Lies of the Land Read online

  Lies Of The Land

  by

  Chris Dolan

  For Kate and Mike

  And Gard

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Acknowlegements

  Copyright

  Lies Of The Land

  I

  What happened seconds before the Big Bang? Everything shrank into a tiny, vast, space for an eternal nanosecond.

  Is that what it’s like just before you die? If you know you’re about to die. You see it coming, your own personal Big Bang: your heart on the brink of bursting, the final second on the time bomb, the bullet leaving the gun, the nurse holding your hand.

  What do you think? You have a single instant, a lifetime, with only your thoughts. God? What was it all about? Who was I supposed to be? What was I expected to do? Maybe we still think we can get out of this, somehow. Is that how it’ll be, still desperately wrestling with the world, thrashing about inside, even though there’s no time left for your body to do so much as blink?

  I wonder about these things. I have to.

  That moment of infinite density, unbearable intensity.

  They say there was no actual bang. The event – not the first, just first of lots of firsts – was silent. Like a hush in the middle of the endless night. The darkest hour.

  Whatever the agent of Death is – the clogged artery, the terrorist’s backpack, the gun – it’s only the instrument. Death plays it. Nobody is truly at fault. Not the fanatic, not the cigarette, the assassin. Death existed before life, and every single thing since that ridiculous Bang is born of it. Everything that has ever happened has led to you lying there on the floor, in your bed, falling, falling. Death knows what to do: when the lever must be thrown, the curtain dropped. The trigger pulled. No point in blaming yourself, or the doctor, or the hand trembling before your eyes holding the gun.

  You’re too late. The blaming’s already been done.

  This. Has. Got. To. Stop.

  A piledriver inside her cranium, mouth like a landfill, just enough energy to prise open an eye. Which was when it got worse. Much worse… Who the hell’s the guy snoring in bed beside her? This is a new low, even for you Maddy.

  She didn’t dare move. Much as she’d like the snoring to stop – not loud but a kind of deep, disturbing pitch that might incite dogs to attack – and to figure out exactly what had happened here, she really, really, didn’t want to wake him. What did Dan once tell her? You’d rather gnaw your own arm off than wake the bugger up.

  A quick self-frisk under the bedclothes: maybe wasn’t so bad. She was fully dressed. Slowly it came back to her. Usual after-work drink in the Vicky. She’d tried to extricate herself at closing time. Hadn’t tried hard enough. Fuzzy images of some bar she didn’t recognise but clearly had a late licence. And, oh yes, her pièce de résistance – inviting everybody back to her place. Opened the last couple of bottles of Louis’ Italian wine. Put the party mix on her iPod and danced around like a flaming eejit. Like she was still twenty-one.

  But how she and the walrus here had ended up together in bed … that remained a blank. Was there some pathetic attempt at amorous union? He seemed to be dressed, from the armpits up anyway. She wasn’t ready to check beneath the surface. Wriggling a bit, it didn’t feel as if anything had happened. But had there been intentionality? What would her defence in court be? Temporary insanity. And in Confession? If you were too hammered to get your pants off, the thought was still there. Is that venial or mortal?

  Have to mend your ways, Maddy. You’ve turned forty for Chrissakes. And what about Louis? Him being three thousand miles away across the Atlantic wasn’t an excuse. That he hadn’t been in touch in over a week maybe is? And to be fair, ignore the snores and this guy was actually quite presentable. In fact, more than presentable. She hadn’t lost her touch. Early thirties? Groomed, or had been. Face of an angel with a five o’clock shadow, just the way she likes ’em…

  Stop! Get out of here. Do some work. Maddy Shannon’s form of penance. Three Hail Marys and four hours of case compiling. Where can you buy a hair shirt in this day and age?

  Whoever-he-was didn’t budge as she slipped out of bed, just a momentary hiatus in the rhythm of his grunting. She smoothed herself down, found her shoes, closed the door quietly behind her. Made a cafetière of extra strong coffee, ignoring the bomb site of the living room. At least there were no more bodies sprawled on sofas or chairs. Please God don’t let there be anyone crashed out in her office, the back bedroom.

