Available today on Amazon at:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09L9QT3J6

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09L9QT3J6

getbook.at/A_Killer_Legacy

Chapter One

Monday, July 7, Nice, France

Security around the Palais de Justice was intense. Restaurants in the normally bustling square it overlooked were closed and police manned roadblocks on the network of streets which enclosed it.

It had been decided to bring him in by the imposing building’s grand front entrance where police marksmen could have eyes on everything.

But nothing was being left to chance and when the fleet of black vans discharged their contents of uniformed officers, even Barney couldn’t make out the man who had made all these precautions necessary.

Around eighteen of them scurried up the long flight of steps then crowded around the doorway, forming a barrier as one of their number was hustled inside.

Detective Inspector Barney Mains stepped back into the hallway while two officers led their charge towards an inner door.

Pieter Nel was smiling broadly despite the handcuffs, appearing to revel in the excitement after months of confinement - and to find it hugely amusing to be dressed in a police uniform.

One scary serial killer had been ghosted safely into court, a man believed to hold secrets of the rich and famous so dangerous that many would rather he took them to the grave, ideally sooner rather than later.

Barney stood watching from across the wide marble hall as his minders peeled off Nel’s camouflage with loud velcro rips as if performing some bizarre striptease act. Moments later they were marching him into the courtroom and Barney fell into step alongside his friend, Captain Jean-Luc Verten of the Police Nationale.

The court’s public seats were empty apart from the final two rows on the left which were almost filled by police and lawyer types. Across the aisle from them a boxed-off area was packed with members of the press, most of whom turned sharply to check out the latest arrivals, apparently on edge.

As Barney eased his way along the front row to sit beside Jean-Luc, it suddenly hit him how much his life had changed in the past year. Having handed in his resignation at Police Scotland, he’d been drawn back into policing again largely because of the prisoner whose back he now stared at, only a few metres in front of him and separated only by the low gate of the dock.

He’d been ordered to the city to liaise with French authorities because the accused faced charges too in Edinburgh and as Jean-Luc started to explain the preliminaries in a low voice, the judges suddenly appeared from a hidden door in the rich wood panelling behind their bench.

The two black-gowned judge-assessors flanked the principal judge, who looked magnificent as he fluffed out his bright red gown and took his seat. Looking suitably grave and magisterial, he gave a curt nod to the clerk and stenographer seated below him, off to Barney’s left.

Maybe it was the ritual formality of such events but they’d always made Barney a little tense and irrationally prone to giggling. For some reason he recalled a funeral years ago when he and his father carried the coffin of an aged relative to a hole in the ground, whispering jokes to each other and stifling their laughter like schoolkids. Happy days.

The accused seemed to find the current situation a bit silly too because he was smiling as he turned to face Barney’s row.

Nel should have looked pale and defeated. But the man before him wore the kind of forever-young good looks that some people were cursed with; short fair hair in a side parting, an unblemished dark complexion and sharply intelligent blue eyes which were taking everything in. He was said to be highly cultured and to have mixed in elite circles of celebrities and politicians despite the brutish build of a weightlifter and the anonymous role of security consultant.

Today, in a dazzling white polo shirt and cricket jersey above loose, silky black slacks and matching fine leather sandals, he looked like he’d just dropped in from some society photo shoot.

Whatever was really going on behind those striking eyes, they were now sparkling with a merriment which matched the mischievous big grin now spreading across his face as he started to scan the seated police and lawyers.

Barney almost laughed when Nel suddenly formed his right hand into a mock gun, the thumb a cocked hammer, the first two fingers the barrel.

The prisoner started at the far end of the row then trained his aim on each target in turn. Jean-Luc was spared but the gun’s traverse stopped on Barney and now the man, having great fun, jerked his fingers to fire an imaginary shot.

At the very same instant there was a sound like a sharp snap of the fingers and someone let out an involuntary laugh.

The wide grin on Nel’s face shortened. The expression began to turn sad, like a white-faced mime artist playing with emotion. Barney noticed a mark on the forehead just as the man crumpled and fell.

A woman screamed.

But Barney had heard that snap of the fingers before. He was on his feet, then into a low crouch. ‘Gun! Everybody down!’

He heard someone, Jean-Luc, repeat his shout in French but he registered nothing more because he was too busy dragging the lifeless body towards him from where it lay draped face down across the dock gate.

He felt the neck while daring to poke his head up to seek the source of the shot. But there was nothing; no answering pulse from Nel and only policemen with guns drawn, bent low and scanning the empty rows.

He hadn’t noticed the small gallery high above the main courtroom until now. It looked empty too with no sign of life. Apart from the door swinging slowly closed.

‘Jean-Luc!’ Barney pointed and the Frenchman, gun in hand, understood. He instantly shouted for the building to be sealed. Then he was on his radio, barking short, sharp commands.

But Barney knew that for the man at his feet it was all too late, the darkening pool of blood beneath his head an unnecessary proof.

 ***        

Barney stood up as Jean-Luc approached his cafe table in the Cours Saleya. The Frenchman looked like he was ready for a fight as he barrelled his way through the chaos of traders packing up their wares after the weekly antiques market.

