Dark of Night

by Oliver Davies

  I usually just shortened ‘The Invisible Division’ to The Ids, in my head, because the appropriateness of the metaphor tickled my sense of humour. I wouldn’t advise anyone to take a walk through the subconsciouses of that bunch. You’d be trying to scrub the filth off you for weeks afterwards. I was aware of the fact that their leashes stretched all the way back to Thames House, down in London, and that did make me a bit itchy, I’ll admit. Scotland wasn’t ‘devolved’ enough to avoid their kind of interference.

  Mostly, I did okay though, working as an independent civilian consultant, mainly just doing research and analysis on cybercrime cases and ghosting my way through supposedly ‘secure’ systems. If only so much of it wasn’t connected to big money and only helped them catch the least offensive (to me) kind of criminals. Still, with it being clearly understood that I was to be allowed to drop everything on a moment’s notice to work on what I considered to be a genuinely ‘Serious Crime’ with Conall, I could put up with it, most of the time. And, as an independent civilian, they couldn’t make me work on anything that I didn’t like the smell of either. I always sent those back marked as ‘Mistakenly Sent to Wrong Recipient’. Best of all, The Ids couldn’t argue that I needed to work on-site, for ‘security reasons’ either, because they hadn’t found anyone yet who could get through even the first of my firewalls, let alone burrow deep enough into my system to encounter any of the nasty little surprises that were waiting for them beyond my outer perimeter if they did.

  Anyway, there I was, eyes closed, checking my latest work over in my head, when my mobile rang. I picked it up and saw it was Con. I was pathetically glad to see his name on my screen. We only got to meet up a few times a year, with me caged in Edinburgh for so much of the time and Con working up in Inverness now.

  I still felt bad about the way Conall’s awful boss in Glasgow had treated him during his last stint there. He’d been a nightmare of a DCI to work under and had taken umbrage over a nasty little B&E gone wrong that Con and I had cracked together. That had been an ugly one. The culprits had broken into what they thought was an empty house in Bearsden and ended up panicking and killing the nice old couple who lived there. Crimes like that just infuriate me, you have no idea! After we had it neatly sewn up and Conall got round to filling his boss in on my involvement and unique status, the man had made him summon me in to call ‘The Ids’. They’d just done their usual, and curtly informed him that my involvement in the case had been strictly ‘Need to Know’ until then, and that DI Keane had been following direct orders from higher up in the chain of command. You should have seen the glare he’d shot at the pair of us before slamming the phone down on them. He’d been a right prick, that DCI.

  Naturally, I’d been thrilled, and a bit surprised, when Conall received his promotion to DCI a few months later, and got moved away from his increasingly punchable-looking nemesis before temptation got the better of him. I’d honestly thought that they’d make him wait longer for another promotion, even though his record showed he deserved it. I knew that William Taylor, who’d been long retired and was nearly seventy when Conall got that last bump, still held the age record. It was a real drag that they’d moved Con into a spot so far away from me, but he’d seemed much happier since getting out of Glasgow. I was glad about that, at least.

  Sorry, I got a bit side-tracked there, didn’t I? Let me try again.

  I was in my flat in Edinburgh when Conall called me that morning. I sat up, phone in hand. “Conall! How are you doing up there Cuz? All good? I was going to call you this weekend.” I babbled, a bit too rushed, trying to sound pleased to hear from him but not like I was literally bouncing up and down at the thought that, as he must be at work now, maybe he had something he wanted me to look into for him.

  “Something up?” He asked, instantly going into worried, over-protective mode. I rolled my eyes at the blank TV screen in front of me.

  “Nah, just your Da ragging me to make more of an effort.” And then I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What have you got for me?” Like a pleading, desperate dog, scratching frantically at the door, begging to be let out for a run.

