Where the Bodies are Buried (39 page)

Catherine couldn’t say what he saw in there, but some kind of understanding definitely passed between them.

‘I take it he’s still around, then,’ Fallan said to Catherine, ‘still peddling his salt-of-the-earth old-school Glesca polis
shtick. Or is he retired?’

‘CID retire at fifty-five,’ Abercorn said. ‘He’s almost there. Can you think why he’d want you dead?’

‘If it’s him, then I
know
why he wants me dead. But as far as I can see,’ Fallan said, turning back to face Catherine, ‘you still haven’t shown me
yours.’

Catherine paused for a moment, then gave him a solemn nod, her way of conveying that she wasn’t playing any games.

‘Okay, here’s the Cliff’s Notes,’ she began. ‘Last Thursday morning, Bob Cairns asked me to come and meet him because he had
information regarding the murder of a mid-level drug dealer named James McDiarmid. While Laura and I were with him, he got
a call, ostensibly from a source named Tommy Miller, regarding a potential bomb threat that resulted in the evacuation of
Central station. No bomb was found. Instead, we recovered what appeared to be a very large consignment of heroin intended
for Frankie Callahan. At the same time, Liam Whitaker, a thief and friend of Tommy Miller, took advantage of the evacuation
to steal a hundred and fifty grand’s worth of watches from the Coruscate jewellery shop inside the station.

‘We subsequently discovered that the “heroin” was worthless dust, but Whitaker witnessed two other cops enter the station
first, and leave with a rucksack that we now believe to have contained the drugs Frankie Callahan was waiting for. By the
end of that day, Callahan, his fixer Gary Fleeting and the source Tommy Miller were all dead, the scene set up to look like
the two drug dealers had been gunned down while torturing the source. Miller wasn’t the source, though: the call came from
someone else, whom we can reasonably assume to be one of the police officers Whitaker saw removing the real heroin.’

‘What was the information?’ Fallan asked. ‘The reason Cairns needed you to meet him?’

‘He’d heard that Paddy Steel’s people were out looking for a black Transit van in connection with Jai McDiarmid’s death. He
also said he had another source who reckoned the van was dark blue.’

‘Forensics subsequently found McDiarmid’s blood in one of Frankie Callahan’s dark blue catering supply vans,’ said Abercorn.
‘It was parked outside the depot where Callahan, Fleeting and Miller were found dead.’

‘And prior to that,’ Fallan said, ‘did you have any other corroboration of that information?’

‘No,’ Catherine realised. ‘Now I come to think of it, Cairns was the only source of that information. Though if it was a fit-up,
how would they get McDiarmid’s blood inside one of Callahan’s vans?’

‘Easy,’ said Fallan. ‘If they’re the ones who killed McDiarmid.’

‘But why would they …’ she began to ask, before she saw
precisely
why. ‘A phoney tit-for-tat. They murder McDiarmid, knowing Fleeting will be in the frame because McDiarmid was sleeping with
Fleeting’s girlfriend. Then there’s a motive for Paddy Steel to have killed Fleeting and Callahan.’

‘And the reason they need them dead is so they’re not around to ask what happened to all their heroin,’ suggested Abercorn.
‘That question was supposed to be covered – or at least shrouded in mystery – by the discovery of the decoy suitcase. Which
was why Miller had to die too: he knew there was a real shipment coming into the station that day. And why Cairns went overboard
on the search for Whitaker: he wasn’t supposed to be there.’

‘The big question is who
else
was there,’ Catherine told Fallan. ‘Who were these other cops? We came to you because we know Cairns worked with your father.
We want to know who might be in on this, and how
far up it might go. Cairns’ mate from the Drug Squad, Fletcher, is top of our list, as they’ve worked together off and on
for as long as anybody can remember, although not back in Gallowhaugh. We know your dad also worked with Bill Raeside and
Graeme Sunderland. Those names ring any bells?’

Fallan nodded solemnly, sitting back in his chair. There was a lot going on behind his eyes, only a fraction of which she
expected him to share.

‘Bill Raeside – or Wullie, as he was in those days – was the shitebag’s shitebag. Born to do as he’s told. Never a trigger
man, but he’d be happy to reap the benefits and provide logistical support.’

