Fatal Transaction: A DCI MacBain Scottish Crime Thriller

by Oliver Davies

Several of the cameras were down, showing nothing but static on the monitors.

  They were the cameras around the vault.

  Barney rushed from the security room, shutting the door behind him as quickly as he could in his fear as he didn’t want any of the robbers to know that there was someone else in the bank. He needed to call the police. He needed to frighten the robbers off. He needed to… he needed to what? All his training flew out the window in that instant, and he was left frozen, rooted to the ground as his heart hammered away in his chest, drowning him with its heavy beats.

  There was a phone behind each of the tellers’ desks. He could use that to call the police. He just needed to make his feet move in that direction, but they were so leaden with fear that each step felt like a gargantuan effort. At the same time, though, each next step was easier than the last, and he blinked, and suddenly, he was behind the desks and their glass partitions, holding one of the landlines in his hand.

  He dialled 999.

  A tone sounded in his ear, low and droning, but the phone never began to ring. Something was wrong with them.

  The phone fell from his suddenly slack hand, missing the desk and tumbling toward the floor, caught by its springy cord before it actually hit the ground. The device swung and clattered against the side of the desk, and the sound made Barney jump, snapping him out of the frozen state he’d fallen into.

  So he couldn’t get a hold of the police. That was… that was fine. What did he do next?

  The wide glass doors to the outside stared at him, the dark safety of the night beckoning, and he longed to simply flee, to leave the robbers to it, but he’d taken an oath when he’d accepted this job to protect his client’s money, to protect the bank, to always do his best. He had to go confront them.

  Maybe they would be scaredy-cat robbers, he thought as he picked a heavy paperweight up off a desk and carried it with him into the next hallway. Maybe the mere sight of him, the mere act of the interruption, would be more than enough to get them to flee. Yes. He liked that idea. He was a big guy. His silhouette was probably pretty intimidating. He might not even have to get close.

  Barney threaded his way back to the bank vault, his feet as silent as he could make them, which wasn’t very, considering his bulk. He hefted the paperweight in his hand, but it felt paltry against everything he might be up against in the vault. What if they had weapons? What if they weren’t scaredy-cats but serious mercenaries who would kill him as soon as look at him?

  Barney’s feet stalled to a halt one corridor over from the bank vault. This was a foolish venture. He needed to go outside and find another phone to call for help from. But a morbid sort of curiosity held him in place. He’d never been this close to danger before, and a part of him wanted to know what robbers looked like.

  He took another three steps forward, his breath rasping in his ears as the hand holding the paperweight grew slick with sweat. A sound further up the hall startled him, and he dropped the glass globe. It hit the ground with an almighty thud but didn’t shatter like he thought it would. A dim part of his brain was glad it hadn’t hit his foot because it probably would have broken a toe.

  A man appeared at the far end of the corridor. He was short and squat, the dim lights obscuring his features from view. Fear shot through Barney like an arrow at the sight of him, coursing down his spine and turning his limbs to water.

  “Hey!” the man shouted, lifting a hand and pointing at Barney.

  Barney put a finger against his chest as if asking, “Me?” but the man was already rushing toward him, gaining speed with each step.

  Barney’s limbs snapped back into flesh and bone at the sight of the man barrelling toward him, and he spun on his heel and took off in the opposite direction. He could hear a voice shouting, though he couldn’t tell if it was the same one or a new person, or perhaps himself yelling incoherently, couldn’t make out any individual words through the roaring in his head.

  Barney was not a fast man. He was large and out of shape, and no matter how hard he ordered his legs to churn all the faster, they simply wouldn’t listen to him, and he lumbered along like an awkward bear or perhaps a highland cow, and he could hear the man behind quickly gaining on him.

  He skidded around a corner and lost a lot of speed, his leather shoes slipping on the tile, and he hazarded a glance over his shoulder, his eyes widening when he saw the other man a mere two feet behind him, a metal crowbar raised high over his head.