  Uncle Danny had called me on Sunday, like he usually did. We’d had a good long chat, but he hadn’t been too pleased to hear that I hadn’t talked to Conall at all for a couple of weeks. He’d called Conall himself the day before that. Uncle Danny told me my cousin seemed fine, pretty good, and that he was looking forward to a visit from Jen. Work had been quiet lately, nothing exciting… and Con had ‘casually’ remarked that he hadn’t heard from me in a while, apart from some funny texts that had made him laugh. I don’t like disappointing uncle Danny, who’d slipped a calculated “You know how he worries about you when you don’t call him Shay.” admonishment into the conversation at that point. It had the desired effect. It made me realise that I’d been thoughtlessly sloppy.

  I just did it again, didn’t I? Wandered off track? So, on the phone, I’d just asked Con what he had for me

  “Where are you?” Conall said then, casually, but what he meant was ‘Are you alone? Can we talk about a case?’ I could picture him leaning back in his chair, swivelling it back and forth a bit with his feet, an old habit of his. I’d only seen his office in Inverness on a video call, and only then because I asked him to show me where they’d put him. We always avoided town when I went up for a long weekend. I hoped he’d added a couple of plants, and a few pictures, to the place since he’d moved in. It had needed a bit of cheering up.

  “In the flat, all on my lonesome” I replied breezily, “Just noodling with some boring computer stuff. Nothing urgent.” So that was alright. Conall filled me in on his new case, recounted how his morning so far had gone and, when he talked about the distraught family, how hopelessly bewildered they’d seemed by the idea of someone deliberately killing the dad, I felt the familiar wash of icy, controlled anger sweeping over me. I listened in silence as he went on to outline the boundary confusion that the son-in-law had mentioned and I knew immediately who I was going to call next as soon as we hung up. I outlined the possible delays that might occur if I didn’t get lucky there, because Conall was used to me being fast when he asked me to dig any information up for him.

  “Sounds lovely!” He drawled, meaning the opposite, “Thanks, Shay. I’ll expect it when I see it.” Then I said something about it maybe being quicker, if we did get lucky, and we hung up.

  I didn’t keep many numbers on my phone, only my speed dial allowance’s worth, for the few people I called most often. Pulling any other numbers I needed from my memory was quicker than using a contacts list, so there was no point in adding more than that. I punched in Joe Bradley’s mobile number, hoping he wasn’t away on holiday or off sick or something. He picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Joe Bradley speaking.” I heard him say, sounding a bit stiff and dubious because there was no caller ID on his screen. He was the type who’d detest being bothered by cold-calling salespeople and would probably be an expert at getting rid of them quickly.

  “Hi Joe, this is Shay Keane here. I don’t know if you remember me but…” he cut me off there with a short, noisy bark of laughter.

  “Don’t be daft Shay lad, of course, I bloody well remember you. I couldnae very well forget you, not after you helped my Davie out o’ that mess he got caught up in.”

  “That was a while back now, Joe.” Over four years, in fact. Davie had been a likeable, decent lad, who’d just happened to accept a lift from the wrong person. He hadn’t realised, when he’d climbed in the back of the car to join his mates, that the driver, who he’d never met before, was in no condition to be at the wheel. The boy in the front passenger seat hadn’t survived the crash. No seatbelt. They’d all been taken in of course, after the accident. A bit bruised and shaken but no serious injuries among them. And then numerous various packages of Class A drugs had been discovered hidden in the wreck.

  “Aye, it’s been a few years.’ Joe agreed. A beep alerted me that I’d received a m
essage. I hit the speaker button, so I could read it. Great timing Con. He’d sent me the two property addresses, saved me the bother of looking them up myself. “Still, you and that cousin of yours are a hard pair to forget. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I flicked the speaker off again and put the phone back to my ear.

  “I was hoping I could pick your brains about a confusion over a property boundary Joe, thought you might be able to tell me who handled the searching for the owners in question? If I could get the details straight from them, it could save me a lot of time rooting through the registers myself.” The Searchers who worked out of the Legal Room at Register House, at the east end of Princes Street, were a small clique. I doubted that more than half a dozen of them did that full time these days.

