“Why would they do that?”
She said it as gently as she could. “Maybe they found something and don’t want it to be public for fear of compromising their investigation.”
“That cannae be it.” He took out his phone. “I’ll text Ava and see if she’s heard.”
The answer came almost immediately.
Quinn glared at his phone. “She still disnae have the results.”
Elizabeth wasn’t surprised.
She got to her feet, went to stand before the whiteboard, studied the bullet points. “What we need are actionable leads, and all we’ve got are the two men Ava mentioned.”
“That bastard who threatened to kill Jack and that MSP—he sounds like he was off his heid.”
“Ava didn’t know his name, but surely the papers covered the incident.” Elizabeth settled on the sofa and picked up her laptop. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
Quinn moved to sit beside her, heat seeming to radiate off his body.
Focus, Shields.
It took Elizabeth less than a minute.
“Clive James MacDonald of Thurston Tower, Muirhouse, Edinburgh.” She wrote down the address, handed it to Quinn. “How do you feel about having a friendly chat with Mr. MacDonald?”
“Friendly?”
“Yes, friendly. That means no punching.”
Quinn scowled. “I bloody well know what it means.”
* * *
It was dark by the time they reached Edinburgh. Quinn parked on the street, getting as close as he could to the high-rise known as Thurston Tower. He’d never been here, but the neighborhood was one of the poorest in the UK and had a reputation for shabbiness and violence.
“This isnae the safest part of town. Stay close by me, aye?”
“I understand.”
They walked the short distance to Thurston Tower, coming to a big grassy area with paths and a playground—not the sort of place he would have brought Elizabeth at night if he’d had any choice. But the weather was chilly, and few people were about. A drunk in a thick woolen hat. A group of teenage boys huddled together near the swings. An old man walking a wee dog.
“It seems nice enough to me.”
“Does it now? When I was a boy, people called it Terror Tower. I hear it’s scheduled to be demolished.”
They reached the entrance to the high-rise, the lock on its security door broken, enabling anyone to walk in off the streets. They stepped into the lobby, memories rushing back at him. He hadn’t set foot in social housing since the night his father had thrown him out on the streets.
Elizabeth glanced at her cell phone. “He should be on the sixth floor.”
Quinn pushed the button for the lift. “What if this bastard willnae talk wi’ us?”
“Then we leave. We don’t have police authority or any official status here.”
Quinn was used to arriving with overwhelming force—armed to the teeth and authorized to kill. He felt naked showing up with nothing but a wee Glock 42.
The lift arrived, its doors gliding open to reveal a filthy, dingy interior, the fluorescent light fixture hanging down on one side by its wires, the reek of piss strong.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose as they entered, but she said nothing.
The four walls pressed in on Quinn.
Get oot ma hoose, ya fuckin’ bastard! Yer nae son o’ mine. Dinnae be comin’ back or I’ll beat the life oot o’ ye, so I will. This is yer hame nae mair, ya worthless fuck!
The lift stopped, bringing him back to the present, the doors opening on a filthy hallway—dirty vinyl dotted with rat droppings, the walls and ceiling stained black with mold, used syringes mere feet from a child’s pram. The thrum of hip hop. A baby’s cry. A man and woman arguing.
Quinn willed himself to breathe, the familiar stench of mold overwhelming.
Elizabeth took it all in, seemed to hesitate. “Number Six-Ten.”
“This way.” Quinn pointed.
A rat scurried past their feet, making Elizabeth jump.
“Sorry.” She looked up at Quinn, clearly embarrassed. “It just surprised me. That’s all.”
“You’ve no need to apologize.” He didn’t like her seeing this.
What would she think if she knew he’d grown up in such squalor?
Clive MacDonald’s flat was at the end of the hallway, a shabby gray door that didn’t stop the sound of the telly from coming through.
Elizabeth knocked. “I’ll ask the questions, okay?”
Quinn nodded. “You’re the intel expert.”
