Flesh Wounds (41 page)

Catherine had been peremptorily summoned, but the DCC was mistaken if he thought she was coming up there for a smacked bottom and a telling off. He was the one who had a lot of explaining to do. She wasn’t holding all the cards, but she had a pretty good bluffing hand, particularly given his knowledge of what might be out there.

She just had to hold her nerve. Same as any interview: you keep the suspect talking and eventually he’ll give himself away.

She knocked on the door and was greeted by a gruff ‘Come in.’

Catherine stepped inside, leaving the door open to imply that she didn’t anticipate being here long, a butter-wouldn’t-melt gambit.

Drummond stood behind his desk with his arms folded. She was struck by the contrast with Abercorn in her office, back straight, head up, taking his licks. Drummond’s head was forward, subtly aggressive, spider to her fly. He had come a long way from the ‘big lanky boy’ Brenda Sheehan had described.

‘Close the door,’ he told her. ‘Sit.’

She complied, keeping her expression neutral, allowing a flicker of confusion to play across her face. She wasn’t doing any of his work for him.

‘You’ve released Glen Fallan,’ he stated, his voice welling up with suppressed rage. He actually had to swallow before he could go on. ‘Would you care to explain why?’

‘The PF’s office has dropped the charges.’

His response was staccato, jaws clenched. Only a few words at a time could escape his bared teeth.

‘And why. In the name of fuck. Would they. Fucking. Do that?’

Catherine thought of the breezy and solicitous manner with which he had greeted her the last time, his considered and precise delivery, those press-conference answers. Despite Sunderland not telling him what it was regarding, he had known it would be about Julie Muir. He’d been ready and prepared: even asked her why she hadn’t looked up the case files.

Played, sir.

But contrast all of that with the way he had responded when she told him Brenda Sheehan was dead, probably murdered. He hadn’t known that in advance, and it left him genuinely spooked. She was dealing with a frightened man, which meant she might be able to reach out to him.

It also meant he could be all the more desperate and all the more dangerous.

‘Because Fallan didn’t do it, sir. It wasn’t Fallan’s vehicle at the murder scene: it was a similar model bearing duplicate plates. Fallan’s vehicle is a left-hand drive. We re-interviewed the witnesses and they all confirmed that the gunman got out of the right-hand side of the Land Rover, something backed up by CCTV images. It became clear to us that he had been set up.’

‘Fallan was apprehended by armed officers and had a pistol in his possession,’ Drummond argued.

‘But not the murder weapon.’

‘He and Fullerton had a history. The way I heard it, Fullerton tortured him and left him for dead.’

‘We have subsequently learned, from Fullerton’s wife, that the story you’re referring to was just gangland whispers. This case isn’t about Glen Fallan, sir. It’s about Julie Muir.’

Any further protests he wished to make about Fallan’s release evaporated with the mention of this name. The rage subsided too, revealing itself to have been nothing but bluster. He was no longer on such solid ground, and less confident about the wisdom of going on the offensive.

He stared, waiting to hear what she had to say, ready to assess the ramifications.

‘Brenda Sheehan initially told the investigation that her brother was home with her on the night of the murder. She later retracted this alibi, leaving poor Teddy to twist in the wind. We have reason to believe Brenda Sheehan told Stevie Fullerton she was threatened and intimidated into changing her story.’

Drummond gave her a dubious look, as if to say ‘is that all you’ve got?’, but he was over-heavy on the scorn. She could tell he was worried.

‘Brenda Sheehan was a hopeless alcoholic who by her own admission was drunk on the night in question,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t intimidated any more than you’d pressure any witness into backing down from a lie.’

‘I think telling her she was going to jail for shoplifting if she stood firm, but that all charges would be dropped if she sang your tune, constitutes something more than mere pressure, sir.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’re believing that garbage? Brenda Sheehan is the very definition of an unreliable witness. Her testimony would have been as credible in court then as her latter-day revisionism sounds now, especially as it’s bloody obvious she was being coached all the way by Fullerton.’

