Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

  ‘Got it! And you understand something, too.’ Charis felt the pressure building up behind her forehead, knowing she was within seconds of striking out. ‘I feel exactly the same way about my child. And no matter how much I care for Mackenzie, Jamie comes first.’

  Maddy stepped back, startled. ‘You what?’

  ‘What?’ Charis echoed, thinking quickly back over what she’d just said.

  ‘You care for Paul?’

  ‘He’s been…very kind.’

  ‘Aye, he’s kind to everyone.’ Maddy softened slightly. ‘Charis, listen. I get that you’ve been thrown together, and this situation is pretty intense, but you only met him yesterday. You can’t make the mistake of—’

  ‘I didn’t say I was in love with him,’ Charis pointed out, her voice tight. ‘But whatever it is, or isn’t, it goes both ways. He said so.’

  The taut silence was broken by the warbling of the bedroom phone. Both women turned to it, but Charis got there first, despite Maddy being closer. ‘Yes?’

  ‘...enzie.’ His voice was distorted, crackling, but still managed to carry a wave of comfort.

  ‘Have you found them?’

  ‘No, but I think...where Jamie is—’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’

  ‘Hard...describe, and…gnal keeps—’ Right on cue his voice cut out altogether. She heard a car whizz by, and then he spoke again, fragments buzzing in her ears. ‘...A82...back towards Aberga...lowrie Estate, part of Wallace prop... Just got…call Stein, but going up to it now. Tell Mad...keep Stein occup...strong, Charis. …soon. Okay?’

  The line went dead, and Charis held the phone against her chest, unwilling to break the contact at her end. She bowed her head, and barely even twitched as she felt the phone gently plucked from her hand. She heard it set back into its charging cradle, and when she raised her eyes she saw Maddy was looking worried sick.

  Charis shook her head. ‘He’s going to get Jamie,’ she said, and burst into tears.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Andy Stein ended the call, and with trembling fingers he tried to shove his cell back into his jeans pocket but gave up and just held it, suddenly hating the feel of it; Mackenzie’s words, broken as they were, had nevertheless come through, too loud and all too clear. Hearing that Sarah had lied to him for so long was one thing, and that really hurt, but deliberately setting the fire that had killed her parents?

  He felt ill. Disbelieving. Maybe the whole story had been concocted by this Doohan guy, or even Don Bradley, to justify keeping the statues to themselves. Maybe Sarah genuinely had no idea her inheritance had such a dark history. Mackenzie must have gotten it all wrong; she couldn’t have done such a thing. Not his Sarah.

  He tapped the image of her on his home screen and automatically checked his watch, mentally counting back the eight-hour time difference; she wouldn’t have left Cali yet – it would still be early morning where she was. But he had to know. To his surprise she answered immediately, sounding alert and wary.

  ‘Andy, are you all right?’ The sound of her voice made his heart beat more heavily, as it always did, and he closed his eyes, holding on to the memories of her – the softer side, the vulnerability behind the social animal, and the unpredictable passion that had kept him hooked for the three years they’d been together. The hotel lobby faded away as he sat down in a corner seat.

  ‘Sure. I’m good.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Listen, I have to ask you something. About the statues.’

  ‘What about them? Have you found them?’ She sounded more Scottish than usual; she must be more tired than she was letting on.

  ‘Not yet. It’s just that...I heard that maybe there’s, I dunno, a little more to them than maybe you realise?’

  ‘Such as?’

  He could hear traffic in the background. ‘Honey, are you in the cab already?’

  ‘Just tell me what you’re getting at, Andy.’

  He sighed. ‘Did you realise that your father had hidden something inside them? Something he didn’t ought to have had in the first place?’ He waited for her surprised reply, his fingers tight on the phone. Please, babe, don’t be in on this... The pause was longer than he could take; she must be furious with him for suggesting it, and he opened his mouth to let the apologies spill, but she spoke first.

