“Tick tock, Sebbie, my old mate. I need a story, and you’ve bloody well got one. Here’s my number.” The man took a card out of his old suit coat, and put it down on the desk. “Give me a call, or a text. When it breaks, or when you work it out, whenever. I’ll be waiting. In the meantime … Remember Billy Crudup, and Jamie and Sam.”
The man walked over to the door. Stewart looked at Dakar, swallowing loudly, but Dakar was staring at the journalist with an anger Stewart had never seen before.
Frank turned back. “I’ll see myself out. Don’t be a stranger, Sebbie.” The man smiled at Dakar, gloating in the face of his hostility, then he looked at Stewart. “You as well. My new chum. Stewart Scott. Stewart Scott.” Frank rolled Stewart’s name around his tongue. “Good name. I’ll remember it.”
Stewart froze. Frank laughed and disappeared out of the small room. They heard him whistling as he left, his shoes sounding out his path across the wooden floor.
The silence blanketed them for a full minute before Stewart eventually looked at Dakar. The man was staring at the door, a glassy look on his face, like his expression had been fused in place. Stewart sat in the silence for a while longer, awkwardly twisting his notes in his hands. Eventually he broke it.
“Eh, you all right?”
Dakar remained silent, still looking at the door, as if he hadn’t heard.
“Eh, right. Tell you what. Why don’t I head off as well? If everything’s all right.” Stewart hesitated. “Well, as all right as it can be.”
Stewart waited, but no response came. Dakar didn’t even look like he was on the planet at the moment.
“And, eh, for tomorrow …?”
Silence, broken only by Dakar’s hand scrabbling on the desk, his eyes still fixed on the door. Eventually he located his phone, and held it up. “I’ll be in touch.” His voice was low and throaty, and his eyes never left the door, the last spot Frank had been standing.
Chapter 25
Stewart woke up when his alarm went off. Seven forty-five. But he was working with Dakar this morning, so there was no need to get up and rush into work. And he’d sent the report last night, as instructed, overcoming the issue of both sending and not sending reports by sending a technical version of the report to Green and Sudgeon, and a fatter, more comprehensive one to Mannings. It would be enough of a fudge to get him past Mannings’ rage, he was sure.
He hit the snooze button, a feeling of contentment spreading through him.
It felt like he’d only just closed his eyes when his alarm went off again, this time showing eight fifteen. Stewart turned it off, and prepared himself mentally for the effort of getting out of bed. He glanced out the window, where it looked lighter. The clouds from the night must have moved on. The sky was being lit up by the rising sun, wisps of white cloud being painted reds and oranges.
Stewart stretched his arms and legs for a second or two, then collapsed into a small ball again. He slowly sat up. Time to get back to investigating a murder with Dakar.
Dakar. Christ.
The events of the night before flooded back into his head, images of Dakar’s frozen face and Frank’s manic grin. Stewart grabbed his phone, checked it. Nothing from Dakar. He went to message him, but then stopped. Eight fifteen. He put his phone down, and instead grabbed his jogging trousers.
Stewart could just about see the start of The Meadows from his bedroom window, where Melville Drive began to head over to Tollcross. The trees, their leaves a cascade of browns, reds and yellows, were being whipped by the wind, the branches dancing around like puppets played by a demented puppet master. In spite of the sunlight, Stewart felt a shiver pass through him.
Stewart went downstairs. Saz was in the kitchen. She also looked like she was just up, in her PJs and hair all tangled. Not the hair that the women in the adverts had, but genuinely tangled, with bits sticking out everywhere.
“Morning.” It was more of a grunt than a word. She was crunching through some cereals.
Stewart grabbed down some cornflakes. “How’s it going?”
“Yeah, not bad. Got pleading diets this morning. Guess how many cases are going through court.”
Stewart hesitated. People only ever asked you to guess if the number was either really high or really low. And ever since the start of her second year, when she’d got her robe and gone into court, Saz had been bringing back stories about how overloaded the court system was. So a high number, then. Problem was, he had no idea how many were normally in there.