A pretty teenage girl with blond hair and wide green eyes opened the door, her gaze darting warily from Quinn to Elizabeth. “What is it?”
Elizabeth gave the girl a warm, calming smile. “I’m Elizabeth, and this is Quinn. We’d like to speak with Clive if he’s at home.”
“You’re American.”
“Is it that obvious?” Even Elizabeth’s tone of voice was soothing.
“Aye. The accent.” The girl smiled.
“It’s my first time in Scotland. What’s your name?”
“Nicola.”
“May we come in, Nicola?”
“He’s been drinkin’,” Nicola said in a warning tone of voice. She opened the door to let them in. “Da, there’s some people to speak wi’ you.”
Quinn followed Elizabeth inside. The flat was small and cluttered but not filthy, its ceiling sagging in places and stained with mold, the cloying odor permeating everything. They found Clive MacDonald sitting in his underwear in a battered recliner, a bottle in his hand. Pale and balding, his belly bloated from a lifetime of drinking, he wasn’t the man who’d attacked Quinn at Jack and Ava’s house.
“I’ll no’ speak wi’ police. Get the fuck oot!”
The girl looked over at Elizabeth. “You’re no’ the police, are ya?”
“No, we’re not. We’re friends of Jack Murray.” Elizabeth’s gaze was on MacDonald when she spoke. “He’s the bodyguard who was found murdered a week ago in Glasgow.”
Quinn saw no sign of recognition on MacDonald’s face or his daughter’s, but then he wasn’t the expert. Elizabeth was.
“Jack Murray? I dinnae know the man,” MacDonald grumbled.
Quinn fought to keep his gob shut.
“That’s strange.” Elizabeth held out her phone. “Here’s a photo of you with Jack. He stopped you when you ran at Alastair Whitehall. He held you down. He said you were shouting about abortion and that you threatened to kill him and Alastair.”
MacDonald’s expression turned to rage. “I told you they were police. Lyin’ bastards. Get the fuck oot!”
“We’re no’ police, man.” Quinn knew he’d agreed to let Elizabeth ask the questions, but he wanted answers. “Jack Murray was my best friend, and now he’s dead and gone, and I’m tryin’ to understand.”
MacDonald looked straight into Quinn’s eyes. “It wisnae me who killed him. I didnae know that bastard’s name till the police came and asked me aboot him.”
So, MacDonald had just lied. He did know who Jack was.
Elizabeth pressed him. “Why did you threaten to kill him and Mr. Whitehall?”
“If I threatened yer friend it was only because he had me pinned to the bloody ground, aye?”
“What about MSP Whitehall?”
MacDonald’s gaze shifted to the TV. “I cannae recall.”
“He was drunk.” Nicola spoke in a rush, fear on her face. “You were oot of your hied, aye, Da? Ravin’ drunk and angry about the babies. Da disnae think we should have abortion in Scotland.”
MacDonald nodded, met Elizabeth’s gaze. “Aye, I was mad wi’ it. Have you never been so drunk that you couldnae remember a thing after?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I haven’t.”
MacDonald grinned. “You’re a right prim little cunt, you are.”
Quinn’s fists clenched, but he stayed where he was. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your heid, or I’ll rip it out.”
Ma
cDonald had the good sense to apologize. “I didnae mean offense. Go and leave me in peace.”
Nicola led them to the front door, an apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry for yer friend, so I am, but my da knows nothin’. I know how it must seem, but he’s no’ a bad man, really.”
“You’ve no need to apologize for your da,” Quinn said. “What he says and does is on him alone. It disnae reflect on you.”
His words seemed to touch Nicola. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for your help, Nicola.” Elizabeth reached into her handbag and drew out a business card. “If you hear anything or just want to talk, this is my email address.”
Nicola took the card—and shut the door in their faces.
* * *
Elizabeth pushed her way out the front door and hurried toward the street, inhaling the fresh night air, letting it wash away the terrible stench of mold, urine, and despair. She had never seen anything like that before. “How can they live like that? The smell is terrible.”