  Barney’s mouth tried to form a word, a sound, anything to plead with the robber, but his mind was too jumbled, and his heartbeat too fast, and he couldn’t pull anything together fast enough. So the crowbar fell, swung, really, crashing into the side of his head and sending him spinning into the nearest wall. His nose cracked against the stone, but he hardly felt it. Hardly felt anything as he crumpled to the ground like he’d suddenly turned to smoke.

  The last thing he heard before he slipped away into the fog completely was an angry voice saying, “What the hell did you do?”

  And then he was gone.

  Three

  My phone woke me up in the morning, although it took me a long time to realise it was my ringtone and not my alarm. I groaned as I forced my eyes open, the room a little blurry around me, and gently moved Rayla’s arm to the side so I could find my phone. She grunted softly and curled the limb back to her chest but didn’t awaken as I sat up and finally located my phone on the bedside table.

  Dunnel’s name was on the caller ID, and I sighed as I hit the green answer button. That could only mean one thing.

  “MacBain,” I said by way of greeting, my voice still a little muddy from sleep.

  “Good, you’re awake,” Dunnel said in my ear as I stood and stepped out of the bedroom so as to not wake Rayla. “We’ve got a new case.”

  “I figured. What’s the low down?”

  “Bank robbery and murder,” Dunnel replied promptly. “It’s the Royal Bank of Scotland on Harbour Road. Fletcher’s already on her way over here. I’d suggest you hurry.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I promised, and then we hung up.

  I yawned as I slipped the phone into the pocket of my pyjamas. I’d been looking for something to get me away from all the paperwork and to take my mind off my Loch Ness search. A new case seemed like just the thing.

  When I let myself back into the bedroom, I found Rayla awake and sitting up in bed, busy binding her long dreadlocks up into a pile atop her head and winding a red headscarf around them to keep them in place.

  “Morning,” I said and leaned over to give her a quick kiss. “Did I wake you?”

  “My alarm was about to go off anyway,” Rayla said with a shrug. “Was that work?”

  “New case,” I explained as I began to hunt around for my clothes. Rayla and I were casual, so I had yet to get my own drawer in her dresser, and I was left pulling yesterday’s shirt and trousers back on. “I’ve got to run.”

  “I have to meet Alana at the foundation in an hour,” Rayla said. She rolled out of bed, the extra-large shirt she wore as pyjamas falling halfway down her thighs.

  Rayla, Alana, and I had met on my last case after their friend, Jacob, had been murdered for investigating the sale of a new piece of tech called the Active Eye. The buyers, the MacPhersons, hadn’t taken too kindly to his investigation or the fact that he’d been planning to go to the press, so the patriarch had ordered an ex-military man named Kingston to take out everyone involved. I’d killed Kingston, MacPherson had been arrested, and his daughter, Bee, had taken over the family’s bank accounts and resources. With Alana’s and Rayla’s help, she’d started a foundation to reach out to Inverness’s underprivileged and underrepresented population. From what I’d heard, it was going tremendously well.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed to stuff my feet into my shoes and then hurried into the bathroom to finish getting ready. I at least had a toothbrush here, even if I hadn’t moved any clothes yet. I definitely needed a shave, stubble li
ning my cheeks, but it wasn’t so dire that it couldn’t wait another day. My dark hair was thick and heavy, lying in waves across my forehead until I worked a little product into it and forced it into some semblance of control. I rinsed my hands and headed out into the living room to find my coat, patting down my pockets to make sure I had everything.

  Rayla met me in the little kitchen with toast and a thermos of coffee. I put my overcoat on before I accepted them both, giving her one final kiss after she’d walked me to the door.

  “No promises on my schedule, now that I’ve got a new case,” I warned.

  “I’ll see you when I see you,” she replied, sounding unconcerned about the when. I smiled at her as I stepped out into the hallway. I appreciated how easy and simple things were between us at the moment. When we wanted to see each other, then we made plans, but if we were too busy to get together regularly, then we didn’t worry about it, linking up again when things calmed down. I wasn’t much of a relationship guy, it was sort of hard to be in my line of work, but I was really enjoying the casual thing.