“Eh, 28?”
Saz smiled triumphantly. “92 … 92 bloody cases. Insanity.”
Stewart tried to look suitably impressed, in spite of his complete ignorance over how hard, or easy, the court was. “Heavy.”
Saz nodded, taking another spoonful of cereal. “Shouldn’t you be jamming toast in your mouth and getting ready to run to work? You know, so you can be there early and pretend to your bosses that you’re working really hard?”
“I work my arse off, my public sector friend. But it just so happens that today, I’m on a totally different assignment, and so I don’t need to go to the office.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Actually, it’s a criminal investigation.” He said it grandly.
Saz frowned, mouth full of cereal again. She swallowed. “Criminal? Shouldn’t the police be doing that?”
“They did. But they didn’t figure it out, so we’re taking a look now too.” His chest swelled.
“Do the police know you’re doing it?”
Stewart opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shrugged. Saz’s frown grew stronger.
“Stewart, you might be interfering with an ongoing investigation. That’s serious stuff.”
He crossed his arms. “Well, the cops have already investigated. They’ve spoken to everyone we’ve spoken to. We’re just trailing along behind them, looking at what they’ve already looked at.”
He stopped there, the photographs looming into his mind, his question to Dakar about whether he was allowed to open the envelope alongside the memory.
Saz swallowed the cereals she was crunching. “What crime are you investigating?”
“Eh … Can’t really say, sorry. Firm gave me all kinds of warnings not to.”
“Jesus, Stewart, some of the places you find yourself …”
He grinned, relief running through him.
Saz finished her cereal, and washed up her plate. “Okay. Well, anyway. I hope it goes well. I need to head off, and start marking up these cases before they go into court. Not that it really matters anyway. Admin are so overworked that they can barely even cite the witnesses you need.” Saz headed back up the stairs, Stewart nodding wisely in his complete ignorance.
He kept on eating, pulling out his phone. Twenty-five past eight. Still nothing from Dakar. He would give Dakar five more minutes and then phone him, and find out what was happening.
He wondered when he should start billing from. Now, probably. Except, well, this job was from Tom Mannings. He would know all the nonsense that went into the six-minute billing. Still, better make a note of it just in case.
Stewart typed into his phone that he was reviewing the report from the day before, starting at eight thirty. There. Evidence, if Green or Sudgeon demanded it, of what he was up to.
A couple of minutes later the stairs squeaked.
“Forget something?” Stewart shouted over his shoulder.
There was no reply, but a kind of frozen silence rolled back towards him. Stewart twisted around in the seat.
Beth was standing just outside in the hall, in her pyjamas, hair tangled. She had a confused expression on her face, eyes screwed up as the light invaded her pupils. “What are you still doing here?”
“Eh, well, I’m still working with, eh, that new client. And they start a bit later in the day. So I don’t need to go into work. At least not yet. So just taking it easy.” For some reason the song What a Wonderful World came to his mind, the throaty voice of Louis Arms
trong reverberating around his head.
She nodded, her confused expression giving way to one of pain as she made her way into the kitchen. Stewart recognised that particular look, having seen it a fair few times in the mirror. He took another spoonful of cornflakes.
“Late night last night, was it?”
She looked over at him, eyes remaining half shut against the watery light coming in through the windows. She nodded once, dimly, and cast her eyes back down at the breakfast she was preparing.
Stewart wandered over, hands in pockets. “Was it worth it?”
She looked around at him, her eyes widening in shock. Stewart took a step back, and held his hands up. “The hangover,” he clarified. “Was it worth the hangover?”
She stared at him for a second or two, and then shook her head slowly. “No, Stewart, it wasn’t worth it.” Stewart found himself frowning as Beth looked back down. He’d had bad hangovers before, but he couldn’t remember being in this much pain. Anguish, even.