  Nope. All clear. She turned on her laptop, set down the coffee, went to the loo, threw water on her face, swallowed a couple of co-codamols and returned to start her punishment.

  For Maddy Shannon, Procurator Fiscal, work was more than a method of alleviating guilt. It helped ward off the gloom. Scrutinising the folly and pain of others took her mind off her own defects and transgressions. The February morning outside her window was limping into a grey half-life, like it couldn’t think of an excuse for a sicky. If she could prosecute the day itself, a dismal reflection of her inner self, she would. Share the pain.

  Her Majesty’s Advocate versus Garner. The heart sank. Mr Ewan Drummond had been playing a medal tie with Giffnock Golf Club’s captain Mr Richard Garner. On the seventeenth tee, in full view of the clubhouse where Garner’s friend and the club’s president, Jack Menzies, was drinking, Drummond suffered concussion as a result of being struck on the head by a three-iron. Mr Drummond claimed that not only was the blow deliberate but that neither Garner nor Menzies came to his aid. Mr Garner refutes this saying it was an accident and that an ambulance had been called. A barmaid on duty in the clubhouse agreed that Menzies had in fact seen the incident and had “pissed himself laughing”. It was only when Drummond came round and stumbled to the clubhouse that Menzies finally phoned the ambulance – some twenty minutes later.

  Jeez. Were there any ciggies left from last night? No. Be strong Maddy, stay put, work on.

  Ewan Drummond believed that both Garner and Menzies “had it in for him”. They had accused him previously of wearing the wrong clothes for the game, and for using nonconforming golf clubs. God, she had to get these twats. Moreover, Drummond was winning the round when he was struck.

  First thing Monday morning she had the pretrial debate to attend. Garner’s lawyers had questioned whether in fact this ought to be a civil suit against Giffnock Golf Club. Citing some obscure case, they were really trying to throw doubt on Ms Shannon’s decision to take this to the High Court of the Justiciary. Maddy had shrugged: an indictment had been served on Garner and everyone had been happy to proceed. She’d love to go for broke. She hated golf; golfers more.

  It was hardly multiple murder or international corruption – oh what had happened to those young prosecutor’s dreams, hunting down and locking up evil geniuses, keeping the entire nation safe? Now she was reduced to protecting the populace from dull men in stupid jerseys. But a wrong had been done and Maddy wasn’t one for letting that go.

  The therapy worked. The little local difficulty of waking up next to a stranger had been replaced by her old internal wrangling. A lifelong compulsion to retreat within, think through a problem, consider every angle. Keep the gloom at bay. It drove people around her crazy. She’d turn off, forget where she was and, sometimes, the arguments going round and round in her head drove her to act impulsively. Made her do things she later regretted.

  There was a knock on the door, and her mystery bedfellow put his head sheepishly round. “Eh. Hullo. Name’s Doug. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m sure we’ve met before somewhere, sir.” She got up and stretched her hand
out. “Maddy Shannon.”

  “Oh I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “You want a coffee, Doug?”

  “I believe my condition is properly called veisalgia. Brought on by misadventure incited by the consumption of certain chemical compounds. Caffeine is merely a panacea. What I really have to do is go home. Immediately. And die.”

  “Your patter must have been better last night. You don’t, by any chance, remember exactly how you and I …?”

  “Be assured, dear lady, it is not how it looks.”

  “You’re a lawyer.”

  “You remember.”

  “No. Just the shite you talk.” This kind of banter, like late nights, surrounding herself with people, dancing under the influence, they were all just ways of soldiering through a day. “Tell me straight. I can take it. I think.”

  “There were one or two others here. Sam Anderson?”

  “Would that be a Sam of the female or male variety?”