‘Raeside was the first officer on the scene when McDiarmid’s body was discovered,’ Laura recalled.

‘More than that,’ Catherine admitted. ‘He made sure Locust weren’t informed, and specifically suggested to Sunderland that
I be given the case.’

‘What’s Locust?’ asked Jasmine.

‘My department,’ explained Abercorn. ‘Organised Crime Special Task Force. Why would he specifically suggest you take the case?’

Catherine fumed as she admitted that once again she had been played.

‘They must have guessed that an apparent motive concerning petty gangland feuding would suit my sensibilities.’

She felt Fallan’s gaze.

‘They thought you wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ he said, and clearly understood why.

Oh Moira Clark, where are you now? Catherine thought.

‘A suggestion to which Graeme Sunderland duly assented,’ said Abercorn. ‘How did
he
fit in, way back when?’

Fallan was silent for a while, and before he finally spoke, he gave out a very quiet sigh through his nostrils, one you really
had to be listening for to notice. He looked conflicted, and Catherine suspected that whatever he said next wouldn’t be the
whole truth.

‘Sunderland won’t be part of this,’ he said eventually. He spoke with conviction, but his evident determination to close the
issue invited all the more scrutiny.

‘How do you know?’

He paused again, and Catherine imagined she could see him blanking out the lines of a document in his mind before handing
it over.

‘My dad, Cairns and Raeside were a tight wee crew. Worked together for years. Sunderland was the new kid, dumped into Gallowhaugh
on his first CID posting. He would have been exposed to some of what they got up to, but only to see if he had a taste for
it. He wouldn’t have been allowed to know about the heavy graft; just petty stuff he was in no position to do anything about.
He didn’t have a taste for it, though. He got out again fast. He’s the one I blame least.’

‘Blame least for what?’ asked Laura.

‘For turning a blind eye to what they could plainly see in my house. My father was a brutal man, a very brutal man. You don’t
become what I did if you’re brought up by Ned Flanders. They all pretended they never saw what was going on, even when it
was staring them in the face, because they were too scared to confront him. I was too scared to stand up to him as well, but
I was a kid. They were supposed to be upholding the law, protecting the vulnerable. Some fucking detectives. Sunderland was
the only one who at least seemed ashamed of his cowardice. He’s not your man, believe me. Too young, for one thing.’

‘Too young for what?’ Catherine asked.

‘You said Cairns is pushing retirement. Raeside must be too. I think you’re looking for someone else who isn’t going to be
punching in for much longer.’

‘Fletcher again,’ Catherine said, Abercorn returning her gaze by way of concurrence.

‘How much heroin are we talking about?’ Fallan asked. ‘Realistically.’

‘Three million wholesale,’ said Abercorn. ‘That’s what Frankie Callahan was paying per shipment, according to our sources.
Pure and uncut.’

‘Sounds to me like they’ve cooked up a wee scheme to boost their pensions,’ Fallan suggested.

Catherine recalled her words to Abercorn a week ago, about Cairns and Fletch.

There’s a lot of cops just like them. They’ve done their thirty, they’re approaching retirement and they’re skint despite
working hard all their lives, yet every day they see these chancers driving about in their pimped four-by-fours, spending
money like water.

She felt like the walls of the room were expanding away from her, once again the world’s dimensions altering so that things
around her no longer quite fitted the way they used to. Nothing was certain any more. Clark’s Law was in tatters, the good
guys were very, very bad
guys, and here she was on the same side as not only her bête noire from Locust, but one of the few people on this earth towards
whom she harboured genuinely murderous feelings.

It seemed, under the circumstances, way past time that he showed her his.

‘You said someone tried to kill you on Wednesday, down south?’ she asked.

Jasmine nodded eagerly; Fallan just stared.

‘Bob Cairns threw one of the very few sickies of his entire police career on Wednesday. As you put it, Mr Fallan, I’m disinclined
to believe these incidents are unrelated. This thing at Central station took planning. It took care, patience and above all,
discretion. So with all that on his plate, on the day before the big operation, why would Bob Cairns be driving down to Northumberland
in the hope of killing you?’