“No, I guess it never is, the morning after.” He stopped. She was still looking down. “Eh, you all right?”
Beth looked up at him for a few seconds, like she was almost about to burst into tears, then turned and looked back down at the cereal. Her breathing was short and sharp. Stewart waited for a few more awkward seconds, then nodded helplessly and turned and wandered back over to the living room table, past the breakfast bar.
“Stewart?”
Stewart turned around. Beth was looking at him, her eyebrows raised in the middle causing worry lines to settle on her forehead, her eyes large, like a puppy.
“Aye?”
Beth hesitated, her mouth open. Eventually she spoke, almost a whisper. “You’re still coming to the Oak tonight, aren’t you?”
Stewart nodded happily. “Looking forward to hearing live one of these singer-songwriters you’re always raving about.”
Beth swallowed again, her voice louder this time. “And you’re not going into work? At all?”
“Nope. Not going into work. I’ll be with Dak … David, again.” Stewart’s eyes opened a bit wider as he almost uttered Dakar’s name, but Beth didn’t seem to notice.
She nodded once, wincing at the effort it cost her. “Okay. Tonight, then. We can speak then.” Beth turned back to her cereal preparation without waiting for him to respond, having finally managed to pour the milk into the bowl. Then she took her bowl and spoon, walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs without looking at him again.
Stewart watched her leave, eyebrows furrowed as she disappeared. Well, at least she hadn’t caught his almost giving the game away about Dakar. After work he would head to the office party, do his hobnobbing, and then meet Beth. Ideal.
He picked up his phone. One missed call, Dakar’s number.
His phone had been on silent, the way he always kept it. The ringtones annoyed him, and there was nothing quite as exhausting as getting the thrill of hearing a message and then the comedown of reading some inane chat or, even worse, some message a company had fired you in a pathetic effort to get you to buy something.
Stewart rang back, and Dakar instantly picked up.
“Sorry I missed your call,” Stewart said immediately. “Eh … Yeah.”
“Good morning, my brother. How are you today?” It was undeniably Dakar, but the strain in his voice was now accompanied by fatigue.
“I’m good, thanks. Eh … Yourself?” Stewart spoke the question cautiously.
There was silence on the line, and what sounded like a deep breath. “I’ve been better.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.”
“I think we should go back to Graham Donaldson’s house today, to try and speak with him. I’ll pick you up at nine outside your front door.” Dakar’s tone was flat.
Stewart hesitated himself now. “Right-oh. I’ll see you down there.”
“Okay.” The phone went dead. Stewart looked at it. Well, Dakar might not sound good, but at least he was still operating. That was something.
He looked at the time. Twenty-five to nine. Plenty of time to grab a shower, get dressed and get out. Dancer. He loved lazy mornings.
There was a commotion on the stairs, and Stewart saw Saz flying out.
“See you. Have a good one.”
“Aye, you too,” Stewart replied. He headed upstairs, pausing for a second as he passed Beth’s room. There was a stillness there, an absence of noise and activity rather than mere silence. Stewart shrugged and headed on to his own room, grabbing his towel and heading for the bathroom.
Chapter 26
“How are you? My brother?”
Stewart sat in Dakar’s car, staring out the window. The cold Scottish morning, it turned out, was not much different to the cold Scottish night, except you could see better. Far better, in fact. The clouds were marching across the sky, true, but they hadn’t taken over yet, and sunlight was brilliantly attacking the dark stone buildings of Edinburgh, making them glow.
He turned to look at Dakar. They’d exchanged greetings, but then Dakar had driven in silence. Stewart had watched him carefully but apart from checking his wing and rear view mirrors quite a bit, he seemed generally okay.
“Eh, aye, grand. And you?”
“I’m fine.” A flat tone, devoid of the warmth and kindness Stewart had begun to take for granted.
Stewart nodded. He’d never expected to hear Dakar play the Scottish male game where, no matter how terrible life was, the only acceptable answer to someone asking after you was ‘fine’. But here they were.
