All the Devils Read online

  DCI Jason “Third Degree” Burns stood at the foot of the driveway, watching them as the tent rippled in the gentle breeze. He thought about the car as he glanced down at the heap of rubble that was once a low dividing wall between Redmonds’ driveway and his neighbour’s property. It was a high-end BMW, less than a year old, low and aggressive and sleek, all sweeping lines and fluid curves that gave the impression of speed and grace. At least it had been, before tonight. Now the car told a different story. An uglier one. The front wing that had hit the wall was a frozen sneer of metal, the raw steel standing out against what remained of the gloss-black paint that surrounded it, one headlight hanging down over the front bumper like an eyeball dangling by a single nerve.

  Burns looked up from the rubble and surveyed the wider scene beyond the police tape that cordoned off most of Lomond Road. Saw the familiar twitch of curtains at what should have been an hour of rest. The houses were semi-detached sandstone and granite villas barricaded behind neatly clipped hedges. Mature trees whispered in the breeze, their leaves shimmering like slivers of copper in the dull amber glow of the streetlights. It was a long time since he’d been in Trinity. It was typical of Edinburgh’s more well-heeled suburbs: tasteful, reserved, a study in the quiet affluence that the city did so well. It wasn’t the most expensive part of the city, but still, it wasn’t bad on a former copper’s wages.

  And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

  The rumours had started six months ago, shortly after a raid on a townhouse in the New Town revealed it to be a high-class brothel frequented by some of Edinburgh’s most well-kent faces. The raid had been a textbook operation; after an anonymous tip-off, the property had been placed under surveillance, the proper suspicions confirmed and the warrants secured. Job done, and the press team was more than happy to use the story to show off Police Scotland’s ruthless efficiency and enviable crime detection skills, especially after some of the other headlines they had been forced to deal with recently.

  Unfortunately, the happy ending was soured slightly when one of the brothel’s clients was dragged from the arms of his companion with a light frosting of white powder around his nose and a freezer bag full of class-A drugs in his holdall. It got worse when one of the officers attending recognised the client in question as the former Assistant Chief Super on the old Lothian and Borders Police who took early retirement and a tidy lump sum when the eight regional forces combined into Police Scotland. The order came down quickly from on high, no doubt Redmonds’ ex-wife – herself a former Assistant Chief Super and, from what Burns recalled from one brief meeting, a real ice queen – calling in a favour with the Chief Constable. The media team could release the story about the raid, but under no circumstances was Redmonds’ presence to be mentioned or even alluded to. So far, so routine. After all, it wasn’t the first time that a former copper’s involvement in an embarrassing case was quietly forgotten – it was almost expected, favours called in and favours due, police officers looking after each other, even after the warrant cards had been handed in.

  But then the questions started. Mostly from that smug little shite Doug McGregor, who seemed to have a talent for knowing what you didn’t want him to. Instead of doing what most papers and news sites would do these days and just regurgitating the press release about the raid, McGregor actually acted like a journalist and went digging. It didn’t take him long to trace the brothel back to the operations of one of Edinburgh’s biggest and most feared hardmen, Dessie Banks. Banks had been a nightmare looming over Edinburgh for years, with long, skeletal fingers that stretched into murder, prostitution, protection rackets, loan sharking and a dozen other illegal activities. Burns had seen the wreckage he had left strewn in his wake, the ruined lives and the shattered families, and he wanted Banks, badly. So badly, he had even agreed to take the promotion to DCI as it would give him more freedom to assign workloads and make sure the Banks investigation didn’t die a quiet death.

  But despite all that, he’d never been able to get a proper glimpse behind the curtain and into Banks’ world. Until the brothel raid. McGregor had established the link with Banks; and Redmonds, who’d never exactly been a poster boy for Police Scotland, was found there with a fat wad of cash. Coincidence? Or something more?

  Burns had started looking for potential links between the two. There wasn’t much to find at first, but there were enough rumours that Banks had a few officers on the payroll to keep him digging.

