Say You're Sorry: A Gripping Crime Thriller (A DCI Campbell McKenzie Detective Conspiracy Thriller No 1)

by IAN C. P. IRVINE

  "Like what?" McNunn asked as McKenzie stood up from the table.

  "Well, like when you make a mistake and we finally manage to arrest you for something. And lock you up?"

  Tommy laughed.

  "I wouldn't hold your breath." He replied.

  "I won't."

  McKenzie smiled and turned to leave, nodding at Wessex.

  "Your coffee?" McNunn reminded him.

  "It's too hot. And too sweet." McKenzie replied, turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving the coffee behind on the table.

  McNunn watched them leave, indicating with a finger that one of his men should follow them out and make sure they had gone.

  A moment later he reappeared.

  "They're gone, boss." The man replied.

  Standing up, McNunn took a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and a pair of plastic gloves. Putting on the gloves and sliding around the table, he picked up the coffee cup that McKenzie had left behind and carried it with him to the toilets.

  When he got there, he emptied the coffee into the bowl and dropped the cup into the plastic bag, sealing it closed. Taking off the gloves, he dropped them into the paper towel bin and walked back to his table, handing the bag with the cup to one of his men.

  Then he picked up his paper and carried on reading.

  -------------------------

  St Leonards Police Station,

  Edinburgh

  5.00 p.m.

  The operations room being used for Operation 'Queens', so called because the body had been found in the Queen's Park, was in the basement of St Leonards. It still smelt of damp, despite the new paint that had been applied only three months before. There was no natural light, but it was large, its main redeeming feature.

  Ten CID officers had now been assigned to the case, and enquiries were proceeding well.

  DCI McKenzie stood up at the front of the room, welcomed everyone to their fourth meeting so far, did a swift recap of the situation and what was already known and then threw the floor open to anyone who had recent developments that afternoon.

  Detective Sergeant McCrae was the first to volunteer.

  "After getting the warrants signed off last night, I presented them to the bank this morning and they replied quickly, presenting me with some very interesting information earlier this afternoon, which included all the bank accounts they were aware of that Urqhart had access to. They included one that his wife was apparently not aware of, which had been opened almost six years ago. Currently it has £50,000 in it, but over the past few years the total money flowing into the account before being transferred out to other locations, totals £485,000. It includes £300,000 which came in in two separate transfers of £150,000 each in January this year. The money was promptly transferred out. We don't yet have any information of where the money came from or where it went to. We'll need more paperwork to authorise further enquiries, and perhaps some cooperation from other departments. I visited Mrs Urqhart this afternoon, and she was visibly shocked by what I showed her. I believe her when she says that she had no knowledge of the money."

  "Great work." McKenzie applauded the man. "Try to get the paperwork in order as soon as you can, and I'll help you get all the other signatures you need. Finding where the money came from, and where it went will obviously be key. Next?"

  Detective Constable Johnstone stood up.

  "I was just on the phone to the forensics department. The latest news from them is that they've found a patch of residue on Urqhart's skin which mostly likely comes from the adhesive on the duct tape that was wrapped around his wrists. They've found a small hair stuck in the residue, which they don't think is Urqhart's. It's too dark. They've just sent it off for analysis and DNA testing. They've also confirmed the obvious, that he was killed by the fall, and have identified a patch of ground on the edge of the path where the body mostly likely first hit after falling from the clifftop, before bouncing slightly, falling forward and slipping over the edge and rolling down the scree. Apparently, they surmise that his feet hit the ground first, which indicates that he jumped and was probably not pushed. They've seen quite a few jumpers, and the pattern looks very similar to what they would expect. All apart from the cut to the ear where a slight chunk was sliced out. The forensic team are now scouring the ground on top of the cliff above the fall area to see if they can find anything else: footsteps, pieces of duct tape, signs of a scuffle. Anything."

