He squatted at the join where the new barrier was bolted to the old. Some sharp metal fragments were scattered around the support post, the same colour as the old barrier, although with a different, almost rough quality. He picked up a piece, about four inches long. It didn’t look right. It was almost like a fractured shard of glass. Max frowned, turning the piece of metal over in his hand. He tried to flex it, but it didn’t budge, even a bit. It felt stiff and brittle. Standing, he tucked it in his pocket and stared out at the sea in front of him.
He imagined for a moment Duncan’s car smashing through the barrier and disappearing over into the expanse, tumbling down the almost sheer drop and smashing into the rocks below. He wouldn’t have stood a chance. The questions seethed in Max’s head. Duncan Ferguson was a local boy, so would have driven this road multiple times. Had he been drinking? How had he breached the barrier?
Walking back to his bike he took his phone and called the number on the witness board.
‘Hello, Roads Policing, Sergeant McGee,’ a cheery Highland-accented voice replied.
‘Hi, DS Max Craigie, Serious Crime from Glasgow. Are you investigating the fatal accident at Berriedale?’ Max got straight to the point.
‘I am. I take it you’re the same Max Craigie who was at the graveyard the other day?’
Realisation hit Max. Sergeant McGee was the acting inspector from the murder scene.
‘Of course, my memory. Sorry, Mick, it’s been a busy old day. Are you at Dingwall?’
‘No, I’m at Wick at the moment. I’ve just finished the vehicle inspection and I’m writing a few bits up,’ he said.
‘Great, can I pop and see you? I’m close by, just a few things I’d like to ask your opinion on.’
‘Sure thing, man, come on up. I’ll have the kettle on, but why are murder squad interested?’ Sergeant McGee asked, without suspicion.
‘Could just be a coincidence. Is the wreckage somewhere nearby?’
‘Aye, it’s at Sweeney’s place in Wick. Not much of it left, mate. More like a busted brolly than a bloody Ford Focus.’ He chuckled.
‘Thanks, I’ll see you soon.’
‘I’m going nowhere, pal. Well not until 4 p.m., anyway, then I’m off.’
‘Thanks, see you in a wee while,’ said Max and he hung up.
He looked out towards the deep blue North Sea. None of this felt right. In fact, it all felt very wrong.
21
The journey to Wick only took about half an hour and very soon Max was sitting in a shabby office in the police station opposite the cheery uniformed Sergeant Mick McGee.
‘What’s murder squad’s interest in this then?’ he said with mild curiosity as he handed him a chipped mug of tea.
‘Just a coincidence I’d like to iron out. The murder suspect for the graveyard death was in Duncan Ferguson’s inn on the day of the murder and I’m just curious about the circumstances,’ said Max. He wanted to play it down, but give enough to spike the officer’s interest.
‘Aye well, a funny business that. Scotland’s biggest gang boss killed in an ancient graveyard. No one could believe it. Up here, normally not so much happens.’
‘Anything unusual about the car?’
‘Well, we haven’t even found half of the bloody thing, it was in such a state. That’s what tumbling five hundred feet will do to a car. So far as we can tell, no obvious faults, but then, we haven’t even found all of the brake assemblies, so we could never really be sure.’
‘How do you think the accident happened?’ asked Max.
‘Difficult to be sure. There were no skid marks, which I’m not so happy about, but that could indicate brake failure. He hit the barriers at a fast enough speed to break through them, which is surprising, since they’re supposed to be speed rated and from what I can see, they should’ve held the car. The W-pattern Flexbeam barriers are pretty good. You don’t often see them fail, certainly not with a medium-sized family car.’
‘Any ideas on why the barriers failed?’
‘God knows, mate, maybe they’re getting a bit old and brittle,’ said Mick.
‘Can I see the photos?’ asked Max, sipping his weak tea.
