Chapter 1: Glasgow: Two weeks later: Disillusioned

CHAPTER 1

EILIDH CAMPBELL

GLASGOW – TWO WEEKS LATER – DISILLUSIONED

I t was early morning, and I was up and ready. It was my first day as a fully-fledged Detective Constable in the Criminal Investigation Department, for Police Scotland. I was seconded to the CID for a few months while I was in uniform, but this was me, now an actual detective.

For what seemed like the millionth time, I nervously checked myself in the mirror. Scrutinising my reflection, I gulped and nodded. With my hair tied neatly in a bun at the back of my head, a nicely fitted grey suit with a crisp white shirt, and black square-heeled ankle boots, I looked the part of a confident detective. Even if I didn't feel it.

Tears sprung to my eyes. Dad would have been so proud of me. I missed him so much. He was killed on duty almost three years ago, and the crime was still unsolved. There had been a major investigation at the time, but when no significant leads were found, it slowly dwindled off. Now it was just another cold case.

Still, I always kept hope that one day the breakthrough I had longed for, which would help bring my dad's killer to justice, would materialise. Yesterday, it finally did. Or so it seemed. I was still struggling to truly believe it.

Sniffing loudly, I swiped at my wet eyes with the backs of my hands. I would not cry. I needed to have my game face on this morning and act like I was happy to be going to work. Puffy red eyes were not part of my plan.

My mind flashed to the day before and the events that had changed everything for me.

When I returned from my usual morning run, I found a large brown envelope waiting for me on my doorstep.

There was no address or postage on the thickly stuffed envelope, only my name, Eilidh Campbell. Someone had obviously hand delivered it, but there was no sign of anyone in the quiet street.

Strange!

I took it into the house. Black and white pictures, which I immediately recognised were surveillance photographs, poured out as I emptied the contents onto my desk.

What the heck? Why would someone send me a load of photos?

As I looked through the first few images, I was filled with a growing sense of foreboding.

All of them showed my dad's partner, my new boss, and the man I called uncle, Detective Chief Inspector Roy Allen, in what appeared to be compromising situations. And he wasn't the only one. Several other members of the CID were in the photos, too.

What the hell are these?

Snatching up the rest, I shuffled through them, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Another man I recognised in the photographs was Aiden Mathieson, a well-known Glasgow defence lawyer. His clients were always the worst of the worst and included members of a notorious crime family.

One photo showed Uncle Roy and another of my colleagues taking a package from him, and another showed Uncle Roy handing Mathieson something. After closer inspection, I noticed yet another of the photos showed Aiden Mathieson giving a briefcase to Uncle Roy.

Each photo seemed more damning than the next, and I felt queasy.

I didn't want to believe what these photos were eluding to, but I couldn't stop my mind from going there. Were the photographs showing payoffs? I shook my head; surely not! But it certainly looked that way.

Bile rose in my throat, and I gulped it back. There had to be another explanation for what I was seeing. Maybe an undercover operation of some sort that I hadn't been aware of?

But if that was true, then why would someone take these photographs and then send them to me?

There was really only one explanation. Either my colleagues were corrupt, or someone wanted me to think they were.

But why?

As I reached the final three photographs, I froze in shocked disbelief.

"Oh, my god! No!"

A sob tore from my throat at the sight of my dad sitting in his unmarked police car on the night of his murder. He was reading something in a thin file.

With shaking hands, I moved the photo aside to look at the next one and immediately felt sick.

My dad lay on the ground, dead from a gunshot wound which had blown half his face off. A man stood over him, gun in hand. My vision blurred and my head swam. Bile rose in my throat, and I rushed into the bathroom, falling to my knees just in time as I vomited down the toilet.

My whole body shook with the horror of what I'd just seen. It wasn't as though I hadn't seen worse things. In the seven years that I had been in the Police, I most certainly had. But this was my dad, and that made it even more horrible.

I knew Dad was shot in the head, but thankfully I hadn't needed to identify the body. Uncle Roy had done that, and it was a closed coffin at the cremation. Despite being a police officer, I hadn't been allowed to see any of the crime scene photographs because I was family. So, witnessing my dad in that state for the first time was utterly shocking.

Lying on the bathroom floor, I took steadying breaths as I fought a battle against the vomit that kept threatening to rise again. Finally, my stomach settled, and I slowly climbed to my feet. My legs felt shaky, my body weak.

Clinging to the side of the sink for support, I rinsed my mouth. The water poured down my throat, cooling the burning sensation and helped wash away the rancid taste left behind by the bile. Then I splashed some water on my face and looked in the mirror. My shocked, pale visage stared back at me.

The images raced through my mind as I gazed at my reflection. I understood the message conveyed by the photographs, but I couldn't fully comprehend what I had witnessed. The distress of seeing my dad like that must have been messing with my head. Surely, it couldn't be true? I had to be mistaken.

Eventually, I recovered enough from the shock and nausea to return to the bedroom. Approaching the desk slowly, my dread built and sweat broke out all over my body as I slid into the chair and reached out a shaky hand. I didn't want to look at the photographs again, but I knew there was no choice.