  "Good. Thanks. Also great news. Has anyone got anything from door-to-door in the student halls of residence? Did any students report seeing anything unusual? Or from the interviews with the dog walkers who were seen out late last night?"

  Detective Sergeant Wilson stood up. "Several of us spent the day at Pollock Halls of Residence with some uniformed officers. None of the students we spoke to saw anything untoward. We put up some posters and left our contact numbers. We're going back tonight and tomorrow."

  "Good. See what you can find."

  Campbell looked across at the officer standing up at the front beside him who was busy capturing what was being said and making some notes on a white board. The man nodded back, and Campbell continued.

  "Does anyone have any thoughts on motives? Who might be responsible? New avenues of enquiries?" Campbell asked, opening up the floor. As an officer and leader he was well-liked. He never presumed that his own ideas were better than others and was always willing to take input and suggestions from everyone on a case.

  DI Wessex stood up. She was standing at the side of the room on the left.

  "Given that we believe he was involved with Thomas McNunn, is there a possibility that he was involved with others? Should we be also talking to other prominent leaders of the Edinburgh crime scene?"

  "The answer to that question is yes. And I'll be coordinating that with some of you over the next few days. Good thought."

  Although Campbell hadn't yet discussed his conversation with McNunn with Wessex, she'd hit the nail on the head. As usual.

  McNunn's comment: 'Ivor notion that if you look hard enough, you'll always find the truth.' was not a simple throw away statement. He was in fact making a reference to one of the other major crime bosses in Scotland, Ivor Petrovsky, an immigrant from Poland who had quickly risen up the crime ladder and established his presence in Scotland. He was a dangerous man, much hated, feared, and in direct competition with McNunn.

  During the rest of the meeting they covered a number of other avenues of enquiry that had been started the day before, and DI McKenzie gave some directions as to activities for the next few days.

  Afterwards, he sat himself in his office with a fresh coffee from the canteen and started to think about Ivor Petrovsky.

  Visiting him would not be such a cordial affair.

  The man was an animal.

  He looked like a pit-bull, behaved liked a pit-bull, and smelt like a pit-bull.

  Over the years, Campbell had realised that whether he liked it or not, he had to admit that he held some respect for many of the big crime bosses, for one reason or another.

  Ivor Petrovsky was different.

  Campbell detested the man. He was scum and the world would be a far, better place without him.

  Yes, he would have to pay him a visit soon.

  Chapter 11

  Royal Infirmary Hospital

  Edinburgh

  Thursday

  5.50 p.m.

  Jonathan Stuart stepped out of the taxi, carefully holding the support bar on the door just to make sure he didn't fall out. He was getting old, and he recognised that he needed to be more careful when doing certain things.

  He paid the taxi-driver and gave him a two-pound tip, about a quarter of the fare. Sally had always felt that they should tip taxi-drivers and had made a lifetime habit of it. Now Jonathan carried on that tradition for her.

  Walking into the entrance, he brushed down his suit, adjusted his tie, and presented himself at reception.

  As he waited for the receptionist to finish dealing with
the old-lady in front of him, he coughed a few times, and wiped his mouth, noticing again the small stain of fresh red blood that he often had on his handkerchief when he did so.

  It concerned him, a little, but deep down he knew that he would be fine. He'd been a hypochondriac for many, many years, and since Sally had died, he'd turned professional! But there was never really anything seriously wrong with him, and that wasn't about to change now.

  He knew that the visit with the consultant was really nothing more than a formality. Dr Mitchell had been forced to arrange it because Jonathan had been to see him about it, and Dr Mitchell was a very professional doctor. Or, was it something else that Jonathan had been to see Dr Mitchell about?

  Jonathan shook his head. He couldn't quite remember.

  Never mind. It was all going to be okay.

  It had been a few months since he'd last been in the Royal Infirmary...Actually, no, it was probably more like three years,... but it all looked very, very different since the last time he had been here.