Mick sat back in his chair for a moment. Eventually he opened a drawer in his desk and tossed across a small photograph album. Max flicked through photos of the accident scene. They showed the road layout, the broken safety barriers and then the destroyed Ford at the bottom of the expanse. It was almost totally reduced to its individual components, such was the extent of the damage.
‘Look at number seven’.
Max saw a picture of the bent and buckled crash barrier that seemed to have sprung open where it joined the post. The next image was of the bolt fixings that should have secured the pressed steel to the post. The bolt holes had clearly failed, the metal almost shattered where immense forces had ripped the barrier from its fixings.
‘This shouldn’t have happened. Even at a hundred mph, they shouldn’t have failed like this. These barriers have flexibility built into them so they absorb impact. These fixings look like they’ve shattered. The manufacturers are inspecting and will be preparing a report for the fiscal, but to me it looks like the metal failed. Shouldn’t have happened, but seems like a fault.’
‘Could someone have done something to the metal to make them fail?’ asked Max, feeling the excitement begin to gnaw at his insides.
‘I can’t see how, or why for that matter.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Max, wondering if he meant it.
‘I mean why would someone do that? I can’t think of a reason and how could they know that someone would hit exactly that portion of the barrier?’
‘I guess,’ said Max turning the idea over in his mind.
‘If someone had interfered with those barriers, somehow knowing that Mr Ferguson would hit the barrier at that precise point and speed, it would have to be the most brilliantly conceived murder ever. The whole idea is ridiculous, right?’
22
Max thanked Mick McGee and left on his bike, turning it all over once more as he headed south. He was missing something that was hidden somewhere in Caithness, but try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on it.
The image of the gravestone flashed up in his mind and something tripped.
He suddenly braked and pulled to the side of the road. Pulling his phone from his pocket he did an internet search for Sweeney’s garage in Wick. Memorising the address, he turned the KTM round and accelerated off.
Five minutes later he pulled up outside a small gated yard. “Sweeney’s” was emblazoned in a banner sign across the chain-link fence. Max stowed his helmet and walked through the open gate towards a wide-open roller shutter door. A BMW was suspended on a hydraulic lift and an overall-clad middle-aged man was underneath it, struggling with a brake calliper. He whistled tunelessly in time with the tinny radio that blared out in the corner of the untidy garage.
‘Hello,’ said Max causing the mechanic to jump.
‘Jesus, scared the crap outta me,’ the man exclaimed.
‘Sorry, I’m DS Craigie from the police. Is the car wreck still here from the Berriedale head crash?’ Max proffered his warrant card, which the man looked at briefly.
‘Aye, over in the corner, what’s left of it. I thought you boys had finished with it? Leastways, that’s what Mick McGee said. I was going to be taking it to the crusher soon.’ His face was smeared with grease, and a cigarette dangled from his lips.
‘Just a quick look; won’t be long,’ said Max.
‘Help yourself, man. I need to finish this bugger, before I go to the pub. Hot day like this, a man needs a beer.’ He turned back to his brake calliper and continued working.
The Focus could barely be referred to as a car anymore, but rather as a large lump of twisted metal surrounded by a series of other twisted components.
Max searched the wreck until he found what he was looking for. The hatchback had been torn off the main body of the car, and lay dented and sma
shed against the wall. The boot space yawned open and most of the carpet had been torn away exposing the bare metal. Max looked inside the space, seeing that the space-saver spare wheel was miraculously still bolted into the compartment. Quickly, Max turned the retaining nut that held the wheel in place. Unexpectedly it moved without force and within a few moments, Max was pulling the small wheel out and depositing it on the ground. Looking in the compartment he saw the scissor jack tucked inside.
He took out his phone and snapped several pictures of the jack. He looked closely at the jacking plate, and straight away saw what he was expecting. There were traces of granite dust on the top, and some down in the deep groove that was designed to slot into the jacking point.
Looking on the base plate, he saw that it was encrusted with peaty mud.
Duncan had been the accomplice, and he had helped Leitch jack the gravestone up and hide Hardie inside. He had no doubt, and forensic testing of the dust and the soil would prove it.
