Chapter 2

SUPERINTENDENT TERRENCE REID crossed from where he’d parked his car on the road to the railroad tracks, fingering the rosary in the left pocket of his wool coat as he walked. The chill of the early spring wind slapped across his face, and his feet crunched the thinly iced dew on the grass. Neither the hopeful green of the newly leafed out trees nor the smattering of blue flowers in the grass told the truth about the weather. It might be April, it might be spring, but it was freeze-your-bone-marrow cold.

His day had just gone from bad to absolute bollocks. He’d had bad days before, bad weeks before, even bad years before, but he’d never felt so much like a failure as he did right now. Every aspect of his life, from his marriage to his career, was careening out of control. And now this. His star witness. His star bloody witness.

A glance around the crime scene told him he wasn’t the only one having a bad day. The morning sun, even filtered as it was by the typical haze of gray clouds, revealed that the newest member of his elite police team wasn’t dealing well with having to confront the battered and bloody remains of what had been a man before she’d even had breakfast.

At twenty-two, Detective Constable Allison Muirhead was still raw when it came to the business of death. She was bundled up in a red down jacket, her curly brown hair mostly covered by a white knitted hat, but underneath all that, Reid recognized the look on her face; she was concentrating fervently on not being sick. The gruesome sight of the mutilated body alone could have turned anyone’s stomach. At least, thanks to the cold air and being out in the open, the body didn’t stink yet, but Reid suspected the greasy tar smell clinging to the railroad tracks wasn’t helping Allison’s stomach any.

“A’right, Allison?” he asked.

“A’right, sir.” Allison would throw herself in front of the next train rather than embarrass herself by admitting that the crime scene bothered her. She put on a brave face, Reid thought. An oddly yellowish-green face, but a brave one, nonetheless.

Reid nodded at her, then turned his attention to Detective Sergeant Harry Ross, the senior member of his team.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Even a cursory inspection of the carnage on the tracks revealed the utter impossibility of making an identification based on the man’s mangled face, and Reid allowed himself to feel a brief flicker of hope that a mistake had been made.

“As sure as we can be.” Harry’s innocent face with its sea of freckles and messy cap of ginger hair did not look like it belonged to a man who was one of the best electronic crime detectives in Great Britain. “There’s not much left of him.” Harry gestured toward a silver Mercedes sedan parked on the side of the road. “But that’s Ramsey’s car, his jacket is folded up on the front passenger seat, and his wallet was in it.”

Reid nodded, making sure his demeanor didn’t reflect even a hint of the weariness or frustration he felt. Richard Ramsey, a prominent industrialist, had finally agreed not just to act as an informant, but also to give testimony against the man Reid believed was the chief Scottish conduit in a pipeline financing a string of violent terrorist attacks on British and European universities. Ramsey’s cooperation had been kept quiet so they could make sure the noose around Walter Von Zandt’s neck was looped good and tight before bringing charges against the wealthy financier.

In the six weeks since he’d left California—since he’d left Anne—Reid had worked ceaselessly on the investigation, trying to make up for the time he’d lost by being away. Much of that time had been spent recruiting Ramsey. Without Ramsey’s help, the chances of getting the evidence needed to implicate Von Zandt were next to impossible. The chances of Reid being able to find a replacement informant in time to stop the next attacks were even worse.

Reid walked over to the Mercedes to get a closer look at the number plate. Harry was right, it was definitely Ramsey’s car. Reid was well-acquainted with everything about Richard Ramsey: his car, his family, his business, his house. He’d burned every blessed fact into his brain when he’d been trying to get Ramsey to turn informant. And it had worked, for all the good it would do now.

Reid felt a veil of depression sink over him. It wasn’t just Ramsey. It was Ramsey and Anne and California and nights spent sitting by a phone that wouldn’t ring. He fought the urge to yell, to lash out, to drive his fist through the sedan’s window. None of that would help. It never had.

He unclenched his fist and walked back across the grass to rejoin Henry and Allison by the railroad tracks.

Harry popped two sticks of gum into his mouth and squinted at Allison. “This is your first dead body, isn’t it, ducks?”

Chewing his gum with a little too much enthusiasm, Harry peered into her face with more amusement than concern. “You’re not looking so good, lassie. Green, almost.” Although he was actually from Dundee, Harry, chameleon-like, had adopted a broad Glaswegian accent.

