Although his family lived in Edinburgh, he was boarded from the age of seven at Fettes, one of the most prestigious schools in the capital. Almost as if his parents had wanted him out of the way. And as soon as he turned twelve they sent him to Glenalmond. Neither school came cheap, and while there was nothing in the file about his family background, Mackenzie could only assume that his parents were independently wealthy.
From Glenalmond, Cleland had gone on to Oxford, where he read economics, and took a master’s in Business Administration. Then followed a stellar career as a trader on the floor of one of the biggest investment banks in London, where he carved out a reputation for himself as a man with a keen eye for the deal. Then somehow, somewhere along the way, he had been presented with the deal of a lifetime. One that he simply couldn’t resist. Only it wasn’t currency or gilts or bonds that changed hands. It was cocaine.
He was hooked. Not on the drug itself, but the money it could make him. No one can deal drugs with impunity though, and soon enough he found himself trespassing on dangerous ground. Territory controlled by the biggest name in London’s drug-trafficking underworld, a larger-than-life character known simply as ‘The Boss’. The Boss was a fifty-something former cop called Ronnie Simms, so well connected he was regarded as untouchable. He laundered his illicit profits through the two dozen clubs and restaurants he owned around the capital.
According to sources, Simms took exception to Cleland’s activities and ordered him ‘taken out’. But the two thugs he sent to do his dirty work were no match for Cleland, who had long been a member of a gun club and possessed an impressive collection of firearms as well as an unerring eye. Legend had it that he shot one dead in his apartment then tortured the other into revealing who had sent them.
It was said that on learning the truth he took his favourite shotgun, with which he had won numerous clay-pigeon competitions, and walked boldly into one of Simms’s private clubs. There he discharged both barrels into his would-be killer at point-blank range in an office above the dance floor. Afterwards he was alleged to have said to a gathering of Simms’s ex-employees, ‘The Boss is dead, long live The Boss,’ and offered them continued employment in return for their absolute loyalty. No one turned him down, and as Simms’s successor Cleland earned himself the nickname ‘Mad Jock’.
The circumstances in which the undercover operation went wrong were sketchy, and Mackenzie surmised that someone, somewhere, wanted as few details on the record as possible. Armed police officers stormed the same club in which Cleland had shot Simms. But Mad Jock had been tipped off. He killed the undercover cop who betrayed him, and got away through an adjoining building that he’d bought solely to provide an escape route in an emergency. No one outside of a tight inner circle even knew he owned it.
It was the last that anyone had seen of him. Until now.
Mackenzie closed the file and tossed it on to the settee. He felt suffused by a strange sense of anger. Cleland had been given every advantage in life. One of the best educations money could buy. As a trader he had no doubt made more money in a week than Mackenzie earned in a year. And yet in order to make even more he had turned his talents to trading in misery. His disregard for the law, for human life, his obvious sense of entitlement, made Mackenzie ashamed to call himself a fellow Scot. There would be a considerable sense of satisfaction, if not pleasure, in bringing this toff back to face justice.
He sat for some moments stewing on the thought, until he could no longer keep other considerations from displacing it.
Most of all Sophia.
His heart broke for her. And he could only imagine what Susan would find to say when she learned that he was about to let one of his children down again. He drew his phone from his shirt pocket and held it in his hand for two, three minutes, maybe more. It wasn’t until you had committed a thought to words or action that it took concrete form. He closed his eyes and wished he had some better excuse. But he would never lie to her.
He tapped on the Messenger app and reopened last night’s conversation. She would be back from school by now, but there was no guarantee that she would be online. The coward in him hoped she wasn’t.
– Hi darling. Got bad news, I’m afraid.
He waited, and his heart sank as her face appeared in a tiny circle beside the message to indicate that she was there and had read it.
– What is it? No preamble.
– Daddy’s not going to be able to make it to the concert on Tuesday night. He didn’t know how to frame it any less bluntly.
He waited, and the cursor blinked back at him for a long time before she finally responded.
– Why not?
– It’s work, baby. They’re sending me to Spain, and I won’t be back in time. Not his fault. Surely she would see that?
Another wait. Longer this time. The blinking of the cursor was almost hypnotic. Then finally her response appeared on the screen.
A large sad face.
– Honey, I’m so sorry. Maybe I could take you out somewhere on Wednesday night, and you could sing your song just for me.
When he hit return this time, her face in the tiny circle was gone, replaced by a tick. The message had been sent,
