Snared (27 page)

Chapter Eighty-Two

C
onsidine kept the Python right up the tail of the lorry as they skirted round the Kingsway, the old ring road now deeply ensconced in the heart of Dundee. “I hate it when lorries overtake. Slows the rest of us down.”

“It happens, Stephen. We’re not exactly in a hurry.”

“Really? Why are your hands drumming on the dashboard?”

Vicky stopped, unaware she’d been doing it. “Right.”

“Who knows what’s going to happen next, Sarge? Sticking
people
in cages is one thing, but they’ve chopped someone’s nose off and killed someone now.”

“We don’t know if it was them who killed Micky Scott.”

“All the same, they might blow that place up.” He turned off the dual carriageway, straight into an industrial estate.

Vicky glanced back over the road at the cinema, the one she’d taken Bella to a few times. “You think that’s likely?”

“I’m just saying, that’s all. If that place gets blown up, we need to cover our arses.”

“We are, Stephen. Believe me, we are.”

Considine pulled up on the double yellows in front of the Fixit headquarters, a galvanised steel construction just off Dunsinane Road. “This it here?”

“Think so.”

A dark SUV in the car park held Considine’s interest. “Porsche Cayenne. Nice. Know how much that’s worth?”

“No.”

“Best part of fifty grand.”

“Great. Come on.” Vicky got out and entered the reception, holding up her warrant card to the middle-aged woman at the desk. “We’re looking for a Willis Stewart.”

The receptionist kept staring at the card. “I’ll just see if he’s available.” She faced away from them and spoke quietly into a
telephone
extension.

Vicky took in the office space, the sort of grey that had been popular for a week or two in the mid-eighties and had largely died out, save for a few isolated pockets.

The receptionist smiled. “Mr Stewart can see you now. I’ll just show you through.”

Vicky followed her into the depths of the building. At the end of the long corridor, light streamed through a clear glass door.
Willis Stewart, Group CEO
was etched on it, aligned to the right.

The receptionist knocked before popping her head round the door. “That’s the police for you now, sir.”

“Send them in.” Stewart’s voice was deep and loud. Skinny, glasses, wearing the sort of suit a Savile Row tailor would charge a couple of grand for. His watch looked heavier than he did.

She showed him her warrant card before pocketing it and
taking
a seat in front of his desk. “It’s quite some building you’
ve got.”

Stewart shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. We’re rapidly
expanding
just now. The store I believe you’ve just left is our flagship. It used to be a B&Q but I took over the lease when they opened their Warehouse on the Kingsway. Over the last few years, I’ve managed to swing deals for a few of their leases in Edinburgh, Dunfermline and Aberdeen.”

Vicky nodded, clocking the moody photos of stores similar to the one they’d just visited — night shots with cars and lights
blurring
in front of the buildings. “You’re growing a rival chain?”

“I’m trying to.” Stewart smiled. “How can I help?”

“I understand you’re aware of what happened at your ‘flagshi
p store’?”

“Ah, the letter.” Stewart swung round in his chair to look out of the window running the full width of the room. “I plan to igno
re it.”

“I’d advise against doing that, sir.”

“Why?”

Vicky produced a copy of the note from Hunter’s Farm. “This was obtained on Monday at a battery hen farm near Carnoustie. The family had been trapped inside a cage overnight. The farmer has lost most of his nose.”

“So?”

Vicky felt the throb in her neck. “So, Mr Stewart, this threat needs to be taken seriously.”

Stewart leaned over his desk. “Sergeant, my family has a long history of falconry. I refuse to listen to some cranks and throw it all away just like that.” He clicked his fingers.

“We’re not asking for you to cease indefinitely. You can surely stop the display for a week or so, can’t you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“
No
.”

Vicky got to her feet, the nerve thumping. Arrest him. She clenched her jaw. “I’m sorry you see it that way, Mr Stewart. I’ll have to escalate this matter to my superior officers. Your actions are potentially endangering members of the public.”

“And they’re potentially
not
. As a corporate policy, we do
not
negotiate with terrorists.” Stewart looked at a laptop on his desk. “Shut the door behind you, please.”

Vicky almost knocked it off its hinges as they left.

