Shadow Man, page 12
Movement by Mahler’s side. He turns to see Anna fumbling with a strip of pills – she’s trying to be inconspicuous, but it’s making her clumsy and the strip flutters to the ground. As the minister begins a closing prayer, Mahler bends to retrieve it for her. Painkillers? A US brand, maybe. He files the name away to look up later. And finds himself returning her smile of thanks.
It catches him, somehow, that smile. Catches and holds him unexpectedly, showing him a time-stopped fragment of something new, something unquantifiable . . . and then everything falls apart.
Campbell cries out, a quick sharp sound of mingled shock and pain. He gets to his feet and takes a couple of steps, but his face is contorted and he’s hunching over, clutching his left arm. Before Mahler can reach him Campbell crumples to the ground.
Silence, complete, appalled, for a couple of microseconds. Then chaos. Yvonne Murray screaming, an eerie, klaxon wail as June shouts into her mobile. Mahler makes for the unconscious man, but Anna’s there already.
‘Is he breathing?’
Shaking her head, not looking up. ‘Can you keep everyone back, please?’ Quick, efficient hands locating the end of Campbell’s sternum and moving into the CPR position – she obviously knows what she’s doing, and Mahler leaves her to get on with it. He works with June to hustle the media and civilians away from the scene, makes sure Maxine’s looking after the Murrays and doubles back to Anna.
‘Ambulance is on its way.’
A gathering panic in her eyes when she looks up. ‘How long?’
Thirty minutes, according to Ambulance Control. Twenty if they’re really lucky. But it’s been nearly fifteen and Campbell’s showing no sign of responding. And as far as Mahler’s concerned, lucky is not exactly how the day has panned out so far.
‘Let me.’ She shakes her head, but he strips off his jacket and kneels down. ‘You’re tiring. Take a break.’
Readying his hands in position, showing her he knows what to do. Waiting until she nods and her fingers pull out from under his. Then pushing down, one-two, one-two, finding the rhythm and working to it as time falls away from him, back and shoulder muscles straining, one-two, one-two—
‘Wait, I think he’s breathing!’
She’s right. Mahler lifts his hands, watches Campbell’s chest rise and fall with a series of rasping breaths. He drapes his jacket over the man to conserve his body heat and slumps down beside Anna on the grass. And offers his thanks to the God he no longer believes in.
‘Ambulance is here!’
June, running across the grass with a uniform in tow. Moments later, the ambulance pulls up and its doors are flung open. Mahler brings the paramedics up to speed and, within minutes, Campbell is hooked up to monitoring equipment and stretchered inside.
‘Lucky man.’ June watches the ambulance speed off down the drive, and turns to Mahler. ‘If it hadn’t been for you two . . . Lukas, I’ll see you back at Burnett Road after you’ve taken Ms Murray home.’ Anna starts to say something, but June holds up her hand. ‘It’s no trouble. Is it, Lukas?’
‘Ma’am—’
‘I’m free after two.’ June spots the uniformed officer still stacking the chairs and waves him over. ‘Come on, son, back to the ranch.’ She sets off for the car park, the uniform trailing in her wake.
Mahler turns to Anna, but she shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. I’ll call a cab, and – God, my parents! They’ll be looking for me—’
‘Maxine will have taken them home. And my boss is right, it is the least we can do. Campbell should be bloody thankful you were here today, Anna.’
A blink of surprise at his use of her name. ‘Call it a team effort. But okay, I’m convinced.’ She gets up awkwardly and looks round. ‘There was a jug of water on the lectern, wasn’t there? I was going to take some medication when everything kicked off.’
‘Wait there, I’ll find you some.’ He spots one of the hotel staff heading back towards the entrance with the water, and sets off in pursuit.
When he gets back, she’s sitting on the grass, her face tilted towards the sun.
‘Not quite up to San Diego standards, I’m afraid, our Inverness weather.’ He passes her the water. ‘Do you miss it?’
