Blind Spot (DI Sutherland Scottish Crime Thriller Book 3) Read online

  I had a very good idea of what somebody could become if they had that stripped from them. I’d seen it before when they’d become lost in their identity to the bleakness, to their trauma. Always stuck in the past rather than daring to imagine what could be ahead of them if they tried to seek it, if they’d planned to stay long enough to see that time stretching ahead of them.

  Chapter One

  Ross Peake didn’t like a mess, whether it was physical or metaphorical. In fact, he’d grown to detest it. Thoroughly.

  That’s what he was thinking whilst leaning further back in his chair, the black patent leather chair that had moulded to his weight over the years spent at the company. Not that there was much of that to cater for. Weight, that is.

  His thoughts momentarily diverted, Ross gloomily squeezed four fingers down into the waistband of his trousers to measure just how much they were gaping away from his figure today. The same amount as yesterday, Ross figured. Even the last notch on his belt was struggling to hold the ironed-to-within-an-inch-of-their-life slacks up. Gone were the days of boasting an impressive figure that could impress even the least unwilling of women. He’d simply deteriorated. A reflection of his life in general, he supposed. He was lucky he held a naturally larger build and the weight he’d lost over the years wasn’t too noticeable. Not enough to look skeletal, anyway. Catching sight of himself in the darkened screen of his computer, Ross pushed the screen away with vigour. Then changed his mind and moved it back to its original position so that the keyboard was in line with the corners of the screen. Neat. No mess.

  Just how it had to be.

  After he’d finished wiping the sheen of his fingerprints away from the keys, Ross Peake went back to meticulously pinning the fifth post-it note to his board. The edge of the fifth had to match up with the last, had to match up with the fourth. The fourth matched up with the third and so forth until there was a line of neon yellow stretched across the board. It was pinned into consecutive order, and Ross knew exactly which tasks he’d have to tackle first the next morning. Most people would scribble out a list and leave it lying around, only to discover they'd lost it and resort to recalling their tasks from the top of their heads. Ross Peake felt a sense of achievement that those poor buggers weren't him. Never him. He took accomplishment where he could, even in the smallest of things. Helped him balance out the areas in which he was greatly lacking. Greatly lacked too. Past tense.

  His gaze rested on the lists. Even his letters were equally spaced out.

  It was at ten past the eleventh hour when Ross lifted himself out of the comfort of his seat, the same time as it always was. By no mistake. Routine was where people became successful, where goals were set and achieved. After all, if he wasn’t successful, what was he? He’d traded everything to be where he was today, and he had to make it worthwhile.

  Didn’t he?

  Stretching out, Ross paced over to cast an eye over the rest of the office and the handful of empty desks that had been that way for hours. The others who were hired by the company practically raced out of the door when their working days were over, teasing each other good-naturedly and making plans for where they were going to head to that night. Mostly, they made plans to go to the pub for the weekly quizzes they held, their competitive natures shining through in everything they did.

  The cleaners came and went after them, for the most part unbothered about Ross’s lateness. They knew he rarely left any mess behind him, anyway. Ross Peake often watched as the people filtered out of the office one by one in their own little rows and patterns, much like ants travel in rows. Listening to their jokes and their to-and-fro with a sense of… nothingness.

  Where some may have felt a feeling of emptiness at being thought of being one of the few ones who wasn’t involved in such banter, Ross had the feeling that he was seen as a bit of an outcast by the younger employees and learned to not let it bother him. He was well enough respected by those in the company for his business dealings and the clients he’d acquired throughout his career, and that was enough for him. After all, they didn’t treat him badly. They just didn’t treat him the same. And, perhaps, somewhere in the back of his mind, Ross Peake understood that he deserved to be treated differently.

  He’d been accepted into the company on different terms to the rest of the team, been handed a great deal of responsibility that some would kill for as soon as he’d arrived, and had swiped the place of being the head of the company’s favourite in no time - no matter how hard he tried to avoid him where he could. Ross Peake knew the cost that being the favourite had come at, even if the rest of the employees didn’t.

  Yes, it used to bother him a great deal, the obvious divide between them and himself. A great deal indeed. The faults he found in their actions and his own would have him lying awake and staring at the ceiling all night long whilst his wife slept like a baby on the opposite side of the mattress. That was until Ross had found the highest acceptance there was to be found. Since then, everything else had seemed so trivial. Nothing else really mattered, so long as he was at one with god. If Ross was at peace and had been forgiven for his past by the man above, had been granted a future where he could continue doing what he felt he was born to do and could die a man well above the station he’d been born into, what else could anybody ask for? The worst thing about it was that Ross had convinced himself this was what living should be.

  Stooping over an inch to grab the handle to his bag, Ross Peake took a final sweeping glance around his area and left once satisfied. The automatic lights brightened his route out and darkened again once he’d passed. Down the stairwell with the slim strip of carpet, right around the corner to where the water cooler system was set up, past the meeting rooms, which consisted of long tables and dozens of chairs set up along the outside, and into reception where many of their clients were greeted when arriving with their proposals.