  “I’ll be happy to ask around for you.” Joe sounded like he really meant that too, “What are the names and addresses?” I reeled them off and heard him chuckle. “Aye, I know about those, so there’s a stroke of luck for you. It was me that put the title pack together for Ramsay when he decided to move the farm into the Land Register, that must have been six or seven years ago. It came to mind again when this useless idiot at a local solicitors up there contacted me just after Hogmanay, first week of January, asking me to look into the Kerr place. He sent me the dog’s breakfast he’d made of trying to figure out all the old deeds.”

  I was really happy to hear him say that. I’d known there was a decent chance that Jim himself might have been consulted because he had such a great reputation and only had a handful of decent competitors. Fortune was really smiling on me today, though. He’d worked on both titles.

  “Do you still work out of that old office in St Andrew Square your Davie told me about?” I asked him, “Because I’m just down in Dalry myself, if you can fit me in sometime today?”

  “Aye, same old office. Would about an hour from now suit you?”

  “That would be bangin’, thanks, Jim.” He laughed at the way I’d changed my voice and accent there. I’d remembered how surprised he’d been when he first heard my normal voice.

  “I’ll see you in a bit then you mad daftie. Looking forward to it.” He hung up, and I immediately called the dedicated line that The Ids kept manned 24/7 for all their people.

  A flat, toneless voice picked up after the first ring and gave me the compulsory, flat, toneless “Yes?”

  None of them ever said more than that, and if you didn’t respond with an appropriate three-word code sequence, they just hung up on you. I found it all to be a bit of infantile nonsense myself, but it was easier to play along nicely than cause any bother. I gave the man my three most appropriate words for this communication, which translated as ‘Hi there, it’s Shay Keane. I’m just calling in to let you know I’m going to be off on a case with my cousin.’

  “Acknowledged.” And he cut the line. They were a super charming bunch. I got up and went to look out of the window. My flat was on the ground floor, at the back, looking onto a small, shared garden. It had been bright and sunny all morning, but the visible trees were now being blown about quite forcefully by a strong east wind. It would be chilly out. There were still a few clumps of old snow slowly dissolving by the wall on the shadiest side of the garden.

  I wrapped up and headed out, planning to walk up to stretch my legs a bit and to kill some time on the way by grabbing a bite at a café I liked on Castle Street. I could easily take at least thirty minutes over that and still be at Joe’s office in good time. My place was just along a side street off Dalry Road, so I was soon striding up toward the Haymarket.

  It was only when I turned right at the top, onto Clifton Terrace, that the wind began to hit me harder and I wondered if I should have crossed over and hopped on a bus after all. I was glad of my snug beanie and warm, protective jacket. I’d splashed out nearly four hundred quid on that jacket - and with a 30% discount offer on it at the time too! It had proved to be worth it though, plenty of times. Now, with the zip all the way up, I could tuck half of my nose and my whole lower face into its cosy, high-standing padded neck with the merest duck of my chin. A big pair of curved, face-fitting sunglasses kept both the glare and flying specks of grit out of my eyes. That wicked cold wind hit me even harder once I’d passed along Shandwick Place and reached the west end of Princes Street. On far too many days of the year, people don’t walk normally along that long, flat, wind-tunnel of a road; they are either shoved hurriedly along it from the East end, breaking into occasional, involuntary running steps now and then, or they lean determinedly into it and battle their way along from the west, like I was doing.

  I was already close to Castle Street by then though, and I didn’t have to struggle along for long. I was happy to see my preferred table empty, tucked into the back corner, when I got into the tiny cafe I’d had in mind. They did great hot food there but couldn’t seat many people at a go. I ordered a winter vegetable soup with a seeded wholemeal roll and a mug of tea at the counter, for a hearty brunch, then sat down with my back to the rest of the little room before slipping my jacket off and removing the beanie and sunglasses.

