Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Page 14

  But then I remembered that early last year I had been on a misper case. The victim ran an oil rig in the North Sea, right up near Aberdeen. I’d had to travel back and forth from Edinburgh and hadn’t paid any attention to office politics or rising tensions. It was very likely I’d ignored the case entirely.

  “Okay, fair enough.” I said, but I was still surprised by my tunnel vision. “Did they catch the killer?”

  “They did,” my partner said and followed her screen. “A young man called Ralph Kennedy. In his early twenties. He suffered from Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He had a history of stalking and there was a rape charge, too, but that fell through. He couldn’t account for his whereabouts for any of the murders, although his parents had tried to cover for him in the beginning, but they were found to be lying.”

  “How did they catch him?” I asked.

  “They found DNA at the scene,” Harding replied. “Some of it matched Kennedy, but there were other traces that still aren’t accounted for.”

  “Where is he detained now?” I asked. “We should schedule an interview. This must be related to the crimes. Maybe he’s had recent correspondence, or it’s someone he knows.”

  “That’s the problem, sir,” Harding said as she looked at her hands.

  She didn’t seem to want to meet my eyes, and it wasn’t hard to guess why.

  “He’s dead,” I guessed.

  “Yes, sir,” she said quietly.

  “How did he die?” I asked. “When did it happen?”

  “He was killed while he was being remanded,” Harding said. “A fellow inmate stabbed Kennedy with a contraband blade. Kennedy never made it to trial.”

  “Christ, this is just perfect,” I complained, and I wracked my brains for an alternative strategy. “Okay, I need a report detailing every part of this case. I want to know what the weather was like, which precise crevice of the mouth the note was in, an analysis of the syntax, and everything else you can think of. I want to know this case inside out. Most importantly, I want a list of every person who even touched this case. We need to build a credible list of possible third victims.”

  Harding looked at me hopelessly.

  “But what I just told you is everything in the case details,” she gulped. “There are no other officer names except Brown and McLuckie. There are no follow-up questions with the inmate, no witness statements, no psychological report on Kennedy. Nothing.”

  “Typical,” I grumbled and then sipped from a cold bottle of water. “Brown was worse at paperwork than me.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” the Brit said and raised her eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t he just relegate the task to a junior?”

  “Maybe he did,” I pondered. “We could find the original copy to check.”

  “Sir,” Harding began. “Is there any chance we’re looking at a copycat? Someone who followed the case but wasn’t aware of the exact details since Kennedy never went to trial?”

  I considered the possibility. Out in The Pit, I watched a sergeant wipe pen ink from his lips and then sighed.

  “It’s doubtful,” I said. “It’s a separate methodology entirely, and the female victims didn’t appear to have connections with one another. The kills in this case are motivated by revenge rather than a hatred of women.”

  “But what about the messages?” Harding asked.

  “Oh, I have no doubt this is the case we’ve been searching for,” I replied. “This man, Kennedy, is the key to searching for the third victim. Someone involved in those murders must be carrying out the attacks on officers.”

  “But why?” Maddy asked.

  “They must have targeted Brown and McLuckie because of Kennedy’s arrest and subsequent death while in police custody,” I considered. “Someone who blames this department for what happened. They probably believe Kennedy is innocent.”

  “There weren’t many of those,” my partner said as she scanned her screen. “The parents, of course, but I’m not seeing anyone else.”

  “Some of the most notorious killers in history have taunted the police, going way back to Jack the Ripper,” I mused. “He wrote ‘catch me if you can,’ in a letter to the police.”

  “He started a trend,” Harding snickered. “At least we’ve gotten better at finding these bastards.”

  “Aye, that we have,” I agreed. “We need the original Kennedy case report, and then we need to start arranging interviews.”

  “But it’s not in the system,” Maddy replied. “I’ve checked every database.”

  “This might be a shock to you, but we can get hold of the physical copy,” I said as I smirked at her puzzled expression.

  Harding blinked.

  “Where would that be?” she asked.

  “Down in the basement archives, of course,” I said. “Haven’t you been?”

  “I’ve never had to,” she said and laughed at herself.

  Harding had always been self-deprecating and able to make fun of her actions. I liked that about her.

  “That’s bad, right?” she added as she closed her laptop.

  “Don’t worry,” I said as I stood up. “Now’s your chance to make up for lost time.”

  My muscles had stiffened as we’d pondered the Kennedy case, and I could feel the scrapes on my knees itch when I tried to stretch my legs. How long had we been talking? I looked at the clock and saw that it was just after noon. The Pit had cleared out for lunch, and I realised the basement would be empty, too.

  “Actual paper records,” my partner mused as she stood up.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you,” I said to Harding as I opened the office door.

  We walked through the empty desks and took the lift down to the deepest basement. The metal doors slid open to reveal a narrow, brightly lit corridor.. The ceiling was low and cracked, a bad paint job from years ago, and my scalp knocked a few flakes of color from the ceiling as we stepped into the tunnel.

  “Jesus,” Harding said as she waved away a buzzing fly. “This place looks like it’s come straight from the eighties.”

