Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas Read online

  Dillon takes off his gloves and sticks them in his pocket. ‘If you want the wee shite dead: just leave him. You want him to live: pop a hole in the bag before he suffocates. Your choice. I’m off for a beer.’

  He disappears back into the club.

  The sound of singing filters in from the street, then a bus rumbling past, then someone shouts the odds at their boyfriend. Then a taxi. . .

  Kayleigh watches as the bag inflates and deflates over Andy ‘Twitch’ McKay’s head.

  Out. . . In. . . Out. . . In. . .

  His right hand trembles.

  Out. . . In. . . In. . . In. . .

  She bites her bottom lip and tries not to cry.

  In. . . In. . . In. . . In . . .

  A siren, high and thin, flashing past on the main road.

  Out. . .

  Still.

  Kayleigh starts to sob.

  10: Lords a Leaping

  There was something calming about the view from the castle’s ruined battlements at night: down the steep, dark hill to Kings Park; across the swollen black river to Castle View and the Wynd. Streetlights made sparkling ribbons in the darkness, like a spider’s web flecked with dew.

  He raised the bottle to his lips as the first flakes of snow began to fall, drifting down through the cold night air. A 1896 Chateau Laubade Armagnac – over a thousand pounds a bottle – and he was swigging it like a wino. It smoothed its way into his chest with gentle, warming fingers. Keeping him safe against the chill. Blocking the pain from his broken finger.

  Making him brave enough to do what had to be done.

  Another swig then he gazes into the blackness before him. The cliffs are steepest here: the perfect spot for jumping. Just as soon as he’s finished his Armagnac – it would be a shame to let something so perfect go to waste. When he’s finished – then he’ll go. . .

  ‘. . . but most of all I’d like to thank our honoured guest for taking time out of his busy schedule to come open our new offices today.’ The fat man steps back and leads the applause.

  It’s a featureless industrial unit, identical to all the other featureless industrial units in the Shortstaine business park. If it weren’t for the blue plastic sign above the door: ‘SCOTIABRAND TASTY CHICKENS LTD. THEY’RE FAN-CHICKEN-TASTIC!’ you wouldn’t even notice it. But tomorrow there’ll be a big feature in the local rag – banging on about ‘job creation’ and ‘local economic growth’ – featuring everyone’s favourite white-haired, avuncular MSP: Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven.

  Peter smiles and holds his hand up, waiting for the noise to die down before launching into his ‘it’s a great pleasure/challenges of tomorrow/forward Scotland’ speech. The same one he trots out for all these drab little official functions. Opening offices, dedicating park benches, planting trees, you name it – he gets dragged into it. But that’s what happens when you’re an MSP and a bona fide lord to boot. Sixty years of Noblesse oblige.

  He finishes with a joke about two old ladies from Castle Hill and Santa’s magic sack, then unveils the tiny blue plaque commemorating this proud moment for ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens Ltd.

  Photographers flash, hands are shaken, everyone smiles, and finally he can escape.

  He turns his back on the dismal little place and marches off towards his Bentley, plipping open the locks before he gets there. Other people in his position need a driver and a horde of staff before they’ll go anywhere near the opening of a chicken slaughterhouse, but not him. He has ‘the common touch’, it says so in all the papers.

  There’s a man waiting for him, leaning against the fence by the car, hands in his pockets, smiling.

  Peter’s mother always maintained that you could learn everything you needed to know about a man by looking at his shoes. This one has black leather brogues, a long black overcoat, well-cut black suit, white shirt, and a scarlet tie. Businessman. Probably with an invitation to another bloody opening.

  ‘Mr Forsyth-Leven?’ The man smiles and sticks out his hand.

  Mister? Bloody cheek – he’s a lord.

  Peter works up a smile of his own. ‘Can I help you?’ He opens the car door – just to make sure the man knows he has places to go, people to see, decisions to make.

  ‘More like the other way around: I want to talk to you about a unique investment opportunity.’

  Here we go again.

