Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  The phone startled him; he’d nearly dozed off again with the remote control still clasped in his hand. His heart raced, wondering who would call at that time of the morning. His world tended to operate in the hours of darkness.

  ‘It’s Arthur here.’

  Arthur wasn’t the caller’s real name but the one his lead handler used when he needed to communicate with Swan.

  ‘It’s been a while, Arthur. How’s things?’

  ‘I’m okay, Ricky, you know how it is – crime thriving and all that. Have you seen the news?’

  Swan pushed Gnasher off his face. The dog was trying to lick him to death. Gnasher was the one creature on God’s earth that actually liked his master, or at least that was how it appeared to Swan. The dog was affectionate and that love was reciprocated with all the luxuries that could be showered on a four-legged friend. The name Gnasher was his little joke, and the irony never ceased to make him laugh when he told people what the bundle of curls was called.

  ‘Not seen too much news, busy looking after the ladies if you know what I mean.’ He grinned, suddenly sure that the handler was jealous. In actual fact the man on the end of the line squirmed; he thought Swan was a creep, but a good handler would never let a source see that contempt.

  ‘There’s a problem and we need to meet as soon as. It’s in your interest so make it happen.’

  The handler had his attention and Swan had already made the connection between ‘the problem’ and the news bulletin about the girl on the beach. ‘I can meet you in a couple of hours if it’s really necessary,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s necessary. Better safe than sorry.’

  Swan thought that if the handler was trying to give him some form of reassurance then he’d failed miserably. Swan was a double-dyed coward and any hint of trouble got his sweat glands working overtime.

  ‘It really is necessary,’ the handler repeated. ‘We just want to look after you.’ The handler was spooking him deliberately. He could have played the problem down till they met, but he just loved knowing that Swan would be in a panic trying to work out what had happened.

  ‘Arthur’ and a second handler met Swan in the café of a small garden centre near Perth. They ordered coffees before they got down to business.

  ‘You look pale,’ Arthur said, enjoying every second of the man’s discomfort. ‘Hope you’re not taking too much out of yourself on the job.’ He tapped the side of his nose for effect, but it did nothing to calm Swan’s growing sense of concern.

  ‘I’m fine. I just want to know what’s so important that you have to drag me out of my bed at this time of the day.’

  They told him what they could, which wasn’t that much, but it was enough to make sure he wouldn’t sleep that night. The man he’d introduced to the Flemings hadn’t called in when expected and there were fears for his safety.

  ‘We can’t be sure what’s happened, and we don’t know if there’s a problem. There’s other things on the go and you probably saw the report about the girl on the beach.’ Swan nodded weakly as the handler continued. ‘Some of our boys turned over a boat in Eyemouth in the early hours that morning so there might be links, but we just don’t know yet. We’ll keep in touch. There’s probably no need to worry.’

  Swan found some life. ‘No need to fucking worry? Are you serious? The Flemings are one thing, but if these Newcastle lunatics are involved then there’s a big need to fucking worry.’

  ‘Just keep your head till the investigation team work it all out, then we’ll see from there. You have all the numbers if there’s an emergency, and one way or the other we’ll get back to you as often as possible till this thing settles down.

  ‘Anything else you want to ask before we shoot off?’

  Swan shook his head slowly and tried to run all the possibilities through his head. The handlers stood up and ‘Arthur’ put his hand on Swan’s shoulder.

  ‘Take care, Ricky.’ The handler said it like he meant it, but the truth was that they’d loved tormenting him and they pissed themselves all the way back to Edinburgh.

  Swan sat for a further half hour and sank another couple of espressos, which achieved nothing more than helping to jangle his already shredded nerves.

  ‘Brilliant – just fucking brilliant.’

  The waitress passing at the time asked him if he was okay. He stared at her without saying a word until she became spooked enough to walk away and tell her manager that there was a loony in the restaurant.

  Swan drove straight home after that and as soon as he was in the house he pulled all the curtains closed and checked that everything was locked. The Corral was a smart five-bedroom shack, which he loved to show off to anyone who was remotely interested, but for the first time it felt too big – too exposed. He’d have been better off in a flat ten storeys up. He wished he had a gun but knew he was more likely to shoot himself than the enemy if they came to visit. He looked at Gnasher and for the first time felt pissed off at the dog who’d done nothing but love him.

  ‘Why aren’t you a fucking Rottweiler?’

  The spoodle didn’t answer him; he just sensed the tension and tried to lick his master’s hand. Swan told the dog to fuck off, stomped into his bedroom and shut the door in Gnasher’s sad little face.

