by G R Jordan
Stood in his shirt and underpants, Macleod looked at himself in the mirror. His legs were blotchy in places, just old skin that was now beyond renewing itself to those glorious days of his twenties. The hair was thinner and had less of a gleam to it. And then he thought of Hazel Mackintosh, who for all her years, and she was probably around his age, had such life about her. It would be such a waste. And he’d seen too many examples of the waste of a human life in his job. Sometimes he wished he had been a plumber or a person who fixed things. Seeing too much death could kill you.
Pulling on his trousers, Macleod sat down on the bed to put on his shoes. As he began to tie them, he thought of Hope who was seeming somewhat annoyed with him these days. The hunt for the suspects on Barra was not going well in the sense that it had not found any trace of them but that was not her fault. But every time she looked at him these days he thought he saw a scowl, anger at his decisions to keep her here with him. Was she right to be vexed? He hoped not. Stewart had a ferret nose and would come through whereas Hope was needed here, keeping everything tight.
It struck him how his mood could be so easily lifted or dropped by women, and not in any seedy way. Ross could appear in the office, and he was a decent man, all smiles and full of the joys of spring and it would not have affected Macleod’s mood one iota. But if Hope appeared looking fresh-faced and beaming, or even that Jona Nakamura, his spirit would lift. Even when Mackintosh had been flirting with him, trying to steal something from him, he had been picked up despite making sure his refusal was understood. And as for Jane, she could change him in an instant. Were men fickle, or was the programming different and something to thank the manufacturer for?
With these thoughts in his head, Macleod walked down to the breakfast tables and saw Jona Nakamura. She was sitting with a colleague from the forensic team and it was her male companion who looked up and acknowledged Macleod first. Nodding politely back, Macleod sat down, then to be greeted by a smile from Jona and a query into how he was doing. Spirit lifted, he thought, and it was.
Twenty minutes later, Macleod stood over his desk looking at the pieces of map they had recovered during the course of the investigation. Hope was in the next room, organising the search for the young murderers of Karen Gibbons and he could hear the occasional agitation in her voice. His spirit descended a little and he knew he was fickle.
Across the room, he saw yesterday’s paper and the folded sheets had the headline facing the ceiling. ‘The Pirate Club.’ It was apt due to the digging and Macleod was struggling to understand why items would be buried on beaches. Jona Nakamura had explained over breakfast the discovery Hope and she had made the previous night and so he knew that the items were not some long-buried treasure from a more primitive age. No, this was a modern crime, in the sense that it was within fifty years at least, so why bury the items and mark them with a map, albeit a map that was split up into many pieces? And not just in terms of the cartography but rather in that you would need all the pieces to locate the start point to your mission.
Dusty’s Harbour, thought Macleod; where was Dusty’s Harbour? If he could work out the start point, then he might have a chance of finding the items everyone was looking for before them and then maybe have a better lead to who was involved. Well, who was involved, Seoras?
Alasdair MacPhail, MOD singer and married to a crook, Maureen Ghillies, who was now dead and whose kids were looking for the treasure. He hated it calling it that, but it was the word on everyone’s lips. Jane, the Canna victim who’s address and name were wrong but who had a map. There was the old man, Dickerson or Drummer. That was three at least.
Then there was Karen Gibbons, murdered, and her mother who died from the shock of her daughter’s death. Another part of the plot and maybe they were part of the group for she was out digging when she died. So at least four bits of map, maybe more. And who put the treasure where it now lies?
If you were going to hide something as an individual, why would you have a number of maps all spread out amongst different people? Surely one map with some sort of code only you knew how to decrypt would be more obvious—unless it was a team that was hiding loot. Given that the cross was such a recognisable item back then, maybe the treasure was hidden away for later onward sale.
‘Sir,’ announced Hope after rapping the door and entering.
Macleod held up his hand. ‘A moment.’ His eyes moved from the maps on his desk to the paper. Pirate club. Maybe the paper was right—it was a pirate club, all waiting to get the loot after hiding it. And like all pirates, they want more than their fair share.
‘Sir.’
‘Sorry, McGrath, what is it?’
‘I’m heading out, sir; we might have a potential sighting and I’m going to check it.’
Macleod could see Hope’s shoulders slump and her face was sullen. ‘How many possible sightings is that now?’
‘Four, all nothing. The papers have got this into people’s heads. They are likely to start seeing Blackbeard at any moment.’
Raising his shoulders Macleod nodded his head in agreement. ‘True but we need to check them all.’
Hope shut the door behind her. ‘Permission to speak freely, sir.’
‘You don’t need to take that tone,’ said Macleod. ‘When it’s the two of us, it’s Seoras, Hope. You can say the difficult things to me; you are my Sergeant.’
‘Exactly, so why is it you send our newest member of the team on the trail and have me looking after the bread and butter? Over on the mainland’s where it’s going to be solved. Why did you want me to take the damn exam? So you could have a lapdog? Someone to take care of you round here.’
‘Stop!’ Macleod stood up and in his throat were words of anger. She had no right. The decision of where to employ his team was his, and his alone. ‘Sit down.’ His words were calm, but firm. Yet inside, Macleod was raging. Look beyond this, he told himself.
