Snow Storm

30

Davie had begun a solid campaign of phoning after the second day. Nothing was happening. Andy could be huffy, sure, everyone knew that. He liked to hold the odd grudge, like over the time they’d hidden that old shed of a car he ran around in behind the silage pit and he hadn’t looked there because it was impossible to actually drive into the concrete hole. He hadn’t thought of what they’d actually done, which was to lift it over on the end of the loader. Ok, so they might have damaged it slightly, running it through with the forks, but it hadn’t lifted the first time when they’d tried to slip them under. A few holes gave it character anyway.

Andy didn’t get that though, something to do with taking Emma out for the first time that night, so even when they fessed up he hadn’t spoken to him or Colin for three days. Come to think of it, the Micra had smelt of silage for a while after that.

It didn’t look like he was in a cream puff this time though. Davie called in to see him three times in the course of the day but not a sign. He’d eventually run into old Jimmy, the part time worker that lived at the end of the farm road. Jimmy was a pretty laid back character, like the types his father liked to describe when he was three sheets to the wind and got all emotional about the fact there weren’t any characters around anymore. All the old crocs got like that, thinking the world was going to hell in a hand basket in the way the generation before and the generation before that probably had too.

Jimmy shook his head regarding the inside of his flat cap as though it were the font of all knowledge, which it maybe was. “I’ve no seen hide nor hair of him son. There’s no been any sign of the lights anyway. The sister’s back at vet school and faither’s away his holidays.”

“Aye, ah ken that,” Davie replied, feeling a pang of what he was worried might be guilt, an emotion he found inconvenient at the best of times.

“Well, he’ll no be happy if he gets back and the young yin hasnae pulled his weight.”

Davie nodded his agreement as he placed a foot up on the gate and lit a fag. The pair of them stared off into the frozen stock yard.

“What you been up to?” Jimmy asked, knowing full well that all was not as it seemed.

“Nothing too bad.”

“Yir an awfa boy tae be yin boy,” the old man said, shaking his head as though he had seen it all before and doubtless would again.

They stood for a while longer, contemplating nothing very much before Davie made his excuses, got back in the Peugeot and headed back to the ranch.

He could only think of one other possibility and that was one he didn’t want to acknowledge just yet. He had to clear out his head in the time honoured fashion before he could do that.

After a couple of Stellas and half a packet of Benson and Hedges he got the bit between his teeth and dialled the number. She seemed brighter than the last time they’d spoken, but that was only until she heard his name. The cloud had quickly spread over the conversation at that point. Her hackles were well and truly up after those two syllables.

He’d never totally gotten on with Andy’s girlfriend, and that was before they’d split up. Now he was most definitely persona non grata, the devil incarnate. No, she hadn’t seen him and wouldn’t, if she happened to have the misfortune to lay eyes on the philandering bastard, approach him for fear of what she might actually do. He didn’t like to ask what she might do but imagined it probably involved sharp objects and his friend’s eyes or worse. He didn’t want to picture worse, so he thanked her for her time, which going on the snorting sound she made, was likely taken as sarcasm, and said goodbye. He wasn’t sure why but she seemed to blame him somehow. He’d been blamed by a few ex-girlfriends in his time, but then that was what guys did, blamed any kind of wild irrational or inexcusable behaviour they could on a best mate. Better to be innocent and led astray than an actual bastard.

This all seemed to be leading down one road. If it was even possible.

Burke called by the flat on the way back to the station. He had a fair idea Rachel might have something to stem the flow of the bleeding, which stubbornly refused to let up.

“Oh I have,” she said with a knowing look. “Some advice. Go to A and E.”

“I haven’t got time,” he pleaded.

“No,” was all she said, before digging out a collection of cotton wool, sticking plasters and a bottle of Dettol.

He gritted his teeth as she applied an antiseptic soaked pad to the gaping wound on his hand and the pain shot up to his elbow. By rights, he felt it ought to have cauterised the wound, given the searing nature of the sting. No matter. It would offer some kind of protection for the time being.

He turned to thank her and noticed the bags piled high in the bedroom door.

