PRAISE FOR CRAIG ROBERTSON
‘I can’t recommend this book highly enough’ MARTINA COLE
‘Robertson’s work is marked by crisp prose, smart storylines and an INVENTIVENESS most authors would envy’ EVA DOLAN
‘Fantastic characterisation, great plotting, page-turning and GRIPPING. The best kind of INTELLIGENT and moving crime fiction writing’ LUCA VESTE
‘Really enjoyed Murderabilia – disturbing, inventive, and powerfully and STYLISHLY WRITTEN. Recommended’ STEVE MOSBY
‘The writing is stellar, the characters VIVID AND MEMORABLE and the plot strong and FULL OF SURPRISES. The Last Refuge should certainly enhance Craig Robertson’s reputation as one of Scotland’s leading crime writers’ RAGNAR JÓNASSON
‘MASTERFUL! Craig Robertson certainly knows how to hook a reader’ KATI HIEKKEPELTO
‘It’s a GREAT murder mystery’ JAMES OSWALD
‘A TENSE TORCH-LIT TREK through a hidden city you never knew existed’ CHRISTOPHER BROOKMYRE
‘Doing for Glasgow, what Rankin did for Edinburgh’ MIRROR
‘A revenge THRILLER with a twist’ SUN
‘CRACKING DIALOGUE, a captivating plot and that wonderful sense of place’ THE AUSTRALIAN
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To Ezrah, aged two, who slowed down this book’s arrival but made it all worthwhile.
CHAPTER 1
Los Feliz was hip, that’s what they said. Happening. Caleb guessed he knew what that meant, probably. It was a white kind of hip; not cool exactly, but nice, definitely one of the better places to live in Los Angeles. Better than Culver City, that was for sure. It was laid-back and busy, always new places opening but still had the old joints that had been around for ever, like the Dresden and the Vintage film theatre. Is that what they meant? Whoever they were.
Los Feliz was immediately below Griffith Park and just east of Hollywood in central LA. It was a neighbourhood where people actually walked. Not like Beverly Hills Gateway or Trousdale, where Caleb would most likely get arrested for walking. Or like Westmont or Chesterfield Square, where he might get shot. It was okay. Safe. Nice. Hip.
The big bonus was that it was the kind of neighbour-hood where he could actually walk onto someone’s lawn without the cops getting called or a dog getting set on him. That was important because lawns were his business.
It wasn’t exactly a career and he didn’t plan on doing it for ever, but for now it meant cash to put him through school. It meant enough green that he could help out his mom and, on a good week, still spring for burgers for two on a Saturday night at HiHo if Lacey could get the night off.
He was saving the planet too. One lawn at a time.
Caleb’s job was simple. And hot and hard and dull. He’d cycle around in search of front yards where the owners were respecting the drought and not watering their lawns. He thanked them for it by way of a patronising little sign that was supposed to encourage the neighbours to do the same. Every sign meant money.
Los Feliz was one of the areas that could be relied on to give a damn, so it was good pickings most weeks. Liberal lawns, that was what was really making America great again. He’d spend five days working every street within the Los Feliz boundaries, North Western Avenue to Hyperion, Loz Feliz Boulevard to Fountain. The next week, he’d cross the freeway and tour Atwater Village. The next two weeks it would be the sprawl of Silverlake. Just him and his second-hand Schwinn and as many signs as he could get into his backpack.
Loz Feliz was his favourite of the three neighbourhoods. No hassle, traffic okay by LA standards, good people and the bonus option of an occasional lunch break in the shade of Griffith Observatory when he had the time to make the trek up.
He wasn’t sure he’d want to live here even supposing he ever had the money, and that wasn’t too likely. Sure it was nice and all, big houses, a cool place to hang out, but it just didn’t seem like a place he’d live. It was too quiet and that would drive him crazy. He’d need to hear folks yelling at each other or it wouldn’t seem like home at all. Still, all Caleb cared was that it was good for his wallet and most weeks it was.
He was on Finley Avenue now, going east to west towards the bars and restaurants on North Vermont. He’d walk, cycle, walk, whatever it took. Most times he could tell from the saddle if the selfish assholes had soaked their lawns, seeing them lush and cursing them. The section between Hillhurst and Vermont was usually good for a couple of stakes though, so he was on foot, pushing the Schwinn and with Drake banging out into his headphones.
Watered. Soaked. Hosed. Wait, there. Dry and bare. Nice.
The house was just back off the street, dark wooden timber and white sills, with a square of parched lawn gasping in the heat of the afternoon sun. There was no sign of anyone around, no gate, no fence, just an easy two strides from the sidewalk to the grass. Caleb laid down his bike and slipped the pack off his back.
He positioned the small stake on the faded turf and drove it into the baked earth with two blows of his mallet. The sign was forced grudgingly through what was left of the grass, its message displayed to the neighbourhood.
Job done, Caleb paused for a moment to admire his work. He didn’t really care all that much about the message. It was a good thing, he guessed, but he was more interested in the fact that twenty signs, all verified by photographs from his phone, meant sixty dollars. The message meant money.
