Lawless Read online

  For Gavin

  who makes me proud

  Acknowledgements

  Every work of fiction depends on facts. Somewhere in the creative process, parts of real people and events inevitably intermingle with imaginary ones. Sometimes the distinctions are obvious. At others, even the person doing the creating isn’t sure where the fine line separating the two has been drawn.

  Lawless journeys at times between fact and fiction and a few of the characters actually exist. Some are half true and others, thankfully, are completely make-believe. In every case, the dialogue is pure fiction.

  The book was inspired by certain actual events encountered during research for a previous book, The Law Killers, and experiences soon after its publication. In that sense, it is a fictional sequel.

  It could never have been written without the help, advice and encouragement of a number of people and I am deeply indebted to them. My particular thanks go to:

  Ex-Detective Chief Superintendent Tom Ross and Dr Doug Pearston of the Scottish Police DNA database; the governor and staff of HM Prison Perth, especially Steve Kinmond; Petra McMillan, Paul Gunnion and Gordon Dow, all of whom helped one way or another to put this book on the shelf.

  The fine staff at Black & White Publishing always deserve more praise than they receive, so, hopefully, this makes amends – my particular thanks go to the magnificent Patricia Marshall. On this occasion Alison and Campbell have to be singled out for a unique combined contribution to the main character, as well as for their guidance.

  Above all, my gratitude goes to my wife Christine for her helpful suggestions, editing skills and understanding. None of the following would have been possible without her.

  Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  1

  He’d seen his name in print often enough above newspaper stories but it looked different on the spine of a book. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that he and the Campbell McBride described on the jacket were the same person. According to the blurb, he was a distinguished investigative reporter and an authority on crime. Now he’d turned author and, what was even more unlikely, the book had become something of a best-seller. OK, maybe it wasn’t War and Peace but thousands had seemed to want to read his account of the catalogue of murders that had taken place in Dundee, the town he used to call home.

  During that afternoon of the signing, he had worked his way through an unexpectedly long line of people wanting his name on their copy of The Law Town Killers. Some were old acquaintances – even a couple of ex-girlfriends – a few were amateur detectives but most were just curious. Maybe they thought that getting the author’s signature would make the book more collectable.

  McBride saw it differently – sign as many as you can and that way they’re less likely to lend the book out to friends who should be buying their own copy. At least that was the theory. But they could be a bit contrary in that city of contradictions.

  As the queue gradually evaporated, McBride became aware of a middle-aged man hanging back, waiting to be last. He was small and spruce, his salt-and-pepper beard close trimmed. Not carrying any extra weight. Clothes sensible, matching. Not cheap – maybe expensive. He held the paperback protectively to his chest – not like a reader, more the way a professor would before he delivered a lecture. Perhaps he wanted a long chat about forensics or a complicated dedication. Either way, he was going to take up time.

  When there was no one else left, the precise, uncluttered figure approached and his body language definitely wasn’t that of a fan. He was controlled but agitated. There was none of the usual uncertainty of what to say, no half-smile or hesitant attempt at a handshake. Spreading the book open, he held his fingers over the start of one of the chapters.

  ‘Your book’s shit and this is the biggest pile of it – just like yourself.’ The words were chiselled out but the voice was measured, soft – just loud enough for McBride to take in but not for anyone passing the table. ‘You couldn’t be bothered doing any proper research, could you? Or were you just talked out of it by your pals in the police?’

  Before McBride could look up or think of a sensible response, the troubled man had turned away and was walking towards the main door of the store. Ten seconds later, he had vanished into the throng of shoppers that packed Murraygate every Saturday afternoon.

  Even if he’d been inclined to, McBride knew there was no point going after him. That part of town was the commercial backbone of the city. The shoppers always came at you like a football crowd and, with seven days to go before Christmas, sanity had deserted them. It was said that, if you stood under H. Samuel’s clock long enough, everyone in Dundee would pass you by. That day, they seemed to be going round twice.

  McBride had prepared himself for possible confrontations with the family or friends of some of those he’d written about. It was inevitable, he reckoned, that he’d cause offence somewhere. He’d revived a lot of old memories that some would have struggled to bury and his resurrection of the facts wasn’t going to make him the most popular guy in the country as far as they were concerned. He would have felt the same if he’d been one of them and he’d resolved to be apologetic and sympathetic. He would respond with unaccustomed gentleness. But, when the simmering anger spilled from the man at the end of the queue, there hadn’t been an opportunity for saying even a holding, ‘Sorry you feel that way.’ How could he placate someone who apparently didn’t want to listen?