  “A lady Sam. We all danced a bit. Talked a bit and, if memory serves, you did some good old shite-talking yourself, with respect. Before doing a disappearing act. Sam and her husband Stuart ordered a taxi home. I was supposed to join them but felt I should be civil and inform you. Whereupon I made three mistakes. First listening to you tell me yet again how Italy is a much more fun place to get drunk in. Then, out of weariness, sitting on your bed. Then lying down, at which point Stuarty and Sam presumably gave up waiting. Sorry, there was a fourth mistake – at some point during the night I must have got under the bedclothes.”

  “Well I hope I made up for being boring by providing you with a comfortable sleep.”

  “Oh I never said you were boring. Far from it. And, had my veisalgia not kicked in I would have tried to be more gallant.”

  He took a step towards her, but Maddy put her hand up, in a way, she thought, that must make her look like a lollipop lady. “You have to go home and die, remember?”

  “Ah yes. Sorry.”

  “Samantha Anderson? … Please don’t tell me you’re from JCG Miller? Christ, talk about sleeping with the enemy.”

  “How can you say such a thing? We defence lawyers have nothing but the utmost respect for the Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal Service.”

  Doug – she felt it too late to ask his surname – shuffled out into the hall and searched for his jacket. His mobile pinged and Maddy smiled as he tried to don his jacket and retrieve his phone from his trouser pocket at the same time. Louis’ Montepulciano did terrible things to your motor control. Or maybe it was the cocktails before that. Or the Mexican lager before that. Doug read the text and she’d never seen a man sober up so quickly. He furrowed his brow, narrowed his eyes, reading the text over several times.

  “Can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “You just mentioned his name a moment ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Julian Miller. My boss.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh my God. I didn’t know he was ill.”

  “He wasn’t. Says here he was murdered.”

  Detective Inspector Alan Coulter eyed the cars in the Merchant’s Tower underground car park. Miller’s car had been identified and was cordoned off. A few cars along sat a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. He walked away from Miller’s Audi A3 – he’s seen plenty of them, typical lawyer’s car, but a vintage Rolls Silver Shadow. That was swanky. Then he made his way up to JCG Miller’s office suite.

  The place was like Sauchiehall Street on a Monday morning, hoaching, everyone going about their business: SOCOs, forensics, photographers, keeping their eyes down, only speaking in low voices if they had to. It wasn’t respect for the dead, it was being called out early on a Saturday to go through the rigmarole of work. A woolly suit directed him towards Julian Miller’s office.

  Once people had cleared a path for him, he saw the victim. Sitting at his desk, head slumped. If it wasn’t for the puddle of blood on the desk and the modern-art splatterings of more blood and brains on the wall behind him you’d think the man had dozed off.

  “Good morning,” Coulter said to those in the room. He wasn’t being flippant. This is their job, important to keep things civil.

  “Mr Julian Miller,” Bruce Adams, crime scene manager, informed him. “I imagine you’ve met before.”

  They had. Coulter could remember at least three cases where dangerous nutters had walked thanks to Miller’s talents. And that was just off the top of his head. Perhaps not the best phrase, given his old sparring partner’s head was burst open like a blood orange.

  But that was years ago. Julian Miller had swapped criminal law for corporate around the turn of the millennium. Less courtroom swashbuckling and newspaper headlines, more moolah. Enough, Coulter would have thought, to drive better than an Audi A3. Maybe the Rolls was Miller’s as well.

  “Point blank,” Adams was saying. “Must’ve been sitting at his desk when someone walks in – walks right up to him – and shoots. Forensics will confirm, but my guess is the gun was held about six inches from his head.”

  “Who found him?”

  “The caretaker. Looks after all the offices in the building. Which is mainly JCG Miller. They have the ground and first floors. The top one is empty at the moment.”

  “And here’s the gun.” Recently promoted Detective Sergeant Amy Dalgarno, suited and booted, held it up already bagged.

  “You found the gun?” Coulter peered at it, surprised. “A Glock. What is it, a compact?”

  “G19,” Adams said, before Amy had a chance.

  “Bit gangland, isn’t it? Where was it?”