  8

  It was late afternoon and Macallan flicked the switch on the kettle before wandering through to the bedroom to take off her boots. They’d just returned from a walk and the baby was crying, impatient to be fed. Jack could help with that now Adam was taking some solids, so he was busy in the kitchen mashing up some banana to go with the baby rice. The bedside dresser caught her attention and Macallan realised that her mobile phone had been in there for over twenty-four hours without her checking it. She wondered whether she should leave it for another day, but the urge was too much, so she pulled open the drawer and looked at the screen as it filled up with the (mostly useless) apps she was addicted to. She tapped on to her emails and saw that one had recently arrived from Jimmy McGovern. It had to be important; McGovern would never bother her unless it mattered. It was a long message and about halfway through she closed her eyes.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  She remembered hearing something the previous day about a girl being found on the Berwickshire coast, and the TV news had been suggesting that it might tie in with a police operation earlier that day in Eyemouth. It had the sound of something big but there were few details. In the email McGovern told her that the operation hadn’t finished with a result, but the girl might open it up for them. The reason he’d sent the message was that an undercover officer involved in the case was missing. McGovern was aware that Macallan knew the man from her time in Northern Ireland and was giving her a heads-up. In fact she’d worked with his older brother, Tommy, in the Branch, and they’d done some good things together against Republican terrorists. She only remembered Dixie Deans from a couple of training lectures she’d given to the serious crime squad, where he’d been regarded as a natural born detective. He’d asked her a couple of difficult questions but delivered with a smile because he knew she was a friend of his older brother and they both enjoyed the wind-up. Macallan knew nothing but good things about him, and that he’d subsequently gone off the radar to undertake undercover operations; that was the last she’d heard anything about him.

  Macallan made some tea, went back into the bedroom and sat in the old chair by the window. The real world was coming for her and there was no way to avoid it.

  The door opened and Jack came in carrying their son, who reached out for her. She took him in her arms, still in awe of the look that came over Adam’s face whenever he saw his mother.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Jack said, stretching the knots out of his muscles.

  ‘Absolutely fine now I’ve got my two boys.’ She smiled at her man and he saw something flicker through her expression. She obviously wasn’t fine, but he decided not to push it any further.

  ‘You sit there with our son and heir and I’ll rustle us up
some grub.’

  Later that night Jack had gone to bed and the baby slept as Macallan tried to concentrate on a whodunit, but she was struggling. She wanted to call Tommy Deans, though she knew that with so little information it was better to leave the family alone. Maybe there was a rational explanation for it all and Dixie would turn up. Somehow that seemed like a long shot though.

  The phone blinked suddenly on the table next to her – it was John O’Connor.

  ‘Have you heard the news, Grace?’

  It had been a long time since O’Connor had used her first name so warmly. He’d been her boss and lover after she’d transferred from the PSNI to the old Lothian and Borders force in Edinburgh. Her life seemed to have changed for the better till the Barclay murder investigation had gone badly wrong and O’Connor had blamed her not only for that but for the subsequent stalling of his career. That was the past though; more recently he’d started to climb again and was now the chief super in charge of the city. She hoped he was leaving their problems behind.

  ‘I got a message from Jimmy.’ She wondered for a moment whether to call him sir or John but decided to leave it blank.

  ‘The thing is, there’s more to this than you realise. I know you’re due back and was thinking about getting you involved. It might be too much too soon but I thought I’d run it past you. I was going to call anyway to see if we could have a sit-down before you start work again.’ He was sure she wouldn’t say no.

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking. I’m not sure about my future in the job any more.’ She let it hang there and the long moment of silence confirmed his surprise. ‘There’s the baby now and maybe I need a break away from it. Anyway, let’s sort an appointment and I’ll come over as soon as.’

  They fixed it up, she put the phone back on the coffee table and then set about gnawing the hard ridge of skin on her forefinger, which was her version of nail biting.

  ‘What do you do now, Grace?’ She said it quietly, but Jack had emerged from the bedroom in time to hear her. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘You do what you have to do, detective.’

  9

  Macallan flew into Edinburgh and then dropped off her case at the late-booked hotel she thought would be more bearable than going to the flat, which these days would feel so empty without Jack and the baby. Not long after, she was sipping black tea in John O’Connor’s office, well aware how much his occupation of the smartest room in the house would please him. It was a complete contrast to the farm boxes ninety-five per cent of the force had to endure and had executive written all over it. She smiled, thinking how he could finally look down on the unwashed masses, confident he’d found his rightful place in the world. Her smile broadened at the thought that with the rate Police Scotland were getting rid of staff they might all get an office like his one day. All they had to do was survive the cuts.

  Macallan had been ushered in by O’Connor’s staff officer, who had the look and speech patterns of a future chief constable, and she wondered, not for the first time, why it was that they all seemed to be the same people in different skins. She thought she was beginning to think like the world’s greatest cynic, Mick Harkins, and put her cup back on the desk. O’Connor had been delayed at a meeting but was on his way, and she tried to run the script through her head again. It changed every time she did it; the truth was that she wasn’t sure what she would say when he finally looked across the table at her. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do and was being pulled in too many directions.