  And then there was the call tonight. It had come in at 3.47am, routed to the Gayfield Square CID hub from the main call-handling centre out at Bilston in Midlothian. Redmonds’ neighbour – a small, harassed-looking woman with too-pale skin and huge, glittering dark eyes – had been woken by the sound of Redmonds’ car hitting the dividing wall. She’d rushed to check if he was okay then spotted the blood trailing from the car to the house, and the bloody smear arced across the front door like a perverted rainbow.

  “I just couldn’t go in,” she had said in a small, trembling voice as she shook her head slowly, dark eyes unblinking. “All that blood.” She had looked up at Burns then, panicked. “I just couldn’t. So I phoned you. But if I’d gone in, could I have helped him?”

  Burns reassured her that she had done the right thing by staying away from the house and just calling the police. And it was the right thing to do. Never entering a potentially dangerous situation was rule number one; the fight or flight response whittled down to police mantra. That didn’t mean he had to like it though.

  The officers who had been dispatched to the scene found Redmonds in the living room, lying in a widening pool of his own blood. While the cause of death had yet to be established, from the state of the body it was obvious he had been subjected to a severe beating before he had staggered home to die.

  But who, Burns thought, had beaten him so brutally? And why? And if it was somehow linked to Dessie Banks, why had he let him go after the initial attack? Why not just kill him and dump the body quietly?

  Burns sighed as he rummaged in his pockets and produced a packet of cigarettes. He pulled one from the packet then started to strip it slowly, dumping small clots of tobacco into his mouth and starting to chew. Once the duty Detective Sergeant learned who the probable victim was, he had called Burns. It was, on the face of it, the sensible thing to do – notify a senior officer about a case that would no doubt get very public very quickly – but it was also a royal pain in the bollocks for Burns. Now that he was attached to the case, the shit would flow straight down from the high heidyins to him. Which is why he had called Drummond to tell her what had happened and what was likely coming next. He may not like her links to that shite McGregor, but she was one of his officers, with the makings of a good detective, and he wanted to prepare her for the shitstorm that was undoubtedly coming her way.

  3

  The shakes started the moment he swung the door shut on Susie: great, crashing spasms that wracked Doug’s body and made it almost impossible to stand. He closed his eyes and leaned against the front door, fighting back the tears that tore at his eyelids, white-hot and demanding to be unleashed. He wanted to scream out, knew that if he started, he would never stop.

  Redmonds. Dead. The thought was a shriek in his mind, a clarion call to every nightmare and scuttling fear, sending them swarming across his thoughts, a screaming static of terror.

  Redmonds. Dead. And he had killed him. He imagined what would happen when Susie found out, what she would think when she realised she had sat with her former lover’s killer and asked him for support and help. And what about his parents? His boss, Walter? His friend, Hal?

  Jesus, and Becky. When she found out, it would destroy her. And her career.

  Fuck.

  He saw the trial, standing in the dock, all the people he had failed staring at him from the public gallery, felt their anger and hatred and disappointment. Heard the judge sentence him to twenty-five years in a tone that was at
once sanctimonious and bored, felt the security guards’ rough hands on him as he was led away, heard the clang of the cell door as it swung shut. It sounded like Redmonds’ screams for mercy.

  He took a deep breath, bit down on his lip again, hard enough to reopen the wound from earlier in the night. Forced himself to push down the panic. To remember what had set this nightmare in motion.

  Think, Doug. For fuck’s sake. Think.

  His phone had started buzzing just before 1am, startling him from the drunken half-doze he had fallen into on the couch. He had flailed for it in a confused panic, wondering who it could be calling him at this time of night, knowing that no good news ever came in the small hours.

  Didn’t know then how right he was.

  The screen showed a number he didn’t know, but he hit Answer anyway.

  “Hello?”

  A brief pause on the line. And then a voice he didn’t recognise.

  “McGregor? Is that Douglas McGregor?” Cultured, controlled. The hard glint of cold fury only slightly thawed by the subtle drawl that told Doug whoever he was speaking to had been drinking.

  “Doug,” he corrected. “It’s Doug. Who’s this?”

  Another pause. The sound of swallowing and a soft gasp. Whisky, Doug thought. Whoever was calling him was drinking whisky.

