Shores of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  It hadn’t been easy but he’d made time to wait on Macallan’s decision about coming back to the force. The girl on the beach was still something of a mystery and for the moment the investigation was being handled by local CID. The information about the Brighter Dawn’s lifebelt was still being withheld, and the press would love that one when it was leaked or released.

  The Dixie Deans problem was being handled internally, and there were some who still hung on to the belief that he’d had a wobbly of some kind or gone over the side with a woman. For the time being they had breathing space, but O’Connor knew that when the dots were finally joined up they had a potential shit storm that crossed an awful lot of borders. The challenge was to decide who was best placed to coordinate the investigation without civil war breaking out among the law-enforcement agencies involved. Deans had been originally deployed in Edinburgh through a local source. If the intelligence was correct, whatever or whoever was cargo on-board the Brighter Dawn had been bound for the Flemings in Edinburgh so when the dust settled, all eyes and pointed fingers would be trained on Edinburgh to provide some poor sod to coordinate the whole show. O’Connor wanted Macallan in that role, if it came to it, and was prepared to wait as long as he could for her decision. Bad choices had been made and the order to deploy Deans into the heart of Handyside’s organisation could put people face down in the gutter. He wasn’t too worried about that though, as it had been pushed by the head of special ops, one of his competitors for higher office.

  What did concern O’Connor was what McGovern had told him at a private briefing. McGovern was someone he respected, a man who tended to stick to the facts and never pushed the panic button without good reason. The DCI was sure the original intel had been on the money and that there had been other girls on the Brighter Dawn who should have arrived with the boat. As far as McGovern was concerned, the girl on the beach, the spotters who’d been disturbed in Eyemouth plus the missing UC meant only one thing – the operation had been compromised. He believed other young women had been killed at sea and that only the girl found on the beach could confirm the veracity of this horror story. It was better not to think too hard about the UC given Handyside’s reputation. The last they’d heard from Deans was that he was driving the Flemings to a meeting of the organisation leaders in North Shields.

  O’Connor had stopped sleeping at night. The story just kept festering, and the news that Eric Gunderson had taken a header into the Tyne was the last thing they’d needed. The assessment had been that he was a possible weak link who might be broken if they had some evidence to put to him. But O’Connor wouldn’t discuss any of this in a public place, and in any case suspected it might put Macallan off giving him the answer he wanted.

  He sat down opposite her to find she’d already worked her way through her first cup of straight black coffee. She saw him hesitate and knew he was trying to work out how to greet her. He did the right thing and left it at a weary smile and ‘Hi.’ He nodded to the waitress and ordered another two blacks without asking what she wanted. She almost felt sorry for him; she knew better than most how so much responsibility tore lumps out of the men and women who took on the big ones. She wondered what she was letting herself in for, but that was just a light form of self-deception. Macallan wanted it more than anything else at that moment. If she was going out then this was the one to finish on, and if she stayed and it all worked out, she was back in the limelight.

  O’Connor put both palms on his face and gave it a rub. There was no disguising his exhaustion.

  ‘You okay there?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine; nothing that a few weeks in the Caribbean with no phone wouldn’t cure anyway.’ His dull eyes sparked briefly and he looked genuinely pleased to be there. ‘How did you get on with Mick?’

  ‘As regards the yellow card re Billy Drew, his exact words were “fuck him”. The alcohol bit I think you can guess. It was great to see him though. I can’t believe that’s the same guy I saw lying on the road that day.’

  ‘Some people just verge on indestructible and Mick is definitely one of them,’ O’Connor said ruefully, wishing he had half the man’s stamina for what life could throw at its citizens. They sipped their coffees and stayed quiet, trying to see who would get to the point first. Macallan waited him out.

  ‘What did you decide then? I told you either way is fine. This case is starting to burn – the press, and Jacquie Bell in particular, have caught a whiff of the smoke.’

  As far back as the Barclay case O’Connor had realised that Macallan and Bell were close. It had infuriated him at the time, but on later reflection he knew she’d only done what so many others had, including him. As far as he knew she used the press more than the press had used her, and not many could claim that virtue. She had her share of vanity like anyone else, but for the most part she’d never let it lead her professional life. He knew that was how she’d become a regular feature with the press; she never overplayed it and had that rare quality of speaking a variety of the Queen’s English that the punters understood.

  ‘I want to come back,’ Macallan told him, ‘and if you can square it I’ll take on whatever I’m told to take on. If this thing with the girl on the beach is it then that works, but I want to pick a couple of the team. I don’t know where you are with Dixie but the same rules apply.’ She waited for a reply and noted that he was relieved so far. ‘One thing though,’ she continued. ‘When this is done I might still walk away. I want the job, but it’s as much to work out some questions in my own mind as anything else. The last thing is that I’ve not spoken to Jack about it since I made my decision, and if he asks me not to do it I’ll go home and live my life.’ She sipped her coffee and waited.