“Stuff it. I’m fine.”

Harry widened his eyes in mock surprise at her prickly response, then shrugged, a demonic grin on his face.

Reid shot Harry a warning look. Usually Reid was mildly amused by the banter between his detectives, but not today. “Allison, breathe through your mouth until you get your bearings.”

She swallowed, inhaled deeply, then nodded.

“Where was the surveillance that was supposed to be on Ramsey?”

“Don’t know, sir. It was supposed to be DC Parsons, but it looks like he ditched it.”

Reid frowned. “When exactly did DC Parsons leave his post?”

“Sometime after eleven, sir,” Allison said. “According to the computer records, that’s when Parsons reported in saying that the house lights had been turned off a half hour before, and he figured the family had turned in for the night.”

Reid shook his head, disgusted. This forced liaison with the Glasgow Criminal Investigation Division, and particularly with CID’s DI Mark Lawrence, had been nothing but trouble. Lawrence had tried to undercut Reid at every turn. No doubt the arrogant bastard would find some way to shift the blame for this mess back on Reid. “So are you saying DC Parsons left off the surveillance when the family went to bed? Ramsey was supposed to be under watch around the clock.”

“From what I was able to winkle out of one of the other CID lads, DI Lawrence has been letting his people make a judgment call as to whether they needed to stay after Ramsey looked to be home for the night.” Allison obviously didn’t relish being the one giving Reid this news. “I guess Parsons decided to call it a night.”

Reid tried to reconcile what he was hearing with what he knew about the young constable who had approached him several weeks ago, asking to join Reid’s team. Reid had let him know that he’d be under consideration, depending on his performance on this investigation. So why would he throw away his chance like this? “How did he explain himself?”

“Don’t know, sir. No one’s been able to get hold of him.”

Reid forced down the cold dread that clamped around his chest. That Parsons would abandon his duties last night and then ignore efforts to contact him made no sense. “When you get him, have him call me directly.”

“Yes, sir.” Allison said, a little faintly. She was staring at the body again.

Harry snapped his gum, and Allison rolled her eyes in disapproval.

Reid gave his sergeant a mildly reproving look, not at the gum snapping, but because Harry was doing it to annoy Allison. Harry caught Reid’s look, raised his eyebrows, and gave a slight jerk of his thumb toward Allison. Reid finally realized his sergeant had been deliberately annoying Allison to distract her from being sick. And to Harry’s credit, she did look less green.

Harry, completely serious now, said, “The local coppers say he did it on purpose. Got soused and plunked himself down across the railroad tracks.” He pointed to an empty bottle of whiskey that looked to have rolled a few feet down the embankment. “What do you think, guv? Drunken accident or a desperate act of remorse?”

Reid didn’t answer, just frowned, pacing closer to where the mutilated body lay across the tracks. He let his eyes slowly assess the entire site, taking in the access road, the trees and other thick vegetation screening the small grassy knoll on the other side of the tracks, and the location of the Mercedes, while he analyzed the possible scenarios that might have led to Ramsey’s end.

He looked at Allison. “Your thoughts, DC?”

The young woman’s face blushed a wild pink, which was a marked improvement, Reid decided. He could tell Allison was trying desperately to think of an insightful comment to make. “I’m not sure, sir. Maybe suicide? Or it could have been an accident, I guess.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. Suicide, I guess.”

Reid let his gaze wander from the car to the tracks and back again.

“You said he was pretty shook when he realized the money he was helping launder was being used to finance terrorists,” Harry said. “Maybe he just couldn’t live with himself.”

Reid made a noncommittal sound, still deep in thought. After a moment, he looked over at Allison. “Who found the body?”

Allison gestured at an elderly man, thin and almost certainly hung over, who stood away from the scene, quietly waiting, an old woolen jacket wrapped around him and a red plaid cap with ear muffs keeping his head warm.

“Have you taken his statement?”

“Yes, sir. He was walking home after a night out with his mates. He lives just past there.” She indicated an area away from the tracks where the trees were thick. “After he found Mr. Ramsey’s body, he went home and rang the local police. They brought him back here so he could show them where the body was.”

“You can let him go if you’ve got his contact information.” Reid glanced at the old man, registering the bowed shoulders and uncertain posture. “Make sure he has a lift home if he wants one.”