  She began to hum the old Bing Crosby song ‘Beautiful Dreamer’, which had stuck in her head when she was a child and remained there, breaking out occasionally without her thinking about it. She walked over to the window and stared across the playing fields towards the spot where the bomb had exploded, nearly taking her life and the baby she hadn’t realised was growing inside her. Then the door opened and startled her out of her memories of those dark winter days. John O’Connor smiled, and for the first time since their relationship had ended there was warmth in the expression.

  ‘Good to see you, Grace. You’re looking well; family life seems to agree with you.’

  She wondered if there was anything behind those words but thought it was better to give him a chance. And what had she to lose? Time heals – her relationship with Jack Fraser proved that was true.

  O’Connor gestured her back to the seat opposite his desk and emptied some papers from his briefcase onto the pile in his in tray. The wall behind him spoke volumes about Chief Superintendent John O’Connor: photographs of the various courses he’d attended and of him shaking the hands of people who seemed to matter were up there with certificates of his academic qualifications, forming the backdrop to a man who just wanted to be one of the stars. Harkins always referred to these displays as ego walls, and she thought he was bang on the money. Mick had his own version of wall decorations – his fifty-yard breast-stroke swimming certificate and the only qualification he’d managed to gain at his secondary school. They’d taken pride of place on the wall behind his desk and he’d enjoyed watching the puzzled expressions of visitors who were normally too confused to ask about the grubby old documents set in Poundstretcher frames. Next to them he’d had a magic wand taped to the wall, and when some visiting senior officer couldn’t resist asking what it meant, Harkins would smile kindly as if he was explaining it to a child who just didn’t understand the world of big people.

  ‘Well, every month the chief expects me to perform a fucking miracle with shite crime figures. I take the magic wand, wave it about over the figures and guess what? They’re still shite!’ Harkins had never tired of putting on the same show if someone was daft enough to ask the question. It had sent just as clear a message as O’Connor’s wall about who Harkins was.

  To be fair, Macallan had to admit that O’Connor had just enough pizzazz for the role he was in, and in the twenty-first century image seemed to matter as much as substance. God, that thought made her feel old.

  O’Connor spoke first. ‘I thought a lot about our conversation and on reflection, although I was surprised, I suppose I shouldn’t have been given what you’ve been through.’

  His words were not what she’d expected; the old bitterness just didn’t seem to be there, but she was wise enough to know that he could act with the best of them. She’d promised herself that she would never let her guard down with him again – it had cost too much in the past. There was a pause as Macallan tried to pick her words then threw them out, deciding to say what she felt. She knew there was no point in changing the habits of a lifetime, and she’d never been any good at giving a performance when she didn’t mean it.

  ‘I’m just tired, John.’ She hadn’t used his first name in a long time and it felt strange saying it again. His reaction took her by surprise, and for a fleeting moment she thought there was a hint of sadness in his expression as he flicked his gaze down to the desk.

  ‘It was hard after the bombing, then the baby. The daft thing is I feel really well physically, but I’m only seventy-five per cent clear in my mind. I worry that I could get it wrong in a tight situation.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Maybe I’ve lost a bit of confidence.’ She paused again and looked straight at O’Connor. ‘Or maybe I just don’t care enough any more.’

  He saw her strength and weakness in those few words. She cared in a world where few people knew what that meant. He envied her but understood that time and again it had left her exposed then damaged. He got up from his chair and edged round the desk to fill her cup with fresh tea then stood in the same place at the window Macallan had occupied a few minutes earlier. She waited for him to speak and had no idea what else to say.

  ‘I was wrong the way I treated you after the Barclay thing.’

  Macallan raised her head in shock; she’d never expected to hear that from him. She had no words, completely lost for a reply that would make any sense.

  ‘I wanted to hurt you; I suspect the truth was that I s
till cared. Who is it we always hurt?’ He turned to look at her. ‘Do what’s best for you and your family. I’ll support you all the way, and you deserve that.’

  If O’Connor wanted to throw her off balance, he’d achieved his aim. If it was one of his political schemes then it really made no difference to her. She could say what she wanted and didn’t care what the consequences were any more. The job that had been her whole life had been relegated through the love of a man and a child who’d saved her from the demons that had haunted her for so long.

  ‘I’m tired of the politics . . . fighting people who should have my back. I know that’s how the job is, but that’s how I feel at the moment.’ The comment was aimed at people like him and he knew it.

  His phone rang then and broke the moment. He took the call; it was obviously something to do with Dixie Deans and she felt the old instincts rattle her curiosity. It was the familiar craving, her drug of choice just out of reach in the conversation between O’Connor and whoever was on the other end of the line.

  O’Connor bent his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, his eyes closed. He was struggling with whatever he’d been told; she could see the same symptoms she’d suffered so many times in the past. It was there, staring her in the face, the reason why she should walk away and leave her demons behind. He put the phone down and tried to regain his composure.