  He'd been ready to come for hours, excited about seeing something different and meeting new people.

  It was something to do.

  "Hello, can I help you?" the receptionist turned her attention to Jonathan.

  "Hello, my name is Jonathan Stuart. I've been sent up to see Doctor Gupta by my doctor, Dr Mitchell. My appointment is at six o'clock." Jonathan proudly announced, standing tall, and trying to make a good impression. As the woman smiled at him and then looked away at the computer terminal, he pushed his glasses up his nose, and tried to quietly cough and clear his throat.

  "Dr Gupta? Oh, I'm sorry. He's left for the day now. His last appointment was at 5.30 p.m. And it says on the system that your appointment was at 5 p.m. Not 6 p.m.?" the woman said, looking up again at Jonathan.

  Nervously he pushed his glasses back up to the top of his nose.

  "5 p.m.? Are you sure? I was certain that Dr Mitchell said six o'clock. He never makes a mistake like that. Can you check again?"

  "Certainly, " the woman said, humouring him. She had already checked it twice.

  "I'm sorry. There seems to have been some mistake somewhere. I'll tell you what, would you like me to see if there are any cancellations? I can make you a priority and arrange another appointment for you as soon as possible?"

  Jonathan nodded. "Yes, please."

  He didn't know what else to say, really, and the woman seemed very nice.

  "Another appointment, please. As soon as is possible."

  The woman smiled back.

  "There, how about in four days, at ten o'clock? It's a Monday morning, and there's a cancellation that you can have if you wish? Can you make that, or are you busy?"

  "Busy?" Jonathan thought about it for a second. "No, that would be fine. Just perfect. In fact, I'll look forward to it. Thank you very much for your help."

  The receptionist scribbled the details of the appointment down on a card and handed it to Jonathan.

  Walking outside to the car park, Jonathan walked around for a few moments, looking for his car, then remembered.

  He walked back into reception, waited his turn, and asked the lady to call a taxi.

  "It'll be about thirty minutes," she said. It's rush hour now."

  "Not a problem," Jonathan replied, smiling. "I'm not rushing anywhere. I've got plenty of time. Plenty of time," then walked over to the waiting room, sat down and closed his eyes.

  -------------------------

  Portobello,

  Edinburgh

  7.20 p.m.

  After waiting patiently slightly more than the promised half-an-hour, Jonathan finally made it home, tired, disappointed and a little anxious.

  A man was standing outside his home beside his damaged car, a clipboard in hand, and a large pickup truck blocking the street beside him.

  As Jonathan paid the taxi-driver, the man approached him.

  "Excuse me, but I was looking for Mr Stuart, who lives at No. 32?"

  "That's me," Jonathan answered, putting his wallet back in his pocket, and nervously adjusting his glasses.

  "I was just about to leave. I've been waiting for a while. I've come to pick up your car and take it to the garage."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought someone was going to call me first to arrange it?"

  "Did the office not call you? I'm sorry, pal. Anyway, you're here now. If you've got the key for your car, we can get it loaded for you."

  Jonathan stood at the side of the road, looking first at the big truck, and then over at his car.

  "Can I just call the insurance company and speak to them first?" Jonathan asked.

  The man seemed a little agitated.

  "If you want, pal, but I can't wait. I'll have to go without your car. I'm already late. I should've packed up ages ago. I'm meeting a few pals tonight. Don't get me wrong mate, you can call them if you want, but if you do, I probably won't be back till early next week. We're chock-a-block for the next few days."

  "Oh, right..." Jonathan stood there, not moving, coughing occasionally, his right hand playing nervously with the watch on his wrist.

  The man stepped forward and offered him the clip-board and the pen.

  "If you want to, you can sign right there, and there, and I'll take the car now. It's up to you, pal. Those marks on that wee picture are where I've spotted a few wee other scrapes and dents on your car. If you just want to check 'em and then sign..."