Quinn fell in beside her. “No’ everyone is born into an easy life.”
He sounded defensive. Had she offended him?
“I’m not judging them. I just can’t believe they live with all of that black mold. The whole building reeks of it. It’s a health hazard.”
Quinn said nothing but walked faster.
Elizabeth changed the subject, sharing what she’d gleaned from that brief encounter with Clive MacDonald and Nicola. “He’s lying. He knows something.”
“MacDonald’s no’ the man who killed Jack. I knew that the moment I saw him.”
“I agree. He couldn’t have killed Jack. But he knows something. When I first mentioned Jack’s name, he had an adrenaline reaction.”
“He thought you were the police, aye?”
That might have been it, but Elizabeth didn’t think so. “Nicola was afraid.”
Quinn was walking so fast now that Elizabeth almost had to run to keep up. “She’s got reason to be afraid, livin’ wi’ an alcoholic. Maybe he beats her when he’s rat-arsed. Who’s to say?”
“That’s not what I meant. She hurried to explain away her father’s behavior when all he could say was that he didn’t remember. He’s lying about that, too, I’m sure.”
Elizabeth stopped chasing after Quinn, walked at her own pace, confused by this change in him. Then again, he’d been tense since they left Glasgow. She’d thought it had to do with the reality of investigating Jack’s murder. But now…
“Is something wrong, McManus? And remember—I can tell when you’re lying.”
He stopped, turned to face her, his expression obscured by the darkness. “I grew up in a place just like this wi’ a da much like him.”
Oh, God, Quinn.
She felt a rush of sympathy for him, his defensive response making sense now.
Shit.
“I’m sorry for what I said. I don’t blame—”
“It wisnae anythin’ you said. It’s just this place. It brings back … memories.”
She could understand that. “Then how about we get the hell out of here and go somewhere fun for dinner?”
“Somewhere fun?” He seemed to consider this. “Aye, we could do that.”
They hurried to the rental car, Elizabeth once again going to the wrong side. “The news articles repeated what Jack said. MacDonald was shouting about abortion. Does Scotland have an anti-abortion movement?”
“There are some who would like to change the laws, but they’re in the minority. No one here is harassin’ women, killin’ doctors, or burnin’ clinics to the ground.”
“Clive doesn’t strike me as an activist.”
“He was probably off his heid wi’ drink, saw somethin’ on the news that upset him, and went off.”
Elizabeth’s intuition told her there was more to it than that.
Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth found herself seated at a window staring out at Edinburgh Castle, floodlights playing over its stone walls. “I love how they’ve lighted it.”
It loomed over the city, ancient and massive.
Quinn’s lips curved in a lopsided grin that made her belly flutter. “There wouldnae be much to see otherwise, aye?”
She had kissed those lips today. God, it had been hot. “I wish it were open.”
“The castle? We can come back later in the week.”
They server came with their drinks. Quinn ordered the shepherd’s pie, and Elizabeth ordered the roasted duck breast.
After the server walked away, Quinn grew quiet, his brow furrowed. “Sorry about earlier. I was just havin’ a wee bitch.”
Elizabeth reached across the table, took his hand, awareness arcing between them. “You don’t have to apologize, Quinn. I’m grateful that you explained. I didn’t know you’d had such a rough childhood.”
Then again, she couldn’t remember him ever talking about his childhood or his family. Now she understood why. Poverty left its mark on a person.
“Others had it worse.” Quinn took a sip of his scotch. “Thank you for trustin’ me with what happened at the Agency. I’ll crush that bastard’s balls if I meet him.”
“You say the sweetest things.” Elizabeth sipped her wine, Quinn watching her through smoky blue eyes. “I guess we both learned something new about each other today.”
“Aye, so we did.” His lips curved in a smug and sexy grin. “I learned that the restrained and self-possessed Ms. Shields can be very … impulsive.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned.