Chapter Eighty-Three

C
onsidine pulled into the space next to Vicky’s car and turned off the engine. West Bell Street station loomed over them. “That trip was completely pointless.”

“Agreed. I’m going to have to speak to Forrester about escalating
it.”

“Reckon he’ll go for it?”

“Here’s hoping.” Vicky shrugged. “I’d half a mind to arrest him there and then.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Way things’ve been going today, I’d probably get my ovaries kicked for it.”

Considine laughed. “It’s a load of nonsense, this case.”

“In what way?”

“Animal cruelty. Complete bollocks.”

Vicky glowered at him. “People are being kidnapped, disfigured and possibly murdered, Stephen.”

“I know. Don’t get me wrong — I want to catch these fuckers. I just don’t get why they’re doing it. Animals are just food.”

“Just food?”

Considine patted the steering wheel. “We haven’t exactly needed carthorses since the invention of the internal combustion engine, have we?”

The nerve in Vicky’s neck tightened its knot. “Don’t you want the animal in your sandwich to have had a nice life?”

“It’s just a beast.”

“Aren’t we beasts?”

“We’re better than animals, Sarge. Come on.”

“What about that taxi driver you went all hero cop on?”

“Now he
was
an animal. Nothing more than a beast. The way you’re talking, sounds like you might be involved.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“Christ, Sarge, I’m just pulling your leg.” Considine waved at a passing car as it headed for a vacant space. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need the alibis on the Muirheads verified, okay?”

“Sure thing. Who do I get to accompany me?”

“Whoever’s least busy.” Vicky got out and crossed the car park, her pace quick enough to keep Considine at a distance. Her nerve was agony — ibuprofen level.

Sergeant Tommy Davies nodded recognition as she passed through reception. “Afternoon. Seen Charlie?”

“Who’s Charlie?” Vicky swiped through the security door.

“Never mind.”

Vicky headed down the hallway.

MacDonald thumped a vending machine halfway down the corridor, his fingers rattling the change door. He locked eyes with her. “You got any idea how to fix this? I just want a can of juice.”

“What’re you after?” Vicky stepped forward to let Considine pass behind them, a smirk on his face.

MacDonald pointed at a can at a diagonal on the second
bottom
row. “Red Bull.”

Vicky checked the usual pitfalls — bags of crisps blocking the fall of a can, an errant empty space in the shelf. Nothing. She looked around. The corridor was now empty. “You didn’t see this.” She gripped the edges of the machine and gave it a shake, the metal
rattling
. The can popped down into the funnel in the middle. “There you go.”

“Cheers.” MacDonald knelt down to retrieve it, bending at the knees. He cracked it open as he rose and took a slurp. “How did you manage that?”

“When you drink as much Diet Coke as I do, you get used to this machine.” She tapped at it with her foot then started off down the corridor.

MacDonald held open the door to the stairwell, grinning over the lid of the small can as he sipped. “How did it go out at that DIY store?”

Vicky sighed as she climbed the stairs. “It’s the sort of nightmare I want to burden on Forrester.”

“That bad?”

“Oh aye.” Vicky pushed open the door and entered their office space.

Forrester was halfway across the quiet room, carrying the jug of his coffee machine, water swilling over the sides. He clenched his jaw. “Afternoon.”

“You got a minute, sir?”

“Aye, go on.”

MacDonald crumpled his can. “Need me there, sir?”

“Aye, the more the merrier.” Forrester dumped the jug on the table by his coffee machine and started fiddling with his filter papers. “How did it go, Vicky?”

“Got nowhere with it, sir.” Vicky rested against the back of the chair she usually sat in, fingers tight against the fabric. “I had to visit the CEO.”

Forrester let his head drop. “The CEO?”

“Aye. The manager wasn’t going to do anything about it. Company policy, apparently. So I headed up to head office just by
Camperdown
. He’s a belligerent sod, sir.”

“Great.” Forrester tipped ground coffee into the filter paper. “Did you get him to budge?”

“Afraid not. I need you to escalate it, sir. We need someone senior to go there and have a word with him. Stewart’s being
pigheaded
— some nonsense about falconry being in his family since the
Domesday
Book, if they even had that up here. At the moment, they’ve received a warning. We don’t want it to become something worse.”