He slipped his phone from his back pocket, stepped back to get the house into full view and took the photograph. The lawn was suitably dry, a bleached shade of grass that he liked to call dollar green.
He knew the wording on the sign by heart and could even recite it backwards if called upon to do so.
You’re awesome. Your neighbourhood thanks you for not watering your lawn during this drought. You’re saving everyone else, not just water.
Caleb took another photograph, making sure he got the house number in clearly this time. It was slightly shabby for this part of town, a millionaire dressed like a tramp, curtains drawn and a set of shutters closed. It could have done with a lick of paint too. Still, at least the owner was helping save water by letting his lawn go to seed.
Caleb could tell how long it had been since a lawn had been watered, it was like his own science. Even under a September sun, it didn’t take long at all for the blades to turn towards yellow and the moisture to be sucked from the earth. Five days this had been, that was his best guess. Six at the most.
Maybe that doesn’t sound long, but in Sprinklerville it was an age. For the grass, it was a lifetime. For Caleb it was three bucks.
‘You’re awesome.’
Yeah, awesome. Fool couldn’t even find the time to open the curtains properly and let some light inside.
Caleb bent to pick up his bag of signs and was on the rise when, from the corner of his eye, he saw someone move between the slight gap in the curtains. This could be bad – people weren’t always best pleased to have something stuck in their lawn unasked. It might even mean losing the three bucks.
He froze, mid-rise, and tried to wait it out, hoping he hadn’t been seen. Not that he was doing anything wrong, but he hadn’t exactly asked permission either and didn’t want some crazy with a shotgun rushing out and yelling at him to get off his lawn. It seemed okay, the door didn’t open and no one banged on the window.
When he stood fully, he couldn’t see anyone. Maybe he’d imag
ined it. No. Wait. There it was again, movement, definitely. He held up a hand in apology or greeting or something, he wasn’t quite sure what. No one waved back.
He took half a step away but was drawn back immediately as he saw a dark shape dance in the shard of light that split the drawn curtains. It wasn’t a person, but what the hell was it? He edged closer, seeing the shape sway and change direction. Caleb strode warily across the lawn until he was just a few feet from the window and could make out the shape. It was flies, a business of them, flitting across the window pane as one.
He couldn’t say quite why, but they freaked him. So many of them and so agitated. He moved till he was right at the window and saw them close up through the glass. Eight, no nine, of them were on the pane, their spindly legs scratching at the surface. At least another twenty of their brothers and sisters fogged the air.
Caleb slowly removed his headphones and could hear them clearly, buzzing like an army of tiny electric saws. This was wrong. Weird. His skin bristled and his heart pumped faster.
He pressed himself up against the glass, making an angle so he could see more of the room through the gap. He saw nothing but furniture and paintings, nothing until he followed his eyes and his instincts, seeing where the flies were thickest.
There was something on the floor below him, a shape immediately recognisable yet unbelievable. Caleb’s breath exploded onto the window pane in shock.
There was a body lying on the floor.
Face up. Mouth open. Skin grey and purple. Flies everywhere.
CHAPTER 2
It was one of those rare and unpleasant September nights in Glasgow when it was warm as well as wet. Humid. Close, as the vernacular would have it. Cool and cold rain they were used to, very used to. Warm rain might have sounded better but it wasn’t.
People were splashing along Paisley Road West trying to avoid the worst of it but stewing under raincoats, brows slick with sweat as well as the downpour. Detective Inspector Rachel Narey sat in her car yards from the corner of Lorne Street and watched them scurry. People covered up for the rain wasn’t helping. She wanted, needed, to see them – heads and all. It was the only way it could possibly work. If it could work at all.
Her husband and daughter were home and dry, a few miles across the river on the other side of the city. She glanced at the dashboard clock, guessing that Tony might be reading Allana a bedtime story and felt a familiar pang of guilt at missing out. Sure, it came with the job, but this time was worse because it was voluntary.
No one was making her sit listening to the rain bounce off the car roof, and no one was paying her to do it. This was unpaid overtime of her own choosing.
Tony, to his credit, didn’t mind. Or if he did, he made a good job of not showing it. God knows if anyone knew what she was like, it was him. Dogs with bones didn’t have a look in.
She’d never been one for giving up on a case even when she was told, ordered even, to leave it alone. Not if it got under her skin.
There. The figure lurching out of the Grapes. He was about the right height and build, collar up, head down, bald head shining under the streetlight. Surely. But no, just as she convinced herself it was him, the man lifted his head and she saw that it wasn’t. The adrenalin left her like a disappointed lover.
As the man neared her car, he caught her gaze and mouthed a clear ‘what the fuck you looking at’ as he passed. He took a further couple of unsteady steps, still glaring back over his shoulders, before feeling he’d made his point and stomping towards home and the waiting arms of his loved ones.
This wasn’t going to work. She had to be sure and be unseen. And she’d have to be quick.
The puddle splashers came and went. A steady stream of them to and from the Grapes and the Bellrock across the way, and in and out of the takeaways. They came in ones and twos and bigger groups that she didn’t much like the look of at all. If he was in one of those then she’d have a decision to make.
