I knew you’d work out. You’re like us. You’re a pro.’
I thanked him once again for getting me the work, before watching him drive off with conflicting feelings. This was the man who’d driven my brother’s killers away from the scene of their brutal crime, and who’d gone on to commit numerous others. For years I’d built him up as a monster who’d not lost a moment’s sleep over what had happened to John. And maybe he hadn’t. I don’t know because I was always careful never to raise the subject with him, but in the three months I’d spent getting to know him, he’d become far more human in my eyes. A flawed character, certainly, an uneducated thug unafraid to use violence when he considered it necessary, but a funny, generous guy as well, who was popular in the pubs we drank in, who doted on his dog, and who genuinely seemed to like me.
Usually, I was good at compartmentalizing the different lives I led. I looked at my undercover one as a fantasy, a risky role-playing game where the people I worked with were little more than fleshed-out characters. A game which came to an end only to be replaced by a new scenario with new characters. But it was different with Tommy. A part of me hated his guts for what he’d done to me and my family, but like some deluded victim suffering from a form of Stockholm Syndrome, another part of me genuinely liked him. Either way, I knew that getting him arrested would give me a lot less satisfaction than I’d been expecting when I first started out on this job.
As I turned away and walked up to my front door, Tommy’s words rang out in my ears: You’re a pro . But I wasn’t. I was an amateur who’d let his emotions get the better of him, and because of that I was about to put everything I’d ever worked for at risk.
Fourteen
‘I can’t believe this,’ said DCI MacLeod as Tina sat opposite him across the desk in his office. ‘We question him on and off for the best part of twenty-four hours and then, while he’s twiddling his thumbs in his cell, he suddenly remembers that he’s got an alibi.’ His tone was more confused than angry, and he was pulling on one end of his moustache, which was a habit of his when stress was getting the better of him.
Tina nodded. ‘He said the anxiety of the arrest made him forget about it. Also, we’re charging him with five murders so he’s not going to remember immediately that he had an alibi for one.’
‘You don’t believe him though, do you?’
She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘I honestly don’t know. The fact is, he’s got what might be a cast-iron alibi for one of our five murders, and as far as I remember this particular murder had exactly the same MO as the others. So, if he didn’t do one . . .’
‘We don’t know he didn’t do it. He could just be messing us about.’ The way MacLeod said it suggested he was clutching at straws.
‘I don’t think he is, sir. He seemed adamant. I’ve had to give him permission to call his solicitor.’
MacLeod sighed. ‘Fair enough, I suppose. You know, Tina, I’ve been doing this job for getting on for twenty-five years—’
‘You look too young for that, sir,’ she said, spurred on by the vodka.
He gave her a strange look, clearly not expecting a flippant comment like this from his normally serious DI, particularly in the midst of a serious conversation, and Tina cursed herself for being stupid enough to drink on duty.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘in all my years, I can’t remember the last case I came across where the suspect’s guilt was so bloody cut and dried. He has to be guilty, Tina. He just has to be.’
She was about to say she agreed when his phone rang. MacLeod looked at the handset, clearly pondering whether it was worth picking up or not, before deciding it was.
He was on the line for about two minutes, during which time he hardly spoke as he listened to the person at the other end. Finally, he said that he’d get back to the caller
I thanked him once again for getting me the work, before watching him drive off with conflicting feelings. This was the man who’d driven my brother’s killers away from the scene of their brutal crime, and who’d gone on to commit numerous others. For years I’d built him up as a monster who’d not lost a moment’s sleep over what had happened to John. And maybe he hadn’t. I don’t know because I was always careful never to raise the subject with him, but in the three months I’d spent getting to know him, he’d become far more human in my eyes. A flawed character, certainly, an uneducated thug unafraid to use violence when he considered it necessary, but a funny, generous guy as well, who was popular in the pubs we drank in, who doted on his dog, and who genuinely seemed to like me.
Usually, I was good at compartmentalizing the different lives I led. I looked at my undercover one as a fantasy, a risky role-playing game where the people I worked with were little more than fleshed-out characters. A game which came to an end only to be replaced by a new scenario with new characters. But it was different with Tommy. A part of me hated his guts for what he’d done to me and my family, but like some deluded victim suffering from a form of Stockholm Syndrome, another part of me genuinely liked him. Either way, I knew that getting him arrested would give me a lot less satisfaction than I’d been expecting when I first started out on this job.
As I turned away and walked up to my front door, Tommy’s words rang out in my ears: You’re a pro . But I wasn’t. I was an amateur who’d let his emotions get the better of him, and because of that I was about to put everything I’d ever worked for at risk.
Fourteen
‘I can’t believe this,’ said DCI MacLeod as Tina sat opposite him across the desk in his office. ‘We question him on and off for the best part of twenty-four hours and then, while he’s twiddling his thumbs in his cell, he suddenly remembers that he’s got an alibi.’ His tone was more confused than angry, and he was pulling on one end of his moustache, which was a habit of his when stress was getting the better of him.
Tina nodded. ‘He said the anxiety of the arrest made him forget about it. Also, we’re charging him with five murders so he’s not going to remember immediately that he had an alibi for one.’
‘You don’t believe him though, do you?’
She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘I honestly don’t know. The fact is, he’s got what might be a cast-iron alibi for one of our five murders, and as far as I remember this particular murder had exactly the same MO as the others. So, if he didn’t do one . . .’
‘We don’t know he didn’t do it. He could just be messing us about.’ The way MacLeod said it suggested he was clutching at straws.
‘I don’t think he is, sir. He seemed adamant. I’ve had to give him permission to call his solicitor.’
MacLeod sighed. ‘Fair enough, I suppose. You know, Tina, I’ve been doing this job for getting on for twenty-five years—’
‘You look too young for that, sir,’ she said, spurred on by the vodka.
He gave her a strange look, clearly not expecting a flippant comment like this from his normally serious DI, particularly in the midst of a serious conversation, and Tina cursed herself for being stupid enough to drink on duty.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘in all my years, I can’t remember the last case I came across where the suspect’s guilt was so bloody cut and dried. He has to be guilty, Tina. He just has to be.’
She was about to say she agreed when his phone rang. MacLeod looked at the handset, clearly pondering whether it was worth picking up or not, before deciding it was.
He was on the line for about two minutes, during which time he hardly spoke as he listened to the person at the other end. Finally, he said that he’d get back to the caller
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