Blood On The Law

By William A. Graham

Two kilos of pure cocaine ... that’s what the police found hidden in Michael Grant’s car. Worth about two million on the street and it’s going to cost Michael ten years in jail unless private detective Allan Linton can prove he was framed.

The cops are convinced that Michael is guilty. Even his own lawyer doesn’t believe he’s innocent. And there are others who have their own reasons for seeing Michael behind bars ... and they will stop at nothing to prevent Allan and his associate, Niddrie, getting to the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William A. Graham
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916233102

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sam Craig carefully looked around. No one was watching so, taking his time, he moved to the driver’s door of the unattended Jaguar. More than sixty grand’s worth and Sam had been eyeing it up for the last few minutes, just waiting for the right moment. He gripped the door handle and gently tried it. There was a soft click. It was unlocked. Sam slid into the leather seat and shut the door quietly. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

There was a gentle tap on the window and, as Sam opened his eyes and looked round, the door swung open. A young man bent down and smiled at him. He wasn’t wearing a uniform but the tag clipped to the pocket of his jacket said ‘Tim Forsyth, Trainee Sales Executive’.

You’re not really going to buy this, are you? said Tim.

Sam looked past Tim out to the parking lot of Dundee’s Jaguar dealership. Tim followed his gaze to where a red ten-year-old Polo sat unabashedly amongst a lot of very expensive metal. Sam looked seriously at the trainee sales executive.

Well, that depends on what you would offer me as a trade-in.

Tim looked like he was thinking about it for a few seconds.

That and about another sixty thousand ought to do it.

Tim smiled again and opened the door further so that Sam could climb out of the Jag, then indicated with a nod of his head to the other side of the showroom where two men were talking. Actually one of them was talking … a lot. He was in his early forties and wore a suit with a name tag, a pale blue shirt and a tie with the logo of the dealership on it. The name tag said ‘Frank Drummond, Sales Manager’. The man who wasn’t talking looked at least fifteen years younger and wore chinos and a leather jacket over a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Sam knew a bit about clothes, especially the ones he couldn’t afford. He was pretty sure the jacket cost three times what the suit did.

That’s my boss, Mr Drummond. He asked me if you wouldn’t mind getting out of the car so he could show it to that guy he’s with. I think Mr Drummond thinks he can afford it. The emphasis was on the word ‘he’.

That’s okay, said Sam. And nice of him to ask so politely.

Tim grimaced in an embarrassed sort of way.

To be honest, he told me to get that chancer out of the car and out of his showroom. Sorry, mate.

No problem. I’ve got to get to work anyway.

Tim looked at the name of the supermarket stitched onto Sam’s fleece.

You work at the big store on the other side of the Kingsway, then?

Yeah, been there since I left school, four years ago. Started stacking shelves and worked my way up. Now I drive one of their vans.

They had almost reached the large glass door. Sam stopped and looked back at the four-wheeled luxury gleaming under the lights of the huge room.

Must be great working here. You get to drive a lot of these cars?

Tim grinned. He knew a fellow car fanatic when he met one.

Well, not all of them. And my boss doesn’t let me go very far in them.

Mr Drummond had the boot of the Jaguar open and was presenting the interior to the guy in the leather jacket. Plenty of room for a couple of golf bags. But leather jacket guy didn’t seem to be very interested in the capacity of the boot. Maybe he didn’t play golf. Instead he was looking at Sam and gesturing at him to come back.

Mr Drummond had a fixed grin on his face. Tim had seen that look before. His boss wasn’t pleased but he was trying his best not to show it in front of the customer. In contrast, leather jacket guy’s smile was genuine.

I’m interested in buying a Jaguar, he said as Sam and Tim approached. This model in particular. And I’d really like to take a test drive before I make up my mind.

He indicated to the sales manager.

Mr Drummond here says that we can’t take this one out of the showroom, but he has kindly offered a demonstrator identical to this which I can try out. There’s just one problem. I can’t drive.

Drummond didn’t hesitate.

Oh, no need to worry about that. I’ll drive you.