Catherine gave it a moment, waiting to observe whether he’d realise what he’d just said. She could see the first glimmer of it, the frantic internal reading back of the transcript.

‘So you’ve seen the video, sir?’ she asked quietly.

Drummond stood with his eyes wide, nostrils flaring involuntarily. He seemed paralysed, no longer merely standing behind his desk but trapped there.

‘A man called Gordon Ewart told me that he had been eliminated from my investigation, apparently before I had even learned his name or the fact that he’d been Julie Muir’s boyfriend at the time of her death. This part had been kept out of the court case with the blessing of the investigation. Mr Ewart gave the impression that he had very senior police connections.’

She was expecting anger, even hate, but saw something soulless instead, like he was barely present any more.

‘Gordon Ewart’s number was deleted from the subscriber check I ordered on Stevie Fullerton’s phone records. So was his mother’s and, very significantly, so was yours. Why was Stevie Fullerton calling you, sir?’

Drummond didn’t respond. He continued to stare, but his eyes seemed less intent, as though he was looking past her, or unable to focus.

‘Who is Colin Morrison, sir?’

Drummond sat down behind his desk and sighed. There was something discomfortingly languid about his movement, resigned and yet somehow automated. The energy and fortitude with which he normally carried himself was gone, and it was as though some emergency back-up system was keeping him in motion.

He rolled open a drawer in his desk and reached down into it. Still saying nothing, he placed a brown folder on to the worktop, flipped it open and turned it around.

Inside was a single sheet of paper and a sealed envelope. On the sheet of paper was a drawing of the symbol that had been daubed on Fullerton’s head, the symbol that had become a gangland meme. The symbol whose origin nobody seemed to know.

Drummond pushed the envelope towards her and tapped it twice. She could see her name printed on the front. His face remained stony, his manner still strangely distant.

Catherine opened the envelope and slid out a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it, revealing it to be a photocopy of an A5-sized handwritten page, the shadows at its edge indicating it to be from a notebook. It was a ledger, listing names, addresses, dates and amounts. About two-thirds of the way up she saw the name McLeod next to the address of the farm where she grew up. The date was burned into her mind.

Above this line, all of the entries ended with the word
PAID
. The most recent of these had been lodged the day before. There had been no collections after that.

Catherine felt the room swim.

‘Who gave you this?’ she asked, as a lifetime’s fears began rattling the gates.

Drummond shook his head in a way that allowed her no hope that he could be prevailed upon to answer.

‘The individual who gave it to me said that you would understand its significance. He wished to stress that he understands its significance also, and that right now he is alone in this regard. This will change considerably in the event that you should prove uncooperative.’

He sounded absent, and she worked out what was going on with his manner, his body language. The revelations of what she knew had moved things out of his control. He could no longer contain the situation, and was now reduced to being the vessel for someone else’s will.

Somebody had the goods on him, like they had the goods on her.

‘You will cease all unauthorised inquiries pertaining to the murder of Julie Muir, which I would remind you was resolved to the satisfaction of this department and of the law courts twenty-five years ago.

‘You will also stand down the investigation into the death of Brenda Sheehan. The autopsy report shows that the deceased aspirated on her own vomit following a resumption of the binge-drinking habits that blighted much of her life. The obvious conclusion is accidental death, and this should not be affected by the understandable dismay of those whose disappointment at Brenda’s return to alcoholism may have led them towards hysterical feats of speculation and projection.’

He kept talking, sounding like he was reading from a prepared statement, in an anaemic imitation of his ebullient press-conference idiom. This stuff almost sounded like it had been lawyered.

‘You will continue to diligently investigate the murder of Stephen Fullerton, pursuing the existing, solid lines of inquiry centred around Fullerton’s former associate, Glen Fallan. This has been an extremely difficult undertaking, complicated by the reluctance of certain criminal elements to cooperate with the investigation, and under these circumstances your failure to ultimately resolve the case would be understandable. It may, however, lead you to reconsider your own position.’

She felt like she was sinking into the carpet and the walls were looming over her. His words faded into the background as her sense of self began to dilute but some part of her mind was still functioning as stenographer.