‘Only every day.’ A barely there tremble in her fingers as she takes two pills from the blister pack. She looks up, sees him watching her. And sighs. ‘They’re just painkillers, Inspector. I had an . . . an injury . . . eighteen months ago. Sometimes I push myself too much, that’s all.’
‘An accident?’
‘Something like that. I manage without them most days, but—’
‘Not today?’
‘They make me too fuzzy. And I knew this bloody memorial service would be hell for everyone.’ A struggling bleakness in the look she gives him. ‘Got that right, didn’t I? Poor Ross. I was so focused on my parents, and all the time—’
‘You’re blaming yourself? Don’t. You tried to stop him taking part, that’s where your responsibility ends. If not . . .’ A memory-image, rising out of nowhere, of a slumped dark shape painted against the light. Mahler shakes his head. ‘There has to be a limit, Anna.’
She stares at him. ‘You’re being kind. And that’s twice you’ve called me by my name. It’s a little . . . weird, you know?’
‘I know, I surprised myself.’
A smile, and then she looks away. ‘I thought . . . when Ross finished speaking, he seemed okay at first. But then he looked round, and I guess it must suddenly have hit him. He was just . . . staring at the crowd, looking like all his nightmares had come at once.’
‘Today can’t have been easy, I imagine. For anyone close to Morven.’
He hadn’t meant the implication, not consciously. But there it is, hanging in the air, beyond recall. Beyond apology.
‘Oh, I see.’ Her mouth twists in a splintered-ice smile. ‘So I’ve been judged and found wanting, is that it? Let me guess – if I could weep on cue, you’d find that more acceptable, right? Sorry to disappoint, Inspector, but I don’t tear up to order. Not for the cameras, and not for you.’ She gets to her feet, brushes down her dress. ‘I’ll call a cab from the hotel, thanks.’
Mahler watches her make her way across the grass. The woman from the plane is back – tense-jawed, wintry-eyed. Angry. Because he’d implied she wasn’t grieving for her sister? On the face of it, not an unreasonable assumption. He’s seen no tears, no visible emotion from her since the day of Morven’s murder – which could mean nothing, of course. There’s no template for grief, he understands that well enough. He suspects the cameras won’t have liked it, though. Composure plays badly for the media, in his experience. And composure when dealing with the loss of a sibling . . .
Mahler starts back towards the car park. And stops short as he realises what had been bothering him ever since he’d seen Anna and Ross Campbell together. There’s someone else who should have been there today, another absent sibling.
When he and Fergie had visited ‘Eilean Dubh Brothers’, Ewan Campbell had been fiercely protective of his younger brother. He’d told them he’d looked out for Ross ever since they were children.
So today, on what had to be the most traumatic, most gruelling of days for Ross Campbell since the discovery of Morven’s body – why wasn’t Ewan Campbell by his brother’s side?
21
TUESDAY, 17 JUNE
Eilean Dubh Brothers, Struy
‘Inspector.’ Ewan Campbell walks across the rain-soaked car park to meet Mahler. His smile is the grimace of a man preparing to hustle an unwelcome but necessary visitor inside his premises as quickly as possible. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t say it’s good to see you again. I thought we’d gone over everything we needed to on your first visit?’
‘Just a few additional queries, if you don’t mind.’ Mahler glances at the near-deserted café as they walk past. ‘Quiet day today?’
‘The first tour doesn’t start until eleven. And weather like this doesn’t do wonders for our casual footfall, of course.’ He leads Mahler through to the office and closes the door. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t come for a rundown of how my business operates.’ He sits at his desk, gestures to Mahler to take a seat. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure why you’ve come at all – surely we could have done this over the phone?’
Mahler shrugs. ‘Sometimes it’s more helpful to talk face-to-face, don’t you think? It makes it easier to avoid any crossed wires.’
‘Not really, no. I’m pretty careful to say exactly what I mean, and I manage to make myself understood perfectly well most of the time.’ A flicker of irritation crosses his face as Mahler doesn’t reply. ‘Fine, then. What do you need to know, Inspector? I’ll do my best to make sure there are no crossed wires this time.’
