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‘Not recently.’
‘Why?’
‘No point, I’m always working here. I also like the van, I have me fags, a beer now and again, and maybe a little punt on a horse. Don’t need owt else.’ He shrugged.
‘But surely you have a home to go to?’
‘Well, there’s a house, but I’ve always lived out of a suitcase, and I like to keep on the move, so it suits me, I guess.’
‘No one at home waiting?’ asked Janie.
‘Not for a long time, love.’
Max was preparing a follow-up question to this odd exchange when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the email icon on the screen, opened the app and saw a new message, but there was no return email address, just a long series of numbers and characters. His memory flared at the seeming gibberish. He tapped it and his unease grew. There were just four words in it.
We need to speak
Max stared at the screen for a full five seconds, before the message simply vanished before his eyes.
‘You okay, Max?’ said Janie, a flicker of concern on her face.
‘All good, see you back in the office. I need to make a call.’ Max drained his scalding tea and handed the mug back to Barney. He walked off towards the side of the building and dialled a number from his contact list that was titled simply ‘BF’.
There was a single tone before the call was answered.
‘Max?’ the soft, Caithness accent of Bruce Ferguson was instantly familiar.
‘Bruce. Unusual for you to contact me,’ said Max, feeling a brief flip in his stomach. Bruce Ferguson was the brother of a victim of the Hardie family. He was also an ex–special forces operator and currently the head of security for a Russian oligarch and telecommunications magnate. He had access to data and intelligence that most law enforcement and intelligence agencies would long for, but he wasn’t prone to impromptu catch-ups. When Bruce called, he called for a reason.
‘Aye, I know, but this is important, are you clear and free to speak?’
‘Yes, I’m good,’ Max’s heart thumped in his chest. Bruce Ferguson never just called for a blether. He called when something bad was happening.
‘We have a serious problem. More pointedly, you have a serious problem. We need to meet.’
5
DAVIE HARDIE SATacross the same chipped and scuffed table as a couple of days ago when he’d dropped the bombshell that he wanted to cooperate with the cops. The difference this time was that Leo was sittting next to him, and they were facing two officers, who were surveying him with interest. An air of tension was almost palpable in the stuffy, gloomy room. A small tape machine was on the table, a light blinking on the top.
The cops who had identified themselves as DC Ann Laithwaite and DS Lenny Maxwell had shown no emotion as Leo had made the pitch to them. Davie would take them to the deposit site of Beata Dabrowski, and once it was confirmed that he was telling the truth, and the deal was ratified, he would offer full evidence of how she got there, and more importantly who ordered it.
‘But my client won’t say another word beyond that until we have a signed deal from the Crown Office that he will not face prosecution, and that parole requirements are met.’ Leo sat back and cupped his chin with his hand, waiting for a response.
DS Maxwell paused and observed Davie and Leo in turn before speaking. He was a well-fleshed middle-aged man, smartly dressed in a blue suit and open-necked shirt. He looked tough and seasoned, and his eyes had the weary gaze of someone who had seen and heard it all. DC Laithwaite was much younger, immaculately dressed in a grey business suit, with neatly styled hair, and she wore dark-framed spectacles. She glanced at her partner and shrugged.
‘Thing is, Davie. The Crown Office will want a little more before committing to anything. At the moment, we just have words, but almost no detail. Just a name, and before we can present this up the food chain, we’ll need convincing that you played no active part in the murder.’
Davie didn’t speak. He just looked at Leo and raised his eyebrows.
‘My client can take you to the body deposit site. His late father always kept an accurate and secure record of details and circumstances when he organised services such as these for individuals. My client has had sight of these details, knows exactly where the victim is hidden, and he has digitally recorded evidence of what happened to Miss Dabrowski six years ago.’
‘Why did he keep such details? Surely that would be a huge risk?’ said DC Laithwaite in a strong Glaswegian accent.
Leo opened his mouth to reply, but Davie put a hand on his solicitor’s arm and nodded. ‘I’ve got this, Leo. Officer, my father was a meticulous man, and he always kept receipts when he undertook his many activities. Despite his tough upbringing and age, he was technically smart and astute. Any favours he carried out, he would expect his pound of flesh in the future, so his record-keeping was to ensure that any debts, whether financial or not, were paid. The person who benefited from the death of Miss Dabrowski is now a very powerful individual, and my father wanted to ensure that should he need payback, he would have something to motivate cooperation, if you understand.’
‘And you are offering to reveal this to us?’ said Maxwell.
‘As long as I get what I want.’
