Dead at Third Man Read online

  G R Jordan

  Dead at Third Man

  A Highlands and Islands Detective Thriller

  First published by Carpetless Publishing 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by G R Jordan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  G R Jordan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  G R Jordan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-912153-97-8

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Foreword

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Turn over to discover the new Patrick Smythe series!

  About the Author

  Also by G R Jordan

  Foreword

  This story is set in the idyllic yet sometimes harsh landscape of the Isle of Lewis, located in the north-western part of Scotland. Although set amongst known towns and villages, note that all persons and specific places are fictional and not to be confused with actual buildings and structures that exist and which have been used as an inspirational canvas on which to tell a completely fictional story.

  Epigraph

  “Cricket to us was more than play, it was a worship in the summer sun.”

  Edmund Blunden CBE MC

  The War poet, author, critic, and Professor of poetry at Oxford University, was described as “the true cricketer” by George Orwell in a review of County Cricket.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Bloody hell, my head hurts. You can’t down them like you used to.’ The words were to no one but himself, yet Alan Painter still felt the need to announce them to the empty room. The small bar, with its solid oak top and choice of two lagers and a stout on tap, had been a particular joy of the build and his thirst for the dark stuff was well known. However, today’s sore head was brought on by the chasers they had consumed along with the pints.

  And why the hell not? he thought. It had been a great day, one for the history books, on a day when the start of the journey commenced. It had been their first game, their first time on the new wicket and their first guests to the new clubhouse. The small bar area could comfortably hold about forty people but there had been over sixty in here last night after the match. Some had come to cheer them on, some to see them lose, but all had indulged after Jackie had hit that six, over the top of the clubhouse and right onto the windscreen of Carson’s Porsche, shattering it.

  Not that Carson had cared, standing at the other wicket and throwing his bat into the air. A former baseball star, he had made the island his retirement home and bought into the crazy idea that Lewis, the home of staunch conservatism, could have its own cricket club. And not some lads playing about but one that actually took part in the national league. And gameday one had been a cracker.

  Alan looked at the empty beer glasses and small glass tumblers sitting on the round tables and decided they could wait until this afternoon. The place was a mess but a happy one. Stale alcohol nipped at his nose like unwanted antiseptic but he focused on making his way behind the bar and finding the one glass he knew would not be dirty. There was never a bad time for a swift one. Alan poured himself a lager and stood with one hand on the bar top while calmly drinking down the golden beverage in one continuous motion. He didn’t race but merely continued, savouring each drop as it fell down his throat.

  Another one? Alan moved to pull on the lever to release more of the golden nectar but then suddenly froze when he heard a moan. It had come from the back room where the small kitchen was located. Turning around, he swung open the door and then laughed at the sight before him. The match winner was lying on his back, and snoring his head off. Somewhat overcome with sudden emotion, Alan tried to lean forward and touch Jackie, looking to embrace his team’s hero. But he stumbled, falling forward and ended up collapsing on Jackie, his knee falling right between Jackie’s legs.

  ‘Holy shit!’ yelled Jackie. ‘Get off me, you daft bastard!’

  ‘You beauty, Jackie boy, you beauty. We showed them, we showed the posh, poncie bastards. Unbroken record, my arse.’

  The pair fought to get up and eventually managed to lean on each other as they gathered their breath in the kitchen.

  ‘You been here all night?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Hell if I know,’ replied Jackie, spitting into the sink. ‘I had my arm around Alice, put it somewhere she didn’t like and she cracked me one. I remember getting up to hug her and then that’s it. You got any paracetamol?’

  Alan had wandered back to the bar area. ‘I’ll get you one of the best types of paracetamol I know.’ Jackie emerged from the kitchen to have a pint shoved in his face.

  ‘Hell, man, no! I think half the bar is still in me. I’m going to need a taxi.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want it, that’ll make two for me,’ said Alan and promptly downed another lager.

  ‘Did anyone take my kit home for me last night?’ asked Jackie. ‘I remember someone had my box and was throwing it about. Bloody gross, trying to get Alice to sniff it.’

  ‘Dirty sods,’ said Alan. ‘But she did well for us. Six wickets, right when they had got going. And she’s only five foot two. But that action, amazing. She could go on to be professional you know, play for Scotland.’

  ‘Yeah, some action,’ replied Jackie lost in his own world, staring at the wall.

  Alan consumed a third pint without stopping. As he watched, Jackie shook his head, tutting in silence before staggering to the door that led to the changing rooms. When the building was being designed, they had decided to keep it as simple as possible with one bar area, a small kitchen, and two changing rooms, as well as an umpire’s room. There was a set of toilets nearest the bar and a single showering area. The arrival of Alice onto the team had caused debates but she had decided to come changed for the game and would depart in her cricket kit. But last night she had been in the home changing room as the drinks flowed. Jackie remembered
her only too well, his eyes never having left her.