“Right, right. I’ll speak to Raven about it. Helen Queensberry loves this sort of thing.”

“That sounds like the right course of action. If someone
detonates
a bomb near the shop, who knows who it could harm?”

Forrester started pouring water into the machine. “They’ve not mentioned a bomb, though, have they?”

Vicky got the note out of her bag and held it up. “Not on this, sir. Just an ‘or else’.”

“Still, it’s a valid point.” Forrester stared into space for a few seconds before looking back at MacDonald. “Got something for you, Mac. It’s probably nothing, but young Summers found an old case going back to last summer. Might be linked, might not.”

“What is it?”

“Some farmer up Edzell way got stuck in a snare last summer. Our lot could’ve been at it a while.”

“Think this could link all of the cases together?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll get out there, sir.” MacDonald pocketed his notebook and got to his feet. He nodded at Vicky, then left.

Forrester stared at the closing door and then glanced at Vicky. “He doesn’t seem too bad, you know?”

“He seems okay.” Vicky tried to click her jaw to ease the pressure on her neck. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Raven’s been badgering me. ‘There’s a whole heap of paperwork needed here, David. Where’s yours?’ I know Mac’s on top of his because I’ve seen it.”

“And you’re saying I’m not on top of mine?”

“I’m saying nothing of the sort, Vicky.” Forrester went over to the spitting coffee machine, poured a fresh cup from the steaming jug. “I need you to use that giant brain of yours to think who the hell is behind all of this.”

Chapter Eighty-Four

C
onsidine joined Vicky at the window. “That’s me just back from Mr Muirhead’s place of work, Sarge.”

Vicky put two capsules in her hand, swallowing them back with a glug of Diet Coke. She took in the evening skyline, streetlights and taillights pointing west to the sun setting just over Perth and its surrounding hills. “Did you get anything?”

“Nothing that made me think they’re behind it.”

“What about anything that made you think they’re not?”

“Well, the boy was there. His secretary showed me his diary.” He held up a sheet of prints from a calendar. “I was a bit of an arse and got to see the CCTV — all time-stamped, of course.”

“Get it in the case file.”

“Will do.” Considine leaned back against the glass, arms folded. “What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking. Got a briefing with Forrester and MacDonald in five minutes.”

“This how a DS works?”

“It is, yes.”

Considine pointed back into the office space. “What’s that wanker’s name again?”

Vicky followed his gesture and groaned. “DS Johnny Laing. And you’re right — he is a wanker. Never play pool with him.” She smiled at Laing’s approach. “Johnny Laing, we meet again.”

“We do, indeed.” Laing nodded. “You guys seen Big Time Charlie? Supposed to have a meeting with him.”

Vicky frowned. “Excuse me?”

“New boy who’s looking into the links between the crimes?”

“DS MacDonald?”

Laing shrugged. “Aye, that’s just what we call him. That boy fancies himself.”

“I like it.” Vicky laughed. “Last I heard, he was out in rural Angus. What were you wanting to speak to him about?”

“This sighting he was looking at in Montrose.”

“Thought he was in Edzell?”

“Aye, well, Raven got him to head over to Montrose after.
Supposed
to be updating me as soon as he’s back.”

“Right. I’ll tell him.”

“Cheers.” Laing sighed as he stared out of the window.

Vicky grinned. “Take it the dream team are getting nowhere with this?”

“Kind of. Other than the vaguest of all sightings, we’ve got nothing. Forensics are taking forever to wave their magic wand. Still got a couple of people to speak to, mind.” Laing looked around the room. “Being stuck here isn’t helping.”

“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

“You do that.” Laing nodded at Considine before sauntering off.

Vicky smirked. “Big Time Charlie?”

“Cracking, eh?” Considine drummed at the windowsill. “Boy’s a bit of a wanker.”

“Keep that to yourself.” Vicky spotted Forrester crossing the office space. He pointed at her then his office. “Duty calls.” She crossed the office, shutting the door behind her.

Forrester hung his jacket on his coat rack and flicked on the coffee machine before slumping in his seat. “What a bloody day.”

Vicky rested her elbows on the chair’s armrests. “Having fun, sir?”

