The Dark Heart, page 6
She felt the heat rising from her. ‘Fine,’ she said, and hung up, exhaling hard.
She took another sip of her cooling, bitter coffee, and sighed, feeling desperate for a cigarette but resisting the urge. Six weeks since her last, and she had no intention of yielding, but the constantly unreliable Clem made her anxious, and anxiety made her want a fag. She ran her hand through her short, choppy hair, her hand not quite trembling, but not quite still, either. She dialled the number for Billy. Nothing. Not even a ring tone. Just dead. ‘Shit,’ she muttered. Where the hell was he?
‘Want a top-up, love?’ said the smiling barista.
She just shook her head and began to idly fiddle with her phone. Juliet navigated to the BBC News app, and a headline made her skin begin to tingle and face flush.
A photo of the Union Chain Bridge, with a headline in bold letters.
Identity of Bridge Hanging Victim Released
Police confirm they are treating the death as a murder and are appealing for witnesses.
Juliet gasped as she looked down at the small photo on the screen, the breath almost knocked out of her.
It was Billy Mackee.
The Billy Mackee that she had been with just a few weeks ago, whom she was waiting to meet, right now.
The Billy Mackee whom she had introduced to the cops on the anti-terror team, and to the slightly mysterious Finlay in a grimy greasy spoon in Melrose.
The same Billy she’d assured would be safe and could trust her.
She felt the blood drain from her face, and her lips went numb. She dialled Clem again, but it went straight to voicemail. ‘Clem, call me back, urgent,’ she said, her voice crackling.
Juliet’s brain felt like a cog had been removed, and she felt suddenly dizzy and sick at the same time. They’d killed Billy, because of her.
Then it hit her. These bastards were evil. Would they have tortured him? Had he told them about her? She began to shake. She had to get out of here, she had to get away.
Grabbing her bag, she shot to her feet and made for the exit, feeling her heart beating in her chest and sweat breaking out along her spine, as she emerged into the sunshine. She looked left and right, but saw nothing other than a few pedestrians on the street, mostly with their heads bowed looking at their phones. Exhaling with relief, she crossed the road and began the short walk to Canongate Car Park, just a couple of minutes away.
She walked at a pace just below a run along Exchange Street towards the High Street, her eyes roving as she broke out into a jog. She halted as she reached the junction, the heavy traffic causing her to halt. Feeling a prickling between her shoulder blades, she turned her head as far as she could, looking behind her. Her heart leapt as she saw him. She didn’t recognise him, but she still saw him, closing in on her, just twenty or thirty metres behind.
A small, wiry man, dressed casually, striding purposefully towards her, the sun reflecting off his shaved scalp and mirrored shades. Panic consumed her as she saw the hard look on his angular face. He was focused, and he was looking straight at her. He was coming for her, she knew it.
Without another thought she stepped into the road, her desire to be far away in the safety of her car overwhelming her road sense.
Tyres screeched as a car skidded, but she didn’t stop to look. She broke into a run, crossed the High Street and into Market Place, the breath escaping her in rasps, desperation overcoming the pain in her legs as she sprinted up the narrow street towards the car park.
She slowed, and looked over her shoulder again. ‘No, no, no,’ she gasped, as she saw him there, thirty metres behind her, his pace not increased, just determined and steady, his head down, and arms swinging in time with his steps, the sun dancing on his mirrored sunglasses.
She sped up, tears spilling down her cheeks, her chest heaving as she turned into the car park. She sprinted along to where her car was parked at the far end of the space in the shade of the trees. She was scrabbling for her keys in her bag as she reached her ancient Ford Fiesta, blipping the car locks open. She turned and looked behind her again, heart pounding in her chest. She stood, her hand resting on top of the car.
He was gone. The car park was totally empty. She exhaled, relief flooding through her body.
‘Bastards,’ she sighed, almost sick with relief as she scanned the car park for her follower. Nothing. Just an empty space with a few cars dotted about. She exhaled, and her hand found the door handle.
