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Cuts Both Ways (DI Rob Marshall Scottish Borders Police Mysteries Book 9), page 285
CUTS BOTH WAYS
DI ROB MARSHALL
BOOK 9
ED JAMES
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Marshall Will Return In
Afterword
About the Author
Ed James Readers Club
Other Books By Ed James
1
As he took some snapshots, Liam McKendrick looked around the office and couldn’t help but feel a tingle in his stomach. Excitement or pride – one of the two. Either way, it’d been a year well spent.
The atrium was the last part to take shape, but it was all coming together nicely. Very, very nicely.
Blue sparks flashed in the corner of his eye, making him jerk around. Two workers stood by the giant digital clock – 16:29 glowing in purple digits, bright enough to sear into his retinas when he shut them. The exact same colour as everywhere else in the building, the exact tone designed to mesh with the gold-tinted chrome.
Perfection.
This new flagship branch was almost ready to open to the public – or the small fraction who could afford the company’s services.
And it was all Liam’s work. He let a slow breath escape his lips and took in the entrance hall again.
Magnificent.
Another four workers busied themselves fitting the sign to the wall above the colossal reception desk.
Melrose Finance
The logo below showed a relief of the Eildon Hills back home in the Scottish Borders, all cast in the same vivid purple. And this was twice the size of the one in head office, but that’d change soon enough after the old man visited and saw this…
The hulking foreman limped over to him, the lopsided grin on his face matching his gait. ‘There we go, Liam.’ He pointed at the sign as one of his men drilled it flush against the wall. ‘Looks marvellous, doesn’t it?’
Hard to argue with that, so Liam smiled back. Trouble was, he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Barry? Brendan? Something with a B, wasn’t it? And he had a broad Cork accent, rather than Dublin… Liam deepened the smile. ‘Looks brilliant, doesn’t it?’ He took in the rest of the space. ‘We’re almost there, aren’t we?’
‘All be done by Monday.’ The foreman laughed. ‘Well. We’ll hopefully have the old man’s office finished by then.’
‘Not that he’ll be here very often…’
‘Grand opening’s still in two weeks, though, right?’
‘Right.’ Despite the din, Liam felt his phone chirruping in his pocket. He took it out and checked the screen.
Travis Cars:
Your driver has arrived.
‘That’s my car turned up.’ Liam pocketed his phone and extended the handle of his fancy luggage. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, eh…’ He patted the foreman on the arm. ‘Mate. Have a great weekend.’
‘Sure. Will do.’ The foreman shot him a wink – the cheeky sod knew Liam couldn’t remember his name, didn’t he? ‘See you on Monday, sir.’
‘Bye.’ Liam walked across the office, trying to soak in the memory of the place to see him through the weekend, then pressed the button to open the front door.
Nothing happened.
Liam looked over at the receptionist.
Nobody there.
He winced – force of habit, given this place had the same layout as the head office.
The foreman rushed over, wielding a screwdriver, and twisted something at the side. A spark attacked his hand, then he let out a high-pitched yelp. ‘Bryan, you daft git.’
Bryan…
That was it…
He held up his screwdriver like it was Excalibur. ‘I’ll get that fixed for Monday.’
‘Sure thing. Cheers, Bryan.’ The door was open though, so Liam walked out into the summer heat.
The pubs on Marylebone High Street thrummed with summer drinkers enjoying a pint or seven on the pavement in the afternoon sunshine.
London…
So far away from home.
And it might’ve taken a while to get it installed and actually working, but the air conditioning inside the office was something else. How could anyone cope with this heat all summer long?
A Toyota Prius sat by the kerb, the driver behind the wheel grinning away at him. A wee bit younger than he was used to – same age as Liam, even. And he didn’t want to feel like he was racist, but most of the drivers were called Mohammad, not Steve.
Of course he wasn’t being racist – taxi driving was a popular job for first-generation immigrants. Fifty years ago, down here, it would’ve been Irish, Caribbean or even Scots like him.
Liam walked up to the car, then stopped to frown. He checked his phone, then over at the car again.
The window was winding down. ‘You okay there, mate?’
‘Steve?’
The driver chuckled. ‘That’s right.’ He gave him a wide grin. ‘Heading to Heathrow?’ His accent was London, but had a tinge of Scottish to it. And he seemed familiar.
‘That’s right, aye. Seven-twenty flight to Edinburgh.’