  “It basically has,” I said and grinned at my partner. “I forgot you weren’t born then.”

  Just as I’d hoped, there was nobody at the front desk. I knew the two women well, and how they preferred to eat their sandwiches at exactly midday. I walked around their desk and sat at the computer.

  “Sir?” Harding asked. “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “Of course,” I said as I logged in. “Barbara and Ellen won’t mind.”

  My partner laughed softly as she moved around behind me.

  “Okay,” I murmured as I typed in the case details. “Kennedy. Here we go. Ke025.”

  The Brit scribbled the code on a slip of paper and then shivered in the chilled, earthy air.

  “Why is it so cold?” she asked.

  “They don’t like it too warm,” I said and shrugged. “They’re Inverness ladies.”

  I switched the computer off, re-adjusted the chair, and we walked further down the hallway to the file room. I groped at the wall for the light switch, and a moment later, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered on. We stood in the doorway, breathing in the stale air and staring at the long rows of metal shelves piled high with boxes.

  “Please tell me there’s a filing system,” Harding said.

  “Of course, there is,” I teased. “Barbara and Ellen aren’t heathens.”

  Harding didn’t look convinced, but we started down the row of shelves. There were small, handwritten cards on the end of each row that listed the range of cases stored on the shelves. It looked random, but I knew the two ladies had a very efficient system for storing the case files, and I knew the system well enough to know roughly where the file would be. I found the right set of shelves and then checked the small cards for each shelf.

  “Okay, here we are,” Harding said as she consulted the slip of paper. “Ke025. I can’t actually figure out this system.”

  “Careful not to move anything, or the a
rchivists will come and find you,” I joked.

  Harding reached for the box and then stopped. She stared at the dust covered lid and then at me.

  “You can actually move it,” I teased.

  “Sorry! I’ve forgotten the etiquette,” Harding complained. “I haven’t been in a library since I was at Uni.”

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed the box myself. We took the box upstairs and passed Ellen and Barbara on their way in from lunch. They wore voluminous ponchos and small glasses which disguised their intelligent, curious eyes. They stopped walking as we passed and then swivelled around to watch us.

  “Walk faster,” I muttered. “We haven’t technically signed the box out.”

  “Oh, God,” Harding moaned. “They’ll kill us.”

  But I looked over my shoulder and flashed the two women a wide grin. They tutted at each other and then collapsed into smiles.

  We made our escape into the lift, with a small crowd of officers who were eager to discuss the latest football results. Harding and I stood side by side at the back of the elevator and watched the numbers tick by until we reached our floor. We pushed our way through the crowd and walked quickly through The Pit before anyone could ask us what was in the box.

  Harding held the office door open for me, then she closed and locked it behind her. I dropped the box on my desk, and it landed with a thud.

  “That’s a lot of paper,” the brunette commented.

  “Could be more than paper inside,” I chided.

  My partner opened the lid, began to cough, and then pulled up her shirt to cover her mouth.

  “Bit dusty?” I guessed.

  “I don’t think this has been opened for a while,” she replied.

  Harding rifled through the top sheets of paper, excitedly flicking through the documents so quickly that I was afraid she’d rip them. But her face fell as she slowed down.

  “There’s nothing here!” she complained, then she picked up a report and squinted at it. “And I can’t read the handwriting.”

  “That’ll be Brown,” I said. “He had a doctor's knack for penmanship.”

  I took the paper from Harding and tried to decipher it. As far as I could tell, nobody else had signed off the logistics except for Brown. My heart sank as I realised we might not be able to find another person from this case.

  “I suppose we could ask around and see if anyone else was on it?” I asked half-heartedly.

  My partner didn’t reply, only dumped the sheets on the floor and then knelt down beside them.

  “Expenses for late-night Chinese?” she asked and held up a piece of paper to show me. “Unbelievable. Why don’t we have these perks anymore?”

  “Budget cuts,” I explained. “Can I see those?”

  “Right,” Harding said with a sigh as she handed me a stack. “That’s always the party line.”

  I skimmed through the expense reports, but most were for food or gas. I was about to toss the lot back into the box when one caught my eye. It was an expense form for a third-party private investigator, dated the last month of the case just before Kennedy had been arrested. And there at the bottom, was Brown’s spidery signature.

  “It seems like we have got someone to talk to,” I said and held up the paper.

  “Who?” Harding asked and squinted at the handwriting.

  “Rory Madden,” I answered. “Let’s hope he’s not already dead.”

  It was midafternoon by the time we’d pulled Rory Madden’s file up on the system and found his investigator licence. It had recently expired, and as I stared at Madden’s grumpy, gaunt face, I wondered if he was pleased to be out of the game.

  “Okay,” I said to Harding and rubbed my hands together. “Get your coat. We need to pay Mr. Madden a visit.”

  “Should we call him first?” my partner asked. “Warn him there might be a killer looking for him?”

  “I don’t think the killer will strike before we get there,” I replied. “And I’d rather catch him off-guard, so he doesn’t have time to come up with a lie. He’ll be at home.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Harding asked.

  “He’s a retired sleuth,” I said with a shrug. “Where else is he going to be?”