But Duncan was dead. How had he died? There was only one answer. He had been murdered.
He dialled quickly. ‘DI Smith,’ Sally Smith answered.
‘Sally, it’s Max Craigie. I’m at Sweeney’s garage in Wick. I need someone to come here as soon as possible for a forensic retrieval. There is a Ford Focus that belonged to Duncan Ferguson from the inn in Dunbeath. The jack in the car contains forensic evidence that will prove he was involved in this murder, or at least in hiding the body, afterwards.’
‘What?’ She sounded astounded.
‘The jack in the rear of his car has granite dust on the top and is encrusted with mud on the bottom. They jacked the gravestone up, Sally. The bottom of the stone was marked, and the corner had broken off. They used the scissor jack from Duncan’s car to lift the stone. It’s the only plausible explanation.’
‘Max, Duncan is dead. He died in a car accident.’
‘I know. I’ve just been speaking to the accident investigator. There are loads of questions. I think he was murdered.’ Max started to get the feeling that he was missing something again.
‘As I understand, it was attributed to excess speed.’
‘Sally, no way, it can’t have been. Someone interfered with the barrier and I’m sure it can be proved. There is no way the metal should’ve failed like that. This is the Hardies. They’re clearing up, looking for revenge. We have to take this seriously. It’s not just about Leitch anymore.’
‘Can you package it and bring it in?’
‘No, I’m on my motorbike, and I’m on leave today,’ Max said already expecting the follow-up.
‘If you’re on leave, why are you investigating this? I understood your team was off the case,’ Sally said, without any trace of anger.
‘Just something I wanted to clear up. I was out for a road trip and wanted to have a pry. I had a feeling that a car jack may have lifted the stone and when I heard Duncan had crashed, it didn’t seem right. I thought I’d check,’ said Max.
‘Well, I expect you may find yourself in a little warm water once the management hear. Not from me, though; in fact I’m impressed. Half of my lot aren’t even aware they have access to their own initiative.’
‘Yeah, I imagine Ross Fraser will go doolally.’
‘Ross blows hot and cold. He’ll forgive you and I’ll butter him up. Okay, stay there. I’ll get someone there from Wick as soon as possible. I’ll send someone up from Burnett Road tomorrow to collect it and get it to the lab. We have soil and stone samples, so I assume it’ll be an easy match,’ she said, and Max could hear the sound of her scribbling on her pad. If it isn’t written down, it didn’t happen.
Sally was as good as her word and within fifteen minutes a marked car arrived driven by a young constable, who came into the yard carrying a bag of packaging materials.
‘DS Craigie?’ he said.
‘Aye, that’s me, thanks for coming,’ said Max, smiling at the young officer who looked like he had barely started shaving. He probably joined Police Scotland with dreams of the big city, and yet found himself in the small town of Wick at the very top of the country.
‘Are you thinking this a murder, Sarge? I went to the scene of the crash. It was awful. First dead body I’ve seen, like.’ His accent had the sing-song quality of one of the islands, most likely Orkney.
‘I’m not thinking anything, mate. Just making sure we secure all the evidence,’ said Max.
Within a few more minutes the entire polystyrene housing containing the jack, brace and locking wheel nut was fully bagged and secure in a self-seal bag. This was perfect, as any soil or dust would remain in the cut-outs, making it easy for the scientists when it all got to the lab.
‘What’s your name, pal?’ asked Max.
‘PC Anderson, Sarge,’ he said, a little shyly, before adding, ‘Pete.’
‘Okay, Pete, can you take it back to Wick and book it in? Someone will be up from Burnett Road tomorrow. You’ll need to make a statement, okay?’
‘Sure thing,’ he said eagerly as he deposited the bag in the back of his patrol car.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Max as the young man got back into his car and drove off.
Max nodded at Sweeney as he left the yard and climbed back on his bike. He wanted to go home, but he wasn’t going just yet. There was something else he needed to do, and he wasn’t looking forward to it even a little bit.