  Shaking his head clear, Jackie continued to the toilet where he got rid of some of last night’s refreshments before entering his team’s changing room. There was a lot of kit still hanging on pegs and the whole place looked like it had been the scene of a rave. His feet seemed to stick as he crossed the floor, a squelch accompanying every footstep. His eyes cast to the corner where Shaun Macleod had been necking his girl, Andrea MacIver, while the celebrations were in full flow. Alice hadn’t taken the hint when Jackie had pointed them out.

  His mind remembered the rest of the team sitting there, glasses being raised for what seemed endless toasts. Big Jim, the laughing Glaswegian, Gordy, the Yorkshire terrier, Dickie Smith, faster feet than anyone his age should have. And then there was Declan. Twenty-six and married to Katie Macaulay, Jackie’s former school girlfriend of four years. I missed out there!

  Still, this was not getting him back home and to a date with a duvet, two tablets and a binge watch of whatever crap he could find on the television. Stepping over a large kit bag in the middle of the floor, Jackie grabbed his blue-and-yellow-coloured kit, stuffing it into his black gym bag. His pads followed as well as his helmet but search as hard as he might, his protective box was missing.

  ‘Jackie,’ shouted Alan from outside the building, ‘come take a look at this.’

  What could he want now? thought Jackie and swore under his breath. But Alan had been an inspiration in getting this club going and he deserved a bit of respect, even if he was a pisshead. So Jackie staggered out of the changing rooms and through the side door out to the cricket pitch where he saw Alan standing looking down at the ground. It took Jackie a few moments to walk over as Alan was on the far side of the pitch but he saw the man staring hard at the ground.

  ‘Don’t believe it,’ said Alan as Jackie arrived. ‘Right here at third man. Their man was right here when you hit the winning six but he looked all right.’

  ‘What do you mean, he looked all right? Why wouldn’t he be?’

  ‘Look. What a bloody mess,’ said Alan. And it was a bloody mess, more blood than Jackie had ever had cause to see in his life.

  ‘What happened to him, did his appendix burst? He kept it damn quiet.’

  ‘No,’ said Alan, ‘I ran on over here, this is from after. There was no blood, no injury at the match. I wonder if someone had a problem getting home. Maybe we should ring someone.’

  ‘Who? The clean-your-grass division of Jenny’s tidy house, sparkling shine every time.’

  ‘Don’t bring my daughter into this; she runs a fine business.’

  ‘Okay,’ relented Jackie, ‘but who can we call? Best just wash it down. Anyway, I’m getting my stuff and a taxi, bloody wrecked.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going back that way, give me a hand with the kit bag.’

  Jackie nodded and the two men staggered their way back to the clubhouse and made their way into the changing room. Jackie continued packing his gear but Alan shouted at him to help with a lift of the large bag that was in the middle of the floor. As the pair took either end they struggled to lift the bag up onto a nearby bench.

  ‘Hell, that’s heavy,’ said Alan.

  ‘Too many pints, boss, that’s the issue.’

  ‘No, that’s heavy, I mean look, the kit isn’t even back in it yet. Certainly, far from all of it.’

  Jackie raised his eyebrows and felt the bag. ‘That’s weird, doesn’t feel like any bats or pads, more like a pole or something solid, maybe bony.’

  ‘Let’s see what it is then,’ said Alan and grabbed the zip, pulling it back the full length. But as he drew it, a fusty stench hit his nose and he remembered his mother, the putrid odour that grabbed his throat when he had entered the house. She had been dead three weeks and he struggled to forgive himself. As he completed the zip’s journey, he stepped back.

  ‘I’m not looking in there!’ shouted Alan, suddenly moving to the wall behind him, stumbling over shoes and pads.

  ‘Why? What is it?’ Alan said nothing so Jackie grabbed the bag’s sides and pulled them apart suddenly.

  The face was caved in and a cake of blood over it with occasional bone protruding through. The chest was also beaten and the ribs seemed to have collapsed. The shirt was stained and the blood showing simply as a dark navy. One leg was off kilter but both had clearly been broken. A foot was hanging off.

  ‘Alan!’ cried Jackie. But Alan was gone, fleeing the changing room. Jackie stared back at the body before vomiting over the corpse and filing the bag with puke. He didn’t stop to wipe his mouth as he staggered to the door before collapsing in the hallway, snivelling and weeping like a petrified child.

  Chapter 2

  ‘When does she get back?’

