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

by IAN C. P. IRVINE

  "What the FUCK are you talking about? That's rubbish. All of it! I PAID my bloody car tax. I've told you that. I always do."

  "There's no record of that..." the woman interrupted. "And please don't swear at me again or I'll put the phone down. We aren't here to be abused. I'd like to remind you that I'm a government employee, and there are severe punishments..."

  "Stop waffling woman! In less than ten minutes they're going to crush my car. This is a mistake. I haven't received a single bloody letter from the DVLA in the past two years about this. And why not? Because I've paid every penny in tax that I'm meant to, that's why! Now listen to me, woman, I need you to pick up the phone and call Grentham Garage now and STOP THEM FROM CRUSHING MY CAR! This is a mistake. A terrible mistake!" Tommy shouted at the phone, looking at his watch again. It was now five twenty-five.

  "Mr McNunn, I hear what you say, but I can confirm that you are wrong. I can see, right now, with my own eyes, the letters that we've sent you, the dates they were sent out on, and that the address they were sent to is the same as the one you confirmed at the beginning of this call. According to all our records, Mr McNunn, you've been breaking the law and acting illegally. You've been warned on numerous occasions about the actions that would follow if non-payment of the tax due wasn't rectified, and still you chose to break the law. Which is why, with the full authority of the law, your car was seized today. And will be crushed today."

  "I don't understand this. None of it. What the fuck do you mean that you have records of the letters? Nothing, I'm telling you, nothing - not a single bloody word has ever arrived here to warn me of anything. This is a mistake. Simple as that. A massive fucking mistake, but one which if you don't fucking fix in the next five minutes is going to result in my favourite car being crushed. And if that happens, bloody hell... I'm warning you, Mrs, you'd better listen to me and sort this mistake out right now! Do you hear?"

  "Or what, Mr McNunn? And before you answer that I'd better remind you that this conversation is being recorded, as you were warned at the beginning of the call."

  McNunn looked at his watch. It was five-thirty.

  "Or I'll fucking kill you, you stupid cow!"

  There was the sound of a digital tone on the other end of the call, followed by a humming sound. The woman was gone. She had hung up.

  "FUCKKKKKKKKK!"

  Tommy McNunn shouted, throwing his phone on the floor and stamping on it.

  The phone broke into a hundred pieces.

  His third phone to meet such a fate that year.

  -------------------------

  Andheri

  Near Mumbai, Maharashtra

  India

  Monday

  10.45 p.m. India Standard Time (IST)

  Anand had returned from work and immediately logged onto his computer, accessed the web via the TOR browser, and started monitoring the Grentham Garage website.

  He was looking for one thing.

  Waiting for the manager to update their records on McNunn's car.

  An hour ago, Anand had nearly died of a heart attack - from pure excitement and pleasure - when he saw a note go on the system that said Mr Tommy McNunn's car had been collected and was waiting processing in the salvage and crushing yard.

  His plan had worked. So far...

  He quickly prepared the family meal, fed everyone, and returned to the computer.

  Nothing more yet.

  He began to worry.

  Would McNunn manage to save the car before it was destroyed?

  If so, there was only one way to do that. He would have to persuade the DVLA that a mistake had been made. Although a little nervous that he might succeed, Anand didn't really think that he could. In his first year at university he had helped design a new part of a website for the DVLA. It wasn't only him that had worked on the new design - many students had, and Anand wasn't even sure if the changes they made had ever gone live or not - he suspected not. Still, it had counted towards his degree and as part of the exercise, they had learned everything they could about the processes the DVLA went through. He had even spent a day down in their offices, being shown around.

  Afterwards, when the exercise was finished, Anand has visited the website several times, using a backdoor in the system which one of their many cyber security vulnerabilities made possible.

  At the time, it was only playing. Messing around with no purpose.

  But when Jonathan Stuart had died, killed by the selfish stupidity of Tommy McNunn, Anand had immediately realised that he had the knowledge to make Tommy McNunn pay.

  He had re-entered the DVLA system, deleted payment records, and created a whole new series of fictitious data records. He has used his malware programmes to alter dates, screw things up, and generally make it impossible for anyone to find any reason to believe that Anand's version of things was any different from reality.

  By the time Anand had finished, the DVLA computer said 'No.'

  'No' – in the past few years Tommy McNunn had not paid any tax on the car that had hit Jonathan Stuart.

  'No' to the question if McNunn had ever tried to solve the situation by paying the tax due.

  And 'yes', with all the necessary authorisations to the decision to crush his car.

  Quite simply, as far as anyone would ever be able to tell, the version of the truth that the computer now showed them was correct.

  And why would anyone doubt it?

  According to the system, Tommy McNunn was a criminal.

  He had broken the law and that same law would now insist that his car would be auctioned or crushed. In this case Anand had stated that the car should be crushed.

  At 10.47 p.m. Anand refreshed his screen for the millionth time.

  Had he been sitting on a chair, he would surely have fallen off it.

  The fact that he was sitting cross-legged on the floor saved him from the fall.