  "Oh, right... fine... So, sign, where... just here?" Jonathan responded, letting himself be guided to a decision, and not hearing everything that was being said to him.

  Jonathan was feeling a little faint and quite strange.

  "Yup, just there," the man said, pointing at the dotted line towards the bottom of the clipboard.

  "Right... okay..." Jonathan muttered to himself, taking the clipboard and scribbling his signature on it.

  "Great, brilliant. If you give me a few moments, I'll let the back down and then I can drive your car on. Have you got the key?"

  "The key?"

  "Yes, to your car..."

  "Okay, yes..." Jonathan said, reaching into his pocket.

  Pulling out the car key he looked at it in the palm of his hand, hesitating.

  "Do I get a receipt?" he asked.

  "Sure thing, pal. Here it is..." the man replied, ripping off the top copy of the form and handing it over to Jonathan. "Now, if you want to call the insurance company, you can let them know we have the car. If you want."

  "Call the insurance company. Sure... yes, of course..."

  Letting himself into his front door, Jonathan closed the door behind him and stood for a moment in the hallway.

  Now he was all alone.

  First, Sally had left him.

  And now his car was gone too.

  -------------------------

  Portobello,

  Edinburgh

  7.40 p.m.

  Jonathan had only just sat down on his chair, looking out over the sweeping bay of the Firth of Forth, and had just taken a first sip of his tea, when the doorbell rang.

  Which was unusual.

  No one ever came to visit Jonathan.

  Not anymore.

  Putting his tea down gently on the table beside his chair, he made his way down the stairs, holding carefully on to the banister.

  He was feeling much weaker tonight, and a little sick.

  It must be the stress of the accident and having to deal with all the paperwork and the insurance company.

  Unlocking the front door and opening it up, he was surprised to see the man standing on the other side.

  "Dr Mitchell? This is a surprise! Are you okay?" he asked, before coughing several times.

  "Can I come in, Jonathan? I hear you missed your appointment at the hospital tonight?"

  "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. There was a mix up. I'm not too sure how it happened, but I think I may have written down the wrong time. It must have been my fault."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, but these things
happen." Dr Mitchell reassured him. "Can I come in? I'd like to talk with you for a moment, if I may?"

  "Absolutely. Sorry, I didn't mean to appear rude..." Jonathan replied, stepping backwards, opening the door wider and waving his hand to invite the doctor in.

  The doctor followed Jonathan up the stairs into the lounge, and took the seat offered to him on the sofa, declining the offer of a tea, or something stronger.

  "No, thank you. I have to drive home still, and Jenny probably has the dinner on the table already. But I wanted to stop by and have a quick wee chat first."

  "About what?"

  "Two things. Firstly, I found out that you'd missed your appointment, and I was concerned. Jonathan, it's really important that you see the specialist as soon as possible. You mustn't miss your next appointment."

  "I won't," Jonathan replied, coughing, and suddenly feeling a little anxious. "Can I ask, why are you so worried about me? Is there something wrong with me?"

  "I'm not going to lie to you, Jonathan. There could be. Or maybe there isn't. I just want to get a second opinion. That's all. But it's important that we do. How are you feeling anyway? Is that cough of yours any worse? I've noticed that you've been coughing quite a lot since you let me in the door."

  "I think it's a little worse. And to be honest, I'm feeling a little rough. A little sick. And very tired. But I think it's probably just all the business with the accident."

  He went on to describe what had happened. The doctor looked concerned and promised that he would arrange a taxi to pick Jonathan up and get him to the hospital on time for the next appointment.

  "Don't worry, Dr Mitchell. I can take care of it all. I'm not that old and decrepit yet. What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?"

  "It was just about you. I couldn't help feeling that you and I needed to have a chat after you left the surgery the other day. We're friends and I honestly think that things have been going on long enough now. You need to move on, Jonathan. You need to stop feeling guilty for what happened with Sally, and to take hold of the life you have left and live it to the full."