“Something like that.” Forrester switched his focus to the door. “Evening, Mac.”

MacDonald sat next to Vicky, crossing his ankles and slouching back. “Sorry I’m late, sir. DCI Raven had me out in Montrose.”

“So I gather.”

“Just got collared by that Laing guy. What a charmer.”

“He’s the least worst, trust me.” Forrester let out a breath. His eyes danced over to the coffee machine in the corner before
settling
on Vicky. “Anyway, DI Greig and I have just had an enjoyable hour going through our strategy for the cases with Raven and
Superintendent
Pask. They don’t seem to be getting anywhere out in Montrose.”

MacDonald scowled. “More chance of getting blood out of a stone than info out of that lot. Thick as thieves.”

Vicky frowned at him. “Have they really got nothing?”

MacDonald shrugged. “Nothing more than the news conference fallout.”

“The post mortem on Micky Scott’s being done this evening. They’ll hopefully get a report back first thing tomorrow morning.” Forrester checked the inside of his mug. “Look, Mac, just play a waiting game with this, okay? We’ve been told to focus on this, so we’ll focus on this.”

MacDonald folded his arms. “Fine.”

Forrester got up and messed about with the coffee machine, shaking some part of it, hitting another. “You sure you don’t want one, Mac?”

“I’ve had plenty today, sir.”

Forrester went to his machine and poured a coffee before returning to his seat. “Can never get enough of this stuff.”

The bitter smell of the coffee made Vicky’s stomach churn. She nodded at MacDonald. “How did it go in Edzell?”

“This Cameron Lethnot character got stuck in one of his own snare traps. Showed us his injury — a deep gash just below his left knee. Still got the marks.”

“Out in the woods?”

“Right by his house. Someone chucked a stone through the front window. He gave chase but got trapped in the snare. Didn’t see it. Reckons he was lying there for hours until his wife got back from her sister’s.”

Forrester blew on his coffee before taking a sip and grimacing. “Any conclusions?”

“Got another one, sir. Saw a black car, obviously didn’t get a good look at it. Reckons it could’ve been a Lexus or a Mercedes. Maybe a BMW or an Audi. Three people in it — two in the front, one in the back. Man and a woman. Wasn’t sure who was driving.”

Forrester took a slurp then dumped the mug on the desk.
Coffee
swilled over the edge. “Sounds like our lot.”

“Plus, he received a note.”

“Shite.”

MacDonald held up an evidence bag. There was a note inside, weather-beaten and creased. “
Snares are death. You were lucky.”

Vicky snatched it off him.
“
Where was it?”

“Lying on the mat by his front door. Reckons it must’ve been put through just before they tanned his window in. Didn’t notice it when he ran after them. Wife spotted it the next morning, kept it in a book.”

Forrester finished his coffee. “And he never gave it to us?”

“Checked with the investigating officers.” MacDonald stared down at his notebook, flicking through the pages. “Reckon the questioning was done in the hospital, sir. Didn’t hear from him again, didn’t find any leads.”

“So, has he put snares out?”

“Aye. Reckons they were ‘fully compliant’. Used them for the deer eating his lettuces in the summer.”

Vicky licked her dry lips, her throat suddenly tight. She coughed. “Was this in the papers?”

MacDonald nodded. “Someone wrote a letter to
The Courier
a while back. Lethnot sent one back and they exchanged a few mor
e. Why?”

Vicky took a deep breath and set the note on the desk. “This is related, right? The note, the car with three people in it. Also, t
his Ca
meron Lethnot guy was in the papers.” She nodded at
Forrester
. “Fits like a glove, sir.”

“When was this?”

MacDonald nodded. “Nineteenth of February this year.”

“So, three months after Irene Henderson.” Forrester went back over to the coffee machine and set his mug in front of it. “So if it was them, it shows they were trialling their approach for a few months. And they’re getting worse — snaring someone is worse than trapping someone in a bin, right?”

“Agreed.” Vicky twisted round to look at Forrester. “So they chucked a stone through his window and relied on him, what, running into a snare they’d placed in his drive? Seems a bit
hopeful
.”

“Agreed. The other attacks have relied less on luck and a lot more on planning.” Forrester finished refilling his mug and took a slurp of coffee, eyes on MacDonald. “Did you speak to that woman in Montrose?”