“It’s what you wanted isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, knowing that it was the only answer. “It’s not…”

“No, I know,” she said. It never is. “You’ve got to do what needs to be done.”

“But…”

“I’ve seen the letters James.”

“Letters?”

“Did you think they’d only sent one? Oh no. There have been a few now,” she said, smiling coldly.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Do you need a lift to the station?” he asked, searching for something, anything to say.

“There’s a taxi on the way,” she said, folding her arms tight across the top of her substantial bump, as though bracing against a cold wind. “We’ll talk later.”

He made his way back to the car where Jones was waiting, arguing with someone on the phone by the looks of it. Was this a common theme in their line?

“Other half?” he asked, reading her pensive expression.

“For now,” came the response.

He dumped a bag at her feet. “There’s food in there if you’re desperate,” he said feeling guilty that he should allow anyone else to eat the pasta his wife had made for him only a couple of days before, when everything had seemed so much more normal.

Jones must have got the hint as she seemed to steer around his dinner, settling instead on another package in the bag. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling out a rolled up newspaper. It was bound in brown paper and hand addressed with the requisite amount of stamps on the other side.

“Local rag from back home. My gran sends it to me once a week, thinks it keeps me grounded up here in the big smoke.”

“It’s good to stay grounded I suppose.”

On arrival at the station it turned out “Your Mother” had secured legal representation in the jelly like form of Dougie Jamieson, the duty solicitor who was on call to the criminals of the parish at the most inconvenient of hours. Burke often wondered what Jamieson had done to deserve such a fate, something sinister? Or perhaps some kind of faux pas at a law society dinner that now saw him reduced to the rank of social leper for the rest of his days. Or maybe it was just the fact that he was a fat tub of lard with chronic BO, a suit that was so cheap it crackled with static when he walked and all the social skills of a sewer rat.

His attacker was technically called Stuart McColm, according to his birth certificate and ID. Although there being no law of deed poll in Scotland he could be addressed as whatever he liked.

Interview room two was cold and Burke thought it was best to leave the lardy lawyer and the teenage cat burglar to relax and acclimatise to the conditions for a while. The cold would doubtless make them both that bit more jumpy, though Jamieson was considerably better insulated than the sylph like McColm. Having checked his record, the kid had form; a caution for possession of cannabis and a fine for breach of the peace a year before. Nothing serious on the surface but reading a bit further he discovered the breach of the peace was related to his occupation of the time, that of rent boy and suspected drug pusher.

Burke cut straight to the chase. “Who was with you?” he demanded, only to be rebuffed with an uncooperative response. No one liked a grass, especially those of a more professional criminal persuasion. “I suppose they had the laptop,” he continued.

“I don’t know fuck all about the laptop,” the boy answered wrinkling his brow and folding his arms, succeeding only in looking more teenage.

“But there was a laptop. You don’t deny that,”

“No, well maybe, so what. I’m telling you nothing piggy.”

“There’s no need to be like that,” Jones cut in as Burke tried his best to look offended. “You sliced Inspector Burke’s hand open. It’s doubtful he’ll ever be able to knit again.”

McColm looked confused for a second and then let out a snigger.

“He’s been pretty understanding about this all Stuart. It isn’t like we want much in return.”

Stuart looked at his fingernails which were in need of a good clean, before shifting his gaze to Jones who gave him her best I’m a reasonable woman look back. “What’s gonna happen to me?” he asked in a voice that had a pitch to match his whingey demeanour.

His ginger hair dyed blonde and his tango tan did nothing to detract from the effect. It was no wonder he’d felt the need to wear a mask. He might have glowed in the dark otherwise. Burke got the sense he hadn’t been forgiven for the blow to the side of the head. He was an authority figure, one in a long line this kid had undoubtedly come up against in his nineteen years, starting with the drunken waster father who had beaten him and his mother black and blue on a regular basis before buggering off and leaving them to fend for themselves in Sighthill. Sure, there were decent members of society everywhere but there were forgotten people out there too, people that didn’t play by the same rules as the general population, and it was hard to know right from wrong when you’d been beaten regardless of what you did from a young age.