She needed to speak to Finlay, urgently. She pulled out her phone, and dialled, listening to the ring tone in her ear. ‘Come on, Fin,’ she said, her breathing rapid and shallow.
There was a sudden scrape behind her, and a shadow flickered as a face appeared reflected in the car’s window. Her heart froze just at the point that the world turned black owing to the massive, unimaginably devastating impact that smashed into the back of her skull. She fell to the scrappy tarmac, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. Her vision was fading, the blackness creeping in. Her follower was there, sneering, as he raised the small wooden bat, the type she used to use when playing rounders at school. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came. When the bat landed again, there was nothing.
11
‘I don’t like this, Ross. I don’t like it one little bit. The CT briefings I read were clear that the main line of enquiry was Islamic terror in the guise of Sharia 4 UK?’
Ross nodded. ‘That’s the received wisdom, boss, but Barney’s contact at MI5 is adamant that the murdered Billy Mackee was one of his, and he was certain that it was National Force.’
‘Wasn’t the forensics on the device clear that it was Islamic?’
‘Apparently so, but then …’ Ross left the sentence hanging.
Macdonald exhaled, his eyes worried. ‘I’ve been briefed on the Billy Mackee murder – is it right he was tortured prior to his death?’
‘Seems so.’
‘This is really serious. We’re talking about a group that killed two in a racist terrorist bomb almost a year ago, that the National Counter Terror teams seem to be struggling with. A murder that’s currently unsolved. Do we think that this guy Fin Smith is genuine?’ Chief Constable Chris Macdonald eyed Ross across his battlefield-sized desk.
‘Barney swears he is, and much as it pains me to say it, the old buffer isn’t one to exaggerate or to engage in speculation. Much as he annoys me, when he says something is important, we all tend to listen.’
‘I’m minded to agree. He’s been a real asset for us, despite his unconventional lifestyle. Is he still living in his campervan?’
Ross grinned. ‘Aye, well, since you kicked him out of your grace and favour flat.’ Barney had spent some time in the Chief Constable’s unused police-provided flat, but had been forced to vacate when the auditors asked what exactly a freelance contractor was doing living rent-free in a valuable piece of Edinburgh real estate.
‘Is he over that?’
‘Like everything, boss. He didn’t really give a shit. He just shrugged, and hooked up his van to the police power supply, and put the kettle on.’
Macdonald snorted in amusement. ‘I’ll sneak him back in there when winter hits. So, we are taking what Smith says as genuine?’
‘I’d say we have to. Fin Smith is apparently an expert agent handler of many years standing. Some of it doesn’t makes sense, though.’
‘How so?’
‘Dent and his crappy bunch of Newcastle football casuals with a habit of shouting at immigrants in hotels moving to blowing up a leading journalist and an unfortunate passer-by, and then torturing and killing an MI5 asset in their organisation. I think we’d call that an unexpected acceleration of offending, boss.’ Ross’s face was grave.
‘That’s an understatement and a half.’
‘Who’s picked up Billy Mackee’s murder?’
Macdonald sighed. ‘Laura McKechnie has taken the case, but it looks like it’s going to be a tough one. Do you want to link in with her?’
‘I think that we need to firm up what Barney’s pal has to say, first, or, you know—’
Macdonald sadly shook his head. ‘I hate to say it, but I’m minded to agree.’
‘I take it you’re not going to approach anyone from MI5 or the police Counter Terror team just yet?’
‘What, you think I shouldn’t?’
‘Not until we know what we’re dealing with. It’s possible someone is leaking info, that’s for sure. Maybe Barney could give us a steer about who to talk to at MI5. He worked with them long enough, and he’s a good judge of character.’
‘Last time I was with you all, you called him a useless fud.’
‘Just joshing. He’s a solid man, but I don’t think it’s wise to approach until we have a clearer picture.’
Macdonald nodded, gravely. ‘So, a more detailed debrief of Fin Smith, and then we can take something solid to the MIT. Do we think he’ll cooperate with us? I know what spooks can be like.’