‘Because it’s no use having a share in a three-mill drug score if you’re going to spend the rest of your life in jail.’

Fallan looked to the girl and gave her a gesture as though to say ‘the floor is yours’.

Catherine felt an anxious pang of anticipation, wondering whether this ceding of control meant he was coming through with
the quid pro quo.

The girl said her piece.

Was he ever.

Ruaraidh Wilson stood with his back to them, staring out on to St Vincent Street through his office’s imposing triptych of
towering windows. Catherine was reminded of his conduct in court, turning his back thus while he mentally composed a rebuttal
in that most unusual of circumstances: a question or an answer he was not expecting.

He rested his hands on the ledge, bowing his head, the action slightly hitching the tails of his jacket. Catherine had thought
it was something he only wore in court for show, and was a little surprised to find him thus attired even in his chambers,
like an actor permanently in character. He was someone who had affected a middle-aged look since his twenties, a man out of
time, if not a little out of fashion. He was not flamboyant or ostentatiously eccentric in his appearance; merely a little
odd. He was a man
apart
from fashion, an intellectual who simply wouldn’t waste his time or his brainpower engaging in such superficialities. Or
maybe his brainpower had engaged sufficiently to deduce that this might be a wise and imposing impression to give.

Usually, when he turned around, you could tell he had a response he was pleased with because there was an eager energy about
his features, even if part of that response would involve pretending to look sorrowful, angry or confused. When he turned
around right then, he merely looked old.

Old and suddenly very, very tired.

‘It’s about his son,’ Catherine had said to Wilson’s secretary. She had felt a little guilty about this, aware of the awful
conclusion he would reach when informed that there were police here with this message. It was necessary, however. They needed
to get instant access and couldn’t give him time to make any phone calls. Jim Sharp had called to make an appointment and
hadn’t been seen since.

Her conscience was slightly assuaged by the thought that being forced to confront his worst fear would make it a little easier
for Wilson to deal with merely the runner-up.

Wilson didn’t appear as though he was handling that one very well either.

He had looked dismayed at the sight of five people piling into his private office when he was perhaps expecting two, but that
also was necessary. Catherine wanted to instantly convey that no matter his power, skill and connections, this was not something
he would be able to contain.

It had also been made pretty clear to her that Fallan and the girl were not prepared to sit this one out, and given what they
had uncovered, she felt they had earned their ticket in.

Wilson leaned against the windowsill, as though the four feet to his desk and the ample mahogany breadth of it were not a
comfortable enough distance from his besieging visitors.

‘I didn’t know at the time,’ he said.

‘We’re hearing that a lot,’ said Fallan.

‘Sincerely, I didn’t.’ He put a hand to his face, three fingers delicately cradling his forehead. ‘I used to worry myself
sick that this day would come, but as the years went by, I thought about it less and less until I’d become almost convinced
it never would. I used to have half an idea of what I’d say to him, but now I just don’t.’

Wilson’s eyes filled, rheumy and bloodshot.

‘He’s still my son,’ he said, his face contorting in the spasms of a sob.

Catherine gave him a moment but resisted offering a sympathetic face.

‘We need to know what happened,’ she said firmly.

Wilson composed himself, taking out a white cloth handkerchief and wiping his face.

‘I did it for Wilma,’ he said. ‘My late wife. It was all she wanted, a child. When you’re younger, it’s not something you
worry about
not
having; you just assume it’ll happen. Christ, the lengths you go to in order to make sure it
doesn’t
happen …’

He shook his head wryly.

‘It just didn’t happen for her. For us. She had several miscarriages, and the doctors said each one made it less likely she’d
carry to term in the future. They said it was getting dangerous for her, in fact. She became very depressed, very withdrawn.
We decided, of course, that we’d apply to adopt, but we were on a long waiting list.’

He closed his eyes and turned his head, as though trying to shut out a memory, or maybe something that lay in his future.

‘Fletcher McDade was a friend of mine. We played golf together. I’d told him about Wilma.’

‘McDade?’ said Jasmine suddenly. ‘He’s Fletcher? He’s Cairns’ pal?’

‘Since they were cadets at Tulliallan, as far as I know,’ Catherine replied. ‘What about him?’