Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  ‘Okay, take a look around. If you see anything you like, just hit the bell here, and I’ll unlock the case. I’m afraid I’m...uh, pretty busy in the back.’

  The light in his eyes vanished, leaving him distracted and pale again. He flashed her a brief smile and gestured behind him, before ducking back through the door again, leaving Charis and Jamie alone in the shop. Charis shrugged and started to examine the figures on display.

  As she’d suspected, they weren’t nearly as awful as they could have been; there was a simplicity about them that made them quite attractive. She spent longer admiring them than she’d intended, and finally, catching sight of Jamie’s martyred expression out of the corner of her eye, she chose a small cat that looked up brightly from a slipper it was chewing. If someone had described it to her she’d have gone green and run a mile, but the cat’s eyes were so realistic, and the shape perfectly formed with its little hunched shoulders, she knew Suze would like it.

  She was about to press the bell on the counter when the man appeared again, looking less harried now.

  ‘Sorry about that, I’ve had a big project on. It’s done and delivered, but I’ve been going mad catching up with other orders.’ He wiped his hand through his short blond hair and grimaced, looking at his fingers. ‘I’ve probably just wiped green paint in my hair, haven’t I?’

  She checked. ‘Yep. You have. All up the middle. Very stylish – all the local kids’ll be copying you by the end of the week.’

  The man smiled. ‘Found anything for your sister?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that little cat there, please.’ Charis pointed, and he produced a key.

  ‘Did you make all this stuff?’ Jamie asked him.

  ‘Aye. Every last piece. And I’ve more in the back. Plus some I’m working on that aren’t finished.’

  ‘So it’s your shop.’

  ‘Ben Cameron at your service,’ the man said with a touch of pride.

  ‘Where’s your son?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘I’m the son.’ He abruptly became very businesslike, packing the cat in a small, sturdy box and expertly tying a ribbon around it. Taking Charis’s money, it suddenly seemed as if he couldn’t get them out of there quickly enough; his demeanour had gone from lazy charm to unbearably tense in the blink of an eye.

  Even before she and Jamie reached the door, Cameron had gone back into the room behind the counter, and Charis’s thoughts were dragged back to the tall, angry Scotsman as Jamie started discussing the American yet again. She tried not to pay too much attention to the niggling worry that had taken up residence in her head, but worrying was what she did best, and something told her that this time she’d be a fool to try and ignore it.

  Chapter Five

  Maddy eyed her brother across the café table. He was looking at her with a faintly impatient air, but she wouldn’t be rushed – she was still trying to figure out the best way to broach this. After everything she’d said to their dad about not asking Nick for help, here she was about to do that very thing herself...although actually, she reasoned, this wasn’t quite the same. This wasn’t going after a high-ranking police officer, over a decades-old cold case, with the intention of destroying his career. Procrastinating further, she took a gulp of her coffee that burned her throat, and for a moment she was only able to concentrate on her watering eyes, on the heat travelling down through her body, and on not swearing out loud.

  ‘Come on, Mads,’ Nick said at last. ‘My shift starts in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Right.’ Maddy took a deep breath. ‘Look, you know I’d never ask you to use your position to help me. Normally.’

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not so far, no.’

  ‘This isn’t anything major,’ she hurried on. ‘Nothing to do with any ongoing police investigation, I mean. Well, it is, but not—’

  ‘What is it to do with?’ Nick took a sip of his own drink, squinting at her through the steam, and she sighed. This was stupid. He was a police officer, she was an investigator...they were on the same side, when all was said and done.

  ‘Do you remember someone called Sarah Wallace?’

  Nick twisted his coffee cup on the table, frowning. ‘The rich girl from the Glenlowrie Estate you mentioned at Dad’s?’

  ‘Aye, that’s her.’

  ‘Vaguely. I remember hearing she’d run off with a police officer, and that her father was pretty mad about it. She moved to America, didn’t she? What’s this about?’

  ‘I just wondered if you knew who the officer was.’