  The desk where a wide-smiled receptionist usually resided all day long was doused in shadows; her computer had been logged off and was shining the blue-ish glow of the lock screen onto the whitewashed walls behind them. Her phone would give a half-hearted trill every so often and stop as quickly as it had started, the caller clearly realising halfway through that it was well past office hours and that they would have to resort to sending an email instead. Cue the ping of the computer.

  Shaking his head at the predictability of the place, Ross moved on through the muted yet expensive room. A large company logo sat metres above the receptionist’s seat as if it wasn’t already obvious enough where they were. The pens and mugs, which had the same thing printed on all sides, were a bit of a giveaway. A few sofas and chairs were scattered around the floor, intended for waiting clients or visitors who were waiting to be greeted and taken up into the plethora of meeting rooms. On one of the two-seaters, a size ten woman in a pencil skirt had taken refuge. She’d kicked her heels off, crossed her ankles and was too invested in filling out a page in her overflowing diary to look up straight away. Her presence didn’t surprise Ross. It was quarter past eleven. She was always there at this time of night. Claimed it was comfier here than anywhere else in the building.

  Her name was Holly Kaye, personal assistant to the head of the company and in charge of scheduling the ins and outs of one of the biggest names around the town. Michael Marston. She was allowed to call him Michael like the rest of them, but also tended to resort to Mr Marston like the rest of them do. She was clearly infatuated with the guy, so much so that she’d stay awake till the early hours of the morning organising his day to a T. Just to hear him compliment how well she’d done at taking care of him. At the very mention of the name Marston, Ross felt the familiar anger boiling up through his throat, but pushed it away.

  It was all in the past. Things were different now. He was different.

  Ross Peake thought more about Holly instead. Remembering that he liked her. She kept their boss too busy to interfere with him too much. Another peek at the skirt, and the saliva trickled in Ross Pe
ake’s mouth, starved of the feminine touch for longer than he cared to admit. Then the cold metal cross around his neck struck his collarbone in the nick of time before he’d had the chance to announce his arrival or to say something he’d regret.

  He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or pissed off. Grateful, he decided and pushed his wedding ring further down onto his third finger.

  The door leading to the car park was in his sights. All Ross had to do was to reach it without stopping and without having to struggle his way through a polite conversation with her, where the impure images would have a chance to flash through his mind. But, as always, Holly Kaye heard the shuffling footsteps and lifted her chin to make contact with him. Pushed the thick-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

  “Goodnight, Ross. You’re right on time.” She stifled a yawn and the tendons in her neck strained. She said it with an air of sarcasm. By that, she was emphasizing the well-known fact they always conversed over at this hour of the night, that they were always the last ones to leave.

  “Holly,” was all Ross replied with a bob of his head, inwardly noting the papers littering the cushion next to her. For a brief moment, he imagined how she would look sprawled out there too and inviting him in, but the idea of creating a bigger mess there filled his mind with dread.

  Holly held tomorrow's diary entry above the crown of her head to allow Ross to see the page from afar. “Mr Marston wants to see everyone in the office bright and early tomorrow morning for the weekly meeting. I’ve managed to squeeze it in between nine and nine-fifteen before Shaun Cray arrives to speak to Mr Marston and just after Maggie Tyler leaves.” She listed a few of their well-known clients. “Mr Marston’s schedule is jam-packed tomorrow, so it’s the best I could do. Shouldn’t matter much to you, anyway. You’re the first one in and the last one out. Anybody would think you didn’t have a life outside of work.”

  “They think the same of you.”

  Holly Kaye just grimaced. They’d have the same conversation the next day. The one after that, too. It was all niceties and politeness as far as they were concerned. Never anything more than that; it would be too unprofessional of them. Breaching the atmosphere in the company wasn’t on either of their minds. No, it would cause too many unnecessary complications. What Ross really thought was that it would be too much of a distraction from work. Plus, he had a feeling that the only one Holly Kaye was willing to breach the atmosphere for was Michael Marston. The man with the most connections, the most power and, ultimately, the biggest ego. The man who could take little assistant Holly and launch her into the big time. With his help, she’d be planning the Met Gala or the Grammys in a few years.

  Or so she believed.

  Ross was well aware that Michael Marston was the sort of bloke who liked to keep those who flourished in a certain area under his wing. There was less competition and less chance of these talented individuals branching out into their own business and, therefore, less of them for him to compete with. That way, there was also less chance of his own ventures going down the pan. With the strongest team stacked up behind him, how could he ever fail? Failing wasn’t even a word in his repertoire.

  Holly Kaye would be stuck traipsing around with Michael Marston for the rest of her life, certain and blinded by the notion that in another couple of months, she’d be more than this. More than a PA. Ross was sure she’d become just like the rest of them over time, even more so than she already was. She’d learn that their perks, their salaries and their respect around the town could never be found elsewhere. If she tried, Michael Marston would ensure she wouldn’t get very far. It was his web, and they were the flies. No, it was business. That’s what it was.

  Business.