  According to the record just updated on the garage's website, the car seized from the premises of a Mr Tommy McNunn had been duly crushed and destroyed at 5.23 p.m. GMT.

  All that was left of it now was a large cube of mixed metals.

  Anand closed his eyes and thought of Jonathan.

  It was a first step.

  Not enough to attain absolution.

  But a first step, nevertheless.

  Anand opened his eyes, and almost immediately his fingers started to dance across the keyboard.

  Focussing, and blocking out the rest of the world, he went to work on the next step of his plan.

  Chapter 25

  Tommy McNunn's House,

  Edinburgh

  Tuesday

  11a.m. G.M.T.

  Tommy McNunn's accountant put down his glasses on the table beside the laptop and rubbed his eyes. He'd checked the online bank-account a dozen times, but there was definitely no payment to the DVLA for the tax on McNunn's car.

  "I don't understand it," he said. "I've written it down in the ledger, a definite payment for tax on your car. See, it's here," he said, pointing to the online version of his accounts, "but, there's nothing in your bank records to say the payment was made."

  Tommy bent down closer to the screen, stared at it, and then turned on the accountant.

  "So, you made a mistake? Despite all the money I pay you, you fucked up, never paid the tax on my car, and as a result, it got crushed!"

  "I'm sorry, Tommy, I am. But I swear, I was sure I made the payment. I just don't understand this."

  "The bank swears blind that no payment was made...at least they can find nothing to say it was. You say you can't find it. And the DVLA says it wasn't received. Ipso facto. You screwed up!"

  "I didn't. If we still got paper statements sent to us every month, I swear, we'd have one that showed the payment was deducted and sent to the DVLA!"

  "But we don't, because you recommended we go paperless to save money. You screwed up again. Didn't you!"

  "Tommy, calm down. Something weird has happened here. I admit, it looks like I ne
ver paid the tax, but I swear, I honestly swear to you, that I did!"

  McNunn grabbed the accountant by the scruff of his neck and pushed his head forward, forcing his nose against the computer screen.

  "See that? See those figures? They're your business. Right? I pay you to fucking get those numbers right? I pay you A LOT to get those numbers right. To do my business for me. And right now it seems pretty clear to me that you fucked up. And now my favourite car is gone. When I went to the garage this morning, I saw it. It's just a cube of shiny metal. This high! And all because of you!"

  McNunn released him and took a step backwards.

  "It's your bloody mistake, so you're going to pay for it. I'll give you a month to find a replacement car just like the one I lost. Same year. Same colour. Same make. On my driveway within four weeks. Get it?"

  The accountant stared at Tommy, wondering how to answer. He thought about it a few minutes without saying anything, but when Tommy asked him again, 'Have you got it?' he replied,"Yes, I've got it."

  "What I find interesting, though, is the garage received instructions to crush the vehicle. That only happens very rarely," said Miss Laurie, Tommy's lawyer, who until then had been standing quietly at the end of the table. "Normally, if you're guilty of non-payment of taxes the punishment would be a thousand pound fine or five times the annual road tax fee, whichever is the greater amount. If further action is taken, expensive cars would normally be seized and then sold at auction. I find it interesting that your car was crushed... That only happens in extreme cases."

  "Interesting? You find it bloody interesting? Are you winding me up? My bloody car was destroyed and no one even told me they were going to do it?"

  "Which is my other point. You claim you received no previous letters warning of any actions which were being taken against you."

  "I don't claim I didn't. I just didn't!" Tommy defended himself.

  "Which, if it's the case, means that you'd have a case against the DVLA. However, I must say, that when I called them this morning, and had a long discussion with them on the phone, they were able to email me copies of the letters they claim were sent to you."

  "So, what the hell are you saying?" Tommy turned to his lawyer.

  "Let's think about this for a second. Calmly. Let's just consider the possibility that instead of the rest of the world being wrong, that maybe we are. I don't see how it's possible for the bank, the garage and the DVLA to all be wrong. Maybe you just never saw the letters. Who normally picks the letters up in the morning? You? Mrs McNunn?"

  "Actually, it was probably Rab or Dougie. I never touch the mail anymore, not since I got that letter bomb, the one that went off in the sorting office."

  "And they're both dead now. Which means we can't be absolutely sure that they didn't get the warning letters and just threw them away."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "I don't know. I'm just saying that we can't rule that out, can we?" The lawyer argued logically. "Now, given that non-payment of road tax is a serious offence, and that you never attended the court hearings you were summoned to, to face their charges, - assuming just for one second that they were right and you were wrong - then it is actually quite serious. It's my job to keep you out of prison, and this doesn't actually help matters in any way. We could argue the toss and see about taking some sort of legal action, but already from what we know, there doesn't seem to be any evidence, anywhere, to show that they were wrong and that you're right. The more fuss you make about it, given your line of work, the worse it could be for you."

  "So, what the hell are you saying?" McNunn asked, his fists rolling themselves in to tight balls.

  "It might not be want you want to hear, but I think the best thing you can do, right now, is to forget about it. Let's not make any fuss. The last thing you need to do right now is to stick your head above the parapet. You've got bigger problems than this to deal with. On a scale of one to ten, this is just a two."