‘Get you there in plenty of time, pal.’ Steve got out of the car. Brown chinos and a lime Fred Perry polo shirt. Muscular arms and a flat torso, the kind of physique Liam craved, but could never have. ‘Mind if I…?’ He held out a hand for Liam’s luggage.
Liam stared at it for a few seconds, then wheeled his case towards him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Cheers, mate.’ Steve picked it up like a pro – rather than smearing the wheels in crud – then slotted it perfectly into the boot, in one of those rack things that meant it wouldn’t roll around in there. ‘There you go.’ He opened the back door passenger-side for Liam.
‘I’d rather sit in the front.’ Liam cleared his throat. ‘I mean, if it’s all the same, that is.’
‘Oh, me too.’ Steve scratched at his neck. ‘Love a bit of a chat, me. It’s just… Sorry, sir. Just had someone… y’know…’ He poked two fingers at his mouth. ‘It’s been cleaned, of course, and the car doesn’t smell anymore, but the seat’s still a bit damp.’
‘Got you.’ Liam smiled, then slid into the back. Sure enough, it reeked of cleaning fluid, mixed with petrol. He checked his phone.
Steve got behind the wheel. ‘Can you buckle up, please?’
‘Of course.’ Liam complied. ‘Are you Scottish?’
‘For my sins, yeah. Well, half.’ Steve shot him a crafty wink. ‘Old man’s from round here, but don’t mention that to anyone north of the border.’ He drove off into traffic, the silent electric engine like they were barely moving.
The only important message on his phone was from Zora – a video of Ace playing football with their dog in the garden. His son’s little legs kicked the ball one way, t hen he ran the other and the wee dog fell over as he sprinted around the back and smashed the ball into the back of the net, with power belying his tiny stature. He ran off to celebrate his goal with the knee slide of a top professional.
Liam watched it twice through again, then dabbed at his cheek and typed out a reply:
Looks like brilliant fun. Wish I was there x
Home soon x
He put his phone away and looked forward, breathing out a long, slow sigh. ‘Busy day?’
Steve glanced back at him, as if only just realising he was being talked to. ‘Had a fair amount on today, yeah. Been all over North London, to tell you the truth. I’ll be glad when this is all over.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Steve drove on for a few seconds, but didn’t seem to want to chat.
Liam looked out of the window at the passing streets, then felt the tug of his phone again. So many work emails – he’d download them to his laptop at the airport, then unpack them on the flight, and a barrage of replies would go out when he landed. He looked up again and they were squeezing down a back lane running under a railway bridge. He leaned forward. ‘Is this the right way?’
Steve slowed to a halt in a tight parking area surrounded by bins. He twisted around in his seat, then pointed a knife at him. A huge thing as long as his forearm. ‘Do as you’re told and nothing bad will happen to Ace.’
Blood thundered in Liam’s ears, a constant drumbeat pounding. He tried the door but it was locked from the outside. He tried the seatbelt but it was stuck. ‘What’s going on? What are you—?’
‘Liam.’ Steve’s grin flashed like the knife catching the light. ‘Are you going to be a good lad or are we going to have to kill your son?’
We?
What the hell was going on?
‘I’ll…’ Liam’s mouth was dry. His tongue stuck to the top of his mouth. ‘Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him.’
‘We won’t. If you play ball, you’ll get to see his next birthday. Eighteenth of October, right?’ Steve held out a zip tie. ‘Now, I was going to ask you to put these on, but I think you’ll be a good lad for me without them, won’t you?’
2
One foot after the other…
One foot after the other…
Grace kept up her mantra as she ran through Holyrood Park, landing a foot on each syllable.
A gang of runners hurtled towards her, two abreast, forcing her to step onto the road, but a car was overtaking a cyclist so she had to jump back into the grass at the other side. She shot the driver the finger as he blasted past, then waited for the runners to clear in a haze of thank-yous.
Not even eight o’clock, but it was already roasting. Or maybe it was just her, sweating out last night’s booze. She wiped her forehead, then looked up at Arthur’s Seat looming over her, her gaze reaching right up to the top. People were climbing up there already – some daft sods tackling the wrong side, much harder than the heavily eroded tourist path. She really should head up the road around there to practise the climb – she needed to get her time down if she was going to place in next year’s marathon.
But not in this heat – that could wait for after September.