The drive out to Graham Donaldson’s house was uneventful, the rush hour traffic largely dispersed by the time they got out there. But after trudging up to the front door in a wind that swept through the overgrown grass in waves and eddies, there was once again no answer. They retreated back to the warmth of the car.
“His business isn’t far. We’ll go there and find him.” Dakar’s first words since claiming he was fine.
Stewart nodded again, even although Dakar hadn’t been asking his opinion. Dakar’s expression as he drove was a faraway one, and every now and again, Stewart would see his eyes narrow further and hands harden around the wheel, a physical response to whatever thought had just passed through his head.
They headed out to Loanhead again, turning past the Ikea and, following a maze of small roads, pulled up outside a white building. It was a bungalow, a normal door on the left and a garage door on the right. There was a van parked outside, marked with the livery of Donaldson’s business, Donaldson’s Living Landscapes.
Dakar headed for the door without saying a word, and Stewart could see a light on in there through the windows. Stewart steeled himself again. This time. This time, he knew that not only was Graham Donaldson cheating on his wife and alibi-less for the brutal murder of Daniel Mannings, he also knew that the guy had done jail time for a violent crime.
Stewart gulped. Christ.
A muscular, short man answered the door. He had short hair, and seemed quite young, only a few years older than Stewart. He was wearing black combat trousers and a black t-shirt with the white lettering of the firm. One arm was entirely covered in tattoos, while the other was unmarked, giving an odd kind of asymmetry.
“Can I help you?” he asked gruffly. His mouth was set as if he felt he had enough on his plate already, and his eyes were red, like he’d had a late night the night before.
“We’re looking for Graham Donaldson. Do you know where he is?” Dakar’s expression was equally irritated and tired, two men who didn’t want to be there or talking to each other.
“Graham? Naw, sorry, I don’t. If it’s work you’re looking to have done though, c’mon in and I’ll take your details.” The man turned and walked back into the office before Dakar or Stewart could reply.
They followed him into one big open room. It was poshly decorated, with stands spread out through the room displaying photographs of garden landscapes, and one model of a big field with stone terraces with small trees.
&
nbsp; The guy headed off to a desk on the right, sitting down, motioning for Dakar and Stewart to sit on the opposite side. He pulled out a notepad and pen, his attempt at a smile coming over more as a tired grimace.
“So, what kind of thing are you looking for then? We do anything up to half a hectare, just us. Above that, we’ll need to look at bringing in partners, but we’ve got a number of subcontractors we trust.”
“We’re not looking for you to do any work for us.”
The guy looked up from his notepad and pen. “What are you here for then?”
Pause, deep breath. “We’re here to discuss the finances of the business. It’s why we were looking for Graham.”
The guy sat back, and threw the pen down on the notepad. “Bloody vultures, you bank guys are. Look, we’ve said we’ll get back to you on the restructuring loan. But you need to give us more time.”
“The bank’s worried it won’t get its money back.”
The man glared at Dakar, and therefore didn’t clock Stewart’s mouth hanging open as he also looked at Dakar.
Dakar leaned forward into the man’s hostility. “We’re here to help. But we need to find out more about the business.”
A snort. “What, our PowerPoint presentation wasn’t good enough?”
“We just got this case. Look, we’re the good guys. We’re on your side.”
“There are no good guys at the bank.”
Dakar looked at him, then sighed, shaking his head. “If that’s your attitude, there’s no point wasting our time.” He turned to Stewart, who’d managed to reassemble his expression into something approaching professional. “Let’s go.”
Dakar got up and turned to walk out the door, Stewart aping his movements while desperately trying to keep his expression blank. He counted the steps to the door. One, two, three, four, Dakar was at the door now, five, he was turning the handle …
“Hey. Hey! Jesus, mate, all right. All right. But I can’t go through everything again. I don’t have the information to hand.”
The Price to Pay Page 14
