THE SAM BRYSON COLLECTION

by McLean, Russel D; Chercover, Sean

  “What?”

  “I got a call from some DI… Duncan, that’s the name.”

  DI Duncan, known informally as “Donuts” among some of the lads. He was a rotund and comfortable looking detective who tended to take the easy way out of any situation. If Duncan was in charge at this stage, then there could be no doubt that Professional Standards would be looking into the situation very quickly. Donuts wouldn’t want the hassle of an internal investigation on his watch. Better to palm the problem off to those whose job it was to bust other coppers.

  I looked at the bedside clock, saw it was half-one in the morning.

  Katie continued: “The DI called me half an hour ago, said Sandy was, being questioned about an assault. I couldn’t get any more out of him. He kept saying that the affair was internal and I would be updated as and when the situation required.”

  I was already swinging my legs out of bed. “I’ll meet you at the station, aye? The public entrance round the back, alright?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Okay.”

  “Half an hour,” I said.

  “Right.”

  I hung up, got to my feet and stretched.

  Sandy Griggs arrested by his own. Professional Standards had gone after him before, but never like this. They hadn’t been able to make anything stick, and soon enough they’d learned their lesson: Sandy Griggs was a copper with a temper. But he was a great detective and an asset to the force.

  Ros poked her head out from under the sheets. The light of the moon coming through the bedroom window illuminated her gentle features. The window of my bedroom looked out onto the large shared garden of the tenement. No one could see us and I liked to sleep under the light of the moon.

  “Hon,” she said, her beautiful Alabama accent dulled with sleep, “What’s going on?”

  “Sandy,” I said. “He’s in trouble.” I stumbled about, tried to find my trousers where I had left them on the bedroom floor.

  “Sounds serious.”

  “I hope it’s a misunderstanding,” I said, finding my trousers, pulling them on. I started to look for a shirt as well, found a blue one crumpled nearby.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I’m just going to go, find out what’s happening, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Call me soon as you find anything.”

  “Aye,” I said. I buttoned the shirt, walked to the bed, leant down and kissed her. She smelled warm and comfortable. I wanted to crawl back under the covers, lie beside her, forget about the rest of the world.

  “Love you,” she said.

  I smiled, told her how I felt, and left.

  ***

  I was still feeling the weight of sleep in my eyes when I got in the BMW. I stretched in the driver’s seat, yawned. I put the key in the ignition, jumped in my skin when the CD player came on. Freak Power demanded I turn on, tune in and drop out, I kicked the engine, pulled out of the parking space and turned onto the Perth Road, heading towards the city centre.

  I pulled in at the rear of the police station in the public car park. Katie was waiting for me on the steps smoking a cigarette. The end burned bright in the dark.

  I parked the car, got out. I walked over to her. We stood at an awkward distance from each other and I asked her how she was doing.

  “Well as can be expected,” she said, her voice clipped. She dropped her cigarette, ground it out with her heel. “They said someone would be out to talk to me.”

  I said maybe she should have some company for the meeting. She agreed, reluctantly.

  I felt like grabbing a cigarette. Although I told Ros I’d given up, there was still a spare packet in my jacket. An aid to concentration; something to do while I was trying to figure out the situation.

  But I didn’t have time to pull them out. Not tonight.

  I followed Katie into the station. The guy on reception looked up, smiled when he saw me. I’d met him before. He was a greasy little man who enjoyed the power he held behind the glass. I didn’t know his name, never really cared to.

  “Bryson,” he said. “Shouldae figured you’d be here. DI Griggs is really in the shit.” His voice dripping with barely restrained disgust at my presence. More than the usual police antagonism reserved for Private Investigators. He was one of those who had been glad to see the back of me when I left.

  “Aye,” I said. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding.”

  “Try telling that tae the fella he put in the hospital,” said the rat behind the glass. “Oh aye, he’s messed up good this time.” He took a sip from the coffee sat on his workstation. “Somebody’ll be down tae see you. You’ll understand that DI Duncan has his hands full right now so he regrets he cannae talk to ye directly.”

  I nodded. Katie and I grabbed a seat at the far side of the room. Waiting in silence.

  Finally, someone arrived to talk to us: Constable Susan Bright. I knew her a little from my time on the force, but she was Sandy’s friend more than mine. She smiled when she saw me, but there was an apology about her expression that told me she was here against her better judgement.

  “So what’s up?” I asked, not bothering to stand.

  “This is difficult for me, Sam,” Susan said. “I like Sandy… DI Griggs.”

  “Just doing your job,” I said, surprised that my words came out with such venom.

  Her eyes flicked to her feet, came back up again. “Maybe we can talk in private,” she said. “All three of us.”

  Susan ushered us through the secure doors and into the station. She took us to the canteen, which was quiet this early in the morning. She grabbed us some coffee. We sat at a plastic table and no one said a word for nearly a minute. Finally, Susan realised she’d have to be the one to break the ice.