No offence, Mr Drummond, but I’d like an independent opinion.

He looked at Sam.

I saw the way you reversed your car into that tight space when you arrived. That was pretty smart. How would you like to drive me on the test run?

Sam did his best to look reluctant but it was a losing battle.

Oh, I think I could help you out, he beamed.

Tim looked at his boss. He looked panic-stricken and Tim knew why. The demonstrator he was offering for the test drive was Drummond’s own staff car.

I’m not sure that’s a good idea. There’s a big difference between driving an old Polo and a new Jaguar. It’s a lot bigger with a lot more power. And then there’s all the latest technology …

I’m sure that won’t be a problem, said Tim. Our friend here … he paused and looked questioningly at Sam.

Sam, said Sam helpfully.

Yes, Sam here says he keeps up with all the latest developments regarding Jaguars. Plus, He drives much bigger vehicles every day.

That’s right, said Sam. He didn’t bother to tell Drummond that these vehicles were vans that had the handling characteristics of canal barges with the acceleration to match.

Tim almost felt sorry for his boss. He knew what Drummond really wanted to do was tell Sam to clear off and take his crappy little Polo with him. But that would run the risk of losing a sale worth sixty grand. They didn’t sell too many cars at that price in Dundee.

The sixty grand won.

Oh, well, I’m sure that will be all right, said Drummond brightly. I’ll just come with you.

No need for that, said leather jacket guy. You’re obviously a busy man, Mr Drummond.

He smiled at Tim.

Why doesn’t Tim here come with us? Just to make sure we don’t run off with your car?

Tim was certain he could hear his boss’s teeth grinding.

Mr Drummond stopped grinding long enough to force another smile.

Of course. I’ll just bring my car round to the front. Meet you there.

As they walked to the door of the showroom, leather jacket guy looked at Sam and Tim.

I hope you don’t mind me getting you involved in this. To be honest, I just couldn’t resist it.

Are you kidding? said Sam. I’m never going to get a chance to drive a car like this ever again.

Don’t be so sure about that.

Sam was still wondering about that reply when the sales manager pulled up in his car. Different colour but otherwise identical to the one in the showroom. Drummond got out and glared at Tim.

Just the usual test run, Tim.

Sam got behind the wheel and Tim took the front passenger seat. The potential buyer climbed into the back and settled into the leather seat.

As they drove out of the parking lot he said, What is the usual test run, Tim?

Tim looked over his shoulder.

Just a mile or two up the Kingsway then turn round at one of the circles and come back.

Not this time. That’s not going to be enough to tell me what I need to know. Why don’t you take it onto the dual carriageway to Perth, Sam? Keep going until I tell you to turn round and come back.

Sam glanced at the clock on the dashboard. His shift started in ten minutes. He reckoned that he would be gone for a lot longer than that. Was it worth a bollocking from his boss for being late? Sam thought to himself, ‘Tough call’, then drove the Jag down the slip road and eased into the traffic heading west along the Kingsway, Dundee’s ring road. A few minutes later they had left the fifty zone and passed the sign which said that speed was restricted to seventy miles an hour.

Sam gently pressed the accelerator and the Jag effortlessly reached the legal speed limit. Within seconds they had been passed by the inevitable white van and a BMW driven by a guy with a fifty-quid haircut and wearing a striped shirt and tie. On the latter’s tail was a Subaru with a massive spoiler at its rear end. The young lad crouched over the steering wheel wore a baseball cap the wrong way round, with untamed strands of hair sticking out from underneath it. He was probably younger than the car he drove.

The Beemer distanced itself from the Scooby with the arrogance that prestige German automobiles seem to possess. You had to hand it to the young guy. He wasn’t giving up. Sam winced as he heard the bang from the Subaru’s exhaust as it set off in pursuit.

Tim looked at Sam.

Not tempted?

No chance. Just wait and see.

A mile or so further on, Sam saw the Beemer’s brake lights flash and the Scooby speed past triumphantly.