  "Are you bloody serious?" McNunn shouted.

  "Yes," the lawyer replied. "I am."

  "FUCK!" McNunn swore, smashing his hand against the wall beside him.

  Turning to the accountant, his voice became quite threatening.

  "Right, you bastard, ...that makes it even more definite. Get me another car to replace the one you lost me, or get yourself another job. It's your choice!"

  Even as he uttered the ultimatum, Tommy knew it was an idle threat. He would never force the accountant into another job. The accountant knew too much about him. He had been doing Tommy’s books for years and knew his business backwards. One word from the accountant to the police, and Tommy would go down for years. Which is why Tommy paid him way above the odds for his expertise. The accountant needed him, and he needed the accountant.

  And the day that Tommy decided the accountant was no longer required, was the day the accountant would be written-off.

  Permanently.

  -------------------------

  The top of the Cat's Nick,

  Salisbury Crags

  The Queen's Park

  Edinburgh

  3 p.m.

  DCI McKenzie sat on the rock no more than a foot behind the edge of the cliff, looking out over the city sprawling far into the distance below him.

  The briefing that morning had thrown up nothing new, at least nothing that they didn't know already.

  The bodies of the men in the car in Galashiels had both been formally identified.

  They now officially did belong to the two warring factions of McNunn and Petrovsky.

  Efforts to trace anyone on CCTV coming or leaving the scene from the car park had all come to no avail.

  There were no cameras in the car park, or near to its entrance.

  The nearest cameras were too far away for anyone to derive any meaningful intelligence from who may or may not have driven to the scene.

  Worst of all, the one camera that may potentially have been able to give them any real insight as to how many people were in the car as it passed on its way to the forest was found to be broken.

  Coincidence? Perhaps. It had stopped filming several hours beforehand. Which could either be luck, or someone had damaged it deliberately.

  Try as they might, they had also been unable to find any view of the car in Galashiels which allowed them to pick up the inhabitants of the car.

  They had captured it three times, but each time it was too dark to see inside.

  McKenzie knew they were fishing for clues. Something, anything that might help them. In other words, typical police leg-work.

  The likely, most obvious scenario was that it had been a tit-for-tat killing which had occurred in the neighbourhood.

  The timings were curious though. When did the body enter the river? And when were the men in the car killed? Who had followed who? Who had captured who? Who had then murdered who?

  Lots of 'whos?', and too many as yet unknown 'whens?'.

  Something else was troubling McKenzie though.

  He couldn't concentrate in the office, and in the end he had needed to clear his head.

  "I'm going out for a walk. I'll revisit the scene of the fall. Perhaps we've missed something. If anyone needs me, give me a bell," he said to Wessex as he passed her in her office.

  "Do you want me to come with you?" she asked.

  "No, not this time. I need to think. And I'll probably think better alone."

  Which was true. The last thing he needed right now was to be distracted by Wessex.

  As he walked up the path around the edges of the Crags, crossing the road at the roundabout at the base of Arthur's Seat and climbing the other side of the slope towards the entrance to the Hunters Bog, he realised that one of the outstanding questions was how did McNunn, - no, how did Petrovsky, get Urqhart to the top of the cliff unseen.

  He laughed at himself when he caught himself saying McNunn instead of Petrovsky, but quickly swapped the names around in his mind, so that he was back on side with the current official t
hinking in the case.

  Was it just luck that no one saw Urqhart being taken to the top of Salisbury Crags? Or was there more to it?

  Was there another route into the park and up the Crags that they hadn't thought of?

  By now a whole team of people had examined the flow of footage from about thirty cameras in or around the various entrances to the parks, and not one had captured any vehicle or pedestrians who looked like Urqhart or any of Petrovsky's or McNunn's men, entering or leaving the park.

  So how did they get there?

  Turning left at the entrance to the Hunter's Bog, McKenzie started to trudge his way up the side of the Crags. Ever hoping, he kept scanning the ground just in case, through an incredible chance in a million, he might spot something on the ground that might be related to the case. He knew though that this would never happen. It had been weeks since Urqhart's death, and dangerous as it was, scores of people walked this way every day. Stupid people like himself, who had long ago fallen in love with the view and become oblivious to the dangers of the surroundings.

  As he stopped and gazed over at the Castle, one of the most majestic sights he had ever seen, he struggled to extract the thought that was troubling him from his brain: to nurture it and let it grow so that it might find some existence of its own amongst all the white noise that was currently surrounding it in his grey matter.

  While his subconscious struggled with that task, his conscious mind wandered to the joke he had once heard about the castle.

  It was just a one-liner that he had overheard a tourist say one day as he had passed him standing in Princes Street Gardens at the base of the castle in the very centre of the city.

  "Wow!" the enamoured visitor to the city had exclaimed loudly, "It's amazing how they managed to build the castle right in the middle of the city!"

  He had laughed when he had heard it said all those many years ago, and it still made him chuckle now, whenever he heard it.

  The innocence of the people who made such utterances without understanding the stupidity of their words, always amazed him.