‘Just a couple of things,’ Mahler assures him. ‘I would have asked you at the memorial service for Morven the other day, but it didn’t seem like quite the right occasion – though I don’t actually recall seeing you there, now I come to think of it.’
‘That would be because I didn’t go.’
A reasonable comeback, Mahler supposes. If a little surprising. ‘I see. It’s just that your brother found it quite traumatic, and I’m sure he would have been glad of your support. Can I ask why you didn’t you go with him?’
‘If there was any way I could have been there, obviously I would have been. But this is a small company, and I had commitments I couldn’t get out of.’
‘Business meetings?’
‘Exactly.’ Campbell looks down at his desk diary, as though for confirmation. ‘And no, I couldn’t reschedule. Believe me, if I’d had any choice, I would have.’
Something in his voice there, something genuine enough that Mahler accepts he’s telling the truth. About that, at least. ‘I understand. How is your brother now?’
‘Still in hospital, but they say it’s just for observation. He needs to rest, but they think he just needs his medication reviewed.’ A pointed look at Mahler. ‘And not to be put under any further stress.’
Mahler nods. ‘Of course. Does he have anyone who’ll be able to oversee the running of his other business, while he’s recuperating? It must be quite challenging, operating his car sale-room as well as fulfilling his PR role here.’
‘Ross knows I’ll take care of everything until he’s on his feet again.’ Campbell glances at Mahler. ‘Is that it? Because I do have things to get on with—’
‘Not quite. When we spoke last time, you said you were grateful to Morven for featuring your business on the, er . . .’ Mahler consults his pocketbook, ‘the Scots Wha Hae . . . Vision documentary. I was just wondering how that came about.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ Campbell pours himself a glass of water from the tray on his desk, drops in a chunk of ice. ‘I heard about it, saw it looked like a good opportunity to put us on the map, so I applied. And we were lucky enough to be chosen as one of the featured businesses.’
‘Oh, I understand that. But didn’t the rules specifically state . . . I don’t know, the usual caveats about not having any connection with the organisers of the competition?’
‘Probably, but I’m not sure—’
‘Morven.’ Mahler watches the colour leave Campbell’s face, apart from two dull flushes of red. ‘I’m not mistaken, am I? Before starting up the distillery, you’d worked with Morven on Fifteen Minutes for a couple of series?’
‘Not exactly. Close but no cigar, as they say . . . whatever the hell that means.’ Campbell reaches for his water glass, the barely there tremor in his hand the only hint that Mahler’s rattled him.’ Yes, I was in television for a while, but behind the scenes. I’d worked on the forerunner to Fifteen Minutes and when it bit the dust, I tried out as a presenter. But Morven came along, and . . .’ he shrugs. ‘She was just what they were looking for, and I wasn’t.’
‘That couldn’t have been pleasant.’
‘It was bloody awful at the time. But I picked myself up, took a couple of interesting courses, and sort of . . . fell into this business. And I’ve never looked back.’ There’s a glint of malice in the smile he gives Mahler. ‘What, were you hoping I’d say I’ve hated her for years? Afraid you’re out of luck, Inspector.’
‘It might have made my job a little easier,’ Mahler concedes. ‘Unfortunately, things aren’t usually that straightforward. You didn’t like her though, did you?’
Campbell puts down his glass. ‘Not much, no. I knew her vaguely through friends at Glasgow uni, and I didn’t think much to her then. Frankly, she was a smug, self-satisfied bitch with a galaxy-sized ego. But my little brother was crazy about her, and that was good enough for me. So if you’ve come here looking to add either of us to your list of suspects, you’re wasting your time.’ He stands and crosses to the door, opens it wide. ‘Unless there’s anything else. . .?’
‘I don’t see the need to keep you back any longer,’ Mahler tells him. ‘At least, not at the moment. Thank you for your time, Mr Campbell.’
As Mahler’s leaving, the sun comes out. He walks across the car park at a leisurely pace and turns to raise a hand at the figure watching him from the reception area.