  As we walked out of The Pit, I saw Clarke in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. She noticed I was leaving, and I felt her try and catch my eye. I prodded my partner to pick up the pace and told myself I would call the ACC and fill her in as soon as we were back.

  Once we were in my car, I glanced over towards the small patch of land where we’d spotted the forensics team. There were no hazmat suits to be seen, but yellow tape still dangled from the trees, and the grass had been buried beneath a layer of mud. Since Dr. Liu hadn’t called to tell me that the murder weapon had been found, I assumed that the search hadn’t turned up anything useful. With a sigh, I cranked the engine and let the car heat up.

  DS Harding programmed Madden’s address into her phone and then attached it to the holder next to my wheel. It was a twenty minute drive, which meant Harding would want the radio on. White Room pulsed from the speakers, and I watched as the Brit made a face, and then she switched the station over.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked her in an amused voice.

  “Not a fan,” she sniffed.

  “Well, I am,” I said. “And it’s my car.”

  “But you’re driving!” she protested.

  “But nothing,” I said. “Nobody can touch that radio except me.”

  I turned the station back and then increased the volume as I tapped my fingers to the beat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my partner glare at me, and I smirked to myself.

  “So what do we ask this Madden guy?” Harding asked, only too happy to turn the radio down so that we could talk.

  “We ask what his involvement was, and if he had any theories about the case he didn’t want to share at the time,” I said. “Or did share, but nobody listened.”

  I paused for a minute and watched the streets of Old Town blur past the window.

  “And Madden needs protection,” I said. “Round the clock.”

  “Good idea,” Harding agreed. “Shall I use your phone?”

  Then I noticed a car following us a little too closely.

  “Sir?” Harding asked.

  I ignored her and took another look in the rear-view mirror. The car was definitely tailing us. I craned my neck to see the model and saw a dark green Toyota. I felt my arms erupt in goosebumps, and I leaned over to switch the radio off.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” my partner gloated. “But why have you done that?”

  “Can you just be quiet for a second, please?” I asked.

  She realized that the situation was suddenly serious. She nodded and checked the wing mirror on her side of the car as I made a left onto a small residential street. The Toyota made the same turn and stayed the same distance behind us.

  “Will you take down the plates of that Toyota?” I asked my partner.

  “Sir,” she said and looked over her shoulder. “Do you think you’re acting a little paranoid? I’m sure there’s a kid in the backseat of that car.”

  “Do you remember the strange man threatening cops with murder?” I snapped. “The car parked outside your house? Any of it ringing a bell?”

  “Of course, I do,” she reasoned. “But why would--?”

  “Many reasons,” I cut in. “The culprit might be wondering if we’ve pieced together the connection yet. Or maybe he wants to follow us to Madden’s house and kill him. Have you called in that protection?”

  “No, I will now,” Harding said and then took my phone and requested round the clock protective detail for Rory Madden on my orders.

  “They’re going to meet us there,” the brunette said.

  “Have a look and see if it’s still following,” I ordered. “I don’t want to keep doing it. I might spook him.”

  She casually leaned over her knees for a moment and then turned aroun
d and grabbed her bag from the backseat. It was well done, and pulling the water bottle from her bag was a nice touch.

  “Still there,” she said.

  “Have you got the plates?” I asked.

  “Got them,” she replied.

  “Okay, I’m going to pull into this petrol station and see if it follows,” I said. “Are you ready?”

  As we drove in, I lowered the window, and my shallow breath inhaled the smells of oil and petrol. My hands felt jittery, but when I looked, they were steady as rocks on the wheel.

  Harding nodded beside me, and I watched as the Toyota crawled to a halt, too.

  Chapter 8

  “Shall we see who’s inside?” I suggested as I started to open my door.

  Harding nodded and tugged on her door handle, but the Toyota’s engine growled, and the car sped away before we could get out. We slammed our doors shut, and I quickly reversed my car onto the main road to the honks of angry drivers.

  “Can you see it?” I asked my partner.

  “No,” she admitted as she strained her neck. “Nobody is driving suspiciously, either.”

  I groaned and passed a slow driver talking on his phone. This was potentially one of the best clues we’d had so far, and it had disappeared before our eyes. We drove a few more blocks, but the Toyota had vanished. With a sigh, I slowed and turned onto a pretty tree-lined street. Harding looked at me, but I had decided to give the driver this round and return to our original mission.

  “Keep an eye out,” I warned. “I don’t want to lead the killer straight towards Madden, especially if he is the third intended victim.”

  “I’ve registered the plates, sir,” the Brit said.

  “Okay, maybe it’ll match the vehicle Jack O’Connell saw last night,” I said as I mentally crossed my fingers.

  I kept a careful eye in the rearview mirror for the drive to Madden’s home. The Toyota never reappeared, and no other cars appeared to take its place. After a few deliberate wrong turns, we pulled onto the street and rolled slowly to a stop in front of the house.

  Rory Madden lived in an old colony-style house. It was two storeys with a scraggly patch of garden in the front. The famous staircase feature tilted from the garden gate up to a yellow door on the second floor.