When Hope had sat down, Macleod stepped out of the office and made two coffees before returning and placing a mug before Hope.
‘I didn’t want a coffee,’ she spat.
‘No, but I needed some time. You ever give me a load of abuse like that again and I will demote you back down to constable. You don’t think I ever get riled at the Chief Inspector. Some days I could throttle her if I’m truthful but she’s the position and the position deserves respect, even if you don’t think much of the person.’
Macleod’s calm was coming at a price. If he had been giving Hope the ‘hairdryer treatment’, as his old boss had called it, then the personal disappointment in her he felt would have been thrust to one side. But instead his spirit was definitely sinking.
‘I apologise,’ Hope forced out. It had no sense of sincerity, but Macleod was more concerned at his colleague’s almost utter loss of professionalism.
‘You are here because I need you here, Hope. God knows there’s too much on my plate at the moment and I need an experienced set of eyes running over everything with me. I’d rather be over on the mainland too, but right now with how public this is becoming, I need you here. I have an inexperienced senior forensic officer and barely a team here on the island. They don’t see many murders on Barra.’
‘But you sent Stewart over there; she’s hardly experienced. And that’s where we will crack this case—you know that, don’t you!’
‘Keep the voice down. Of course, I know that, and she has the nose of a blood hound, Hope. She’s right where I need her, as are you.’
Hope shook her head. ‘The girl’s inexperienced.’
‘Which is why Ross is with her. Ross is solid, dependable, if not the most innovative. And he’ll keep her safe. I rate Stewart, she’s got a real mind for picking out detail but she’s still raw, doesn’t have the street smarts that you or Ross have.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Don’t but me! I know you’re frustrated with this, but this is not you, Hope. You’re more professional than this. What’s really up? Is it Allinson?’
H
ope flopped back into her chair. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even want to ring him. I’ve had more fun with Jona over these last few days than I have with Allinson this last month. I came up here for him; he moved jobs for me. And then it’s all gone sour. It’s three-month McGrath again. I can’t hold a relationship for more than ninety days.’
‘Just be careful with Jona; she’s young, and under pressure.’
Hope burst out laughing. ‘We’re not an item, Seoras. Just friends. Nothing sexual, just girlfriends.’
Macleod blushed. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have had the idea in his head but with how diverse you have to be these days, he tried to be non-judgemental about these things. Now he was seeing them where they didn’t exist.
‘Keep plugging away on the search because this is where it will all play out. They will either get the loot from under our noses and leave more bodies, or we will find them and stop them. Let Ross and Stewart get on with their bit. I have a team, Hope, and I can’t just have everyone where they think they should be. As for Allinson, whatever you do about it, do it soon because you’re bringing it into work.’
Hope nodded and then made to get up before looking at Macleod. ‘You said you had things on your plate? Want to share?’
Macleod stood and turned away for a moment running an anxious hand through his hair. ‘Believe me, Hope, if I could share I would but that’s not my decision. I have to carry this one. One day you’ll have it too, when you are in my shoes.’
‘Okay.’ And she was gone. Macleod never saw her face as she left to know just how she had really taken his talk. He knew Hope was feisty, but she was better than this. Allinson must really be affecting her.
Taking a large sip of coffee, Macleod looked down at the photocopies of the map pieces on his desk. Why Barra? What made Alasdair MacPhail look on Barra? And Karen Gibbons, as well? He could not see how to arrive at that conclusion. Why not Canna? They had found the cross on Barra, so surely the rest was there.
Macleod had kept the find of the cross quiet, lest they became inundated with the public and their metal detectors but there must have been other knowledge beyond the maps that led the victims in their search. But where was it? If only he had Karen Gibbons or her mother still alive. Or Mr Drummer, or whatever he was calling himself—he could question and prod for answers. But the trail was cold unless Stewart came up with something. He really had put a lot on her. The woman saw things Hope and he did not. But Ross was with her for guidance, and that should be enough. Because if it was not, then Hope needed to find him some suspects and quick.
Macleod felt the vibration in his pocket of his mobile phone and pulled it out. Jane’s face was before him, with that tilt of the head and a cheeky look, the one where she would be teasing him before some private time as she was apt to refer to it. Hope had been blissfully unaware of that reason when Macleod had told her to put that image of Jane on the mobile. But he knew this call would not be about private time.
‘Seoras?’ It was Jane’s voice.
‘Yes, love.’
‘Have you got five minutes? I know you’re really busy and that, but I have Hazel with me and we’re about to leave the hotel but she’s not in a good way. I’ve tried talking with her and that but haven’t got a real rapport with her. Not like you. Can you give her five minutes?’
Macleod looked at the maps before him and watched the busy room through the clouded glass door beyond his temporary office and saw so much work. He did not have time—he really did not. And it was a conversation he was not wanting. But sometimes things were beyond that of a police officer and work. The woman needed him, and his partner was urging him to speak to her.