  ‘Well, I suppose you had to find out at some point. My father and his friends stole a few little trinkets belonging to a friend of theirs. They split the pile, and Dad was the only one sensible enough to keep his share hidden all this time.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. They happen to be quite valuable trinkets, that’s all. One in particular.’

  Stein closed his eyes again. The next question growing too big; he had to spit it out. ‘And the fire?’

  The pause was longer this time, and when she spoke again her voice was flat. ‘You shouldn’t have asked about that.’

  Stein felt the pain go all the way through him, and unable to reply, or even to cut her off, he lowered the phone and walked out to his car.

  Mulholland watched Bradley, who was shovelling the pub steak pie down him as if he’d been starved for days. He pointedly pushed his own plate away, eyes narrowed, as Bradley swallowed a mouthful of beer along with his latest forkful, one great rush of cholesterol and alcohol swirling down his gullet like a filthy mountain flood. He himself had barely touched the plate of food Bradley had ordered without asking; his appetite was sharp but not for food, particularly this fat-filled crap.

  He just needed to find out what private little deal was going on with this socialite ex-girlfriend, and when he did, he would be in a position to blow every whistle he could find. Bradley’s career would be over, and his own would be given the space to grow at last, freed from the barbed wire fence in which Bradley was keeping it prisoner.

  Bradley finished mopping up gravy with his third piece of bread, and the plate looked as clean as when it’d come off the rack. Mulholland didn’t bother to hide his disgust, but chose the more important battle. ‘When are you going to let me in on what’s going on?’

  Bradley glanced around them and adopted a jocular tone, though it was clearly an effort. ‘Hush now, sergeant, walls have ears. Particularly pub walls.’

  ‘Then let’s go somewhere else.’

  ‘When I’ve finished.’

  ‘You have finished, surely?’

  ‘I ordered dessert. They do an amazing trifle here—’

  ‘Leave the fucking trifle!’ Mulholland hissed, leaning across the table. He noted, with satisfaction, the way Bradley instinctively moved back, and saw uncertainty cloud the man’s features. Maybe he’d better tone it down; it wouldn’t do to antagonise him, not yet.

  ‘Besides, trifle is an abomination to good taste.’ He sat back, forcing a small smile. ‘Whoever thought of mixing sponge with jelly deserves to be hanged.’

  Mulholland saw uncertain relief flickering in the super’s muddy brown eyes. ‘Well, maybe I’ve eaten enough, for now. Who knows where we may have to go walking later, eh?’

  ‘Indeed. Shall we then?’ He rose, gesturing for Bradley to lead the way.

  Bradley finished his pint and stood up. He glanced back nervously as he sidled past, as if he expected Mulholland to shove him in the back like a playground bully. Mulholland just smiled, but he knew it hadn’t reached his eyes by the way his superior looked away. Oh, the times they are a-changing…

  Outside in the car park, Mulholland led the way to Bradley’s Discovery. ‘This is a pretty good place for you to fill in a few of the details you...forgot earlier,’ he said. Bradley seemed unhappy about it, but nodded and unlocked the vehicle. By the time he had climbed behind the wheel and switched his phone on again, he had evidently come to terms with giving up his ace card.

  ‘The jewels aren’t the main thing,’ he said. Mulholland just looked at him, expressionless; not demanding, urging, or requesting, just waiting. It always worked with suspects, and it worked now; Bradley cleared his throa
t, keeping his eyes fixed on the dashboard as if the array of buttons and dials helped him concentrate.

  ‘There’s one more item that both Sarah and I are determined to have. It was part of the Spence collection, and it’s worth at least three times as much as the rest of it put together.’ He turned to Mulholland, suddenly intense. ‘But it’s not just the money, you have to understand that.’ The earnest look on his face was almost comical, as if he actually believed what he was saying, and was willing Mulholland to understand too. Mulholland didn’t, but he nodded anyway. Whatever, let’s just have the story.

  Bradley pursed his lips. ‘This stone—’

  ‘Stone? I thought the entire collection was in settings already?’

