Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Sorry, I have to attend an intelligence briefing as soon as. Had you been planning to stay over?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve booked into a hotel for tonight. I’m meeting Mick Harkins for a drink later on, and he wouldn’t thank me for dashing off for a plane when the evening had barely started.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you have a think about the job overnight then let me know what you want to do. We can meet tomorrow if you like.’

  She stared for a moment at the man across the desk, trying to understand what had changed him, if anything. ‘Fine. Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow and we can arrange a where and when. As long as we don’t have to eat in the canteen – my organs are only just recovering.’ She smiled for the first time.

  He managed something near a real smile to match hers. ‘Well, if you’re meeting Mick give him my regards – and good luck to your liver. While we’re on the subject . . . sources are still reporting that Billy Drew isn’t giving up on payback for Jonathon Barclay, which is no worry for us, but Mick is on his to-do list as well. He’ll not listen to us but maybe you can get through to him.’

  ‘Get through to Mick Harkins? That’ll be a first,’ Macallan said and meant it.

  They both smiled absolutely genuinely at that one.

  She could see that he needed to go and so rose to leave, but she felt the anxiety of not knowing what the story was with Dixie Deans. She’d fought the urge to ask since she’d come into the room and she managed to get to the door before she broke and turned to O’Connor, who looked over his glasses as she paused, still reaching for the handle.

  ‘Have you got five minutes to tell me about Dixie? It would help – his brother is an old friend.’

  He didn’t have five minutes but picked the phone up in any case.

  ‘Tell them I’m fifteen minutes behind.’ When he hung up, O’Connor nodded towards the chair opposite his desk and said, ‘Sit down then.’

  Then he told her as much as he could.

  10

  Two hours later Macallan arrived at Harkins’ front door, having stopped off on the way to pick up a bottle of his favourite malt. She knew that visiting without alcohol would invite more abuse than it was worth. When he answered the door, the sight of him made her grin. There was just something reassuring about Harkins despite the fact that he had caused so many problems for the force. He looked good, fit and he was standing at the door with no sign of the walking sticks he’d needed the last time they’d met. His recovery was nothing short of miraculous when she remembered the wrecked body left in the road by Thomas Barclay.

  ‘Jesus, you look like a person who’s lived a good life!’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me, Grace; you know it never works. Getting there though.’

  He pulled the door wide open and nodded her in. It hit her right away that the place felt clean and fresh. That just didn’t seem to fit Harkins’ profile. She pushed open the door to the lounge then realised what had made the difference. Felicity Young appeared from the kitchen area, drying her hands on a towel and smiling at the sight of Macallan.

  ‘Hello, it’s wonderful to see you. And you’re looking amazing!’

  Young had been involved with Harkins before, although it had been an on-off thing. They were complete opposites, but there was no doubting that they cared about each other and Macallan wondered if Harkins had finally been tamed. She’d always hoped it would work out between them because Harkins carried a powerful self-destruct gene, and she wasn’t ready for the funeral of yet another friend who meant so much to her.

  Macallan could smell the rich tones of coffee and decided to keep the malt in her bag, knowing that Young wasn’t much of a drinker. They exchanged the usual catch-up stories before Macallan told them all about the baby and did the required display of smartphone photographs. The coffee had been served on a tray complete with neatly arranged biscuits and napkins, which somehow got to Macallan – she was starting to really miss the old Harkins.

  The phone rang and Young took the call.

  ‘That’s my lift arriving.’ She turned to Macallan. ‘Sorry, but this is my badminton night and I know you need some time to exchange detective stories with the boy here. I’ll see you the next time you’re over. By the way, the force needs you.’

  She kissed her man on the top of the head and Macallan could have sworn that his expression turned sheepish. There were times when she was sure there was a marshmallow lurking under all that wolf’s clothing.

  About three seconds after the door closed behind Felicity, Harkins went into the kitchen and came back with two sparkling glasses. ‘You’d better have a bottle in that bag or I’m really going to be pissed – that’s pissed as in angry. We’re only allowed to have a couple of glasses of red French pish with meals now that I’m involved with a fitness fanatic.’