“Nothing much to report. Got a description of a woman walking down the country lane last night.” MacDonald shrugged. “Probably someone out walking.”

“That doesn’t add up for me.” Vicky scowled. “Why walk there? It’s at least three or four miles from Montrose train station to Micky Scott’s farm. Why not just drive?”

Forrester lifted his mug up for a drink. Stopped just short of his mouth. “You gave a press conference asking for a black car.” He took a slurp. “We’ve asked for information about their car, okay? They’ll be shit-scared of driving it around now, that’s for sure.”

Vicky nodded. “Has anything else come up in the search for the car?”

“Mac?”

“Nothing at all so far.”

Vicky sighed. “Maybe it is just someone out walking.”

“In Montrose? In April? I’m starting to think it’s our lot.”
Forrester
grinned. “Anything else, Mac?”

“Nothing back on the media search and Zoë’s drawn a blank so far.”

“Anything else at all?”

“Street teams have nothing.” MacDonald rubbed his chin. “Marianne Smith’s the only one we’ve got anything on and she’s not speaking.”

“Raven was asking what searching we’ve done for this car.”

“Had Kirk looking into it, sir.” MacDonald rummaged through
his navy notebook. “Got a list of everyone with a black Lexus,
Mercedes
, Audi or BMW saloon in Tayside, cross-referenced against being in the vicinity of Dryburgh Industrial Estate between delivery of those cages and us rescuing Rachel and Paul.”

“I’m going to regret asking this, but can you speak to all of them?”

“Over a hundred cars, sir. OT bill will be colossal”

“I know, but it needs to be done.” Forrester swigged at his
coffee
. “What about the surveillance on the Muirheads?”

“What about them? Both gone to work, sir. That’s it.”

Forrester peered over the edge of his mug as he drank. “We’re to knock that on the head, by the way.”

Vicky frowned. “Really?”

Forrester nodded. “Pask’s orders. I tried to argue the case but I’m not exactly popular.”

“Why?”

“Cost grounds, mostly. We can use Kirk and Buchan to speak to these car owners.”

MacDonald shook his head, scowling. “Nothing to do with the threats Fergus Duncan’s been making?”

“Not completely. He’d rather spend the money tracking down the cars.”

“Bloody hell.” MacDonald leaned forward. “What if this DIY store warning comes to something and we’ve not kept an eye on them? Their alibis haven’t been remotely credible.”

“I’ve raised it with the Super, Mac. That’s all I can do. My hands are tied.”

Vicky massaged her neck — it felt like the ibuprofen was doing some good. “Did you speak to Raven about getting Fixit to stop the birds display?”

“I raised it just then.” Forrester glanced away. “Raven’s going to speak to ACC Queensberry. Again, my hands are tied.”

Vicky shook her head. “Do they actually want us to solve this case?”

“We’ve got very few leads, Vicky.”

“We don’t seem to want to try, though.”

Forrester pushed his mug to the far side of the desk. “You’ve both done really well on this, okay? Pask might think I’m a fanny but he knows how good my team is.”

Vicky got to her feet, fists clenched, nerve jangling a bit more. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.” She shut the door hard behind her before walking over to her desk and stuffing her possessions into her bag.

Karen took off her headphones. “You heading off?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck tonight.”

“The only thing that’ll touch my bad mood will be at least three bottles of wine.”

“Text me later, okay?”

“Maybe.” Vicky left her to it. A glass or two, that’d have to do. “Shit, shit, shit.” She had Robert coming round. She stopped by the door and texted him.
Sorry — running late. Can you get some wine? White or rose. X

MacDonald appeared beside her. “What’s going on here, Vicky?”

She snapped her phone shut, realising she was blushing. “You mean with Forrester and Raven?”

“Aye?”

“Politics, I guess. I’ve half a mind to go and slash Fergus
Duncan’s
tyres.”

“Not a bad idea. Halfers on the knife?” MacDonald scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Fancy a pint?”

Vicky smiled, feeling sliced in two. “Maybe tomorrow.”

MacDonald made his hand into a gun, shooting it at her.
“
Definitely
tomorrow.”