  I waved goodbye, then Rayla shut the door to her flat behind me, leaving me to find my way downstairs and out to my car. For once, it wasn’t raining, and I glanced up and down the street before I crossed, fishing my keys from my pocket.

  The air had a bit of a bite to it, so I turned my heater on first thing, flipping it up a few notches so it would really warm the car up. Then I and pulled into a nearby driveway so I could get myself turned around and headed in the direction I needed.

  Of course, the moment I turned off Rayla’s cobblestone street, I hit morning traffic as everyone and their mother tried to get to work. I flipped through stations on the radio, searching for something that was actually playing music rather than just another talk show. Fletcher’s car had Bluetooth, but my vehicle was older and more than a little shabby, without any of the bells and whistles.

  I inched through the city toward Harbour Road, the narrow streets and old-fashioned design making it all the more difficult to crawl forward. At least I wouldn’t have to make any turns across traffic. I finished the toast Rayla had given me and sipped at the coffee, the hot, bitter liquid working on waking me up quicker than tea would, though I didn’t exactly like the taste.

  Eventually, I turned onto Harbour Road and parked as close as I could to the Royal Bank of Scotland, which wasn’t actually all that close since both sides of the streets were already packed with cars, and there was police tape cordoning off the building.

  The wind played with the ends of my overcoat as I got out of my car, and though the day was still crisp and cool, there were already a few patches of sunlight pushing through the cloud cover overhead. I made my way directly to the police tape, pushing through the crowd that had gathered to check out the commotion. DC Owens, a young and very eager constable, met me at the blue and white line and held it up so I could duck under, the civilians around me murmuring curiously as they studied me.

  “Morning, Owens. Is Fletcher already here?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. She’s inside,” Owens answered promptly.

  “Fantastic. I’ll see myself in. Try to get some of these people to disperse, yeah?”

  “I’m working on it, sir,” Owens said, sounding a little put out that he hadn’t succeeded yet.

  I clapped him on the shoulder before I headed toward the open doors of the bank. There were a couple of other constables keeping an eye on the crowd outside, and I could see more people moving about within the building, including Fletcher’s tall, leather-clad form. Dunnel wasn’t there, but as Chief Inspector, he didn’t usually show up to crime scenes unless they were particularly strange or public.

  “Fletcher,” I called as I stepped through the doors.

  She turned around and waved, thanking the officer she’d been speaking with before crossing the lobby floor to join me. She’d cut her dark hair recently, and it fell to her shoulders when it wasn’t gathered up into a tiny ponytail or bun, as it was today, revealing the V of her undercut and the many hoops and studs she wore threaded through one ear. Her leather jacket was dark red this morning, matching her boots and offset by the black she wore underneath. Fletcher was, in her own words, a slave to the aesthetic.

  “Is someone doing a bit of a walk of shame?” Fletcher asked as she flicked her eyes over my day-old clothes, a small grin lifting her lips.

  “Whatever,” I said. “You’re just jealous that I’m getting some right now, and you’re not.”

  “Who says I’m not?” Fletcher asked, and I gave her a flat look. Fletcher was very open about her love life, so I always knew exactly what was going on with her. Hence, I knew that she was going through a bit of a dry spell at the moment.

  “Fine,” Fletcher said, flicking a piece of hair back from her face. “Maybe I am jealous. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to make fun of you for it.”

  “Why do I keep you around again?” I wondered.

  “Because Dunnel makes you,” Fletcher replied with a bright grin, planting her hands on her hips for a second before she relaxed and drew a more serious expression up onto her face. “Do you want to see what we’ve got?”

  “Please,” I said, and Fletcher motioned for me to follow her deeper into the bank.

  “The night guard called it in,” she explained, gesturing to a squat, broad-faced man currently speaking with one of our constables, looking distinctly nervous as he fiddled with the cuffs of his uniform sleeves.

  “Have you spoken with him yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you.”