‘I can’t see why not. He came to Barney because he knew he was working counter corruption. I’ll get it set up, get Max and Janie on him, and see where we are. Norma has already begun to work her magic. It doesn’t look great, Billy Mackee getting strung up on the same bloody day that Dent is let out of the jail.’
Macdonald nodded again, and paused, his eyes pensive and thoughtful. ‘I want this sorted, Ross. An agent at the heart of an embryonic, but wildly accelerating terror movement being tortured and murdered in the most brutal and emblematic manner isn’t the endgame.’
Ross shook his head, his eyes mirthless. ‘No way. It’s just the beginning.’
12
Max, Janie and Barney were all crowded around Norma’s monitors as Ross burst into the office.
‘Jesus, smells like a hoer’s handbag in here, what the fuck have you been spraying?’
‘Better than the smell of shite, though? Building services have fixed the leak, and Barney had a nice can of air-freshener in his van,’ said Norma, peering out from behind her monitors.
‘So why does he always smell of Old Holborn, then?’
‘I don’t use it much. I pinched it from the Chief’s flat, as it sometimes gets a bit musty in’t van.’
Ross scowled. ‘Not surprised it’s foosty with you living in it. Anyway, enough fucking levity. We have a working office again, thanks to my diplomacy, but you lot need to piss off. Chief wants you to go and meet your spook pal, Barney, for a full debrief. Is he up for it?’
Barney nodded. ‘Said he would.’
‘Also, do you have names of any managers you’d trust at MI5? It’s going to be hard to not include them if this develops.’
‘I have a couple I trust, but maybe let’s see what Fin has to say first.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘Stirling. Big place on the outskirts, being a posh Scot, who sounds like he’s English, he has a family pile. Want me to set it up?’
Ross nodded. ‘Always the same with posh Scots. They go to English schools and have surnames for first names, like Finlay or Crawford. As soon as possible, eh?’
‘On it.’ Barney reached for his phone.
‘Any updates from the world of intel, Norma?’ Ross rubbed his face with a meaty palm and looked at the analyst.
‘On it like a car bonnet. I’ve been chatting with a pal who’s an analyst on the MIT and they’re struggling big time. No immediate evidence to link to Dent. The victim’s phone is missing, and there’s no live number known for him. I’m just working everything up on Dent and Jimmy ‘Shorty’ Shore. Both linked to serious drug dealing in northern England, and they’ve been moving into Scotland, which is where they have had dealings with Billy Mac. Strong, but not admissible intel that they are eyeing up the fragmented Scottish market.’
‘Fragmented?’ said Janie.
‘Aye. Just that. Let’s be fair, we’ve taken out loads of networks in the last couple of years, so it’s never had a chance to get nailed down to one OCN, since the fall of the Hardies. It seems Dent and co want that market, as well as northern England. Seems the Scousers think it’s too much bother, and there’s only a few small firms from Birmingham making some inroads.’ Norma paused to sip her tea.
‘How about Billy’s market?’ said Max.
‘He was making modest progress in Perth, Dundee, and up the coast, which it seems is why he was linking up with Stringer’s firm. Look where that got him, eh?’ she said, shaking her head, sadly.
‘Anything else notable about Stringer? Family, friends, accomplices?’
‘Stringer’s brother, Charlie Dent, seems to be something of a black sheep,’ said Norma.
‘More of a black sheep than a large-scale drug-dealing and murderous racist?’ said Janie.
‘Well, kind of. Serial recidivist thief. Always in and out of the jail, apparently has a bigger habit than Mother Teresa’s frock. Heroin and crack, and he’s never lasted more than a couple of days of rehab, even with Stringer footing the bill.’
Max stroked his chin as if digesting this new piece of information.
‘Right, we’re on. Early tomorrow morning. He wants to meet at the Star Pyramid in the Old Town Cemetery,’ said Barney, simultaneously rolling a cigarette.
‘How early?’ said Max.
‘Early enough that I’m driving up tonight and kippin’ in me van. Might ’ave a cheeky pint in the Golden Lion first.’