It was another couple of miles before they saw the Subaru again. It had pulled into a lay-by in front of a police patrol car. A couple of traffic cops had got out of their vehicle and were adjusting their caps as they walked towards the old car. As they cruised past, Sam saw that the young driver was slumped forward, his head on the steering wheel.

The Jag was now just a hundred yards behind the BMW but, as soon as the latter passed round a curve in the road, it accelerated away again.

You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you? said Tim.

And so did the guy in the Beemer, replied Sam. He’s probably driven up and down that stretch of the road as often as I have. The cops sit on the overpass back there and wait for a muppet to pass.

The passenger spoke for the first time.

Come off at the next exit, Sam, and head back. But don’t take the dual carriageway. Take the back roads along the river.

A couple of minutes later, they were heading back towards Dundee through the rich farmland of the Carse Of Gowrie. The road was narrow and twisted and turned so much that, after passing over the main railway line at a level crossing, Sam drove the Jaguar back over the same line at another crossing just a few miles further on.

Tim noticed that Sam rarely had to brake. He seemed to read the road so well that he was always at the right speed at the right time.

* * *

Frank Drummond was out of the showroom before Sam pulled the Jaguar to a smooth halt. The sales manager did his well-practised glare at Tim but, before either could say anything, the potential customer climbed out of the back seat and smiled at them.

Ah, Mr Drummond, sorry that took a little longer than I thought, but Tim was doing such a fantastic job convincing me that I should buy a Jaguar. So, I’ll take that one in the showroom. When can you have it ready for me?

Tim looked at Sam who shrugged. Tim had hardly said a word to their passenger the entire test drive.

And you might think about promoting Tim. He’s far too good a salesman to be called a trainee any longer.

Of course, beamed Drummond. Now if you would just like to follow me into my office, I can start the paperwork. Coffee?

You go ahead. I’ll be with you in a minute.

The new Jaguar owner turned to Sam.

Thanks for helping me out.

It really was my pleasure, said Sam. Now I have to go. I should have started work half an hour ago.

Go and tell them you quit. I want you to come and work for me. I’ll double whatever they’re paying you.

Are you serious?

I am. I can’t drive myself. I’ve had umpteen lessons and I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. I’d be a menace to other road users. I need a driver.

When do I start?

Right now. Give me your phone number and we’ll pick up the car when it’s ready.

As they exchanged numbers, Tim realised the test drive had had nothing to do with the car. It was Sam who was being tested and he’d aced it.

* * *

Three days later, Sam drove away from the showroom with his new employer in the back seat.

Can I ask you a question? Well, a couple, actually.

Sure, go ahead.

First, why did you decide on this car? Did you even consider a Merc or an Audi or a Lexus?

There was a pause then, A guy I used to work for always drove a Jaguar. Swore by them. Wouldn’t drive anything else. I trusted his judgement.

And why me? You knew nothing about me.

The guy I used to work for? He knew nothing about me when we first met. But he trusted his instincts and gave me a chance. I had the same feeling about you.

There was a chuckle from the back seat.

Plus it really pissed off Mr Drummond. I think I enjoyed that part best of all.

Sam drove down the slip road onto the Kingsway. A delivery van eased back to allow him to filter into the traffic. Sam glanced in his mirror. The van bore the logo of his previous employer.

CHAPTER ONE

It was early evening when they reached the outskirts of Dundee. The journey from Manchester had taken almost six hours. And, as always, Sam had kept strictly to the speed limits. His boss was very particular about that. There’s no reason to hurry, Sam, he would say. No need to give the police an excuse to stop us.

Within minutes, they were passing along the stretch of the Kingsway lined with car dealerships and, as usual, Sam glanced at the Jaguar showroom. The car he was driving was the third his boss had purchased there, the latest XF, which Sam had driven out of the showroom just a few months before. His boss insisted on changing his car every three years, even though, as Sam tried to point out, there was really no need to. Apart from the trips down to Manchester every two or three months, Sam never had to take his boss very far. So, when the first two Jags had been traded in, they were immaculate with less than average mileages on the clock. But that was how the boss wanted it and the boss usually got what he wanted.