  Macallan was relieved to find that there was still some of the old beast left in Harkins as she pulled the firewater out of her bag like a magician. ‘Ta-da!’

  ‘That will do nicely, Superintendent.’ He nodded happily, wearing the expression of a starving man presented with a steaming plate of fish and chips.

  She poured about a quarter glass and Harkins did an up-a-bit sign with his forefinger.

  ‘Jesus, how have you got a functioning liver left in that body?’

  ‘Just pour and leave the sarcasm to a professional.’

  They sat down opposite each other and for the first time in a while she felt okay with the decision she’d almost made. It was always the same when she was with Mick; he could be the world’s biggest pain in the arse, but there was a certainty about him and a friendship that meant something. They’d spoken a few times on the phone when she’d been off, but Harkins was one of the worst phone conversationalists she’d ever come across and the calls rarely lasted more than a couple of minutes.

  He closed his eyes after the first mouthful of whisky, sighed and tilted his head back like the most contented man on earth.

  ‘God, I’ll never get tired of this stuff. It’s just the dug’s baws. Now tell me what the plan is. Anytime we spoke you sounded a bit vague.’

  Macallan spluttered midway through sipping the malt. ‘A bit vague? Have you heard yourself on the phone? It’s like there’s no one on the other end.’

  It was the usual wind-up, and she loved it; it was as if she’d never been away. She told him it all. The nightmares after the bombing; how she enjoyed loving her new family and that she’d found some form of contentment at last. For the first time in her life she wondered if she wanted to wake up every day as a detective with more questions than answers about what the fuck she was doing. Harkins didn’t say much, apart from telling Macallan that he and Young had agreed to keep their separate homes for a bit of space for the time being. He still had commitment issues.

  ‘A true romantic till the end. How does that girl put up with you?’

  ‘Good looks and charm – always been that way,’ he replied, then his expression dropped and he became serious. ‘Just don’t want to piss her about this time.’

  The moment passed quickly and they got back to remembering why they were such friends. Harkins would never admit it, especially not to Macallan, but he’d been missing her both as a cop and a far-too-rare human being who’d forgiven him so much. She tried telling him about the conversation with O’Connor, and he leaned forward when the name was mentioned – he’d always worried how she would cope with a man so full of contradictions and so damaged by the woman opposite him.

  ‘By the way,’ Macallan said, ‘he told me that they keep picking up intel that Billy Drew still wants you, but not in the biblical sense. I know they’ve already warned you, but you be careful. He’s a hard bastard with too many screws loose or missing.’

  ‘Fuck him. If he comes for me I’ll be ready.’ Harkins necked what was left in his glass and topped up again. She shook her head; she’d already guessed what his response would be before he said it.

  ‘Are you going to invite him out onto the street, Mick
– have a gunfight like in a Clint Eastwood film?’ The booze was taking effect and she sat back and sniggered at the image of Harkins and Billy Drew dressed up like a couple of cowboys.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Harkins said, getting the conversation back to reality.

  ‘He said I could think about it overnight. I’m going to see him again tomorrow. But I do think I’m going to take this investigation. I’m not sure yet it’s time for me to go. There’s no way I want to look back and wish I’d given it every chance. It might be just as wrong to stay and risk what I’ve got now, so let’s call it a deferred sentence. I’m going to tell him that I’ll make up my mind about the longer term when this one is put to bed. Christ, I don’t even know if I’ve still got it, but I’ll soon find out. If I walk away now I know I’ll have regrets and never be sure it was the right thing.’ She looked down into the glass as Harkins replied.