My entire world shrunk down to the pile of images laid before me. My eyes glued to my dad's prone form. The shallow breaths and small sounds in the back of my throat as I held on tightly to my emotions, the only other thing I was aware of as I studied the image, looking for clues.

There was little I could glean from the photograph that I hadn't seen already. I needed to know who the man with the gun was, but it was hard to identify him with his back toward the camera.

Closing my eyes, I turned the photo over. I'd tortured myself long enough. I would never look at that image again, but I vowed I would find the killer and make him pay, and anyone else involved.

Keeping my eyes closed, I took deep, steadying breaths as the vow took hold. As my resolve solidified, and my nerves calmed, I finally forced myself to pick up the rest of the photos and take another look.

As I got to the last image, one I'd not yet seen, I gasped. It revealed someone with the same build, hair, and clothing as the killer, handing over a file to Aiden Mathieson, who was standing next to Uncle Roy. The file looked just like the one my dad had been reading. I looked at the photograph again and stared at the face of my dad's killer. He was familiar. I'd seen him before. I couldn't remember where or who he was yet, but I would soon find out.

Why was he with Uncle Roy? There was only one conclusion I could draw. The one I'd tried to avoid. My Uncle Roy really was corrupt. That meant my colleagues could be too.

Not only that, but it appeared that they, or at least Roy, had something to do with my dad's murder.

Fuck!

As that thought took hold, I felt faint. How could he do that to my dad and me?

He was dad's best friend, his partner, the man who should have had his back.

Tears blurred my vision as I thought about how Roy had mentored me since Dad died. We were close. We always had been. And the other guys from my department, they'd been Dad's colleagues and friends too. These were all people I'd idolised. This couldn't be happening.

Had everything been a lie?

Wetness on my cheeks alerted me to the fact that I was crying. It felt like my world was falling apart; everything I thought I knew, the truths and people I'd held dear, looked up to even, were not real.

Anger infused me. I swept the photographs off the desk, screaming in frustration.

That's when I saw a small slip of paper I hadn't noticed before. It fluttered to the ground, landing on top of the mess I'd made. Picking it up, I saw the name John Aldridge, with a time and place for a meeting. Nothing else.

I'd cried myself to sleep after that, grieving the loss of my dad, the death of my illusions, and that nothing in my world would ever be the same again.

Shaking my head, I forced my mind back to the present.

Pushing aside the memories of yesterday, I stuffed the same slip of paper into my trouser pocket. That meeting was for later today, and I'd be there because whoever this John Aldridge was, he had answers I needed.

Throughout the night, I had looked through the photographs again—all but one of them—and now they were burnt into my mind. Technically, I should hand it all over to my boss and get him to re-open my dad's case, but since my boss appeared to be involved, that was not an option. Neither was going to anyone else at this time, because I did not know if any of my other colleagues were involved, and I didn't know how high up this corruption went.

It was actually frightening to think that I did not know who I could trust.

Opening the small safe I had in my wardrobe where I kept all my valuables, I stuck the envelope inside.

There was no other choice in the matter. I needed to investigate things myself, and I would start with meeting Mr Aldridge.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, then headed for the door. It was time to go to work and face the men from the pictures.

How the heck I was going to deal with these men I'd called friends and colleagues without confronting them about my suspicions? I didn't know. My stomach churned with nerves as I drove, and even cranking up the volume on the radio couldn't distract my busy mind.

The closer I got to the police station, the more agitated I grew. Images of my dad's body, of his killer, then of my colleagues, flooded my mind, back and forth, until my breathing became shallow and my body trembled with a mix of anger, frustration, and hurt.

When I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, I noted my pinched expression and narrowed angry eyes.

Not good.

If what I believed was true, my colleagues were not only corrupt, but they were also murderers, and I had to be very careful.

Pulling over, I parked, turned the radio off, and put the air con on full blast. Leaning back against the headrest, I shut my eyes and concentrated on steadying my breathing.

In, two, three.

Out, two, three.

I needed to be in control of myself if I was going to be successful in my task of uncovering the evidence of my colleagues' corruption, their link to my dad's murder, and bringing them to justice.

Eventually, I felt calm enough to continue my journey.

Revenge and avenging my father's death became my sole focus, and by the time I entered the police station and walked into the office; I had my poker face in place.

"Eilidh, welcome to the team," my new boss said, smiling brightly at me as I entered.

He walked over to me and put his arm around my shoulders. Forcing myself not to stiffen, I endured the overly familiar and very unprofessional greeting as he led me over to my new desk.

The rest of the team was there to greet me, grinning. Murmurs of ‘ Welcome to the team' , ‘ Glad to have you onboard' and similar greetings were banded about, but I barely heard them as I stared at the faces of my fallen idols.

Smiling broadly back, I kept my emotions tightly under wraps. I could do this. I'd make my dad proud and investigate this case like I would any other and bring down anyone involved. Starting with dear old Uncle Roy.