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you Mr. . . ?’ No name is forthcoming. Some people have no manners. ‘But I’m afraid you’d have to speak to my office about that. I think-’

  ‘No.’ The man holds up a hand. ‘I think you’ll want to deal with this personally. You see the opportunity is specific to you and you alone.’

  Of course it is. When is it ever not? Peter sighs. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Keeping you out of jail, you dirty child-molesting old fucker.’

  A siren wailed somewhere in the night. The snow had slowly thickened – going from drifting icing sugar to dense fat flakes that fell steadily from the dark-orange sky. They stuck to his clothes and hair, made tiny proto-drifts in the clefts of the brick that would grow and grow through the night. Falling on his twisted, broken body at the foot of the cliff. Burying it from sight. Locking him away in its icy embrace.

  He smiled and took another mouthful of Armagnac.

  Getting near the bottom of the bottle now.

  If the weather didn’t change, it might be weeks before he was found. Maybe not until the spring. Months. And he’d make the headlines all over again. ‘LORD PAEDO FORSYTH-LEVEN – BODY FOUND!’ His face was numb with cold and alcohol, but the tears still burned.

  They sit in the Bentley, the man in the overcoat gazing out of the window, while Peter cries – one hand cradled against his chest, the other covering his face. Sobbing like a little girl. Which is ironically appropriate.

  Finally he sniffs and snivels to a halt, wipes his eyes and nose on a handkerchief.

  The Man doesn’t even look at him. ‘You finished? Or do I have to break another finger?’

  ‘I don’t mean to do it. . . I just. . . Sometimes. . . I can’t help it, they’re-’

  A hard slap shuts him up.

  ‘I don’t want to hear you justify why you fuck children, understand? Try telling me again and I’ll beat the living shite out of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. . .’ The tears are back.

  ‘I’ll bet you are: sorry you got caught. Shouldn’t have left all that kiddie porn on your laptop where someone could just break in and steal it, should you?’

  ‘I. . .’ Peter hangs his head. All these years; someone was bound to find out eventually. But it doesn’t make it any less painful. ‘What. . . What do you want?’

  ‘I want the painting. The Pear Tree. That’ll do to start with.’

  ‘The . . . The Pear Tree? But that’s a Monet, it’s worth. . .’

  The Man stares at him, face impassive, like a slab of white marble.

  Peter clears his throat. Brings his chin up. Shows some of the steel that makes him such a force to be reckoned with on the floor of the Scottish Parliament. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Two choices. One: I beat the shite out of you, then hand you – and your laptop full of kiddy filth – over to the police.’

  For the first time in fifty-four years, Peter almost wets himself. He takes a deep breath. ‘And two?’

  ‘I take you out to Dundas Woods, break every bone in your body, then bury you alive.’

  ‘I . . . I’ll. . . You wouldn’t-’

  ‘Want to try for another fucking finger?’

  ‘The painting! I’ll give you the painting!’

  The Man smiles. ‘See, that’s why you make such a good politician: you know when to compromise. Start the car – we’ll go get it now.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘Now.’

  Peter starts the car.

  The electrician still hasn’t finished installing the new burglar alarm when they get back to the house. Locking the stable door. . . Not that it really matt
ers. In fifteen minutes the only thing worth protecting will be gone.

  Peter parks the Bentley and clambers out. It’s getting colder. He watches The Man slowly turn in a circle, taking in the house and its surroundings. Probably ‘casing the joint’, like they did on the television.

  Fletcher Road is festooned with big Victorian homes, mansions, tall wrought-iron gates, walled gardens, and old money. This is where the city’s elite live – the people who’ve kept the city running for generations. People like Peter.

  The Man nods. ‘Very impressive.’ He frowns at the electrician screwing a blue and yellow plastic box to the outside wall. ‘Shame it’s one of the old two-five-fifties. Take a professional about forty seconds to short out the box and get in.’ He smiles. ‘If you like, I can recommend something a bit less . . . amateurish?’

  Heat courses across Peter’s cheeks. ‘Can we just get on with this please?’

  A shrug. ‘Well, don’t blame me next time some junkie scumbag robs you blind, OK?’

