Blindside - By Gj Moffat Page 0,7

afternoon to call Homeland Security.

‘Someone better start talking,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll be going over there myself to raise hell.’

7

Rebecca Irvine’s phone sounded as she got in the car outside Ellie’s school, waving to Ellie as she disappeared into a crowd of her friends. Her son was in his car seat in the back.

‘DC Irvine,’ she said when she answered the call – recognising the number as the Strathclyde Police HQ.

‘Becky, it’s me.’

Detective Superintendent Liam Moore – her boss.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Where are you?’

He sounded cranky. Not an encouraging start to the day.

‘I’m going to drop my son off at the childminder. Why, do you need me?’

‘Yes. What are you working on right now?’

‘The Johnson case. You know, the body in the Range Rover? Ewen Cameron’s the DS on it.’

‘It’s stalled, right?’

He was right. They had identified the victim as Andrew Johnson: soldier, turned private security mercenary, turned … something else. Shot twice in the head. ‘Execution style’ was how the newspapers described it. Beyond that, they had nothing to go on.

‘No need to be defensive about it,’ Moore said when she didn’t answer. ‘I know you guys are working it. Maybe you need something new. Freshen things up, you know.’

Irvine said maybe.

‘No one else is free right now anyway,’ he said. ‘We’re getting slammed.’

So what’s new?

‘What have you got?’ she asked.

‘It’s a floater. Fished out the Clyde this morning down on the Broomielaw.’

Irvine closed her eyes. Those were never good.

‘There’s a twist with this one,’ Moore said.

‘Okay. What is it?’

‘It’s a drug squad investigation. Those guys are at the locus already. They’ve asked for CID assistance.’

‘Am I volunteering?’

‘You already did.’

Irvine cradled the phone with her shoulder while Moore talked, reached inside her jacket and took out a notebook. She wrote the location of the body. Was about to write the name of the drug squad contact on site when she paused.

‘Did you say the Director General is there?’ she asked Moore.

‘Yes.’

‘Why is the head of the SCDEA at a crime scene?’

‘I didn’t ask. Must be big time, eh?’

‘I guess. Are we going to be in charge of the scene?’

‘Yes. I briefed Jim Murphy already.’

Murphy was a veteran detective sergeant who had turned the latter half of his time on the force into a career as a crime scene manager. It was a desk job that he was entirely happy with as he headed rapidly downhill towards retirement. That wasn’t to say that he was a bad detective. He just preferred a life behind a desk to a life stepping over bodies.

Who could blame him?

‘Leave it with me,’ Irvine told Moore. ‘I’ll head over there as soon as I can.’

‘Brief me when you get in.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Irvine had very little experience of dealing with the SCDEA – the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency. But she knew enough about police hierarchies to realise that if the head man – the DG – was at a crime scene, then it was a very big deal.

8

Irvine felt cold in spite of the sun overhead as she walked along the riverside towards the small crowd gathered behind the yellow crime scene tape. She saw uniformed officers standing around looking bored and Scenes of Crime staff in the full regalia: white overalls, hoods, masks and booties.

The sun was clear in the sky, only wisps of cloud spoiling the blue canvas. Irvine knew that it was her core temperature that had dropped, not the heat of the sun.

When she reached the crowd, Irvine eased her way through, showing her warrant card to a uniformed officer who stepped up to block her. She saw two thirty-something men in dark suits with SCDEA gold shields fixed to their jackets. She could almost feel the sense of entitlement radiating from them.

She approached the two men and introduced herself. They did the same: Detective Chief Superintendent Eric Thomson, head of operations at the SCDEA; and syndicate leader, Detective Inspector Bryan Fraser. Irvine didn’t know the jargon.

‘What’s a syndicate?’ she asked.

‘What we call our investigation teams,’ Thomson told her.

Irvine wasn’t really sure what was wrong with the word ‘team’, but said nothing. She was here to make friends.

Thomson was a short man with a neat beard and square-rimmed glasses. It looked to Irvine like he took some care over his appearance. Fraser was much taller – over six feet – with hair gone prematurely grey.

‘What’s the story here?’ Irvine asked.

She looked past the two men at a white-suited technician on hands and knees going over the ground inch by inch for evidence.

Fraser turned