8
Quinn poured the whisky in the sink, tears blurring his vision, his hands shaking. If his da wanted to drink himself to death, that was fine. But drinking made him angry and mean, and Quinn wouldn’t let the bastard strike him again.
He’d told the other boys that he’d gotten his black eye in a fight against another gang and that the boy who’d hit him had paid dearly. He couldn’t bear to tell them that it was his own da who’d struck him.
“What the fuck do ye think yer doin’?”
Quinn turned on the spot, heart in his throat, the half-empty bottle falling to the floor, spilling whisky on the chipped and dirty tile. He stood his ground. “I dumped it—all of it. You’re mean when you drink, Da. I’ll never let you work me over again. You already drove Ma and Paige away. You—”
“Fuckin’ bastard!”
Quinn blocked the first blow and the next. “I’m bigger than you now. I’m no’ just a wee boy you can thrash.”
“I’ll break you, boy.” His da left the kitchen.
Quinn reached for a bit of kitchen roll to wipe up the spilled whisky unaware that his da had returned until a shadow fell across the floor.
The blow of the belt took him by surprise, pain lashing across his back.
“You’re nae so big now, are ye?” His da glared down at him. “You think you’re better than I am, all high and mighty, but you’re the same. That’s why your ma left you wi’ me. You didn’t know?”
White hot fury and adrenaline had Quinn on his feet. He jerked the belt out of his da’s hands and slammed the bastard in the face with his fist, splitting his lip and sending him staggering. “Shut your fuckin’ gob!”
Christ, it felt good to hit back, so Quinn did it again and again, until blood flowed from his da’s nose and the bastard looked dazed.
Da stepped away, wiping blood from his face. He glared at Quinn with undisguised hatred. “Get oot ma hoose, ye fuckin’ bastard! Yer nae son o’ mine. Dinnae be comin’ back or I’ll beat the life oot o’ ye, so I will. This is yer hame nae mair, ya worthless fuck!”
Quinn jerked awake, the nightmare leaving a tangle of emotions inside him. He threw off the duvet, glanced at the hotel alarm clock. It was oh-six-forty.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he switched on his security camera and went to the gym to lift weights, working his muscles hard, trying to burn off the dream. He was no longer the boy who’d lived in fear of his old man. He wasn’t helpless and dependent. Th
at night had been a new beginning for him. He’d turned the tables, made his da bleed.
It was only what he deserved.
If his da were still alive, he would have rung him up and thanked him for throwing him out. That night had been the start of a new life. Quinn had worked hard to make something of himself after that, to turn himself into the kind of man his da would have no choice but to respect—and fear.
In the end, it hadn’t mattered. His da had died soon after he’d joined the army, his liver eaten through by drink.
Forget him.
When Quinn had finished three sets of reps for each muscle group, he made his way back to his room, shed his clothes, and went straight into the shower, his mind turning to better things.
Lilibet. The kiss.
He had imagined kissing her hundreds of times, but the experience, as brief as it had been, had far surpassed his fantasies. He relived it, trying to remember all of the sweet details. The heat of her body against his. Her soft curves. The press of her lips. Her scent. Her taste. She’d kissed him as if she truly meant it, as if she were starving for him, as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
The memory left him with a raging stonner. Not one to turn down that invitation, he took matters into his own hands, his mind on Lilibet as he came.
Wankin’ is a poor substitute for the real, live woman.
Aye, but the real, live woman was off-limits, and he’d best remember that.
He dried off, put a clean bandage over his stitches, and walked naked back to the bedroom to dress.
A buzz.
His mobile.
He searched for the bloody thing, found it in the living area stuck between two cushions on the sofa. It must have fallen there when he’d been watching the news last night. There was a notification from his security camera, and a text message from Elizabeth.
He opened the security notification first.
There on his screen was an image of him standing stark naked exactly where he was, his tadger and balls hanging out.
Hard Justice: A Cobra Elite Novel Page 8