  ‘That’s fair enough. It’s not much notice but can we say you’ll start back on Monday if you’re definitely taking this on? That gives you the weekend to mull it over. I’ve brought a briefing paper for you to look at, which will help you make your decision and bring you up to speed at the same time. You’ll probably run a mile when you see what’s festering underneath us, but what’s new? By the way the MIT you’ll manage is based in their own suite in Leith; Fettes is just a building full of ghosts now, including me.’

  They finished their coffees, shook hands and went their separate ways. Macallan watched O’Connor head back to Fettes and wondered where they would all be in a few weeks. She was returning to the game and the result was all in the lap of the gods. The sun had warmed the streets, and the early shoppers and coffee drinkers were already on the go. Macallan had always loved this part of town so she lifted her face to the sky and enjoyed the moment.

  She walked back to the hotel to pick up her bag for the flight to Belfast. Jack was going to pick her up at the airport, and she ached to have him and Adam close to her again. She sat on the bed and called Jack on his mobile, and he answered on the first ring. Her heart beat that bit harder when she heard how they’d missed her and he asked when was she coming home? She told him what she’d done and there was a pause on the other end.

  ‘That’s fine, but if it doesn’t work promise me we go to plan B. If it’s any help though, I think you’ve done the right thing. You need to have the answers to all those questions you keep asking yourself on the cliffs.’ He paused, then said, ‘Anyway, park your arse on that plane and get back here to perform your duties as a wife and mother.’

  She put the phone down and wiped the tears from her face.

  Before she left for the airport she called Lesley Thompson and promised to meet up with her when she was back in her seat.

  ‘Any chance of a job? They think I’m not fit after the injuries, but the truth is working in intel is driving me up the wall.’ There was a genuine plea in the voice on the other end of the phone and Macallan thought she deserved better.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘I think I have a free hand with the job and could use you. Speak to you later.’

  She picked up her case, headed for the airport and smiled at the thought
that in a couple of hours she’d have her arms round Jack and their son.

  12

  A cold north wind had blown down from the Arctic Circle and it felt more like January than early summer. Macallan, Jack and Adam had spent the whole Saturday afternoon along the cliffs and they got back to the cottage chilled but happy. They were starving so Macallan made a deal with Jack that she’d mix up some mush for Adam, cook some grown-up steaks for them and do the washing-up as well if he put Adam to bed after his bath and bedtime feed. She’d started on the briefing paper O’Connor had given her and wanted to finish it the same night. There was only the Sunday left before it was back into the bear pit. The thought of it made her shiver; she was nervous and wondered about her lack of confidence. Jack had told her it was simply a case of being human, no different from an athlete after a long lay-off with injury. Five minutes back and she’d be as right as rain. She wished she could be that sure. What she’d read so far had her interested, but it was enough to prove Harkins right. The case hadn’t even started but all the evidence suggested it was a series of booby traps ready to go off under the force. She’d read half the report and so far there hadn’t been a sniff of anything positive.

  Once they’d eaten and settled the baby down for the night Jack went into the other room to work on his book. The cold weather gave Macallan the excuse to light the fire and she’d stacked it up with logs, pouring herself a small glass of red before settling down with the report. A couple of hours later, and without a break, she finished it, closed the folder and looked into the glowing remains of the fire.

  What in the name of God have you let yourself in for? she thought, shaking her head slowly; but she knew that this was what she needed. She dropped the report into her briefcase and wanted to put her arms round Jack to make sure he was real. She knew it would be a while before she had this much peace again so all she wanted to do now was sleep beside Jack with their son nearby.

  That same night Ingrid Richter opened her eyes and spoke for the first time since she’d been washed up on the Berwickshire coast. Her memory was nothing more than dense fog inhabited by dark amorphous shapes that might have been human. Those shapes frightened her, and she didn’t want to know what they meant. Although Richter had a good command of English, the nurse at her bedside was brought up in North-east Scotland and there were still strong notes of the Doric in her voice. Although it was an effort to try to understand the nurse’s words, what comforted Richter in that moment was the woman stroking her brow and soothing her initial panic. The nurse held her gently and helped her sip some water. Almost as soon as she was finished the exhausted young woman fell asleep again, but she knew she was safe.

  The nurse closed the door behind her and spoke to the policeman who was on duty. ‘Your girl’s back with us. She’s asleep again, but I think that’s her on the mend.’

  The nurse phoned the duty doctor, who in turn called their press officer. There was a near frenzy in the media with every journalist trying to find out what had happened to the girl from the sea, and the hospital administrators wanted to keep the waiting hacks as calm as possible. They were in the awkward position of not wanting to upset the media on one side or the police on the other.