  “Constable found it in a bin in the car park below.”

  “We sure it’s the gun that killed him?”

  “Not for certain. Not yet,” Adams said, “but if I were a betting man.”

  “Why would a killer leave his shooter behind?”

  “Some kind of calling card?” Amy asked.

  “Sergeant, please, no. Bad enough it’s Saturday morning when I should be having a lie-in. Calling cards suggest there’s more to come.”

  When they turned away from him Alan Coulter nodded a farewell to Julian Miller. Thoughts competing in his head. Live by the sword … unkind, and probably unjust, Miller just did his job well. Coulter had dealt with the murder of acquaintances before but they were usually among the short, brutal, lives of a harsh city’s poor and desperate. The victims of chaotic home lives, rash crimes, generations of neglect. The debris of an unjust world. They weren’t normally Audi drivers in designer suits living, as Coulter remembered, in elegant Killearn, highly respected and even more highly paid. Despite all that, Miller’s body was just like all the rest – blank, finished, silent. The end of life always seemed to Coulter a kind of cosmic let-down. An anticlimax. It was what led to it that troubled him. Were Miller’s final moments, minutes, hours drawn-out torture? Or was it the surprise of his life? Guess who!

  Maddy managed to fight off the urge to go to the crime scene. She had plenty of reasons to. COPFS had a right to be there and she was the first fiscal in the know. Plus Miller was an old acquaintance and colleague, of sorts. And she was with associates of his quite possibly at the very moment he was being murdered. Actually, those were pretty good reasons not to go.

  She had a bad name for turning up at crime scenes. Like some sort of ghoul, or frustrated detective. Too keen, like a school prefect: getting into cases too deep from the get-go.

  So she went about her usual Saturday morning instead, mobile gripped tight in her hand. Except for the excruciating forty-five minutes of her spinning class. Maddy’s weekly memento mori.

  There were six other regulars. A couple her own age – in matching yellow and magenta lycra for Chrissakes. Really? In your forties?

  And young Tricia, all tidy lines and curly hair, plums for buttocks, long legs. Maddy once told her, naked, in the showers, th
at she so missed looking and feeling like that. A total lie. Maddalena di Rio Shannon had never looked like that in her puff and had no idea how it must feel.

  The young guy at the spinning, fighting the beer belly, always a bit hung-over looking, dripping in sweat – that’s how Maddy had felt in her twenties. Then there was the older lady – mid sixties? – and the even older gent. They should have been an inspiration, peddling away, resistance screwed down tight, up off the saddle, sprinting, smiling all the way and hardly perspiring. Chuck the fags, cut down on the Pinot Noir, join a walking club and that could be you, Maddy. But every time she came away thinking, We’re all dying, in our own peculiar ways, riding stationary bikes, going nowhere fast.

  Afterwards, coffee at Mario’s Plaice. A greasy spoon attached to a chip shop that mysteriously changed its name about every five years. Always a fishy pun, something to do with the sea, or sole. Maddy’s family chippie in Girvan had been called The CodFather at one point, so she could hardly be snooty about it. Glasgow used to have lots of these honest, corny old cafés. It wasn’t just that Mario’s reminded her of childhood. She liked the screwed-down tables and chairs, the fixedness of the place. The weak coffee, chatting to Sandra the waitress-cum-manageress, the odds-and-sods the caff attracted, not working so hard at being West End.

  Having tortured herself physically in the gym, Mario’s was where she beat herself up mentally. There used to be a bunch of gym-goers who went for coffee together but Maddy, along with a number of other things, had let that slip. Her social life was too centred around work – Dan and Izzy and Manda. And rookie solicitors, it now seemed, ending up in her bed.

  Then there was playing perfect Italian daughter to the Gina Lollobrigida of Maryhill. Or North Kelvinside, as Rosa di Rio – she had dropped the Shannon years ago – preferred to call it. Maddy wondered if bringing her high-maintenance mamma closer to her own home had been such a good idea, or even necessary.