  ‘Not this one. It’s called the Fury. A Lightning Ridge black opal worth hundreds of thousands...as much as a half a million perhaps, even back then. God knows how much now. But there’s something else about it, something that gets under your skin. I hate clichés, but—’

  ‘Pretty then, is it?’ Mulholland knew he sounded bored, but he didn’t care; he was locked into the possibility of a half a million pounds ‘split’ one way instead of three.

  ‘I only saw it a few times, and it was a long time ago, before Duncan died. But there’s something about it that grabs hold of your mind and doesn’t let go.’ Bradley became more animated, as if in direct reaction to Mulholland’s boredom. ‘It’s the, the...riot of colour. It’s alive, Alistair!’

  ‘Oh aye, very poetic. So where is it? Inside one of the original figurines?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t among the pieces Duncan gave me to take to Dougie Cameron, or on the itemised list he showed me. I suppose he didn’t trust me with it – or Cameron either, come to that. But it’s more than likely stashed in the same place, wherever that may be.’ Bradley looked away again, but before he did, Mulholland saw his eyes darken as his view turned inward, evidently seeing something other than the plush interior of his treasured new car.

  He was growing impatient. ‘So what was all that about with Sarah Wallace, then? Does she know where it is?’

  ‘No.’ Bradley’s voice was distant, and Mulholland resisted the urge to punch him in the side of the head. Instead he kept his voice even.

  ‘If we’re going to find this wee stone, sir, you’re going to have to let me in on a bit more of what’s going on.’

  His deferential words seemed to have the right effect, and after a brief pause Bradley looked back at him, all business once more. ‘Right. Here’s the deal. Sarah wants the Fury and the missing part of the Spence collection, of course. She thinks we have the original figurines – you knew that – but she also thinks we have the Fury. I’ve just offered the rest of the collection to her, in exchange for us keeping that one item.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘No great hardship for us, since we’re not losing anything. Plus it’ll buy us time to find the real thing.’

  ‘And you think she’ll go for that?’

  ‘She’s got no choice.’ Bradley shrugged. ‘She’s getting off lightly at this price; she’s just found out she’s got a double murder charge hanging over her head.’

  ‘What?’ Mulholland sat up straighter; this was finally getting interesting

  ‘When Sarah and I were—’

  ‘Shagging?’

  ‘Together, I was going to say.’ Bradley scowled. ‘Anyway, I told her what I knew about the collection. His voice took on the shadow of the past as he mused, ‘I’d never seen her so angry, even had me worried.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘That I’d been protecting her father, when he’d kept the collection to himself. She blamed me for being part of the reason she never saw a penny’s profit from it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So a few nights later she went to Inverness for one of her mad society parties, and – coincidentally – that was the night the Glenlowrie Estate burned down. Mary and Duncan both smothered in their beds. Poor Sarah, dutiful daughter, wound up the estate, collected her inheritance, such as it was, and pissed off to America with it.’

  ‘And what makes you think it was her?’

  Bradley shrugged. ‘Early-morning thoughts. Pieces slotting into place. No-one else suspected, and nor did I until this morning.’

  ‘Wasn’t there an investigation?’

  ‘Of course. The cause was discovered to have been a cigarette left burning in Duncan’s study, and catching the sleeve of a nearby jacket. Sarah had an alibi: that party, and then some bloke she spent the rest of the night with.’

  ‘And that’s not enough for you?’

  Bradley shook his head. ‘I’m telling you, it was her. Somehow. Maybe she even got someone else to do it.’

  ‘All right, say that was the case – you can’t prove it was anything but an accident, so she’s nothing to fear.’

  ‘True. But she doesn’t know that.’ Bradley gave him a tight smile. ‘I’m in the running for promotion, you know that, and the next chief constable already knows I’m shit hot. Sarah will find out how our contacts and acquaintances compare, if she bothers to look.’