  ‘It’s the right thing. You’re not sure; that’s not the time to make the big decisions. So go for it, but remember this one is bad from the arse up. The way I see it this can only end up as a mess, but that’s never been a reason to walk away from the job. Now let’s get pissed and when this bottle is finished I’ll get some of that French pish out just to make sure the hangover is as bad as it can get.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen, came back with two packets of salt and vinegar crisps and what looked like an expensive bottle of red. The old Harkins would have just thrown the packet at her, but he’d brought a nicely decorated plate. He did his best to arrange the crisps on it, but half of them ended up on the carpet.

  ‘Sorry, my friend, but you just don’t do fine dining.’ Macallan found herself giggling again, a sure sign she was going under.

  Harkins stared at the mess on the floor for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Fuck it.’

  Macallan woke up in her hotel at 3 a.m. and groaned. She tried to unglue her mouth and headed for the bathroom on tiptoe, her eyes barely open. She stuck her face under the tap so she could slurp as much water as she could take on-board. The reflection in the mirror looked like someone else. Someone who’d been very ill. ‘God.’ This was the only word she could manage before padding back to her bed, promising herself for the umpteenth time that she would never drink whisky with Harkins again. She fell asleep until the sound of the alarm crashed through her dreams and made her groan again.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, taking a long minute to breathe deeply and find the strength to get into her day. About halfway through her shower she felt a rush of energy, the thought that she would soon be back in the game lifting her above her hangover. Then she dressed, did the best she could with her face and headed for her meeting with O’Connor.

  11

  They’d arranged to meet in Stockbridge at an upmarket café, one of the many smart little places that had opened up over the years and only a few minutes from the old Lothian and Borders HQ at Fettes. The area had fed, watered and provided the boozers for a generation of police staff leading up to the unified Scottish force. Macallan had decided to walk there through the sun-washed trees and grounds of Inverleith Park. She’d done that a few times in the past after a night on the scoosh with Mick Harkins.

  As she walked she saw women just like her playing like five-year-olds with their kids and dogs. She was conflicted, wanting to be just like them, but tearing herself away from the job was never going to be easy. The air was menthol cool, the sky a clean empty blue above her as the sun began to stretch its warming hands over the old city. She thought again about that dark winter moment when the bomb had gone off only yards from the park and changed everything for her.

  Macallan pulled the phone from her pocket and tapped in a reminder note to catch up with someone when she got time. Lesley Thompson had been her DCI and one of the closest to the bomb when it exploded. She’d survived but there were burns on her arms and body that were for life. Although she’d returned to work she was anchored behind a desk, and it looked like a permanent sentence. When Macallan had first met her she’d been a problem, having been planted in her squad by O’Connor. That had changed as Thompson came to appreciate what it meant to be part of a close team, and she had been developing into a real player before she’d been injured in the blast. Macallan hadn’t seen her since she’d left to have Adam.

  She smiled as she watched a short, middle-aged guy trying and failing to get a ball back from a nifty-looking boxer who’d stolen it from what she presumed was his little spoodle. (Or was it a cockapoo? And what was the difference? She hadn’t a clue but decided she liked the name spoodle better anyway.) The man and dog pursued the beast vainly across the park and the owner’s unhindered comb-over flew backwards in the chase like Sir Bobby Charlton in his finest days.

  Macallan sucked in a deep breath and headed for the meeting. As she exited the park’s west gate she barely noticed a smart-looking but filthy BMW parked nearby that was belching fag smoke from both front windows. She caught a whiff of the blue fumes and as usual she had to remind herself that she was an addict even though she hadn’t touched one for long enough. She knew it would take very little encouragement to get her back on the weed. She’d had the occasional lapse but had always managed to struggle back off them again.

  The pair in the BMW paid little attention to Macallan; as far as they were concerned she was just another well-heeled yummy mummy taking her early-morning spin round the park, though she didn’t have the required sprog or mutt in tow. Brenda McMartin sat in the passenger seat smoking an extra strength and grinding her way through a third packet of cheese and onion crisps. All she was interested in was Ricky Swan, who’d given up on the boxer and was enjoying a cigar as the spoodle tried to work out what to do without his ball.