Before long, Sam was indicating to turn left to join the Forfar road. They would be home in about fifteen minutes. A few miles north of Dundee his boss had built a house which sat back from the road in its own grounds. Sam had his own flat above the garage.

When he had first started work, his boss explained that he wanted to keep Sam close at hand, just in case he had to go somewhere in a hurry. And there had been the odd occasion when Sam had been called out to drive somewhere late at night or in the early hours of the morning. But these times were rare. And his employer had been generous with time off and holidays. When that happened, he always hired a car and driver. No one else drove the Jaguar.

Sam had never felt the need to ask what his boss did for a living, and his boss had never explained.

A few miles north of Dundee, Sam left the dual carriageway. The road curved gently before straightening out. But, instead of accelerating as he usually did at this point, Sam slowed and said just one word.

Boss.

Up ahead a policeman in a yellow vest was indicating that Sam should pull into the gap between a white BMW 4x4 and a small van parked at the side of the road. Two more uniformed cops stood beside the BMW and another behind the van. As Sam neatly slotted the Jaguar into the gap, a man wearing an overcoat got out of the back seat of the BMW.

Sam turned off the engine and lowered his window as the cop who had flagged them down approached. He didn’t say anything, just waited for the cop to speak.

Hand me the key and step out of the car.

The cop leaned forward and looked at Sam’s boss.

You too.

Sam did as he was told and, as he was joined by his boss, noticed that one of the other cops had reached into the BMW and turned on the blue rooflights.

The man in the overcoat came and stood in front of Sam’s boss.

I am Detective Inspector Andrew Clarke and I am detaining you under Section 23, the Misuse of Drugs Act, which allows me to search your persons and or your vehicle.

Sam turned to face his boss.

Drugs? What’s going on?

Don’t say anything.

Clarke turned to the cop behind the van.

Get the dog.

The cop opened the back door of the van and a black dog jumped out. Sam didn’t know much about dogs but it looked a lot like a Labrador his Gran had once owned. Grannie Craig had always maintained that Labradors were really clever, but Sam had never seen the beast doing anything remotely intelligent.

The handler indicated to the Jaguar and the dog bounded forward. Sniffing loudly, it circled the car then stopped beside the rear nearside door, wagged its tail furiously and looked up at its handler. The cop smiled and rubbed the dog’s head then slipped some kind of treat in its mouth.

Clarke smiled grimly and said, Looks like we’ve found something. Take a look.

One of the cops took a small toolkit out of the boot of the BMW while another opened the door of the Jag. It took them a few minutes to remove the door panel then the first cop reached in and lifted out a green plastic bag, heavily wrapped in tape. He reached in again and brought out a second identical bag. They were about the same size as a bag of sugar.

Sam thought that maybe Labradors were smarter than he’d given them credit for.

The cop handed one of the bags to Clarke who weighed it in his hand then looked up and said, Got anything to say about this?

Sam looked at his boss, but his expression hadn’t changed since they had been stopped.

Clarke handed the bag to one of the cops then said, Michael Grant, I am arresting you on suspicion of possessing a Class A drug with intent to sell. You do not have to say anything at this point but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence against you at a later date. Cuff them.

CHAPTER TWO

I’ve been thinking, I said.

Niddrie looked at me from where he sat on the other side of my desk. He didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t fooling me. I knew he was intrigued. I was sure I had seen his left eyebrow rise at least a couple of millimetres.

I indicated the door of my office, The sign says ‘Allan Linton And Associates, Inquiry Agents’.

Niddrie’s eyebrow assumed its usual position.

But that’s not strictly accurate, is it? There’s only one associate and that’s you. We’ve been lucky and got away with it up till now, but we could fall foul of the Trade Description people any day now. I hear they can be relentless.

We? said Niddrie.

If anyone complained we could be facing a substantial fine. That would cause problems, given our situation vis-à-vis cash flow.

Our cash has ceased to flow, said Niddrie. As ever, his finger was on our financial pulse which was becoming fainter by the day.

Exactly. So maybe this is the right time to change it.

Niddrie nodded his head, just the once. I saw his cheeks tremble which is how I knew he was smiling.