23
Max pulled his bike over outside the inn in Dunbeath, a slightly sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of what he had to do. Surprisingly, the inn was open. Max wasn’t at all sure what he would find once he went inside.
A solitary young female bartender sat on a stool and looked up from a newspaper when Max walked in.
‘Afternoon, what can I get you?’ she said brightly, a wide smile on her face. Her accent was local and as soft as pouring cream.
‘I’d love a cranberry and soda,’ said Max.
‘I think we have that, not that we are often asked for it around here. Hold on.’ She disappeared out of sight for a moment before coming up clutching a glass bottle full of the wine-coloured liquid. She made his drink and set it down in front of Max.
She headed off in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Is Mary here?’ asked Max at her retreating back.
The bartender paused, appraising Max for a moment. ‘I’m taking it that the fact that you’re asking means you know she lost her husband very recently?’ Her tone was not accusatory, more curious.
‘Aye, I do know. I’m a policeman, my name is Max Craigie and I saw Mary and Duncan a few days ago. I’d like to ask a couple of questions that relate to his passing,’ said Max, flashing his warrant card.
‘Well, I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Max sipped his drink while he waited, relishing the cool and dry taste. He did miss a beer now and again and he still had several bottles of whisky back at home, almost as a test. He had come to learn that alcohol really didn’t mix with PTSD. One drink always led to another. After a few he would feel the darkness begin to cloud his thoughts again and then he would dream. It was the dreams, above all, that had made him stop drinking.
‘DS Craigie?’ an American accent stopped Max’s daydream and all thoughts of beer and whisky disappeared.
Max looked up and saw Mary Ferguson. She had aged markedly since he had seen her just a couple of days ago.
‘Hi, Mary, can we talk a minute?’
‘Sure, let’s sit over there.’ She pointed to a small table in the far corner of the room.
They both moved over to the table and sat in silence for a few moments. Mary’s face was puffy and her eyes were red-rimmed.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. I only heard this morning when I saw it in the P and J,’ said Max, gently.
Mary stared down at the table, a solitary tear brimming in her eye and then carving a path down her cheek.
‘Is it okay if I ask you a couple of questions?’
‘Yes. Sergeant McGee has been to see me,
but I really don’t know how it happened. I heard it was at Berriedale Braes. I didn’t even know he was going there, but he had been a little weird since all the business at the graveyard. It was such a shock to him.’
‘I can understand. Do you know where he might’ve been going? He was southbound on the A9.’
‘I’ve no idea. He hadn’t been drinking. All he said was he had to go and see someone. I’m a little confused by it all. He’s driven that road many times, and he knows it well. He never drove fast; I always teased him for being a boring driver.’
‘Was the car all in order?’
‘Had it serviced a couple of weeks back, clean bill of health. I just don’t know what to think. How could this happen? How could he just smash through the barrier? I thought they were put there to stop this?’ She wiped her eyes.
‘Sergeant McGee is looking into all that. Hopefully he’ll have some answers. When did you last see Willie Leitch?’
‘The day he spoke to the stranger who was killed at the graveyard. I still can’t believe Willie did that. I mean, I knew he had his demons, but I never thought he was dangerous. Duncan always tried to help him out, and make sure he took his medication and had his meals. Duncan tried to stop him drinking so much,’ she said, her eyes full of pain.
Something clicked in Max’s head. Mary’s description of Willie and her husband’s relationship did not align with the account given by her husband.
‘How well did your husband know Willie Leitch?’
Mary’s eyes took on a puzzled look. ‘Duncan didn’t say?’
‘Say what?’ asked Max, his insides contracting.
‘Willie Leitch was my husband’s cousin.’
24
‘Cousins? Sorry I had no idea,’ said Max, trying to not let the surprise register on his face.
‘Yeah, I assumed that he would’ve said when he spoke to you the other day, or at least the murder squad detective who came to see him after they arrested Willie,’ said Mary with a frown.
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