  At last, Ross Peake’s palms pushed against the frosted glass of the door, and he escaped into the cool evening air. Cooler than the day had been, at the very least. Holly Kaye returned to being absorbed in her planning, and the thick wedge closed behind them. Sight adjusting to the dimness, Ross had tunnel vision gazing upon the rows and rows of empty spaces in the car park. The overflowing industrial bins were significantly dirtier than the inside of the building. Spotting his car in the sparse and select few still settled in the car park, Ross Peake had found his heading, down two concrete steps protruding from the outer walls, followed by a short pause as he swung his bag from one side of his hip to the other. He inhaled a second lungful of cool air, and the bag hit his hip only a second after the piercing blade had pushed through the first few layers of his skin.

  Letting out a silent breath filled with shivers that had originated from his spine, Ross’s fingers found their path to the wound. The second shaky hit found its path, though it still wasn’t enough. The third, however, went deeper. Ross Peake instinctively knew that was it. The third hit was going to have killed him.

  There wasn’t enough left in him to cry out for help, and his gold ring was coated in his own warm blood before he’d even reached it. Trickling out from his insides in slow spurts, slower than he’d expected, the emotions were caught in his throat. In truth, he was confused. Pain? Was there pain?

  Ross Peake groped at the dark stain on his shirt, believing that there must be. Intuition told him so. His liver was ruptured. A small voice inside of his head knew that he was in shock. That the shock disguised the dreadful agony, the toe-curling suffering. He was grateful once more that his body was frozen to the core.

  His folder filled bag dropped to the floor first with a wallop, sliding from his shoulder to get there. Following suit, Ross Peake’s knees gave way beneath him. He crumpled unbecomingly to the concrete and the shadow of crimson spilt out around him. All he wanted to do was mop it up. He hated the mess. Detested it.

  Oxygen levels running lower still, Ross heaved his chest in gasping movements that weren’t coming so naturally anymore. They were forced and robotic. He almost didn’t want to, aware that each time he did, he was only one step closer to his last. That he was speeding up the process that was already too quick for his preference. Then there were the two sets of heavy breathing on the concrete stairs to take into account, telling him the owner of the knife hadn’t yet left him to have this moment in peace.

  Ross was certain that the culprit had waited for him to leave the building. To leave at the same time he did every day, quarter past eleven. They’d stayed hidden in the shadows behind the wall for him to walk down the steps and reveal himself to them. A sitting duck, by all means, simply begging to be stabbed in the back.

  It was then that Ross cursed his neatness. Cursed his love for routine, his obsession to do everything in order and to never stray from his habits. To hesitate to act on a whim. He recalled he used to be able to go with the flow, to roll with the punches, and would pride himself on adaptability. To change whatever it was he needed to change to achieve results. These days… well.

  He didn’t dare crane his neck to see his killer with his own eyes, for Ross Peake wasn’t a brave man. He had never been. To change now was a big ask and a mean feat. He also wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know who had brought on his demise, which of his enemies had finally caught up with him. Which one of them was the karma he’d thought he’d put to bed when he’d started begging for the forgiveness of God?

  For a man who was used to routine, surprises happened little and often. However, it surprised Ross Peake when the culprit of his leaking wound stooped to their knees. When their hot breath hit his ear and sent his body shuddering. It surprised him even more when he recognised the voice and how he wished he couldn’t. Because now he knew the enemy, and the enemy was worse than his imagination had feared.

  “I’m sorry it had to come to this. So sorry,” the voice he knew better than anybody else mumbled into the night. Choking on their own emotions as much as he was, struggling to hold back the saltwater brimming beneath their eyes. “But you must’ve seen how this would end? Surely you must have seen it?”

  Ross Peake’s numb lips moved. Hoped that Holly would hear his whispers
from reception, that she’d put down her schedule for just a second, but dammit, she was just as much of a routine freak as he. Nothing could tear her apart from her papers.

  “You ruined us all. We’re only here because of you, damaged because of you. I’m giving you exactly what you deserved, and this, this is exactly what you deserved,” the voice attempted to convince themselves, urging and egging themselves on. “I thought about what I was going to say to you for so long. Even now. It’s been going round and round in my head. Never ceasing. Never-ending. It’s driven me crazy. But even now, you can’t admit that what you did was wrong. You haven’t even said sorry, haven’t even attempted to explain it.”

  Ross Peake’s lips turned to prayer. To beg for forgiveness once more. To the person that he would be at the mercy of, to pay the debts and thank the strength he was given to carry on. A wretched life it had been, but he’d been somebody. Achieved in work what he, at first a failing businessman, had once strived for. That was enough, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it enough?

  It had to be.

  “You would’ve never been punished for what you’ve done. It would have never gotten out, and you would’ve made sure of that. Jeremy will never have gotten the justice he deserved, and neither would I. I’ve lost a lifetime to your greed. Seeing you struggling as he did, as I have for so long… this is the only way I’ll rest easy. Do you understand?”

  “We’re the same. Blood on our hands.” Realising the prayers weren’t working in his favour, Ross gasped. “Was it worth it?”

  “You had a choice,” they shot back. “You had people who would’ve loved you no matter whether you were rich or poor, and that still didn’t change your mind. We’re nothing alike. We’re good people who have had bad things happen to them. Because of you.”