Jones had a way of softening up witnesses. He had to hand it to her. She worked them like some kind of prize fighter, softening them up with a few body blows before continuing with the full on cranial assault just to finish the job. Timing was everything. She had him talking now, about how he’d left home at a young age, wasn’t much worse than the flat in Sighthill anyway freedom to be who you really were, that was the thing.

“It isn’t you we’re after, is it? That’s what you’ve got to remember,” she said.

He nodded his head.

“I mean you didn’t kill Oleg Karpov did you?”

He shook his head.

“For the benefit of the tape please Stuart.”

The boy grunted in the negative, before looking like he was going to cry.

“You were there though. And my guess is, you know who did.”

His head dropped onto the table and he cradled it in his arms, letting out a sigh that seemed to go on for longer than lung capacity should have allowed. “I was there,” he said, an air of desperation in his voice, “but I really don’t know who did it.”

“What did you see?”

“Everything, but nothing that can help,” he said rubbing his hair nervously before covering his face with his elbows. “They were wearing masks.”

“Like the kind of masks you were wearing tonight?”

“Yes. No. It wasn’t us, I swear.” He looked pleadingly into her eyes.

“Who is us Stuart?”

“Me and a friend. It’s not important. He knows nothing I don’t.”

“Why don’t you tell us and we can interview him? Then at least we can find out for ourselves. It’s important we find out what happened.” She paused for a second. “Why did you go back for the laptop?”

“I don’t know.”

“But your friend did? Does that tell us something about how much more he knew than you? Or maybe you thought the CCTV footage on a laptop shows more than you can have out there in the big wide world. Maybe there’s something there to incriminate you.”

“No!” he shouted. “Neither of us knows more than the other did. We were in this together. We just wanted the laptop.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“I don’t even know right. That’s the thing. He didn’t say. We just knew he was working for the Russian.”

“The Russian?” Both the detectives’ ears pricked up at this.

Burke who had begun to daydream a little along with the soundtrack was now fully focussed on the ginger youth. “What Russian Stuart?”

“I don’t know that. I just know the lawyer said it would be bad for us if we didn’t get it.”

“What lawyer?” Jones asked, watching Jamieson who had been on the verge of sleeping come back to life.

“Posh wanker, expensive suit, called himself John Smith or Joe Bloggs or something stupid like that.”

Giles was not a man accustomed to being taken or indeed held hostage. Was that what he was? They’d knocked him around a bit. He’d complained, told them to watch the suit, given them as good as he got, verbally if not physically. The smack on the side of the head had put a stop to that. Fucking barbarians, they should be in a salt mine somewhere east of the back end of snow covered fucking nowhere, or better still in a shallow grave, anywhere.

He was also quite unaccustomed to losing control of his bowels, not that it seemed to matter now that he was in a distinctly agricultural looking building. Was this how long it took to reduce everyone to their lowest ebb? Were they all animals not so very deep down after all? This must be what the inevitable decline was like, sitting in the dark with shitty trousers and the urge to cry, full circle right back to where you started.

Oh how the mighty had fallen. Now all he was concerned with was basic survival, never mind which Rolex to wear to which event or which tie to wear on any given day. Social niceties were out the window. Could he bargain his way out of this one, grovel maybe? He doubted his client would care much for that. He seemed a man of principle, fucked up and misguided principle, but principle nonetheless. His moral compass was pointing south or something.

What did it matter? He would try anything. He should be angry. Who the hell had the right to put him in a position like this anyway?

The kid was there he was sure, behind him in the dark somewhere. Now the boot was on the other foot. He didn’t feel guilty. You paid your money, you took your chance. That was what his father always said. You couldn’t be expected to look out for everyone else. It was a jungle out there, more so than he’d ever imagined after all.

There must be a way out of this was the thought that kept bouncing round his head like some desperate mantra he couldn’t or wouldn’t shift. It was a survival instinct but also one born of habit. He’d never been in this situation, never felt close to the end and so he wasn’t equipped to deal with it. His brain could not recognise or process it.

He talked himself up. He could do this. He could hustle his way out, like he’d seen his father do all his life. Though he’d denied it many times, he was sure the apple never fell that far from the tree. He must have it in him.