‘All right, Jean-Luc?’ A stupid question, he knew. But his friend had just come from what was probably the toughest meeting of his life and clearly needed a bit of normality.

‘Well, I’m still alive, if that counts,’ the Frenchman grumbled as they shook hands.

‘What can I get you? You look like you could use a large beer.’

‘I could, but better make it coffee. I don’t have long.’

The waiter, whom Barney previously suspected of suffering from agoraphobia, must have recognised the policeman because the normally elusive character was already hovering close by.

Barney ordered two coffees. ‘We must meet here more often. You seem to have influence.’

Jean-Luc nodded at the waiter’s back. ‘Oh, him. I put him away a couple of times. A slippery thief that one. But he has been, what do you say, clean, for a while. Please, sit. I have much to tell you. But first…’ He dropped heavily into a chair then loosened a couple of silver buttons on his jacket and took a long, deep breath. He stretched his head back to savour the heat of the sun on his throat and face. Barney waited; the man needed this. Soon a thin smile emerged above the distinctive silver goatee. He was probably about fifty, around ten years older than Barney, but in normal times Captain Jean-Luc Verten cut a striking figure. Despite his comparatively short and burly frame, his distinguished beard and silky hair gave him a formidable presence. He was as suave as Barney was big and awkward.

The sound of coffees being placed on the table brought them both back to the present.

‘Claude, merci.’

‘My pleasure, Captain,’ said the man, his long skinny frame bent in a shallow bow.

Barney expected him to retreat backwards out of the royal presence but was disappointed.

They tasted their drinks in silence. Jean-Luc made appreciative noises and took a second sip then paused to look around him as if just realising where he was. He was sizing up people at neighbouring tables and then the blank-faced stallholders dismantling their temporary homes, mechanically wrapping and packing away into battered boxes all the stock which had failed to convince and which would have to wait for another chance in some lesser market in the mountains or back here, on stage yet again, next week. The Frenchman replaced his cup and nodded to himself as if having made a decision. Barney felt something coming and at last his friend faced him.

‘Barney, thank you for being so understanding. You know what it’s like. But I’m fine now. And as I said, I have much to tell you.’

‘OK, Jean-Luc. Hit me.’

‘Ha! I won’t do that. But you might prefer it if I do. You see, I not only want to bring you up to date; I also have a proposition for you.’

Barney instinctively moved back in his chair. In his experience, when policemen said they had a proposition, it tended to be less of a proposition than a legal requirement.

The Frenchman laughed. ‘It’s not that bad. Honest. But wait. I’ll come to that.’

He then proceeded to outline the meeting he’d just left at police HQ. He wasn’t being blamed directly for the shambles in court that morning; he hadn’t been personally responsible for security arrangements. But it had happened on his patch and he had played a key role in the arrest and interrogation of the victim, therefore becoming central to the whole process leading to today’s disaster. Plus, they always needed someone to blame.

‘But that’s life,’ he suddenly said with an exaggerated Gallic shrug. ‘It comes with the job. Of course they are as concerned as I am about the shooting, how it could possibly happen and who was responsible. But it wasn’t the murder alone which concerned them. It was also the problems it might cause.’

Barney was puzzled. What could be more important than a man being executed in public view in the middle of a courtroom?

‘Yes, I know,’ Jean-Luc said, holding up his hands to stop the questions he must have read on Barney’s face. ‘But let me finish. You see, there are two angles to this. Yes, there has been a serious breach of security. And yes,’ he said, shaking his head in wonder, ‘it looks as if the killer may have had inside help. That is going to be my first priority when I go back. But there were some very senior people at this meeting. And this is where you come in.’

Barney was nodding slowly, as if he had a clue what was going on, while asking himself why the hell the French would have any need of a Scottish cop when they would have their hands full with the media frenzy which was bound to surround this case.

He was still trying to take it all in shortly afterwards, as he made his way past the Opera House and tourist shops then up into the huge open space that was Place Massena. The heat was horrendous and he was glad of his new broad-brimmed straw hat but he was sweating profusely in the supposedly lightweight suit he wore for court and he chose to linger at the square’s fountain despite the groups of noisy tourists posing for photos in front of the towering statue of Apollo. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and savoured the brief respite offered by cool, damp air.

There were no taxi-bikes standing on the square’s chequerboard paving. Besides, he always thought better when he walked and so, having braved the gauntlet of selfie sticks, then the crowds seeking shade under the porticos, he headed up the bustling main shopping street of Avenue Jean Medécin, making for the relative cool of tree-lined Boulevard Victor Hugo. Even the trams seemed to be labouring in the heat as they whined past him on their way up the long, gradual incline towards the Place de la Republique.

If he’d understood correctly, the plan was for Barney to be seconded to the Police Nationale for up to six months to help in the aftermath of the assassination. Nel had been well known within the large British ex-pat community, having worked for one of their most distinguished members, and it was a community which was already distinctly twitchy after a series of break-ins and torchings of mainly unoccupied holiday homes.

He knew the region was the most right wing in the country but simmering resentment against wealthy incomers had recently boiled over into demonstrations and violence as more and more Brits swapped the not-so-brave new world of Brexit Britain for life in the sun.