  “Around half past ten yesterday evening,” she said. “A man named Andy Dobbs came out the Clep bar up the east end of the city.”

  I nodded. I knew where it was; the Clep was one of Dundee’s more famous bars; an established working man’s club that had retained an old fashioned atmosphere while somehow managing to keep up with the times.

  “Dobbs is a convicted criminal. Arrested several times on domestic disturbance. Recently divorced and taken to the cleaners. His ex-wife been helped in no small part by DI Griggs who was also Dobbs’s arresting officer.”

  Sandy was a sucker for domestic abuse cases. He took them more than personally. Sandy had spent much of his adolescence attempting to escape the legacy of his father; a brutal and violent man who had systematically abused Sandy’s mother before finally killing her.

  Joining the police gave Sandy the chance to direct the anger towards criminals and other unsavoury types, but when it came to wife-batterers, Sandy was a crusader; termed a vigilante with a uniform by an ex-DCI who was now, thankfully, retired. But despite this branding, Sandy always pulled back before his zeal impaired his better judgement.

  Although there had been some half-hearted questioning of his methods, Sandy’s reputation had always been upheld in public. It helped that he was a popular man among his colleagues and contemporaries.

  “Dobbs was heading out the bar,” Susan continued, “ready to wind his merry way back home, when someone yelled his name from across the street. He looked up, saw DI Griggs. Shouting, swearing, telling Dobbs how he got off light this time.”

  Sandy had been upset about Dobbs’s early release from prison. Time off for good behaviour. He’d cleaned up his act and, according to the sheriff, was ready to become a useful member of society once more.

  Upon hearing this, Sandy told me he found it hard to believe a man like Dobbs was rehabilitated after what amounted to little more than a slap on the wrist.

  “Dobbs ignored the DI,” said Susan. “According to his version of events, he kept walking, you know, not rising to the bait.”

  I shook my head. “I never met Dobbs, but from what Sandy said, he sounded like the kind of guy who’d rise to the bait without thinking twice.”
>
  Susan nodded, like she agreed with my assessment. But she continued, “The way he looked when he got to hospital means that a lot of people are going to believe him.” She took a deep breath. “In his version, Sandy follows him home and beats him up outside his own front door. I’ve seen the man. It was one hell of a kicking.”

  “How bad?” Katie asked.

  Susan looked uncomfortable. “Bad,” she said. “Dobbs is still in hospital. Two broken ribs, cuts, bruises, possible concussion.”

  I nodded, kept quiet. Given Sandy’s attitude and his frequent public confrontations with scum like Dobbs it could have been a plausible story. But Sandy wouldn’t pull that kind of stunt. He’d worked too long and hard at escaping the worst excesses of his anger and even scum like Dobbs couldn’t drive him this far over the edge.

  “DI Duncan’s talking to Sandy, now,” said Susan. “Trying to piece together what happened.”

  “But he thinks Sandy’s guilty,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Sandy’s denying it ever happened,” said Susan. “But the state of this guy, Sam…”

  “And that’s all you’ve got?” I said. “Dobbs turns up with a few bruises and a sob story and you believe him that Sandy Griggs did this to him?”

  “It’s enough. DCI Hawley was the man who pulled in Sandy. Immediately put Donuts up front as the investigating officer.”

  I stood up, kicked back the chair. Katie looked shocked, recoiled in her chair. Susan remained where she was, trying to keep calm, but I could see something in her eyes that looked almost like regret.

  “You’ve worked with Sandy, you know what kind of man he is, Susan! All that’s going straight in the bin on the word one low-life piece of shite?”

  Susan shook her head. “Not on that, no,” she said. “It’s more complicated.” She looked at me, caught my eyes with hers. I knew it, then, what she was asking without asking me. Someone had seen the assault, they had an eye witness and while Donuts might take Dobbs’s word as gospel, Susan was only going along with departmental policy on this case.

  “I’ll bet,” I said, and walked out of the canteen.

  ***

  1045 HRS

  Susan was in her civvies. She took a seat across from me. We were sat on the balcony of the Starbuck’s on the second level of the Overgate shopping centre. The centre is the only single side shopping mall in Europe and the glass wall crooks around the back of the City Centre churches, with protruding balconies on the second level serving as extra seating for coffee shops and eateries. Below, on the paved walkway that separated the church and the centre, skate kids pulled tricks and messed around.

  “You wanted to talk?” she said.

  “You know as well I do that Sandy’s innocent.”

  She nodded. “I’m with you, Sam, there’s no way Sandy would pull that kind of stunt. He takes these kinds of things personally, but…”

  “It’s not his style.”

  Susan slurped at her hot chocolate. She shivered, blew out cold air. We were the only people out on the balcony. The morning air was still sharp, but at least it wasn’t raining even if the sky intent on keeping people guessing.