  “We’ve not spoken before, McGregor,” the voice said, whisky unable to blunt the contempt this time. “But you’ve been sticking your nose into my business for far too fucking long. But that’s going to end. Tonight. Understood?”

  Doug smiled, reached for his own glass. “I’m sorry, didn’t realise I had a new editor at the Tribune to tell me what stories I can and can’t cover. Care to tell me your name, or is this going to be one of those anonymous rants I love so much?”

  “We have a mutual acquaintance, McGregor. Though I’m guessing I know her better than you do. This is Paul Redmonds.”

  Doug’s hand paused, the glass frozen halfway to his lips.

  I know her better than you do.

  He swallowed the fury down, took a breath, adopted a neutral tone.

  “Mr Redmonds. Can’t imagine why you’d be calling me at this hour. As I understand it, your evenings are usually more exciting than this. Care to comment?”

  “Smart-arse wee prick,” Redmonds spat. “Don’t be cute, McGregor. I know you’ve been asking around about me, trying to put me at the scene of a recent brothel sting, trying to drag my name through the shit. I don’t know who’s been talking to you, but I’ve got a few ideas. Not that it matters. It ends. Now. Clear?”

  “Not really,” Doug said, swallowing the whisky in a gulp. It didn’t burn as much as the rage churning in his guts. “Though since you’ve been good enough to call me and save me the effort of tracking you down, perhaps you’d like to comment on claims that you were lifted during the recent raid on the Falcon’s Rest in Morningside, and given a free pass by former colleagues in order to save your ex-wife, who happens to sit on the Police Scotland board, the embarrassment of being linked to you for all the wrong reasons… again?”

  Quiet at the other end of the line, almost long enough for Doug to think Redmonds had hung up on him. He was just about to end the call and hit Redial when he heard a sound that sent something cold scuttling down his spine. Redmonds was laughing. A slow, humourless hacking sound filled with sneering arrogance.

  “You’re a cocky wee bastard, aren’t you?” he said as the laughter trickled away, dirty water gurgling down a drain. “But don’t worry about that. We’ll sort that out soon enough. You want a statement from me? Fine. But not on the phone. In person. Portobello, Edinburgh end, near the five-a-side pitches. Half an hour. If you’ve got the balls for it.”

  “It’s not about balls, Redmonds,” Doug said. “It’s brains. Why should I meet you in a secluded location in the dead of night? What do you think I am, stupid? Or keen to get my head kicked in by an ex-copper with a grudge?”

  Redmonds sighed patiently. “I’m not going to hurt you, McGregor. We’re just going to talk. And I’m going to make your dream come true. Trust me on that. The Pitz. Thirty minutes. It’ll change your life.”

  And then he had cut the call, leaving Doug sitting in a silence that was too loud to bear, his mind filled with questions. He should call Becky or someone, tell them what had happened. Let them be the voice of reason, talk him out of it.

  He looked at the phone in his hand for a long moment. Then he went and got his car keys.

  • • •

  Portobello sits on the east coast, just on the border where Edinburgh gives way to East Lothian. It’s a former fishing village, like its nearest neighbour, Musselburgh, where Doug lived. Unlike Musselburgh, Portobello also has a promenade that faces out to the Forth and across to Fife. Doug remembered being brought here with his parents as a kid, the cheap arcades filled with old slot machines and the usual array of rigged games. Not that he cared, he badgered his parents for change to play the games anyway, remembered an old Star Wars game that always drew crowds of kids who wanted to be Luke Skywalker, even if it was only for a minute or two. There was a playpark further up the promenade as well, a big one with slides and swings and a roundabout that Doug always wanted to try but never got the chance.

  “That’s where the girl was grabbed from,” his mother had told him when he asked for what felt like the millionth time to be allowed to go and play. “That’s where the bad man took her from. That’s why you mustn’t play there. It’s tainted.” It was only years later that Doug found out what his mum had meant. The playpark was where the serial killer and paedophile Robert Black snatched a five-year-old girl called Caroline Hogg.