  When he looked at the book still open in front of him, he was surprised to discover that the chapter wasn’t among those he’d mentally noted as the ones most likely to stir up trouble. In fact, if he’d been forced to choose the least offensive, the chapter staring back at him would probably have been it.

  It was textbook straightforward – young man strangles girlfriend after argument … abundance of evidence … arrested within hours … jailed for life … end of story. The killing had only made it into the book because the victim had been a policeman’s daughter. If such a thing as an open-and-shut murder existed, the death of Alison Brown and the subsequent despatch to prison of Bryan Gilzean for her slaying constituted it.

  So why had the brief episode with the troubled man who had come to Waterstone’s bookstore to make a point left him with such an irrational feeling of unease? He told
himself it was because he would have preferred a longer, less considered outburst – something he could have dealt with, apologised for.

  The world is full of bampots, he reflected. Forget it. But he knew he wouldn’t.

  2

  The Fort bar out in the posh Broughty Ferry suburbs never seemed to change. Same sports trophies in their glass cases out of reach along the back wall of the public bar. Same groups crouched over the domino table. They played for pennies but the concentration matched anything you’d see at the blackjack tables in Monte Carlo.

  Next door, in the discreet lounge, the thirty-somethings were starting to negotiate. The people were the clones of the ones who gathered there before McBride had left town twenty years before – only the faces had changed. The conversations had never altered. They tried to sound relaxed, casual, but the small talk was the usual evening mating call. You could tell the ones who weren’t picking it up. They looked hopefully over at the door every time a newcomer came in just in case a better prospect had arrived.

  The Fort had always been the best bar in town, even if some of the women could be a bit choosy. At least no one was ever going to bottle you there. John Black saw to that. He was unlikely to be described with any accuracy as ‘genial’ by those who coupled that word with ‘host’ but the outward gruffness concealed an unexpected generosity and he was a soft target for a good cause. The owner of The Fort had also learned the first lesson of being a successful publican – to make every customer feel like you knew them.

  ‘Saw your picture in The Courier,’ he told McBride. ‘Best-seller, eh? Never knew Dundee had spawned such a bunch of murdering bastards.’

  McBride had no idea if the short figure behind the bar had the slightest inkling about who he was, beyond what he’d read in that morning’s paper. Did he remember their conversations when McBride had been a young reporter on The Courier? Then there was the night John Black had put him into a taxi when, by rights, he should have called the police after the drunken brawl … He’d feel his way.

  ‘I was going to do a chapter on Dundee United – the day they murdered Dundee 5–0 back in ’64 but there was no real mystery in it. Good side annihilates crap side – what’s new?’

  Black took the bait. Football, or more accurately, Dundee FC, obsessed him almost as much as making money. Life lost much of its meaning the day the team was relegated, leaving their hated rivals as the city’s sole representatives in the Premier Division.

  ‘Lippy asshole,’ he flashed back. His language had all the old finesse. ‘You didn’t learn any manners all that time in London then, you little prick?’

  ‘So you remember? I was sure the old dementia would have kicked in by now,’ smiled McBride, extending a hand across the counter, which was warmly grasped.

  ‘Who’s going to forget a celebrity like you? Your name was never out of the papers for long enough. If there was trouble anywhere, you were up to your neck in it – just like years ago ’cept some paper was paying you fancy money to write about it. In the old days, you were the trouble. If it wasn’t the drink, it was putting a leg over the wrong woman. Maybe you still are?’

  McBride felt an unexpected flush spread up from his neck. He quickly raised his pint glass and drained the contents, taking longer than necessary in the hope the redness would disappear. When he finally put it back on the counter, he forced a laugh. ‘Straight to the point, eh, John?’ He wondered if it was one of his random jibes or an unusually subtle attempt to ask about his marital status.

  ‘You find out there’s no future in that carry-on – maybe some of us just take longer to get the message than others. More to the point, when are Dundee going to do the decent thing and sell off Dens Park to United for a training pitch?’ It was an obvious change of subject and he knew the pub owner would pick up on it. That was another talent John Black had acquired in his years behind a bar. He’d learned when topics should be dropped, directions altered – that the customer was always in charge of the conversation.

  What was the point in going into it all, anyway? McBride thought to himself. A crowded Saturday-night lounge bar wasn’t exactly the most tranquil of settings for a cerebral exchange about the state of his marriage, even if it still existed in some recognisable form.

  Not for the first time since returning to Dundee, McBride became aware of a feeling of melancholy creeping over him. The town had changed – almost beyond recognition in some parts. So had a lot of the people. Now there were bioscientists with English accents rubbing shoulders with the old-time trade unionists. Wine bars were opening up and the council couldn’t pull down some of the empty housing estates fast enough. Out in the suburbs, high-priced villas were springing up on every available plot of ground. There was a whiff of prosperity in the air. But nothing could alter the memories, the distant echoes that could still seep slyly into your head when your back was turned.