  Nick didn’t reply at first. He looked at her steadily, and she returned his gaze, hating herself for the conflict she could see in his expression. Then he shrugged. ‘It was Don Bradley. Not that it lasted long. And you didn’t get that from me.’

  ‘Of course not.’ She paused. ‘Seems an odd kind of relationship.’

  ‘If you say so. That it, then?’

  ‘She must have been very young,’ Maddy pressed.

  ‘Probably. Can I go now?’ The troubled look deepened, and Maddy reached across to squeeze his wrist.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick. I told Dad off for suggesting…’ She stopped herself before she could make things worse. ‘Do you know how they met?’

  ‘No! For Christ’s sake! All this was years back.’ He stood up, his expression closed. ‘Don’t ask me to help you any more, Mads, it could get me fired. You know that.’

  ‘It’s not like I asked you to go poking around in secret files,’ Maddy pointed out, a little irritated now. ‘I just asked you something any one of a hundred people in this town would probably know.’

  ‘Well, next time ask them.’ He threw a fiver onto the table. ‘Coffee’s on me.’

  ‘Nick!’ Maddy rose too. ‘Don’t be so touchy. We’re family, right? I’d help you if you wanted me to.’

  ‘Would you?’ Nick glared for a moment, then his taut shoulders relaxed, and so did his expression. ‘Sorry, that was stupid. I know you would. And you have.’ He gave her a brief, apologetic smile and changed the subject. ‘Are you coming over on Sunday?’

  ‘Sunday?’ She kept her own face deliberately blank, and was rewarded by an exasperated eye-roll.

  ‘My birthday?’

  ‘Oh, gosh! I’d totally…remembered, and bought you an ace gift.’ Maddy grinned at his suspicious look. ‘Just ask Tas if you don’t believe me; he helped me choose it. He’s decided you need a Paw Patrol cake, by the way.’

  ‘Which character?’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘I’ve not babysat the lad for the past four years and learned nothing.’

  She laughed. ‘Fair point. I don’t know which character, sorry. Will Max be joining us?’

  A gentle flush stained her brother’s cheeks, and his smile told her that the relationship was still going strong. ‘Aye, I believe he might show his face.’

  ‘Good.’ Maddy leaned in for a hug, relieved to have banished the careful, mistrustful look from his face. ‘I’m sorry to have put you in an awkward position. It’s just that this case could make or break the agency. And it’s a good thing we found out, since we’re trying to stay out of Bradley’s way because of… Well, you know.’

  ‘Paul.’

  She nodded. ‘Thanks again. I’ll not ask you any more, so you can relax now.’

  ‘Look, I’m not trying to be obstructive. If it wasn’t for my job—’

  ‘I know. See you Sunday.’

  Maddy zipped her jacket against the drizzle and turned her thoughts to another of her investigations; just a report to hand in, then a welcome payment would land in the Clifford-Mackenzie bank account. And as long as Paul didn’t find out who the client really was, it might stay there. William Kilbride kept to himself, true, but his line in ‘financial facilitating’ was a badly-kept secret in the business world, and if Paul got a whiff of it he’d go mad. She’d wanted to turn the job down, but her fiancé had been the one to introduce her to Kilbride, and had been pretty insistent, which wasn’t like him.

&nbs
p; ‘He’s a new client; it’d be good for us both.’

  ‘A client? Gav, people don’t need solicitors like you unless they think they’re in trouble. What’s he done?’

  Gavin hesitated. ‘There’s been a question, just a question, mind, of fraud.’

  ‘Must be quite a loud question,’ Maddy pointed out. ‘What kind of fraud?’

  ‘Does it matter? He’s ditched his old firm, and wants to be prepared just in case he has to take it further. That’s all.’

  ‘And this…question of fraud is totally separate from the work you want me to take on?’

  ‘Totally unconnected, I promise. He just wants you to follow someone, and report back on movements, lifestyle, acquaintances, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Just a report.’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Paul will never go for—’

  ‘Sod Paul!’ Gavin’s voice was tight now. ‘You’re in charge, and I’m asking you. As a favour to me.’