“Right.” She moved away to speak to the old man. Reid watched, saw the man shake his head at Allison’s offer and then shamble across the field to the trees.

Harry picked at his teeth with a piece of dried grass, but his attention was on Allison who was hurrying back toward them. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be the poor sod who found him. At least we knew what to expect when we showed up. Stumbling across a sight like this had to suck.”

Reid ignored the comment. His voice low, he said, “For Ramsey to want to kill himself, he’d have to either be unable to face his involvement being made public, or be overcome with guilt. But he’d already figured out the spin he’d take to excuse his involvement and he didn’t blame himself. His story was that he was a victim as well.”

Harry made a face. “Right. Like he didn’t suspect. What did he think the money was being used for? To help starving orphans?”

Reid shrugged. He had learned never to underestimate the ability of people not to see what they didn’t want to see.

“An accident, then?” Harry asked. “Passed out while taking a piss?”

“Then what was he doing here in the first place? This road goes nowhere, and he’s lived around here long enough to know that.”

“What if it wasn’t guilt or shame? What if it was fear? Maybe he decided killing himself would be less painful than getting crosswise with Von Zandt. When you’ve let the devil get you by the balls it may get a mite uncomfortable when he twists them. Could be Ramsey decided offing himself was preferable to what he was going to get from Von Zandt.”

Reid didn’t mind his conclusions being questioned. But Harry hadn’t been there, hadn’t talked to Ramsey, hadn’t seen the man’s outraged demeanor. Ramsey wasn’t a man who let himself be beaten by anything or anyone. Something wasn’t right.

He leaned toward the mutilated and mangled body to get a closer look at the torso. Then he gave a low, thoughtful whistle, and squeezed his eyes to better focus. When Reid was sure, he gestured at Harry to come closer.

Harry obliged, squatted down, and looked at where Reid was pointing. “Ah, bugger me, but I think you’re right.”

Reid straightened up. “We were meant to think suicide, or at a stretch, a drunken accident. The killer must have expected the train would make more of a mess than it did.”

Allison poked her head from behind Harry, then cleared her throat as if preparing to speak. She didn’t say anything, but Reid felt her question.

“See, Allison? Just there.” He pointed to what had been the body’s chest. “I’d be surprised if the medical examiner doesn’t tell us that that hole in his chest was made by a sharp instrument. He was stabbed and then dragged to, or thrown on, the tracks. Already dead when the train hit him, I’d say. Harry, have Ramsey’s car towed in and get the SOCOs to go over it carefully. Whoever killed him may have been in the car with him.”

Harry gestured toward the Scene of Crime operatives milling around taking photographs and samples. “Already gave the order, guv. And I told them to check for tracks to see if another vehicle was here.”

“Good.” Reid said. “Either Ramsey met the killer here, or the killer drove here with Ramsey, dead or alive. Had to have been picked up by someone else afterwards or had transport hidden somewhere nearby.” He studied the desolate area around the tracks. “Make sure they look for motorbike and bicycle tracks as well. Also, for any signs the body was dragged.”

Harry nodded.

“And get warrants to search Ramsey’s office and home. I want you to personally take charge of looking at all of the electronics—computers, mobile phones, everything. Quickly, before Von Zandt figures out a way to get there before we do.”

“On that, guv. I’m sure Ramsey’s been holding out on us. The bugger had to have more info on the accounts they were using than he admitted.” Harry’s freckled face folded into a grimace, a sign of concentrated thought. “And if he’s got it, we’ll find it.”

“I want anything that could help us find who killed Ramsey, whether it leads to Von Zandt or not. But most of all, I want Von Zandt.”

“Understood. All I need is one small end of the string to follow it somewhere else. Eventually we’ll get there.” Harry’s self-confidence, justified as it was by the results he customarily got, gave Reid a small measure of hope.

Reid was suddenly anxious to leave. “I’m heading out now to update the Chief Constable. Let the local police know they’re to make no statements to the press or anyone else about this, and that we’ll be handling the investigation ourselves. I want the details kept quiet unless and until I decide to release them.”

Harry held up a hand in acquiescence and headed toward where the scene of crime operatives were setting up.

On his way back to his car, Reid reached inside his coat pocket. Pressing the beads of his rosary together so hard he thought his fingers might bleed, he numbly marched the Latin words of the accompanying prayers through his mind.

At least the day couldn’t possibly get any worse.