Dead And Buried

Twelve

Detective Chief Inspector David ‘Bandit’ Mackenzie loved his family. He enjoyed all the free time he spent with Cheryl and the kids, but this weekend, well, it was something special: it was one that might never have been. A few days before, he had been involved in a shoot-out: he had escaped with his life, but still he felt as if he had left something behind him.

He hugged his beer to his chest as he looked out of the window of his new home. It was not his first of the day. Three Miller Draft empties were sitting in a line in the kitchen, waiting for their friend to join them. He was unaware of his wife’s presence behind him, until she slipped her arms round his waist.

‘Hey, big boy,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘are you all right?’

He jumped involuntarily at her touch. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, tipping his head back with the bottle. ‘Why do you ask that?’ He tried to sound casual, but it came out as defensive.

‘Because it’s not even five o’clock yet, and you’re halfway through a six-pack. Because the football results are on telly and you’re not paying the slightest attention.’

‘I’m fine,’ he repeated. ‘It’s been a hard week, that’s all.’

‘It finished all right, though: a nice transfer to a CID section, away from all the druggies and the pushers. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘Sure, you’re right, it is.’ He turned in her arms to face her, switching on the old Bandit smile as he did so. ‘Okay, how do you want to spend this promising Saturday night? Will we get a baby-sitter and go paint the town? Or will we get a takeaway and settle for a night of passion?’

‘One more beer and that’s off the agenda for sure. As it happens, the baby-sitter’s booked, and we’ve got a table for two at the Spanish restaurant near the parliament building.’

‘Olé! Will there be dancing? Do they have flamenco?’

‘I don’t imagine so.’ Cheryl Mackenzie laughed. She plucked the unfinished bottle from her husband’s hand, and headed towards the kitchen. She was passing the phone when it rang. She answered the call, listened, then turned, her hand cupping the mouthpiece. ‘It’s someone called DS Wilding. He says he needs to speak to you.’

Bandit scowled. ‘He’s one of the people at Leith,’ he explained. ‘We met very briefly yesterday. Sorry, love; if this is his way of impressing the new boss he’s got it badly wrong.’ He took the handset from her. ‘Ray, what’s the panic?’

‘No panic, sir,’ Wilding replied calmly, ‘but something you need to know. I’m at a crime scene.’

‘Where?’

‘A house in Trinity: twenty-two Swansea Street.’

‘Where’s that? I’m new to this patch, remember.’

‘Up from the waterfront, near the Starbank pub.’

‘What is it? A break-in?’ asked Mackenzie, irritably.

‘Do me a favour, sir. I wouldn’t have called you on your day off about a simple house-breaking. This is a homicide.’

‘Shit. Who’s the victim?’

‘His name’s Gareth Starr: he has to be the unluckiest man in town. Yesterday someone tried to rob him, but failed. Today somebody’s tried to bump him off, and succeeded.’

‘Definitely a homicide? Not just a suspicious death?’

The chief inspector thought he heard his sergeant chuckle. ‘Oh, no, sir; all the suspicions are confirmed on this one.’

‘I suppose I’d better turn out. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ As he spoke, he saw Cheryl, standing in the kitchen, waving the beer bottle. ‘Tell you what, Ray,’ he added quickly, ‘have a car pick me up, so I don’t waste any time finding the place.’