Ewan Campbell had sensed he’d come on a fishing expedition, and he hadn’t liked it. But most of the time, he’d been telling the truth. An easily angered man, Mahler thinks. The kind of man who bears grudges, maybe? It might have been worth pushing him a little harder, particularly about his brother’s other business, up for sale for nearly a year with no takers and reported to be dying on its feet.
But Ewan Campbell had been honest enough about his dislike of Morven – and about his brother’s apparently genuine love for her. Which might mean nothing, in the end. But right now, there’s nowhere further Mahler can go with this, not until Ross Campbell’s fit enough to talk to.
He pulls out of the car park and heads back to Burnett Road for an update on the search for the missing kitchen porter.
22
THURSDAY, 19 JUNE
Merkinch, Inverness
When Donnie opens his eyes, the rain is dripping down his neck. Soaking his skanky hoodie, making it smell worse than the bin store where he’s just spent a stinking, miserable night. He gets to his feet and peers over the slatted wood door. No one around, not even the bouncer guy upstairs who says he’s training for a marathon. Training for a heart attack, more like, the fucking poser. Even runs home from the club he works at, the new one down Academy Street . . . though with a boss like Cazza MacKay, maybe he needs to be fast on his feet.
He gives it a few more minutes then works his way over to the communal entrance, keeping the hoodie tight around his face. A glance left and right to check there’s no one watching. Head down and through the door. Up the stairs at a run. Outside his flat, fumbling with the key. Then inside, lungs bursting, heart thumping like it’s going to fly out of his chest. Made it.
Donnie eases the door shut and looks round. Surprise, surprise, he’s had a visit from the polis. They’ve left a fucking mess, too – cupboards standing open, drawers pulled out and emptied, bin bags sitting on the kitchen floor and stinking the place out. Bastards. Why were they ripping his place apart, for fuck’s sake? What did they think . . .? His heart starts tripping so fast he thinks he’s going to fall down dead on the spot. Oh, Jesus.
He sinks to his knees, guts cramping, and last night’s White Lightning spews out of him. The shadow in the skull mask. The knife, glinting in the half-dark. They think it’s him. Oh Christ, oh Jesus, they think the man in the shadows is him!
Dry-heaving now, little bursts of light behind his eyes. Donnie sits back on his heels, scrubs his hand across his mouth. The man had known this would happen, he’d warned him to stay away – but what was he supposed to do, freeze his arse off in that manky shed forever? He’d been going off his head in there, and all the time, the cash the guy had given him was just lying around. No good to him there, was it? So he’d stashed an emergency tenner in his shoe and gone to get hammered on the rest. And man, it had been great. Really fucking great . . . until he’d lost the head at some wifie and got lifted by the cops. Christ, he’d thought he’d had it then. His guts give another heave at the thought of what they’d have done, if they’d worked out who they’d got in their stinking wee cell.
When they let him out, he couldn’t believe it. He’d slunk back to the shed and hid there, jumping every fucking time a car went past. Waiting for the polis or the knife guy to come knocking, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d made his way back here – the long way round, he’s not an eejit – and staked the place out. Spent the whole night in that minging bin store to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Making sure he was safe.
Safe. Aye, right. Fucking joke that is. No job, no booze, no cash. No girlfriend either, not after he’d worn out his welcome at her place and stood her up at McCallum’s. Nowhere he can run to. Nowhere. And there’s a nutter in a skull mask coming for him, if the polis don’t get to him first. All because he’d skived an extra fag break on that late shift – ten bloody minutes, and his life is down the pan. How is that fair? How is that fucking right?
Donnie shakes his head. It isn’t right. But maybe there’s something he can do to change that. He thinks about what he’s got stashed in the shed, and what it might mean, and the cramping in his guts starts to calm. Maybe he can keep the knife guy happy and get himself a bit of insurance at the same time. Play it smart, for once in his life. But he’ll need to clean himself up first.
He gets to his feet, starts stripping off the manky hoodie the cops had given him before they chucked him out, and heads for the bathroom. A wash, a shave, maybe, and back to the shed for the wee toy the guy in the shadows had left in his keeping. And then a trip down town to see who’d like to play with it.