  “Let’s have a chat with him, then,” I said, altering our course so we could head over to the man. He glanced away from Fawkes, the constable speaking with him, as we approached, completely missing the question Fawkes had just asked him.

  “We’ll take it from here,” I said to Fawkes just as the constable prepared to ask his question again.

  “Sure thing,” Fawkes agreed, melting seamlessly into the background so we would have the security guard’s full attention.

  His nametag read “Smyth,” and his face was pale beneath his thick moustache and curly hair, though there were still two splotches of colour on his cheeks, probably conjured up by the stress of the morning.

  “Hello,” I began, giving him a polite, professional nod. “I’m DCI MacBain, and this is my partner, DI Fletcher. I understand you called the incident in?”

  Incident wasn’t really the right word for a murder and bank robbery, but I figured it was the best term to keep Smyth calm since he looked about ready to bolt through the doors, constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing in all directions like some threat might suddenly appear. I supposed it was a natural reaction. He’d dropped the ball, after all. Not only had the bank been robbed on his watch, but a man was dead, too, and he’d have to live with that on his conscience for the rest of his life.

  Smyth nodded a couple of times, wringing his hands together, and he glanced down the corridor that led deeper into the bank, where the body no doubt lay.

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” I suggested gently.

  Smyth swallowed heavily, his entire throat bobbing. “I was doing my rounds, like normal, when something hit me in the back of the head. I never even saw it coming. Next thing I knew, I was waking up, and it was almost morning, and I rushed to check on the vault, and that’s when I found Mr Crane just… just lying there, not moving. I hadn’t even realised that he’d stayed late. I thought I was the only one in the building. There was so much blood…”

  Smyth trailed off, his eyes too wide for his face and his lips pressed so tightly together that they turned white.

  “And the vault?” Fletcher prompted.

  “The door was open, and the money was gone,” Smyth replied after he took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “How much?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. A lot.”

  “Can we take a look at the security footage?” I said. No
doubt Lindsey Adams, our head forensic pathologist, needed a little more time to go over the body and make her initial assessment, and if Smyth really had been whacked in the head, we needed to get him to a hospital as soon as possible, so I figured we’d get everything we needed out of him before going to look at the rest of the scene.

  Smyth nodded, though anxiety crawled across his face for a second before he turned to lead us to a door on the right side of the room, a large ring of keys in his hand. He unlocked the door and let us into the tiny room beyond. Most of the desk space was taken up by a set of security monitors that all buzzed with police activity. One of the cameras showed Adams crouched over a body on the ground, but the quality of the image wasn’t good enough to make out any real details, and Adams was positioned such that her torso hid the dead man’s face.

  “Back them up to closing time?” I requested, and Smyth obligingly rewound the tape until six o’clock when the staff finished up for the night. Then he backed into the corner of the room so Fletcher and I could have a clear and unobstructed view of the screens. Smyth hunched in on himself like some kind of hulking statue, falling still and silent as he stared down at the ground.

  I sat in the chair before the desk while Fletcher leaned over me. I hit fast forward once to skip through the early hours of the evening and night, my eyes locked on the screens while I waited for something to change.

  “Do you have a schematic of the building?” Fletcher asked Smyth.

  He nodded, seeming startled by the question, and dug into the locked filing cabinet beside him until he found a printout of the building’s blueprints. He passed the folded paper over to Fletcher, who shook it out so she could take a look at it. I paused the video and swivelled my chair so that I could study the schematic as well, trying my best to visualize the 2-D lines in three dimensions.

  “Are there any blind spots we should know about?” I asked Smyth.

  “A couple. Hang on.”

  Smyth hunted around for a pen while Fletcher held the map up against the wall behind me, forcing me to spin my chair even further to keep it in view. Smyth studied the image for a minute before he circled several spots, marking out the blind spots. They were mostly in the corners or centred around the bathrooms. A couple of them probably could have hidden a person, I’d have to send Fletcher out to stand in one of them to check, but to get from one patch of cover to the next, an intruder would still have to pass beneath the watchful eye of at least one of the cameras.