According to Jean-Luc, the powers that be had already agreed just such a scheme in principle with a UK government keen to restore relations with France. But it was today’s audacious murder that had forced their hand. Off the record, he’d said, local politicians feared an exodus of foreign home-owners who currently paid exorbitant extra taxes for the privilege of owning a home here. But they were even more worried that the resulting instability would boost the chances of a right wing takeover in upcoming elections.

Barney laughed out loud as he walked, just as he’d done a little earlier when Jean-Luc had outlined the proposal.

The Frenchman had looked confused. ‘I have said something funny?’

Barney then explained: ‘Sorry Jean-Luc. It’s just that I originally resigned because I’d had enough of all this political bullshit. Now you’re saying you want me as a glorified public relations man for six months - all because some politicians are shitting themselves about their approval ratings.’

Jean-Luc had thought for a moment then said: ‘Maybe so. But on the other hand, we have an excellent canteen.’

By the time Barney turned into Rue Gounod, he’d made up his mind. If Edinburgh were going for it, he would give it his best shot.

The ancient little lift was closed for maintenance and as he mounted the last flight of steps to his rented studio flat on the top floor, he knew he should crash out on the fold-down bed. But It wasn’t every day that you saw a man shot in front of you and then faced the uncertainty of a completely alien new job. He was buzzing. And he still had to decide whether to renew the lease he’d taken out almost a year ago in the first flush of resignation freedom.

The cool shower was a lifesaver. He changed into shorts and a t-shirt then took his laptop and a cold beer out onto the balcony. The joy of his wide north-facing terrace, as big as the flat itself, was the escape it offered from the cloying heat which radiated from every building and every pavement like one great storage heater. There was even the whisper of a breeze today as he took a first sip then almost emptied the glass.

His laptop sat in front of him on the small, glass-topped table. He had a lot of research to do if he was going to be of any use in his new persona. But first he had a phone call to make. She answered on the third ring. He could hear the familiar sound of water lapping against the hull before she spoke and he instantly saw her on the Bonnie Fechter in the glorious bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer only a few miles away to the east.

‘Oh, so you’ve finally got round to calling me, have you?’

He laughed. She’d given the little yacht its name because that’s how her beloved late mother had always described the young Shona. Her mother hadn’t been wrong.

‘I assume you’ve heard then?’ he asked.

‘What, about the court? About how my man was within a few feet of a murder and did his usual stupid stunt of diving straight into the line of fire?’

‘Aye, well it wisnae quite like that. You know how they always exaggerate.’

‘You still might have called. I was worried, you know.’

‘I’m sorry. It all got a bit busy, then I had to hang about for ages for my turn to be interviewed. But listen, everything’s fine. I’ve just got back home after meeting Jean-Luc. I’ve got lots to tell. Are you coming in or going out?’

‘In. Just mooring up.’

‘Great. Is it OK if I come round later?’

‘Oh well, I don’t know. Let me think. Don’t be bloody stupid! Get your arse round here, pronto!’

He smiled at his image of her, survivor of a bleak Edinburgh westside slum, daughter to an ex-junkie single mum, a fighter with a God-given genius for computers who built an online empire which made Shona Gladstone one of the richest women in the world. Yet still the same sassy wee lassie. And he loved her dearly - a fact he’d only discovered during the traumas of what the press had ended up calling the Major-Minor Murders, the case which had got him all fired up again about policing and which ended today with Nel’s murder.

He risked telling her that he might be a couple of hours, that he had work to do, but he promised to tell her everything later. He just about got away with it. Besides, he was already opening his laptop and thinking of the searches he wanted to get through.

The first one found everything he needed on the two most recent house fires. One had been close to Shona’s villa in Villefranche, the other up on Mont Boron overlooking Nice.

The police had attributed both to extremist protesters. That hadn’t been difficult. There were Anti-Brit slogans and French flags crudely daubed on the outside walls of both.

The property on Mont Boron was the holiday home of a British fund manager. It had been virtually destroyed but the bullish owner was quoted as saying: An Englishman’s home is his castle and nobody’s forcing me out of it. I’m going to build back, bigger and better.

Barney shook his head. Sometimes you just couldn't protect people from themselves. He even felt a twinge of sympathy for the genuinely disgruntled locals who were faced with such arrogance. By all accounts, they had seen not only the biggest and best properties of their beautiful region snapped up by foreigners but a veritable invasion which had pushed up prices all round. Now even modest family homes in decent residential areas were beyond ordinary working folk who’d had to move further and further out into the suburbs.

He’d ask Jean-Luc for the case files. He needed to understand the mindset not just of the locals but also that of the ex-pats whose brows he was apparently expected to mop.

Next, he acquainted himself with the structure of the Police Nationale force. He remembered how a French officer attached to Police Scotland was given the runaround by his tosser of a minder. In Nice, the mickey-taking might well be topped up with more than a little resentment. He wanted to at least know what he was walking into.

He would then compile a list of all the main English-speaking organisations and social groups in the area. His likely new brief may well turn out to be a totally shit job but he would knuckle down and do it to the best of his ability. That was his thing, or his curse, as he called it.