  The promenade had been refurbished over the years, an attempt made to rebrand it as “Edinburgh’s Riviera”. With the Edinburgh weather being what it was, Doug didn’t think the French tourist board had much to worry about any time soon.

  It only took ten minutes to drive to the five-a-side pitches Redmonds had spoken of. They were at the far end of the town heading back towards Edinburgh, tucked away down a narrow side street. He slid the car slowly to a halt, saw an achingly stylish BMW parked just ahead, the immaculate paintwork glistening in the streetlights. It was the only other car that was occupied.

  He killed the engine, sat considering. It wasn’t too late. He could start the car up again, take off, forget all this. It made more sense than meeting a potentially bent ex-cop in the dead of night with no witnesses.

  But…

  I’m going to make your dream come true, he had said.

  Doug sighed. Took the key and got out of the car before he could change his mind. As he walked he flexed his hand slowly, trying to ease the pins and needles that were crawling up his arm, the price to be paid for holding his arm straight and gripping the steering wheel. But he was lucky. The doctors had told him so.

  The interior light of the BMW came on as he approached, Redmonds unfolding himself from the car. He couldn’t see him clearly in the gloom, but Doug knew the face well enough. Thick, dark hair, brown eyes that seemed black in the half-light. A nose that had been reset at least once, full lips with a small scar tracing a silvery line from his mouth and gently down the chin. He was a couple of inches taller than Doug and a lot wider everywhere else, especially around the gut. Retirement and scandal, it seemed, agreed with him.

  “McGregor,” he spat, taking a step forward and making Doug stop suddenly. “Glad you had the bollocks to show up.”

  “Look, Redmonds,” Doug said, trying to sound calmer and more assertive than he felt, “can we just cut the shit and get on with this please? It’s late, I’ve got stories to write…”

  “Ah, yes, stories.” Redmonds smiled, showing off dental work too perfect to be natural. “You are quite the storyteller, aren’t you McGregor? The work you did on Richard Buchan, and then that whole business with the Gulf War vet last year – what was his name?
”

  The roar of the gun. Blood and brains exploding from his temple in a crimson and grey torrent…

  “Pearson,” Doug said flatly. “Gavin Pearson.”

  “Yes, that was it. You do like your stories, don’t you? Well, I’ve got one to tell you as well, though you may not like the ending.”

  “Look, if that’s a threat…”

  Redmonds grated out another mirthless laugh, smiled as he held up a hand. “No, no. You misunderstand me, McGregor. I don’t give a shit who you’ve been speaking to about me, or what they’ve been saying. But if it makes you feel any better, I was at the Falcon’s Rest that night. And you’re not going to write a word about it.”

  It was Doug’s turn to laugh. “And why’s that? You going to deny we ever had this meeting? Say I made it all up? I’m not a muck-raking tabloid hack, you know Redmonds. I do have some credibility in this game.”

  Redmonds nodded. When he spoke, his voice oozed with a smug arrogance that made Doug want to scream. “Oh, I know that, McGregor. I did a little checking of my own. And I owe you some thanks, it would appear. For the way you looked after Susie and didn’t print the story about our, ah…” – he leered at Doug, exposing those too-white teeth – “night together.”

  Doug took a step forward before he knew he was going to and Redmonds raised his hand again. “No need for that, McGregor, I’m trying to say I owe you. And I always pay my debts. So I’m going to make you a happy man. And then you’re going to forget all about me.”

  Doug snorted. “Blackmail? You brought me here” – he gestured around the street, the blackened windows of the flats staring down at them – “to try and blackmail me? Well, thanks for nothing. But don’t worry, the Tribune’s a family paper, the subs won’t let me describe you as a ‘fucking dickhead’ when I write this up.”

  Redmonds’ face twitched in a smile. “You don’t understand,” he said slowly, turning his chest away from Doug and reaching back into the open window of the BMW, moving in the slightly deliberate, over-exaggerated way that spoke of drinking earlier in the evening. Doug froze, expecting him to turn around with a weapon. Felt confusion when he saw Redmonds pull a slim laptop from a bag and place it on the roof of the car.