He was telling her he wanted Fallan for the Fullerton killing, regardless of all she had learned. Acknowledging that this was a tough sell, an acceptable second would be for the case to remain unsolved and go cold due to her incompetence, over which she would resign.

‘Who is doing this?’ she asked him, fighting tears.

He didn’t answer, didn’t even shake his head, didn’t look her in the eye.

She felt her stomach lurch as she saw the BMW approach, hurtling along the single track that led from the main road with a haste that was reckless to the point of nihilistic. It was how Squirrelly always drove that thing: showy, self-important and loud. Too late, she realised how easy it might have been to just roll the tractor into the lane as he took that last blind bend at the usual speed: a tragic accident, a harsh price but a lesson to all those exuberant urban drivers about the dangers of those seemingly empty country roads.

A different lesson would have to do.

She steadied herself, pictured it in her head once more. She felt sick all of a sudden, now that the time had come. It would be so much easier just to hand over the envelope, forget about this. Don’t let him into the house, wasn’t that what her mum had commanded? She pictured that instead, her meekly saying nothing, simply pressing the manila parcel stuffed with bank notes into Cadaver’s hand as he stood on the doorstep, watching him walk away, climb back into his vehicle and drive off. Vividly, she flashed forward to how that would feel, and knew that it would be far worse than this, far worse than any fear or apprehension or self-doubt.

She was doing this.

She walked briskly to the kitchen, where she pressed play on the radio-cassette and turned up the volume. The chorus of ‘Send My Heart’ by The Adventures all but covered the sound of the reverberation of the BMW’s engine against the dairy shed. The doorbell rang a few moments later. She ignored it, firing up a gas burner beneath the kettle. Another ring followed, the angry extended double-push almost funny in its impotence, like Morse code for ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

She ignored that too, and composed herself to appear busy and distracted when inevitably they arrived at the back door. She took her place at the sink and began to peel a potato. Her hands were trembling.

The back door opened without even a knock. Cadaver entered with his best hard-ticket scowl on his face, by way of registering his displeasure that he had needed to come looking for an answer rather than be received at the front door. Catherine feigned fright and surprise at the intrusion, pretending she had been too caught up in her task to notice his approach. It was something of a method performance, as she was already wan and tremulous in anticipation of his arrival and what might lie beyond it.

‘Get your da,’ Cadaver ordered, the words issuing from between lips that barely moved. No niceties, no faux politeness; there was a violence in his issue, an intent to unsettle and intimidate.

‘Pardon?’ she replied, instinctively bristling at his manner despite her fear.

‘I says get your da,’ he growled. ‘Move.’

‘That’s no’ nice, you,’ Squirrelly interjected. ‘We’d like to speak to your daddy please,’ he said to Catherine with a patronising smirk.

‘He’s not here,’ she told them, putting down the potato peeler and reaching for a dish towel to dry her hands. ‘Nobody is.’

Cadaver took a moment to process this.

‘That’s all right,’ he replied. ‘We’ll just take a wee pew here and wait for him. Come on,’ he said to Squirrelly. ‘The lassie’s getting a brew on. Two sugar and milk in mine.’

They both helped themselves to a seat.

‘Where is he?’ Cadaver asked. ‘Will he be long?’

‘A wee while, yes,’ she said tersely. ‘He’s in hospital. He collapsed yesterday. Doctors say it was exhaustion. Personally, I think he’s been suffering from parasites.’

She felt her voice waver as she spoke this last, her indignation driving the thought but her fear sapping its vocal conviction.

‘Aye, boo hoo,’ Cadaver responded. ‘Where’s the fuckin’ money?’

‘Here, come on you,’ Squirrelly reprimanded, though he was giggling as he did so. He turned to Catherine. ‘Sorry about the language, doll. That’s pure out of order, so it is. And you about to make the pair of us a cuppa tea as well.’

He was smiling, trying to look friendly, but in it Catherine felt an even greater sense of humiliation. It was worse than being merely patronised: he was underlining her powerlessness, rubbing it in as he smirked and giggled and sniffed.