Good thinking. Niddrie And Linton, Inquiry Agents. Works for me and it’s totally accurate.

True, I said. But that would require engaging the services of a sign writer and, as I can testify from the size of the bill when I had the first sign done, they don’t come cheap. Which brings us back to the cash flow, or lack thereof.

I have a solution, said Niddrie.

He dipped his hand into the side pocket of his parka and pulled out a Swiss Army Knife, the one with all the tools. You can do almost everything with this gadget, from descaling a fish to assembling flat-pack furniture. Not much use in modern warfare I would have thought, but, then again, when was the last time the Swiss Army fought anyone?

Niddrie held up the knife.

I could scrape off the final S.

The lettering wouldn’t be justified, I said. But it would keep us out of the clutches of the Trade Description guys.

Then the phone rang.

I answered, Linton And Associate.

I saw Niddrie nod approvingly.

There are many different accents in Scotland. A native of Aberdeen sounds nothing like a Glaswegian. But there is one accent that can be found all over the country. Many who speak in this manner have been privately educated. Some run major companies while others own land. Some have money and others don’t have two pence to rub together. For some reason, when I hear this accent, I have a vision of a man in a tweed suit.

And that was the accent I heard when the voice on the other end of the line said, Mr Linton?

After I confirmed my identity, the voice continued.

I have been robbed and I need someone to help me retrieve my property.

I have my colleague with me so, if you have no objection, I’d like to put you on speaker phone. Saves me having to repeat everything if we take on your case. First, can I have your name?

Of course. My name is McColl. Lachlan McColl.

Niddrie had been relaxing in his chair but now he sat up straight.

I turned back to the call.

Normally we don’t do business over the phone, Mr McColl. When would it be convenient for you to come into the office?

There was a pause, then McColl said, Actually, I was rather hoping that you could come and speak to me at home.

Before I could reply, Niddrie got to his feet and indicated that I should cover the mouthpiece.

Get his address and tell him we’re on our way.

A few moments later I put down the phone and looked at Niddrie.

You heard. He lives in Bingham Terrace. What’s going on, Niddrie? You know we usually don’t do this.

Niddrie turned to the door.

There’s no point in taking the car. Bingham Terrace isn’t far. We can walk it.

* * *

My office is on the top floor of an old building in the centre of Dundee. We came out the main entrance and headed towards King Street. After a few minutes’ walk up a gentle incline it turned into Princes Street. The gradient became steeper until a little further on we reached a set of traffic lights. If we had carried straight on we would have been on Albert Street and if we had turned left we would have been walking along Victoria Street which adjoins Victoria Road. Instead we turned right and onto Arbroath Road. The guys who were running Dundee back in the nineteenth century had done their best to show what loyal subjects of the crown they were, but obviously they had run out of ideas. Or maybe the local republicans had insisted enough was enough with naming thoroughfares after royalty.

There are times when Niddrie can be really irritating and this was one of them. I like to think I’m reasonably fit for a man of my age who enjoys the odd pint and the local delicacy, the Dundee Pie. Niddrie has been known to sink a glass or two and I’ve never known him to refuse a pie, but he can be a bloody machine when he wants to. I struggled to keep up with him till we started along Arbroath Road.

Thankfully, we were now walking on the level and I was able to get my breath back to normal long enough to ask Niddrie when we started making house calls.

Niddrie turned his head and said, I think I may know the guy but I don’t want to say anything else until we actually speak to McColl.

I knew there was no point in trying to get any more out of him. Niddrie tells you what he wants you to know when he wants you to know it.

I had first met Niddrie on a Dundee bus. A young yob was showing a lack of deference to an elderly lady. Niddrie had shown the yob the error of his ways which basically entailed breaking his nose and shattering several teeth.

I thought that merited inviting Niddrie for a drink and, over a few beers, Niddrie explained that he had recently retired from the army even though I reckoned he couldn’t have been over forty. He told me he had come back to Dundee to live in the house left to him by his parents. I didn’t know where he lived or even what his first name was. Honestly? It never seemed to matter to me. I have his mobile