  Peter turns his back on him and storms inside. The painting is in the dining room: a pear tree at sunset, one golden fruit hanging between the dark green leaves, the sky a wash of raging fire, fading to indigo and black. It’s the most expensive thing he’s ever owned. It’s worth more than the house. He trembles as he touches the frame.

  There’s a whistle behind him. Then, ‘Beautiful. . .’

  ‘My grandfather brought it back from France at the end of World War One. He. . .’ He’s about to launch into the story of how the old man bought it from Monet himself, when he realizes there’s no point. The Man isn’t interested in art, he’s only interested in what it’s worth. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Peter lifts the picture down from the wall and lays it on the table.

  The Man unfurls a large holdall, then stands there, staring at the painting. ‘First time I saw it: I was seven. My dad took me to this exhibition at the gallery. I remember looking at it and thinking, that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

  Peter closes his eyes. Over the last forty years he’s lent the painting only four times. He should have never let it out of the house. If he’d kept it safe, this man wouldn’t be here now.

  There’s a zipping sound, and when Peter opens his eyes again The Pear Tree is gone.

  The Man takes the holdall off the table and puts the strap across his shoulders. ‘Get your lawyer to draw up the transfer of ownership. I want it sorted by the end of the week.’

  End of the week: tomorrow – Friday the 23rd. ‘That might not be possible. . .’ his voice sounds flat and dead. He’s lost everything. The painting’s just the tip of the iceberg: after this it’ll be money, jewellery, the car. Everything will be sold off. Stripped away until there’s nothing left. And then The Man will either kill him, or hand him over to the police.

  ‘Well, you’d better hope-’ He’s interrupted by Peter’s mobile phone ringing – Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. Peter pulls the mobile out and answers it. Force of habit.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Pete? Pete, it’s me: Tony.’

  Peter groans. As if today wasn’t bad enough.

  ‘Pete, we’ve got big trouble!’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Too late? Shit! They’re not there are they? Pete, are the police there? Oh FUCK!’

  Peter sighs. Tony has always been excitable – an unfortunate consequence of dealing in illegal images and video files.

  ‘No, the police aren’t here. I’m. . .’ He looks at The Man who shakes his head. The meaning is clear: this is just between the two of them. ‘Margaret’s not doing too well.’ Which was true enough. If he was lucky, the throat cancer would take her before the money ran out and The Man turned on him. She’d never have to know.

  ‘What the fuck do I care about your bloody wife? They’ve arrested someone: that fucking idiot school teacher. He’ll talk!’

  Peter actually laughs. Throws his head back and laughs.

  ‘Pete? What the fuck’s wrong with you? Did you not hear what I said? He’ll turn us in!’

  The Man puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘What’s so damn funny?’

  ‘I want my painting back.’ He grins like a maniac. ‘They’ve arrested someone in the same . . . “club”. And as soon as he talks it’s all out in the open. You’ve just lost your leverage.’

  ‘Like hell I have.’

  ‘Everyone will know. I’ll be ruined anyway. So tell whoever you like: it’s not going to make any difference.’ He pulls back his shoulders. ‘Now give me back my bloody painting!’

  There’s a pause, then The Man narrows his eyes. ‘Who is it? Who’ve they arrested?’

  ‘James Kirkhill – he teaches English at Kingsmeath Secondary.’

  ‘And they’ve not picked up anyone else in your “club”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ The Man pats him on the back. ‘Then I have another “investment opportunity” for you and your friends. . .’

  The Armagnac was nearly finished, just one or two mouthfuls left and it would be time. One small step for mankind, one giant leap for Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven. It wasn’t just his face that was numb now – his hands were like frozen claws, he couldn’t feel his feet – but that didn’t matter. Soon he wouldn’t be feeling anything ever again.

  All of the great things he’d done in his life, the charity work, the glittering political career, and this was going to be what he was remembered for.

  Paedophile. Suicide. Murderer.

  The first two he could have lived with, no pun intended, but not the last. That was too much to bear on top of everything else.