The kid behind him snuffled, presumably snoring in some way. Just as well considering what was in store for him. He heard the footsteps outside, felt the grumbling roar of the great steel door.

The client stood amongst his mercenaries. His face was empty. The bolt cutters in his left hand said more than any facial expression, body language or words ever could. Giles felt his confidence drain. He was no longer a hustler, probably never was. He knew that now.

They were assembled at the rugby ground as usual, for the twice weekly training version of kicking the shit out of each other.

Davie hadn’t been there in months. He was usually in some kind of pride related dilemma he realised. It did seem to be his Achilles heel. He watched from a distance at first, not that that made him seem any less stupid. The car park was up on the hill above the pitch and could be seen by anyone with functioning eyes and it wasn’t like he could be here for any other reason than wanting to talk to his former team mates.

He waited some more though, inspecting his feet, like he was a kid again and his parents had ordered him to apologise to someone for some perceived misdemeanour, which seemed to happen a lot.

Eventually he realised the training session was finishing up and made his approach. Graeme and big Al were the first ones to spot him.

“Training must be over lads. There’s the fat lady and I think she’s about to sing,” Graeme shouted.

“I know for a fact you’ve woken up with worse,” Davie replied.

“He has that,” Al agreed. “What brings you here anyway?”

“Oh nothing much. Just wondered if anyone fancied a beer.”

“Sounds good to me,” Al replied, some of the others nodding their approval along with him. “I take it you’re buying?”

They headed into Wigtown and made for the Grapes, thinking the pool table might be quiet. He got in the first round in order to buy some good will and waited until they were on drink number four to get down to business.

“You got something on your mind?” Al asked, as he tried to figure out the best way to broach the subject and gave himself away.

“Kind of, aye,” he replied. “Does your dad still do those stag parties?”

Campbell appeared in the car park, after Jones had finished her fag and headed inside, leaving Burke to stand in the icy December air, trying to inhale as much as possible in a crude token attempt to cool down his cardiovascular system.

“Better watch that one boss, she’ll have your job next,” he said, seemingly watching Jones walk away.

“Really?” was all Burke could bring himself to say in response.

“Oh yeah. Ambitious one that one,” he confirmed.

“I’m wondering at what point that became a bad thing,” Burke replied, “Or is that just something you reserve for female officers?”

“You ok boss?”

“Oh I’m grand. Are you ok?”

“Not too bad. Could always be better, but that’s just the way it goes.”

“Is it?” Burke asked, fixing the Detective Sergeant with glare.

“Ehm, yeah,” Campbell said, looking a little unsure of himself.

“So what have you got to say then?”

“Sorry?”

“Well you’ve always got something to say for yourself haven’t you?”

“Sir?”

“Out with it then?”

“Well, I was just going to say that a source of mine mentioned something about the drug scene at the moment and a certain level of fear regarding the possibility of losing their head, shall we say.”

“Source.” Burke began laughing. “Source.”

Campbell smiled. “Wasn’t really sure if it was worth mentioning or not to be honest.

“And by source I take it to mean dealer, I imagine.”

“We have sources all over sir. You know that.”

“Yes but we don’t buy their products do we. That’s the thing. Because it doesn’t really make us any good at our jobs or anything else for that matter does it. In fact it tends to mess up our lives doesn’t it?”

Campbell shrugged. “You should probably think about the scene you’re in danger of causing right now,” he said, with a wink.

Burke shot forward, shoving his chest and slamming him into the wall, then followed through with an uppercut just below the rib cage. He pinned him by the throat with his right forearm as his body went limp at the knees. “You should think more about the consequences of your actions.”

Campbell laughed. “Says you.”

Burke tightened his grip. “I’ll kill you.”

Campbell gave him a knowing look. “That seems unlikely.”

Burke punched him again with his free hand, before releasing his grip. He moved away, starting to turn but saw the smirking face and couldn’t resist another blow, side on this time, directly at Campbell’s jaw, and another and another, until everything became a blur.

When he became aware of his surroundings Campbell was gone.