‘Typical bloody spook. Why can’t he just meet in the bloody pub, or a café at a normal time? It’s not a bloody John le Carrier-bag spy novel, you know.’ Ross sat down with a grunt in his chair, causing a minor eruption of dust particles from the tatty fabric that caught a shaft of sunlight that had managed to pierce the grimy windows.
‘It’s an impressive edifice, that. Laid in recognition of all those who suffered martyrdom in quest for liberty in Scotland. Did you know they used to hold jousting tournaments there?’ said Janie, her face lighting up.
‘No, Janie, because we’re not all insufferable swotty nerds. We were all having fun chasing girls, smoking behind the bike sheds or necking bottles of Buckfast in the school tennis courts. You are so bloody geeky, it’s no wonder you were on the high potential development shite,’ Ross said, trying to suppress a smile.
‘Chance would be a fine thing. I’m on a final warning about getting my thesis on qualitative evaluation in to my assessor. You keep me so busy I’ve not had time to start it, let alone complete it.’
‘I don’t even know what that bloody means. Isn’t “qualitative evaluation”’ – Ross mimed the quotation marks – ‘something the government does when they print money, or some such bollocks as that?’
Janie shook her head, a smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. ‘No, Ross. That’s quantitative easing.’
‘Aye well, whatever, it sounds shite. Now piss off, you’ve an early start in the morning, and Craigie needs to tuck my goddaughter in before her bed.’
‘Not your goddaughter, Ross. She’s not anyone’s goddaughter. She’s not getting christened,’ said Max, shaking his head, and grinning towards Janie.
‘Bloody heathen. Now sod off. I expect a forensically detailed debrief of this bloody toffee-nosed spook first thing.’
13
Finlay Smith frowned and stared at the phone in his hand. His finger hovered over the call button, but then he withdrew it, and dropped it to his waist. Why had Juliet tried to call him? He felt the hairs on his neck stand up. This wasn’t right. He decided that he had no choice, he’d have to call her back. He didn’t like to just call like this: as a lifelong intelligence agent it went against all the tradecraft lessons he’d learned over many years.
‘Sorry, the person you’re calling is not available. Please try later.’
He sat down on the bench that overlooked the lake at the front of the large, rambling house on the outskirts of Stirling. A knot of ducks paddled in the water, suddenly silhouetted against the dipping sun that danced against the glassy surface of the small body of water. He sighed, his instinct rarely let him down, and he’d been in the intelligence game for a long, long time. Something was most certainly wrong. First Billy brutally murdered, then a call out of the blue from Juliet, and she now wasn’t picking up.
The number wasn’t even listed in his phone as Juliet, rather it was saved as John Plumber. Direct contact was only supposed to be used in extreme circumstances. This meant only one thing. Something was wrong.
His mind turned to Juliet’s partner at the CEF, the rather lively and slightly scatty man he knew as Clem, whom he’d only met twice. Again, all his instincts told him not to, but he didn’t see he had a choice. He went to the contact listed as Charlie Electrician, and dialled.
‘Hi, it’s Clem, sorry I can’t take the call, leave a message.’
Stomach churning, he jumped up from the bench and passed through the large farmhouse kitchen and into the hall where there was a long, sleek sideboard. He pulled out the SIM from his phone, and discarded it on the top of the unit. He slid open the top drawer and picked out a brand-new SIM card, from a small Tupperware box containing a stack of identical cards, all in small plastic cases. Taking one, he snapped the case open, and popped it into the handset, dropping the small plastic case next to the discarded SIM.
His stomach knotted, and he held a breath in his lungs as he dialled.
Thankfully, this call was answered immediately. ‘Ayup?’ said Barney.
‘Barney, are we good to go for tomorrow?’ said Finlay, trying to keep the wobble from his voice.
‘I’m on my way now in’t van. Max and Janie are coming up early tomorrow. You okay, mate? You sound a bit odd.’
‘I just got an abandoned call from one of my contacts at CEF, and now I can’t get through to her, or her co-worker. I think something is wrong, and we need to accelerate. Can we meet sooner?’
‘Like how much sooner? I’m about an hour away, the others have gone home.’
‘I need to meet now, Barney.’
