COLD REDEMPTION By Les Morris
Eddie McBride sat in his office, under a blanket of cigarette smoke that hung just above the light thrown down by a battered desk lamp. An old Browning Hi-Power, he bought from a man in the pub, had been field stripped, cleaned and re-assembled. One of the three magazines, loaded with 9mm Parabellum rounds, sat in the grip with one round in the chamber. He carefully dropped the hammer; he didn’t want it to go off before he needed it to.
He removed the top from a half empty bottle of whiskey and poured a large measure. Turning the glass in his hand, he looked at the amber liquid and remembered a time when he could get through a day without it. He barely tasted it as it burned its way down his throat. The smoke from another cigarette pulled at his lungs as his hand ran down through the stubble on his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes wrinkled and creased after another night sleeping on the couch in the office. Put quite simply, he was a mess.
It hadn’t always been like this. There was a time when he prided himself on his appearance, but that was ten years ago, while he was still on the force. That was before his fall from grace, when he was involved in real cases, murder, kidnapping. Ricky Clayton put an end to all that.
Ricky Clayton was a small time gangster trying to build a crime empire. Back then, he had a small crew of minor criminals dealing drugs and stealing cars. McBride was a young detective, honest and incorruptible; at least that’s what he thought. His older brother, on the other hand, was an alcoholic, drug addicted gambler who owed Clayton thousands he didn’t have. When the debt was called in, McBride was given a simple choice. Watch his brother die, or supply information. It only took one tip off, there was no going back; McBride belonged to Clayton. It didn’t take long for word to get around; a bent copper, he was mistrusted and hated by his colleagues. His exit from the force was far from honourable. A promising career destroyed.
Ten years later, Ricky Clayton was rich and sat at the top of a large criminal organisation, while McBride scrabbled about for scraps at the bottom of the pile. The sign on his door said ‘Eddie McBride: Private Investigations.’ But the biggest cases he got these days involved following unfaithful husbands or tracking down lost dogs in the shit end of town.
Earlier that morning, someone banging on his front door wakened him from his drunken sleep. His head throbbed, his lungs complained as he took a deep breath that wasn’t laced with nicotine. Coughing loudly, he was in no state to see anyone but, lighting up his first cigarette of the day, he answered the door just to make the banging stop.
“WHAT?” He immediately regretted shouting; it just made his head worse.
“Eddie? Eddie McBride?”
“Yeah,” the man at the door looked about forty with a slim build and thinning brown hair. He wore an expensive, tailored suit and looked far too respectable to be in this part of town. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Edgar, Alan Edgar. Can I come in?”
“If you’re here for money I haven’t got any.”
“I want to hire you Mr McBride.”
McBride hadn’t had a case for months and didn’t want to lose a paying client, “Come in Mr…Edgar, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right…Alan Edgar…Thank you.”
McBride led Edgar up the flight of concrete steps into his office. He opened the blinds and the window. The room smelled of stale smoke and sweat, hardly a good first impression. “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?” What was he thinking? It was 8 o’clock in the morning.
“No thank you Mr McBride. Look, Eddie, can I call you Eddie? Relax; I’m fully aware of…” Edgar looked around at the room, “your circumstances.”
McBride emptied the overflowing ashtray and placed it on his desk. He dug two aspirin from the drawer and washed them down with the dregs of yesterday’s coffee from a cardboard cup. “What can I do for you, Mr Edgar?”
“I’ve been working for Ricky Clayton.”
McBride dropped the cup and, in three strides, crossed the room and slammed Edgar into the wall. “Tell Clayton I’m not interested in anything he’s got to offer.”
Edgar’s fear was visible in his eyes, “WAIT…I have to work for him. He took my daughter.”
McBride released him, “And what do you do that he needs?”
“I advise people on the best ways and places to invest, away from prying eyes.”
“You mean you launder money for criminals.”
“Call it what you like. When Clayton sent for me I ignored him. I knew his reputation, that he’d be nothing but trouble.”
“I take it Clayton wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Edgar sat on the couch with his head in his hands, “He took my little girl, said he would kill her.”
McBride lit another cigarette, “What does he want you to do?”
“The usual stuff, offshore bank account, dummy company. I’ve set it all up; I’m supposed to take him the details tonight.”
“Just do what he wants; I’m sure you’ll be well paid. ”
“You know what he’s like. As soon as I do, he’ll kill me and Sharon.”
McBride knew Edgar was right. Getting rid of witnesses was business as usual for Clayton. Sharon Edgar was already dead, unless someone did something to stop it.
Edgar looked up with tears in his eyes, “I don’t expect you to stick your neck out for me, I deserve everything I get, but Sharon’s sixteen, she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Clayton destroyed McBride’s life; he spent the last 10 years wallowing in self pity and doing his best to drink himself into an early grave. It was time to turn it around. Pay Clayton back and help someone else in the process. Then, maybe, he could sort his life out. “Ok Alan, do what he wants and go to the meeting.”
“Can you help us?”
McBride stubbed out his cigarette, “I’ll see what I can do.”
McBride got up from his desk. He put on an old army combat jacket and slipped the Browning into his pocket. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and paused, staring at it. As much as he wanted the comforting warmth of another hit of alcohol, he needed to be sober, if he was going to help the girl. He placed the bottle back on the desk, grabbed a black ski mask from the drawer and headed down the steps to his front door.
He knew Clayton had two properties that he was likely to use to hold the girl. One was an isolated farm outside of town, that’s where Edgar’s meeting was taking place. People who were taken there usually disappeared. Clayton kept pigs there for a reason. McBride was now at the other property, an old industrial unit. If the girl was here, he would rescue her and take her to Edgar. If she wasn’t, he could take out some of Clayton’s crew, before he went to the farm. That was his plan. But who was he kidding? He wasn’t prepared for this. He’d be lucky to stay alive long enough to make it to the farm.
He worked his way around the perimeter, looking for a way in. The chain link fence around the property wasn’t well maintained and in several areas was rusty and broken. It didn’t take him long to find a gap big enough for him to squeeze through. He knelt just inside the fence and surveyed the area. There was no cover to hide him while he made his way to the building but it was a dark night and no one was patrolling. They were arrogant enough to think no one would dare come after them. They were right, until now.
Keeping low, he quickly crossed the expanse of tarmac to the side of the building. The rain was hammering down on the corrugated steel roof, the noise inside must have been deafening, another stroke of luck in his favour. Moving along the wall, he approached the front entrance and crouched down in front of one of the two black Range Rovers parked outside. He cocked the Browning and took off the safety just as the door opened and two of Clayton’s gang stepped out into the rain. They ran over to one of the Range Rover’s and jumped in. As the engine kicked in to life, McBride stood up and put several rounds into each of them. If they weren’t dead, they certainly weren’t a threat any more.