  Mulholland nodded. ‘So we give her our collection at a reasonable price, on the understanding that she fucks off back to America and that we – you – say nothing about the fire. Right?’

  Bradley nodded. ‘Meanwhile, we’ve bought ourselves a bit of time to track down the originals too, now we know they’re definitely out there. With the help of old man Doohan of course, if he’s capable of anything after you got your great mauling fists on him. I told him what I thought about Sarah’s part in the fire, while you were washing his blood off your hands.’ He shot Mulholland a mildly reproving glance. ‘There was no need to be quite so brutal, Alistair.’

  ‘He’s fine.’ Mulholland waved it away. ‘Wasn’t as bad as it looked. What happens when Sarah finds out they’re fakes? Because you know she will.’

  ‘Of course she will, but not until she gets back to the States. She’d never risk breaking open the figurines here, then trying to get the collection back through customs. By the time she finds out, she can do her worst. I’ll have what I want.’ His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘It’s her.’

  Mulholland heard clipped female tones from the earpiece, and Bradley didn’t say anything, but his expression changed from satisfaction to something a little like fear. When he ended the call, he turned a pale face towards Mulholland, and with a visibly shaking hand, twisted the ignition key.

  ‘The deal’s on, but we have a little job to do first; it’s time for you to earn your part in this. You never really liked Andy Stein, did you?’

  Rob Doohan couldn’t suppress the worry that maybe he’d sent Mick’s son on a fool’s errand, but he was sure in his bones that if Sarah had anything to do with it, that cottage was where the boy would be. And maybe the Spence jewels too. He paused in his tidying, wincing at the headache that threatened to force his left eye out of its socket, and pictured the dirty whitewashed place, tucked in its little hollow in the hills.

  During grouse season, the child Sarah had regularly accompanied her father and the other guns, but usually cried off beating duties, preferring to wander alone. Rob had followed her once, concerned that she was roaming the hills during such a dangerous time. But as soon as he saw the old crofter’s cottage he’d relaxed. She’d vanished in through the crooked front door, and for the half hour at least that he remained there watching, she didn’t come back out.

  He understood; she would be left alone there, as she never was in the grand home her parents provided, and, more to the point, she could be in charge in whatever games she concocted. She’d always been an angry child; Rob had witnessed furious tantrums, above and beyond the expected childish outbursts, but here at least, she seemed at peace. He never told her he’d seen it; a secret shared was a secret broken. But eventually Duncan had found out anyway and turfed her out, stressing the danger of the place and forbidding her from going there again.

&nb
sp; From that day she had been icy-cold to everyone connected with her family, except Rob. They had instead become closer over the years; godfather and goddaughter, and the thought that she might have killed her own parents – and his best friend – made Rob curl up inside with grief.

  And what of William Kilbride’s ‘accident,’on the night of the robbery? Duncan had sworn, in confidence, that it had been a fair fight, and that he’d been protecting himself; Kilbride had fallen as he’d tried to wrestle Duncan into the water, and Duncan had tried to save him. Rob had believed that, too, especially when Kilbride had recovered without pointing any accusatory fingers, but now it seemed certain Duncan had offered him something to keep his silence. Or threatened him. All this, resulting from one bitter little prank.

  Then there was the craftsman who had created the original figurines too, supposedly killed by an intruder in his workshop, although Rob had a pretty good idea of who had wielded that chisel, and the greasy, red-faced little turd had been in this very house today. Not to mention poor old Sandy Broughton. Rob was only now realising how lucky he was not to have been added to the dark, and growing, death-list.

  He sighed, and the thin, shaky sound of it brought him up short in dismay; what had he turned into? Some frail old man who could no longer cope with real life? Well, what did he expect? He wasn’t twenty-five any more, nearer to sixty-five, although he looked and felt older. He looked around his wreck of a home once again. The skinny officer clearly enjoyed picking up furniture and throwing it, while his boss just kept on with the same question: Where are they? Talk about brutish, unrefined tactics.