  “You’ve done Sandy favours,” she said. “The Dudman fiasco, others. Unofficial, of course, and never on the force’s budget.”

  I sat back in my chair. “You’re requesting my services?”

  “Is there some kind of screening process?”

  “In this case there’s no charge.” I sat forward again, placed my hands on the table top. “Thing is, I’m always telling my clients I don’t guarantee happiness.”

  Susan nodded. “There’s a witness. But Duncan’s not exactly forthcoming. Him and the DCI keeping this quiet. Nobody knows anything.”

  Donuts wasn’t the man who worried me. He was the kind of fat, lazy man who followed orders from on-high without question.

  DCI Mark Hawley, on the other hand, was an unknown element. Originally from Dundee he had worked out of Edinburgh for ten years before transferring back to Dundee. The transfer had occurred a few months before I left, barely giving me time to form an opinion of the man. My first impressions weren’t positive, however. There was something in his attitude that put me on edge. A shiftiness in the way he moved and talked that made me think of the worst kind of con-man. Yet he clearly had some talent for the job to have risen to the rank of DCI at a relatively young age.

  I asked Susan, “I’m assuming you’ve already tried to get the name of this witness?”

  She nodded “Donuts doesn’t want to talk. Or he’s not allowed to.”

  “So maybe we don’t ask him.” It wouldn’t make any difference if I asked. My relationship with Donuts had been just a nip below hostile. No way he’d just hand over sensitive information to the likes of me.

  Susan looked apprehensive. “The question remains,” she said, “what if Sandy is guilty?”

  “If he is,” I said, “Then it’s the truth.” I tried to act blasé, but I knew that kind of truth would make the world a far darker place that I ever wanted it to be.

  ***

  1423 HRS

  We were in the canteen, sharing a coffee. The room was quiet, but we’d been counting on that. Donuts was already three minutes late. He was a man who kept a schedule like clockwork unless there was some reason to break it. Nevertheless, he’d been here as close to his usual break as possible.

  Sure enough, the DI stomped into the canteen. He looked like a man who had seen very little sleep over the past few days. His skin was pale and his eyes were gently bloodshot. His normally smooth moon-face showed signs of stubble and he walked with his usual stoop exaggerated, as though he was carrying some immense weight about his shoulders.

  He clocked me and Susan sitting together. He came across and said, “What the bloody hell is he doing here?”

  “Sandy’s my mate,” I said. “I came to find out if there was anything I can do.”

  “You can keep your nose out of this,” he said. Then, to Susan: “Jesus, Bright, you should really choose your friends more carefully.”

  “Susan was telling me about your progress in…”

  That got him. He straightened up like someone had sent a jolt of electricity through his spine. His mean little eyes fixed on Susan and he said, “Officer Bright, a word if you don’t mind.” He glared at me. “In private.”

  I waited for them to leave the room. Then, I stood and slipped out the other door. I knew Susan could keep Donuts busy for a few minutes, but soon enough she’d be pushing her luck.

  I made my way to the CID office. A few detectives were milling around. Most of them I knew, and I hoped they were too wrapped up in their own business to notice this interloper.

  I made for Donuts’s desk, all the while feeling like there was a hand about to land on my shoulder and a voice waiting to tell me I was about to be nicked for trespassing. I checked the computer first, moving the mouse, swearing when I saw the password box appear. I didn’t have time to go hacking, not unless I got real lucky. I looked back at the desk, saw printed memos and reports spread out in a pattern I guess probably made sense to Donuts. I sifted through them, looking for anything that made sense. After a few sheets, I found a sheet of line paper with a name and number written on it. F. Beaney, and a local area code. I pulled a notebook from my inside jacket pocket, jotted down the name and number. I knew F. Beaney and why Donuts had his number.

  ***

  1704 HRS

  Frank Beaney was a regular at the Crow and Claw. One of the few pubs where he felt safe, if only because the landlord – Big Ian Machie – had a zero tolerance approach to violence on his premises. The Crow and Claw was probably one of the safest places to drink in Dundee but if you stepped on anyone’s toes inside, it wouldn’t seem quite so safe when you got out onto the street.

  Beaney was there when I arrived, standing at the bar and enjoying a quick pint of Tennants. Big Ian was down the other end of the long, dark-wood bar that dominated the east wall, talking to
a few of the other punters; men whose taste in drink he appreciated a little more.

  I walked straight up to Beaney, stood beside him until he turned round. He recoiled a little when he recognised me. “Hey, Sam,” he said, his voice quavering. “How’re ye doing?” Beaney was a short man with a skinny frame that looked ready to snap in two. His head was too big for his body, always in danger of tipping too far over and rolling right off his skinny wee shoulders. His eyes were wide, but hidden behind thick, plastic glasses that hung uncomfortably from his bulbous nose.

  “Fine,” I said. “Still in the informing business, eh?”