  Maddy blinked at the vehemence in his normally placid manner. ‘It’ll cost him,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve got to make it worth the hassle.’

  ‘Take that up with him. I’ll put you in touch.’ He’d softened then, and put his arms around her, but she’d been uneasy all the same. Kilbride’s methods were questionable at best, and whoever she was reporting on had better have a damned good reason for not paying the man what was owed, for their own sake.

  So, for the first time since she’d taken over the agency, she was putting a job through the books using the false name supplied by a client, and every time Paul drifted anywhere near the computer she got as jumpy as hell. She’d be glad when this was all over, though her conscience had eased when it became clear that Kilbride’s suspicions were well founded; the man she was investigating had two vastly different lives, and one of them was about to get very difficult.

  So far, she’d managed to avoid meeting the fearsome Kilbride face to face, and conducted everything either by phone or private e-mail. With any luck she could just fire off this report, and that would be it; she wasn’t easily unsettled, but some of the things she’d heard about him told her she’d have trouble looking him in the eye across a desk, and that that would not go down well with Gavin.

  But as she walked back to the office, Maddy’s mind kept sliding off the report, and back onto the unlikely relationship that had developed between the daughter of a local landowner and an as-yet undistinguished police officer six years her senior... It was doubtful Sarah Wallace had ever been in trouble with the police. Who might know? Who’d been around back then?

  She stopped with one hand on the door, and the two unconnected investigations took a step closer together: Donna Lumsden, Kilbride’s daughter. She and Sarah had grown up in the same circles, and they’d probably be around a similar age… Instead of going up the stairs to the office, Maddy turned back and fished in her pocket for her car keys.

  Twenty minutes later she was drawing up outside a cunningly hidden, but enormous, house on the outskirts of Fort William. The tyres of her rather beaten up Corsa crunched on gravel, and she patted the steering wheel comfortingly as she parked next to an immaculate BMW and a muddied, but still impressive-looking Range Rover.

  ‘Don’t fret, Cora,’ she murmured. ‘You’re still number one in my book.’

  She looked up at the imposing façade of the house as she climbed out of the car. Donna was now a successful businesswoman, owner of Thistle, a chain of fine-dining restaurants, but the odds were pretty good that Daddy had originally paid for this pile. Odds on, too, that her chain would be forming part of the case of fraud that was being built. Kilbride’s own home, somewhere near Inverness, was apparently half the size of this place again, so he could certainly afford the admittedly inflated price Maddy was charging him.

  She rang the bell, and while she waited she gazed around at the breath-taking views down the valley, and the wide expanse of lawn either side of the drive. One day, Maddy, she promised herself, then gave a little snort of laughter. Right.

  Donna herself opened the door and frowned at Maddy, then glanced back into the house. ‘No, it’s just some random woman,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Charming. ‘My name’s Maddy Clifford.’ Maddy held out her hand. ‘I’m doing some work for your father—’

  The woman ran one elegant hand back through short, streaked-blonde hair. ‘My father doesn’t live here.’

  ‘I was going to add that I’m actually here on another matter,’ Maddy said. ‘Can I come in for minute?’

  ‘No. What other matter?’

  Maddy’s hopes began to fade. ‘Do you know Sarah Wallace at all?’

  Donna flung another look back into the house, taut and impatient. ‘I was at school with a Sarah Wallace. She was in the year above me. We weren’t friends.’

  ‘Your father and hers moved in similar circles though, I gather?’

  ‘Ancient history. Duncan Wallace died years ago. What’s this about, Ms Clifford? I’m busy.’

  ‘I just wondered if you knew that Sarah’d had an affair with an older lad when she was still at school? Well, a young man really. A police officer.’

  Donna scowled, and a despondent Maddy was about to apologise and leave, when she realised it was this woman’s version of a thinking frown. God, she was almost as scary as her dad’s reputation.

  ‘Aye,’ Donna said at last. ‘Now you mention it. I think she met him during some investigation or other.’