  He wondered if Caroline had ever returned and tried to imagine where she would have gone if she’d found the strength to come back. Would she have revisited all the obvious places or would the recollections have overwhelmed her the way they were starting to do to him? The only thing left in Dundee for her – for them both – was the precious spot where they’d taken Simon’s ashes all those Decembers ago. That was probably the best reason to stay away.

  He asked himself if he would make the journey to that peaceful place where she’d shed so many tears before he departed again for London but he still struggled for an answer. He’d never been there without her.

  Caroline, sweet Caroline. He walked on every crack in the road – she read Annie Proulx and put the handbrake on when she stopped at traffic lights. But, magically, for ten years, it had worked. Then he went away and, when he came back, it was over. He still wasn’t sure why.

  3

  When the phone rang, McBride was on the floor of his hotel room. He was wearing purple shorts and battered Nike trainers and his body ran with sweat. For the previous ninety minutes, he had jogged through the rain in the awakening centre of town. He stopped trying to reach his toes and stretched out to pick his mobile from the bedside table. Janne from his Edinburgh publishers always had a smile in her voice and he pondered if all Danish women sounded that way, even on wet Monday mornings.

  When McBride informed her he was in his hotel room, half naked and sweating, she queried why he was also breathless.

  ‘Not what you think or might like to think,’ he fired back. ‘Anyway, I thought it was the Swedes who thrived on all that sort of stuff.’

  Janne giggled. ‘I bring news of “fan mail” – some of it from ladies, perhaps. Should I send it on or won’t you be able to contain yourself? I could open it up but maybe you won’t want me to see what colour the knickers are?’

  ‘I’ll risk it. They’d probably be too small for you anyway. Come to that, I was never that sure you Scandinavians actually wore such things.’

  Janne sighed in mock indignation. ‘We’re not all bare-bottomed Scotsmen in kilts. Give me five minutes and I’ll get back to you.’

  She rang off.

  When she called again, exactly five minutes had passed and this time Janne was wearing her Miss Efficiency hat.

  ‘Right. Sorry – no knickers. There are nine letters in total. Six say, “Well done” – can’t imagine why – two are requests for you to speak – one of them a Rotary Club and the other, which I know you’ll like, is a young wives’ group who say they try to attract interesting men to entertain them. The last one is a bit more unusual. In fact, it’s not nice at all. Says, in effect, that you’re a bit of a tosser and you got one of the chapters all wrong. You’re accused of helping to keep an innocent man in prison and it says you’ve been hoodwinked, just like the police. Do I bin it and just post on the others or do you want it for your scrapbook?’

  McBride knew the answer to the question he was about to ask but he asked anyway, his mood of light-heartedness dissipating. ‘Does it refer to the story about the bloke who strangled his girlfriend w
ith his tie?’

  ‘Yes – Bryan Gilzean and Alison Brown. According to the letter, he’s doing life. By the by, did I say the note is beautifully punctuated, very neat and without a spelling mistake – unlike the work of some authors I know!’

  It was McBride’s turn to be businesslike. ‘Never mind the rest of the stuff,’ he said, suddenly brusque, ‘I’ll pick it up next time I’m through. But let me have the complaining one. Can you get it off today?’ He rang off before he became aware of his rudeness. He knew he had work to do.

  If he’d still been a staff man on one of the nationals, there wouldn’t have been much of a problem. The news desk would have him pencilled in for an assignment somewhere and the air tickets would have been booked in his name and awaiting his return. He would have caught the plane and stayed away until the final word of his ‘scintillating’ prose had been filed. Then he would have come home and waited for the next trip to the airport. Life didn’t present too many dilemmas. You followed the news and everything else fitted in round about – or sometimes it didn’t for the unlucky people who shared the ordinary, static parts of your nomadic existence.

  But, now that he freelanced, McBride could make choices. The one facing him in his room in the Apex Hotel was straightforward. It should not have taken any time at all. He should have showered, dressed and checked out. He should have left his bags at reception and spent the afternoon catching up on the changing face of Dundee. Then he should have caught the early evening flight out of Riverside Airport back to London. He should not have returned to his native city for another ten years.

  Instead, McBride called the airport and cancelled his seat on the plane. It made no sense but he did it because he couldn’t stop himself. The voice inside his head told him it was irrational and pointless to remain in the city but, down in the pit of his stomach, the other voice, the one he always obeyed, told him it had been inevitable from the moment the insistent stranger had walked quickly away from him in Waterstone’s.