  The sound was muffled by the shower and it took a second time of asking before Macleod responded. With a green towel behind him and held in both hands, he was drying that awkward area in the small of the back. The morning had arrived too quickly and Jane had an appointment with her physio for a leg injury she had picked up while walking. Keen to drive her into Inverness for her consultation, Macleod had still been shocked when the alarm had rung out.

  ‘Back today, love. I hope it went well for her. She’s not been the same since that break up she had at Glasgow.’

  His work partner, Hope McGrath had been on holiday for two weeks, her first time away with Allinson, the DC they had both worked with. Greece had been the chosen destination, which Jane, Macleod’s life partner, had thought to be ideal, a chance to soak up some rays together before enjoying the nightlife. Macleod reckoned there was little to do sitting on a beach. Even when Jane had pointed out how appetites rose when surrounded by such scantily clad people, he had remained steadfast. Better a museum, or a trip out to nature, and besides, he hated standing in his bathing trunks. With his knees and now the aging of his skin, he could never look good on a beach.

  ‘Let her be,’ said Jane, from the shower. ‘They will either have a storming time and move in together or they will find it’s not a starter and move on to other people. But they’ll probably have a good time whatever.’

  ‘How are you going in there?’ asked Macleod. ‘You know the appointment is at ten?’

  ‘I’m going fine, so just shut up. You were up too early anyway; there was no need.’

  That was Jane, totally relaxed about everything, unlike Macleod. Every appointment was listed on the house calendar and she never even looked at it. He wondered how she had ever made it to anything before she had met him. And then she’d need to get herself ready. And why bother showering when the first thing she would do was wash again on her return. The water stopped.

  ‘Is there a towel out there, Seoras?’

  Macleod reached over to the washing basket on the floor where a batch of yesterday’s newly cleaned towels was sitting. He took a green one off the top and opened the en suite shower room behind him. Fighting his way through the steam, Macleod rapped the shower door and watched as Jane turned round. He ignored the enjoyable thoughts in his head and showed her the towel before dropping it to the ground.

  ‘You coming in for a bit?’ she asked.

  Jane always ran the shower incredibly hot. The water must surely be boiling as it hit your skin if she had anything to do with it. And yet this had been a place of intimacy as they found their feet together in their new abode. Some days he had come home weary and she had literally scrubbed his back in the shower. But there was no time this morning.

  ‘Physio, Jane. You need to get out and get to the physio.’

  The water was switched off and Jane opened the door, stepping in front of him without any shame at all. She didn’t reach for the towel but instead pushed her hair back from her face before rubbing the water from her eyes.

  ‘I understand; we need to be quick, so ravish me now. You never take that long.’

  He threw the towel in her face recognising he was being teased, and as she turned away he smacked her bottom before l
eaving. Jane knew how to pull his strings and he was okay with that. In fact, a little tease in the morning often got him set up for the day. Returning to the bedroom, he continued with his drying.

  Then came that accursed sound. An electronic claxon that sent shudders through everyone who heard it because you knew it was never a bringer of good news. It went off if someone called his personal number from work. It was something that could not wait and so had been directed to the second sim in his mobile phone. Hope had set up the claxon and he did not know how to change it, a near technophobe as he was.

  ‘Bollocks,’ shouted Jane from the shower room. Prone to the odd curse, Macleod had been trying to clean up her fruity language but in truth it was not as bad as he heard daily at the station. And she was right anyway. This was bollocks. After the physio, he was taking Jane out that afternoon, a trip to Fyrish, a favourite walk of theirs, up to a view that was simply stunning. And then for dinner and a quiet night in by a fire. This was his day off, although he was on call, and that meant the call would be an all-plans-destroyed load of bollocks.

  ‘Macleod,’ he said, and could almost hear the jump of the caller. It must have been a harsher response than he had intended.

  ‘Sorry sir, but you are needed. There’s been a death in Lewis, at the cricket club. I’m booking you on the lunchtime flight if that works. Forensics have made a run for the ferry but I thought you would need a bit of time to pack.’

  Cricket club, in Lewis? Macleod had been raised on the island and there was no way they had a cricket club; surely this was a joke.

  ‘Which cricket club?’ asked Macleod.

  ‘There is only one, sir, as far as I know. The Lewis Cricket Club, it says here, based at Bhuinaig, near Dalbeg. One of the players has been found dead in a kit bag in the changing rooms. Nasty piece of work too by the sounds of it.’

  Macleod felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around him and Jane’s body touch his bare skin. It was a moment he usually enjoyed but he knew this was her mourning the sudden loss of her man to his job and with someone on the line he felt distinctly uncomfortable with their nudity, even if they could not be seen.