This time of night was always a feeding frenzy in Glasgow. No self-respecting Weegie could go home without filling his or her stomach with salt, grease and congealed fats. The city’s eating habits had undergone a massive overhaul – you could get deep-fried quinoa and avocado these days – but it was back to the tried and tested after shutting time.
Narey was parked just a few yards from Chicken Choice, purveyor of late-night fried poultry for the discerning inebriate. You didn’t have to be drunk to eat there but it helped.
Crucially, her few yards’ dash through the rain would be considerably shorter than the walk from the Grapes. As long as she saw him in good time then she’d be inside comfortably before he was. She just had to recognise him.
As she thought it, two men emerged from the pub. One short and slim, swaying under the streetlight, the other much more like what she was looking for. Tall, broad and bullet-headed. It could be him.
The two men parted company with an attempted hug that turned into waves goodbye. The smaller man headed towards town but the larger one had chicken on his mind. Narey was sure it was him.
In one movement, she got out of the car, head down, swung the door closed and clicked it shut as she walked away. She was in Chicken Choice and shaking off the rain before the big guy had got halfway there. She turned away from the door and made a show of looking up at the menu. When she heard the heavy footsteps in the doorway, she knew he’d only be able to see the back of her head. She listened to the sound of his coat flapping and the raindrops falling from it.
‘What can I get you?’ The server was an older man, sparse grey hair on his head.
‘I’ll have the peri-peri chicken for two, salad with one of them.’
She wondered if the newcomer at the door would recognise her voice. She certainly liked to think so, hoped he was looking at the back of her head right now with a sinking heart. She made him wait, listening for the sound of his footsteps in case he decided to leave. She heard none.
Narey turned as casually as she could, just straightening up after surveying the menu board. She even feigned slight surprise at seeing him standing in the queue. He didn’t look at all happy to see her.
Tam Harkness had an odd but not unusual shape, not for Glasgow anyway. Fat from the food and muscly from the gym, his body bulged in podginess and in tone. He was all belly and biceps, topped by a neck last seen on a gorilla and a shaved head punctured with a prominent, throbbing vein. She couldn’t see the tattoos on his forearms but knew they proclaimed his love for his football team and his mother. She must have been very proud.
‘This is harassment. I’m phoning my lawyer first thing in the morning. This is fucking harassment.’
‘Harassment? Buying chicken is harassment? Let me give you a bit of advice, Tam. Save yourself the hassle and the money. Your lawyer will be laughing up his sleeve as he bills you. I’m buying chicken.’
‘You’re following me!”
‘I was here before you were. That’s not following.’
He took a step forward, his bulky frame towering over her.
‘You knew I was going to be here.’
‘You’re sounding very paranoid. Is that the result of a guilty conscience?’
‘Bullshit!’
Narey could see the look of concern on the face of the man behind the counter. She hoped he wasn’t thinking of calling the police. That wouldn’t help things at all.
‘I don’t think it’s bullshit, Tam. It’s only natural you’d have a guilty conscience after harming your girlfriend.’
His eyes widened and his cheeks flared red. The vein on the side of his temple throbbed louder than before.
‘I’ve told you. I’ve told you a fucking hundred times, I don’t know where she is! I had nothing to do with her disappearing!’
He was rattled, angry and losing control. Just as she’d wanted.
‘Did you think I was talking about Eloise? Oh, I’m sorry. I was talking about Alison Dodds. You remember, you broke her arm and two of her fingers. You left her with a
black eye and bruised cheekbone. I was talking about your other ex-girlfriend. Unless you’d rather talk about Eloise?’
‘Get tae fuck!’
‘Please!’ The man behind the counter was scared now. ‘I don’t want any trouble. Please, sir. Go now.’
‘I’m no fucking going anywhere,’ Harkness bellowed. ‘I’ve not done nothing. I’m staying. She can get the fuck out.’
‘Please, sir. I’m going to call the police.’
Narey was ready for that and had her warrant card held high for him to see. ‘I am the police, sir. As this gentleman knows very well. There won’t be any trouble, I can assure you.’ She turned to face Harkness again. ‘So, seeing as you brought up Eloise, let’s talk about her.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘We will find out what happened to her, Tam. You know that, don’t you?’
He stood taller, his mouth twitching. ‘Well, I hope so.’
‘Do you?’
He was breathing harder, talking through gritted teeth. ‘’Course I do.’
Narey turned her head back to the counter, where the shop worker stood open-mouthed. ‘Do you know the name Eloise Gray? Young woman from Cardonald who went missing five months back? It was all over the papers and television. Her blood found next to her parked car. You remember?’
The older man nodded warily, his eyes switching between Narey and Harkness.
‘You’ll have seen all the searches that were done, the door-to-door interviews, the appeals and the reconstruction. You maybe read how we ran checks, but her bank account had never been touched, her emails never read, her phone never used or found. Maybe you heard how a man was pulled in for questioning, a prime suspect, no less. But how we had to let him go.’
The shopworker shrugged, scared.
‘You see, this gentleman here is Thomas Harkness. Tam used to be Eloise’s boyfriend. She broke up with him after he slapped her around, chipped one of her teeth with a backhander. Isn’t that right, Tam?’
Watch Him Die Page 1