‘Just a minute.’ Macleod placed his mobile on the desk and popped his head out of the front door telling the constable nearest to him that he was to be undisturbed for the next twenty minutes unless it was critical that he was seen. With that, he shut the door and walked back to the desk, picking up his mobile slowly. After telling Jane he was ready, he heard Hazel Mackintosh come to the phone and then through a mess of tears and snorts, he heard her unpack her fears and anxieties about the day ahead.
‘It’s going to be hard, Hazel, but you can tell me. I’m right here.’
Chapter 16
‘Who’s next on your list?’ asked Ross.
‘Simon Green, lives on the edge of Newcastle. Apparently, he was linked to a number of jobs MacPhail’s wife took part in. He was a getaway man and has been quiet for a number of years.’
‘Punch it in the Satnav for me and we’ll get there sharp,’ said Ross. ‘Let’s hope it’s not a urine-filled flea hole like the last one we were in.’
Stewart smiled and then pushed back her glasses, before typing the postcode into the car’s Satnav display beside her. At the moment she was feeling good, deep in the trawl of potential suspects, filtering through the debris, something she was good at. Ross was also a perfect companion. He said little but was calm and professional and also her equal. It felt like she did not have to impress him, unlike Macleod or McGrath. Although they had seemed happy with her work and had brought her on board, she had this desire to prove herself to them. But that was silly, and she knew it though it did not stop her from feeling it.
‘Are we in a 1960s movie, Stewart?’ asked Ross as the car pulled into the street the Satnav had directed them to. ‘It’s a bit grim. Feels like there should be a coal mine here.’
After a cold start between them, Ross was also becoming more familiar but not overly so. He exuded a calm demeanour in just about everything—unlike her bosses who could fire off at times. But then, they were carrying the can for these investigations. ‘It’s just up on the right, Ross.’
Ross parked the car at the end of a stone driveway that led to a semi-detached house. The house had seen better days and was made of red brick with white painted stonework under the windows. The paint was peeling and exposing the grey brickwork beneath, giving the place an air of abandonment. A green door with only a single number on it was slightly ajar. There should have been two numbers but only the screw holes remained of the first number.
Stewart heard her feet crunch on the stones as they approached, and she rapped the door causing it to open a touch further. To one side of the exposed hallway she saw a pile of envelopes, junk mail, and the like, simply lying on the carpet. A few coats were hung on basic pegs and the stairs to the upper floor could be seen, protected by a flaking white banister.
‘Just a minute. Eating my tea.’
A minute later a man of maybe forty opened the door fully in a dressing gown that was falling open, exposing a pair of boxer shorts underneath and a hairy belly. His hair was blonde and long but beginning to thin. Announcing himself with a mighty belch, he then took a swig of his tin of beer. Stewart did not recognise the brand, but it looked like something you get cheap, tastes like rubbish, but is high enough in alcohol content that by the second or third you could not care less.
‘Detectives Stewart and Ross, sir. We are looking for Simon Green.’
‘Dad? What the hell do you want Dad for? He’s long out of that game. Paid his dues for a few years too. Leave him alone; he’s clean now, not been near anything criminal for years.’ The man started to raise his shoulders in an attempt to look slightly threatening but there’s only so much threat you can conjure when your boxer shorts have a comic aardvark on them.
‘We didn’t say he was, sir. But we need him to help with our enquiries about something from the past. He may be in danger.’ Stewart reinforced this statement with a serious look over the top of her glasses.
‘Why?’ asked the man, more concerned now.
‘Do you know Alasdair MacPhail or his wife?’
‘I don’t. But dad might. He doesn’t really talk to me about the old days. All he ever says is that he’s glad he’s out of it, but it set us up. Sometimes I think he’s loopy; how is this place set up?’
Stewart glanced at Ross who gave the smallest of nods. ‘Where is your father?’ a
sked Stewart.
‘At the social club, as they call it now. A working man’s club really. I don’t go. But in its day, Dad was always there with Mum, a place to be seen back then. But it’s all he has of her now. Goes there for a pint and some dominoes with some of the old guys.’
‘Do you have an address?’ asked Stewart.
‘No need. Down the road, take a right then an immediate left and you’ll see it. The Fallen Punter is what it’s called now, a bit of a joke from the new owners a few years back but it stuck.’
‘Thank you,’ Stewart said as she turned away to the car.
‘Hang on. What’s this all about. Why’s everyone want Dad today?’
‘Everyone?’ said Ross turning on his heel. ‘Who else has been asking?’
‘Girl came by about an hour ago, asking. Only a teen but man she was dressed to kill. Kept her talking just to stare at her rack. And she knew too, happy to let me chat away. Wriggled that arse on the way down the path, too.’
Ross did not say another word but ran. Stewart turned to the man in his doorway. ‘What did she look like, hair, eyes, and that? What was she wearing too?’
Before he could answer, Ross howled at Stewart. ‘Car, now!’
Ross never spoke harshly or in a raised tone, so the current instructions scared Stewart to her core. Without waiting for further from the man in the doorway, she bolted to the car and threw herself into the passenger seat. The car was racing away before she could apply her belt.
Ross threw the car around the corners as Stewart fired on the blue lights and the wailing siren. It was a drive of two minutes before Stewart saw the sign outside a rather drab building that said, The Happy Punter. A cheery face was splashed on the sign beside the words.