  Maddy’s interest leapt. ‘Investigation?’

  ‘A burglary, I think. Her father was questioned, but it turned out he wasn’t involved. A couple of my father’s other friends were, though.

  ‘Which friends?’

  ‘No idea. You’d have to ask him.’

  ‘And do you know which burglary it was?’

  Donna gave a heavy sigh. ‘No. Our family was going through a bit of a difficult time, as I recall, and had bigger things to worry about. Now, can you give me some news about my father’s job, or were you just leaving?’

  ‘I just have the report to file with him.’

  ‘Good. Then don’t let me keep you.’

  With that, Donna stepped back into her hallway, and for the first time in her life, Maddy Clifford had a door slammed shut in her face. She stood there for a moment, not sure whether to swear or laugh, and instead settled for pulling a face at the glass-panelled uPVC.

  In the car once again, she pulled out her phone, stared for a moment at the contact named Macnab, and eventually pressed to call.

  ‘Mr Kilbride? Maddy Clifford. Just to let you know I’m e-mailing you the report today.’

  Alistair Mulholland shoved his phone back into his pocket, irritation creeping over him again. What the bloody hell was Stein playing at? How could there be a problem now? Bradley would do his nut having to wait another whole day, and he wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news.

  He pressed the internal extension number on his desk phone, and blew irritably at his fringe. ‘Slight hitch – I’ll be in to see you in a moment.’

  ‘Nature of hitch?’

  The tone was cold, and Mulholland felt his defences prickling. ‘Nothing to do with me. Problem with the bank.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud, it’s Satur—’

  ‘I’ll be in shortly.’ Mulholland hung up and shook his head. After all the grief Bradley had given him about using the internal phone network, you’d think he’d know better; it was just one more sign that the man was getting desperate. And careless with it.

  It wasn’t as if the whole thing rested on Bradley’s shoulders alone. Mulholland was in this just as deep as he was, had risked just as much, and with less chance of smarming his way out of it. Like tracking down the bloke whose father had made the original figurines, for starters, and getting him on side to make the fakes. Did Bradley think he’d just walked into Cameron’s shop, smiled, and gained the man’s co-operation just like that? Christ, if only! He’d put his job on the line, not to men
tion his liberty if the bloke had decided to blab.

  It hadn’t been at all hard finding the craftsman; Ben Cameron had simply taken over his father’s business in the same little courtyard at the end of town. Mulholland had timed his visit carefully, late in the afternoon, and checked to see the shop was empty before ducking his head under the low-beamed doorway.

  He’d expected a dingy little place with dusty shelves full of crap. He’d also expected to have to deal with some dotty old volunteer bint running the place, while Cameron worked in the back, and he was already thinking about how he’d charm his way past any pushy assistant he might encounter. Instead the shop was bright, airy, strategically mirrored to show off the best items in their glass cabinets, and it looked as if the owner himself was behind the counter. Bonus. A man in his late thirties or early forties, with dark blond hair, and dressed casually in a checked shirt worn open over a black T shirt, he was totting something up on a calculator. He looked up as Mulholland came in, a ready smile on his open, honest face.

  Mulholland closed the door behind him and locked it; when he turned back, the man’s friendly smile had gone. His own remained. ‘Ben Cameron?’

  ‘Yes?’ The man didn’t seem worried yet, but there was a wariness about him that set his shoulders square and his posture straighter. Mulholland saw the frown that creased his forehead, and noted the tension as he walked around peering at the porcelain works on display.

  ‘Look,’ Cameron said at last. ‘Are you going to pretend you’re in the Mafia for much longer? Only I’ve work to do, aye?’

  Mulholland made a mental note to remember that little snip. ‘I’m just making sure your work is up to the standard of your father’s.’

  That hit its mark, and Cameron’s eyes narrowed. ‘My dad taught me well enough.’

  ‘How did your father die?’

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t know. It was a big enough story at the time.’

  ‘Indulge me. I’ve only been in the area thirteen years.’

  Cameron looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘He was murdered. Surprised a burglar.’