Grace set off again and ran in the opposite direction, battering along the pavement at the side of the road to Duddingston, pushing herself harder and harder until her mantra became a fast rap.
Onefootaftertheother…
Onefootaftertheother…
Onefootaftertheother…
Onefootaftertheother…
Like the rhythm of a train rolling along the tracks.
And Duddingston Loch burst into view on the right, so Grace lowered her head to bomb down the slope.
Up ahead, a van blocked her path, bumped up on the pavement.
She’d have to run on the road through the village, rather than the pavement, but it was only about three miles until she’d be back home and taking a hot bath.
Yet another total wanker… So many out today already – maybe the heat did it…
Grace had to stop by the van to check the road was clear of cars.
One buzzed past.
She followed its path, then turned back.
Something cold splashed all over her face.
Something blue.
A Slush Puppie!
What the hell?
She peered into the van’s passenger-side window.
No sign of anyone in there.
She walked around the front and rapped on the window, blood boiling.
Nothing.
The side door slid open and a man peered out. Older and with a hardness in his eyes. Big muscles bulging out of his black T-shirt. ‘Can I help you, darling?’
Darling?
Who the hell did he think he was?
Fury burned deep in her, like hot coals in a fire.
Grace stepped forward, but kept far enough away. ‘You threw a fucking Slush Puppie at me!’
‘Did I?’ The man hopped out and looked around the place.
Still no traffic. Or pedestrians. No sign of anyone, even.
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I can do what I like, Grace.’
That hit her like a brick to the head.
How the hell did he know her name?
Get away.
Now.
She pushed away from him.
But he lurched forward and gripped her arm, then wrapped one of his massive arms around her throat. He lifted her clean off her feet, then smacked her on the side of the head and tossed her into the back of the van like she was a lump of wood going onto a pile.
‘Stop!’
He grabbed her by her hair, then battered her head off the wooden floor.
As everything slid to black, all Grace was aware of was the smell of oil and the sound of the door sliding shut again.
3
The murky darkness of the Thames caught flashes of the early sun as Sam Winter pounded along the Queen’s Walk, AirPods blasting out Lana Del Rey as she weaved between tourists out on Sunday morning walks. Already hot and the sweat soaked her top. Gasping. She pulled her right hand away from gripping her bouncing backpack to check her watch – 11:26. Making a great pace but, still, she was going to be late.
Sodding hell…
She sped up and cut around a pack of Japanese tourists, all with giant lenses attached to hulking great cameras.
A cyclist’s bell cut through her reverie.
A woman on a racer pounded towards her, bum in the air, head down and blasting along the tarmac like she was at a velodrome.
Heading right towards Winter.
Winter stopped dead.
The woman braked and almost toppled over her handlebars.
She shouted something.
But Winter couldn’t hear the words, so she pulled out her right AirPod, and Lana Del Rey stopped her plaintive singing.
‘—uck are you playing at?’
Winter pointed at the ground. ‘You’re in a pedestrian area.’
The cyclist stood there, gripping her handlebars and scowling. ‘What?’
‘This is for walking. You should be cycling over there.’ Winter pointed at the track by the river. ‘Not here.’
‘Are you fucking joking?’
‘No. You’re endangering pedestrians. And you’re going way too fast.’
‘I’m cycling!’
‘And this isn’t a velodrome.’ Winter waved around the area. ‘Lots of people walking here, so just stick to the cycle lane, yeah?’
The cyclist glared at her for a few seconds. ‘Fine.’ She got back up onto her pedals, then weaved over onto the cycle lane and set off again. ‘Stupid cow.’
Just loud enough to make out…
Winter stood there, fingers twitching as she watched her pedal along the actual cycle lane. Idiot thought London was her own private track.
The problem with London – everyone was so bloody selfish. Arseholes everywhere…
Winter put her AirPod back in and Lana started singing again. She turned around and ran off, cutting up More London Place between buildings that still felt brand new, then clattered through the entrance to Tone-Up Gym, panting hard. She stopped her watch and tried to remember if that was a good time or not.
Or rather, if it was her best time.
It didn’t matter – she was here and with just enough time to spare before the class started.
She got her ID card out of her phone case, then swiped through the security barrier and walked through into the changing rooms, still panting hard. They were empty, but the grinding of machines burst through from the gym itself. Steam from the showers misted the mirrors with minty freshness.