  Within an hour the press officer had alerted his masters that they needed someone to start talking to the cameras. His last call was to Jacquie Bell to give her a heads-up on the story. Bell was nearly undressed, the worse for drink and having just spent an exhausting night in a bar with an MSP who thought he was interesting. It had taken a lot of gin and all of her womanly charms to get him to give her the goods on a small but interesting scandal that was about to erupt in the Justice Directorate. The call from the press officer had her attention immediately though – Bell just couldn’t resist a good story. She knew in her gut this one had legs and enough potential to ruffle a few official feathers, and there was nothing she liked better. The bonus was that the girl probably wouldn’t be able to speak yet, which meant she could grab some sleep and recover from her night on the piss.

  The press officer agreed to meet her for coffee before work, and when he put the phone down he wondered again whether he had any chance of a relationship with the reporter. He was sure she had feelings for him, but they never seemed to get to the next level and he wondered what he was doing wrong.

  Bell desperately wanted to turn the light off but made a last call to one of her contacts, a young flyer doing a stint in the Chief’s office. He didn’t drink and had gone straight to bed after his Pilates class, and although he was a boring bastard, he hadn’t realised it yet. Unfortunately for him, like the press officer, he had hopeless designs on Bell and the sound of her voice so late at night gave him a brief moment of hope that she might finally want to be with him. Bell never wasted time on small talk unless she needed to so she just asked who would run the investigation into the girl on the beach. Normally he wouldn’t dream of discussing sensitive issues with anyone outside the job, but he wanted to impress Bell almost as much as he wanted to be chief constable one day. In his ideal world he’d have both.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, Jacquie,’ he said, ‘but they’re tying several cases together and it involves drugs, people trafficking and a number of murders.’ He felt a twinge of panic, recognising that what he was disclosing could cost him his job. But she was worth it.

  ‘What about the UC officer?’

  ‘How did you know about that?’

  ‘Because I’m a reporter.’

  ‘They’re all connected.’ His panic increased with that admission, but he trusted her.

  ‘So who’s going to run it then?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that I heard the chief speaking to John O’Connor and it looks like Superintendent Macallan is taking it on. Can’t confirm it, but that’s what I heard.’ He asked her if she wanted to have dinner one night and closed his eyes while he waited for her answer.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’ Bell put down the phone. Her head had cleared enough to decide that she was going to put everything else on hold and get her face into this story. ‘Grace.’ She said it quietly and with a smile. She set the alarm for abnormally early, switched off the lights and was asleep almost immediately.

  13

  Across the city Brenda McMartin watched the last of the punters leave Swan’s most popular sauna and the one that he tended to use as a base. About half an hour later Swan left with a short-arsed guy and locked up the premises. She nodded; it had gone much as expected. She’d been told Swan was a creature of habit, and so it seemed from what they’d learned by watching him.

  ‘Looks good. I’ll get one of the boys to come through tomorrow and lift the grassin’ bastard when he locks up. The daft fuck parks his car in the quietest bit of the street and that’ll do nicely for us, Fanny boy.’

  ‘You want me on this?’ Adams would have loved to get in on the physical end of the job, and the guy didn’t look more than a lightweight so shouldn’t have been any trouble.

  ‘You can drive. Stay the fuck away from the lift. No way I’m riskin’ you havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack when we’re stuffin’ that wee cunt in the boot.’

  Adams started up the car and thought again about slicing the fat cow beside him as they headed back to Glasgow.

  The man who’d left the sauna with Swan had barely registered with McMartin because he was a short-arse. If she’d realised who it was it might have given her pause for thought, but The Bitch came from the ‘I don’t give a fuck’ school of philosophy and had never worried in the past about men half her substantial size.

  Short-arse had been working as a minder at the sauna for nine months, and as far as Swan was concerned he was the right man for the job. Size had hee-haw to do with it in this particular case. The minder was Andy ‘Cue Ball’ Ross, a man every villain and cop in the city with half a brain knew was seriously off his trolley. The problem for anyone mad enough to take him on was that no matter how many times you put him on the deck, he just got up again then came back
twice as hard. He was a one-man pain dispenser who’d earned his living dealing street quantities of dope, which gave him a wage, but he was always pissed off at having to serve the losers who appeared at his door like the Legion of the Damned. He was careful in his own habits, never touched the stuff himself and a few pints at the weekend was all the social life he needed. Most nights he liked to sit at home and watch cookery programmes. Apart from that he would nip into the saunas occasionally for a bit of light relief, which was where he’d started to chew the fat with Swan.

  One of Swan’s minders had gone on the run after the local gendarmerie had kicked his door in and found the half-kilo of coke he’d been holding for a mate. Swan liked Cue Ball, or, more accurately, liked the fearsome reputation the little man had built up over the years, so he’d offered the man decent money to mind for him and a freebie every week with the girl of his choice, as long as it was outside working hours. As far as Cue Ball was concerned Swan was a twat, but a twat with money and the job was a dream. It meant he didn’t have to sit in his flat every night and hand over gear to the stream of fucked-up losers who thought he was their friend. He’d also recognised that every one of the junkies who turned up at the flat was a potential grass, and he’d been lucky to survive this long without the pigs handing him a long holiday in HMP Saughton.