth? That’s a sweet name,’ Janie said as she drove along the busy road.
‘I wouldn’t let her hear you say that. She’s a force of nature. She’s the only family I have left, so I like to check in on her now and again. She’s great; you’ll like her.’
‘What happened to your parents?’ asked Janie.
‘Five years ago, a car accident,’ said Max, his face impassive, but feeling the familiar jolt of loss.
‘I’m sorry. It must’ve been terrible.’
‘Not great. How about your family?’
‘Looks like we have something in common, Max. My parents died when I was twelve.’’
‘Jesus. You win the sad story contest. I’m sorry. At least I had lots of years with mine. How did they die?’
‘Mum died of cancer. My dad was much o
lder than her and he died within six months of her passing. They said heart attack, but we all know it was a broken heart.’
There was a long pause and something passed between them in the silent car. Something in common.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. It must’ve been horrible,’ said Max.
‘Is what it is. I’m okay, but it probably made me a little weird, you know. Made me throw myself into studying and education, rather than thinking too hard about stuff and having friends, and the like.’
‘Well, you are a little odd, but you do have a nice clean car.’
‘Piss off, Craigie.’
Max chuckled. ‘So, who brought you up?’
‘I was raised by my rather unpleasant aunt in Edinburgh when I wasn’t at boarding school. I don’t think I had the same relationship with her as you have with Auntie Elspeth.’
‘Do you not see her now?’
‘Well, no, she’s dead.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. She was a real nasty bastard who hated kids, but she was rich enough to keep me out of the way in boarding schools so she could be off gallivanting. School was a blessed release from her.’
‘So, what family do you have?’
‘None.’
‘What, none at all?’
‘Nope. I was an only child. My mum was an only child and my dad just had his evil sister. It’s just me,’ said Janie, flatly and without emotion.
‘Blimey, so genuinely, no wonder you’re a bit weird,’ said Max smiling.
‘Takes one to know one, Sarge,’ said Janie, looking straight ahead with the hint of a smile.
They drove over the Kessock Bridge and along the A9 for a few miles before turning off onto the Black Isle or “Eilean Dubh” as the brown heritage sign proclaimed.
‘You grew up here?’ asked Janie.
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