  He drained the bottle, squinted at the empty glass, then threw it out into the void. For a moment it sparkled through the falling snow, turning end over end, fading from sight. He held his breath, straining to hear it smashing against the rocks below . . . but there was nothing. Just the wind and the snow and the night.

  Peter clambered all the way up to the top of the battlement wall.

  It was time.

  The plan is simple: everyone in the ‘club’ chips in five thousand pounds, and that buys them a life. One human life for thirty-five thousand pounds. Not that much really, when you think about it. Five thousand pounds to carry on like nothing had ever happened. Safe to continue with their private little . . . ‘indiscretions’.

  Five thousand pounds to have someone killed.

  The Man wouldn’t go until Peter gave him everyone’s name, to make sure no one ‘forgot’ to pay, taking The Pear Tree with him. Leaving a shadow behind on the faded wallpaper. So Peter fills in the time pacing back and forth in the lounge. Drinking cups of tea. Marching up and down the stairs to check on Margaret. Sitting at the dining room table, staring at the hole Monet’s painting has left behind.

  The call comes at half past nine – it’s Tony, sounding like Christmas has arrived three days early. ‘Did you see the news? They released the bastard on bail this afternoon. Found his body at eight – hanged in his bedroom. Suicide note, the whole works! He topped himself, we don’t have to give your man a bloody penny. It’s perfect!’

  Perfect.

  Peter sits at the table and looks up at the shadow on the wall. ‘What makes you think The Man didn’t kill him and make it look like suicide?’

  ‘Don’t be. . .’ A lengthy pause. ‘Can he do that?’

  Peter almost laughs. ‘Of course he can, but it doesn’t matter, does it? He has our names. What do you think he’ll do if we don’t pay up?’

  Another pause, and then a lot of swearing. ‘You bastard! You put him onto us! You stupid, fucking, ignorant bas-’

  Peter hangs up, buries his head in his hands, and cries.

  He’s betrayed everyone: his family, his friends, his constituents, his city, even his fellow paedophiles. . .

  There’s only one more thing he has to do, and then it can all go away. There’s no other choice.

  Eighty feet, straight down.

  He was too
drunk to remember enough secondary school physics to work out how long it would take to hit the ground, or how fast he’d be going when he did.

  Paedophile, suicide, murderer. . .

  Could he let Margaret find out about the horrible things he’d done? That he’d arranged to have a man killed. No matter what that idiot Tony said, it was obvious The Man had staged James Kirkhill’s suicide. The schoolteacher had died, just so Peter’s secret would be safe. It was all his fault.

  So he’d gone upstairs to Margaret’s bedroom, kissed her gently on the forehead, lied to her about how beautiful she looked, then held a pillow over her face until she stopped struggling. She would never know what a monster she’d married.

  Peter took off his glasses, closed his eyes and stepped quietly off of the battlements.

  11: Pipers Piping

  Dirty. Fucking. Bastard. Craig sat in the car, scowling out of the windscreen, grinding his teeth. Drinking steadily from a bottle of Highland Park. The whisky burned deep inside, stoking the fires.

  The song on the radio dribbled to a halt. ‘‘Ha, ha! You’re listening to Sensational Steve’s Festive Funathon; hope you’ve all been good for Santa!’’

  Prick.

  Then wailing and screeching erupted from the car’s speakers – the Oldcastle Military Pipe Band murdering ‘Silent Night’.

  Craig turned his scowl from the windscreen to the car radio. Then smashed his fist into it. His knuckles creaked and stung: the skin tore across them, oozing blood. He screamed and swore, yanked his seat back as far as it would go and stomped his heel down on the plastic casing. Again and again and again. The music stopped.

  One more swig of Highland Park then Craig rammed the cork back in, stuffed the bottle in a pocket of his long Barbour coat, and dragged himself out of the car. He’d made an absolute cock-up of parking the thing, leaving it diagonally across two spaces, but it didn’t matter.

  He popped the boot and pulled out the shotgun.

  Nothing mattered after today.

  He didn’t even pay and display.