  I got my phone out. I needed to plan. I was going to be heading up to Inverness, of course, but waiting the day out to see what Conall managed to dig up during the afternoon made a lot more sense than rushing off as quickly as I could just to escape a bit faster. I decided that I’d drive up in my van, but only in the morning. It was one of those old VW pale blue campers with the engine at the back, and I’d put a lot of work into it since I’d snapped the poor, neglected beauty up. I’d stripped the tatty old interior out completely and done all the woodwork for the refit myself, lavishing endless hours of loving care on it. All the soft furnishings had been made up from my designs by a fantastic seamstress out in Prestonpans with very reasonable rates. And uncle Danny, the lovely man, had replaced the terminally ill old engine with a real work of art that he knocked up for me in his spare time during the months I was busy with the inside.

  The girl brought my order over and fussed about for a bit, trying to get a better look at me through my flopping fringe while I bent over my phone. She gave up when I ducked my head even lower with a mumbled “Thanks.”

  I’d want a good cover persona, if I intended to hang around the village for a few days without people wondering what I was doing there. I started checking for any potentially useful events coming up and found a notice about the Spring Fair next weekend. Maybe I could still book a stall at the craft fair in the village hall? That would be perfect. Actually, I decided, spooning some very good soup into my mouth, it might not matter if all the available spots were already booked. One of the crafters would surely agree to get the reservation changed over to me, if I offered them enough cash to make it worth their while. I poked around in a few of their forums and web pages while I ate, and got a few names I could use if I had no luck bagging a late stall from the organisers. I spent another few minutes finishing my tea while I worked out a good shopping list for stocking the van for the trip. I’d pop down to the smashing shop at the top end of Broughton Street that did organic produce and health foods after I’d seen Joe.

  I bundled back up, paid my bill and headed on up to George Street. Joe’s office was in a building on the South Side of the square which was just off the east end of George. He had a second-floor front office overlooking St Andrew Square Garden; it was a very handy place for regular trips over to Register House, because you could cut through just by the bank building over the road. A brisk walk along George Street, enjoying the architecture, got me to the Square in another few minutes. A familiar bell sound clanged loudly from in front of me as I walked along the row that contained Joe’s building, just one of the frequent trams that went up and down the road outside the Garden itself.

  I still thought it was mental, how late and over-budget the tram system had been, by the time it finally started running, but I had to admit they could be handy. I might hop one down to York Place after I’d seen Joe, it would drop me off only a minute away from my shop
if I did. The building’s concierge buzzed the door open for me, and I signed in at the desk before bounding up the stairs to the second floor. There was no reception desk up there. Perhaps the company that Joe sublet his small, single office from didn’t see the need for one. I found Joe’s name on the first door I came to and knocked. He called me in.

  Joe Bradley hadn’t changed much. He was a couple of inches shorter than me and a bit overweight, with a bulging waistline that he needed to keep an eye on if he didn’t want it getting out of hand. He was in his late fifties but didn’t look it, his brown hair and full matching beard peppered with just a touch greyer than when I’d last seen him. His face was just the same though, as he grinned up at me before rising to shake my hand enthusiastically and slap me on the back a few times for good measure.

  “It’s good to see you, Shay lad. Get your hat and coat off before you melt away. I’ll just grab you a chair.” He edged himself down the side of another desk to lift a second chair out, then waited until I had done as he’d suggested before reclaiming his seat at his own desk, which was shoved into the corner.

  He spun his chair round to face me, our knees almost colliding as he did so. We managed to pull our chairs back a few inches further before we ran out of room to manoeuvre. Precarious looking piles of loose, bulging file folders reached from the carpet to chest height all along the wall behind him, and my movements were hampered by the other desk, covered in more files, which was right behind me. A laser-jet printer and a scanner occupied a table to my right, and I had a filing cabinet hemming me in a bit on the left. His son Davie really hadn’t been exaggerating, when he’d described the size of the pokey little room his dad worked out of. Conall would have been horrified by the mess in there.