  McMartin and her driver had come through from Glasgow a couple of hours earlier, intending to get an idea of Swan’s movements and then lift the grassing little fuck. She’d agreed the job with her brother; the plan was to keep Swan in one piece till they found out what he knew. Once they had the full story, and after a bit of torture, she could let him join his ancestors – which seemed appropriate given the crime. The driver was Jimmy ‘Fanny’ Adams, who’d worked for the McMartins for years and for their old man before them. He was the wrong side of sixty and relegated from front-line gangster to driver and gofer. As far as The Bitch and her brother were concerned he was a has-been who couldn’t shut the fuck up about the old days and the gang wars that had cost so many lives in Glasgow.

  Her old man was on his last legs but had always insisted that Adams be kept on for what he’d given back then, when tit-for-tat killings had robbed too many crime families of their sons. He’d been McMartin Senior’s top soldier and had the scars to prove it. In his day he had been a feared and respected nutjob who was missing a little finger on each hand. The digits had been taken when he was being tortured by a rival gang who’d abducted him at gunpoint from his beloved mother’s graveside. The plan had been to crucify him to even up a score with the McMartins, but they’d made a fatal mistake when they’d left him seemingly unconscious so they could neck a couple of beers before they put the nails in him. Adams was made of the right stuff and had been behind the door when the two men who’d tormented him to the edge of madness came back in to finish him off. Three hours later the CID had broken in after an anonymous call and found the two men nailed to the wooden floor. Adams had added an artistic touch by half stripping them and leaving them in what looked like a very compromising position, one on top of the other. It was the stuff of legend in gangland, and old man McMartin had given him a big fat bonus and private health treatment for his wounds. But when all was said and done Adams was human and now he was nothing more than another old burnout who pissed off his employers just by being around. The Bitch swore that as soon as her father was in his box she’d boot Adams into touch and get a younger model who might even do the business with her as part of the contract.

  ‘I remember when I had to drive your old man through here to do a boy’s legs for non-pa
yment.’ Adams made the same mistake every time by starting with the words ‘I remember’.

  ‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up? Who gives one about you and the old man?’

  Brenda blew a cloud of smoke into his face and enjoyed his humiliation. He’d no pension so no options. He had to take all the crap they threw at him, but there were times he swore to God he’d cut her throat one day.

  ‘Fuckin’ Fanny. Whoever gave you that handle got it absolutely right.’ The Bitch sniggered and tiny scraps of cheese and onion crisps spattered out of her nostrils with some snot.

  Macallan arrived at the café on time and tried again to fix her face, which still bore small traces of her night with Harkins. Her hangover was almost gone in record time though; she was energised by the thought of what she’d decided and all that it would mean.

  O’Connor walked through the door about fifteen minutes late, which was a real change in habit for a man who’d preached punctuality as an unbreakable rule. The pale, worn look on his face explained enough – he was struggling with a problem he wasn’t equipped to handle. She’d seen it exposed on the Barclay case and here it was again. She knew he was a man with enough talent to take him most places he wanted to go, but he had difficulty coping with the complexities and uncertainties of serious criminal investigation. He was as good as they came at thinking strategically or being a business leader, but he couldn’t handle the crap that most investigators had to wade through to get to the truth.

  Harkins used to say that during his service he’d been contaminated with everything that could spurt or pour from the human body or mind and that nine times out of ten he’d received no thanks, or more likely just plain abuse, from whatever family, villains or senior officers were concerned. Only a few were cut out for that level of grief. O’Connor had wanted to wear that badge of honour, and though he’d had real success as a senior detective it had always been where the answers were just waiting to be picked up – the ‘gimmes’ as they were known affectionately by the more cynical investigators. The Barclay case had shown him for what he was: a talented policeman but a limited detective. It had hurt him badly, but it was the truth, and eventually he’d had to admit it to himself. That had been a hard process, and for a long time after his relationship with Macallan had fallen apart he’d made all the wrong choices. Eventually though he’d realised that he was just like every other human being and was able to move on.