Stewart saw Frank get out the car and run around it towards them. He rocked back on his heels. He’d forgotten about the text message Dakar had sent, the whole idea of Frank shoved violently out of his head when the handcuffs encircled his wrists.
Frank looked feral. Deranged even, eyes bloodshot, spit at the side of his mouth.
“You bastard! You bastard, Sebbie! Forty bloody minutes to that address and back down again. I’ve been all over looking for you.”
Dakar paused, and Stewart saw him take a deep breath. Stewart leaned ever so slightly away from him.
“My brother.”
“My brother! I’ll bloody my brother you! What the hell’s your game, sending me on a wild goose chase to a monastery?”
Pause. “I believed you might find the peace you are seeking there.”
Frank looked at Dakar like Dakar had just said he’d met Santa Claus walking down the street. “Come again?”
Pause. “I had believed you might find peace there, my brother.”
“Peace? All I found was a big empty place that smelled of shite! I just passed the police cars leaving here. What the hell happened, Dakar? Tell me!”
Pause. Dakar shook his head. “I am full of sorrow, my brother, but I shall not do that.”
Now Frank’s expression changed, hardening. “You’ll bloody well give me my story, Sebbie, or I’ll file a different exclusive. This story or your bollocks. You can choose. And don’t forget Mr Crudup and Jamie and Sam.”
Dakar’s eyes narrowed, but he took a deep breath. “I have made my decision, my brother. It is too late now.”
Frank snorted, his eyes opening slightly wider. “You’ve got to be joking. You know what I’ll publish. You remember that night, that drunken conversation? That’s what I’ll lead with, Sebbie. I’ll back it up with every little thing you told me, but that’ll be the headline. He’ll get out, Sebbie. And he’ll be pissed.”
Pause. “I have made my decision, my brother. The police are holding a press conference in ten minutes, although I imagine it will be delayed by a little while. If you hurry, you might make it.” Dakar’s tone was firmer now where it had been gentle before.
Frank began nodding, his eyes glinting. “Right then. So it’s done. You. You’re for it. You’re bloody well for it now. My brother.” He jabbed a finger towards Dakar as he practically spat the last couple of words.
Frank spun round, and got back into his car. With an obscene gesture towards Dakar, his car roared away down the road, the same direction the police had gone. Stewart watched him go, and heard Dakar breathe out deeply through his nose.
After watching Frank leave, they sat in silence in the car. Eventually Dakar broke it.
“I understand how Frank found us yesterday. It was your comment about Martina putting a GPS in Graham’s vehicle. Frank had put a GPS on my old vehicle. That’s why I traded it in temporarily for this one.”
“That’s why you said the car was tainted, is it?”
Pause, nod. “Indeed.”
Stewart sat in the silence. Normally an ex-journalist with a grudge swearing vengeance on Dakar, having been earlier thwarted in a technological effort to track him, would have got Stewart’s heart racing. But now, now, he just felt worn-out, like he’d been through the wringer.
“Think he’ll follow through on what he’s threatening?”
Pause. “Quite possible. He is very angry.”
“What will you do if he does?”
Pause. “We will see. There is a price to pay for all actions, mine included.”
Stewart nodded. Well, it was over, then. Dakar had managed to sort it out again.
“Let us go back, my brother. It has been a long day.”
The silence settled. Stewart checked his watch. Eleven thirty. He should be back in time for Sudgeon’s meeting at twelve, to diligently take notes, and try to pretend to those present that, in the dangerous political waters of the office, he was a shark rather than a swimmer with armbands.
He watched the buildings flash past as the city seemed to grow more substantial around him, like flesh being added to a body as the buildings crowded out the green spaces until they were in entirely urban areas.
“Do you feel bad at all? I mean, about Jane? She’s getting away with murder. Literally.”
Pause. “No, my brother.”
“Why?”
Pause, a slight shrug. “Given what happened, and who Daniel had become, perhaps Sarah-Anne and Jane did the right thing. But it would be intolerable for Graham Donaldson to be charged, possibly convicted, of this crime.”
“Is that your choice to make?”
Pause. “It’s a choice I had the power to make, and so therefore the responsibility to make. You, Sandra, Russell and Jane have all made the same choice.”
“Any of us could tell the police what truly happened.”
Pause. “True. That too is a choice you’ll have to make, every single day of your life. You just have to decide what you think is right.”
The silence settled again as Dakar slowly wound his way back to SSM. The day had given birth to the afternoon amidst some light clouds, the sun breaking through in patches, almost like it was trying to repair the ravages of the storm the night before.
Stewart looked out the window. Of course what Dakar said was true. And he’d come up with the story, the alternate story, as to how Sarah-Anne could have done it herself. So long as the cops didn’t bother checking you could close the window from the outside, there weren’t any holes in the theory. And did Jane really deserve to face a criminal justice system that was, according to Saz, more about getting through the business than actually achieving justice?
Stewart sighed, and looked back at Dakar. The guy didn’t seem to be troubled by that question. But he’d made his choice, and seemed happy enough with it. Another thought hit him.
“Shame about the Donaldsons, though. I guess they’ll go down pretty hard now, what with the business failing and their sham affair exposed.”
Pause. “Graham Donaldson’s business will not fail.”
“What do you mean?”
Pause. “There is a foundation, the Redistribution Foundation, that supports certain projects throughout Scotland. Graham’s business, being both environmentally sound and providing jobs for the ex-convicts, certainly qualifies. They decided today to give an annual grant to cover whatever shortcomings the business has, until it regains profitability. Thus, no debt, no failure.”
Stewart’s eyebrows furrowed. “How do you know this?”
Pause. “One day I will tell you where all my money goes, I think. Or perhaps I will show you.”
Stewart looked around at Dakar, but the guy was focusing on the road. He turned and stared back out of the window, his brain too mangled with murders, and deception, and personality changes to pursue anything any further. The person he’d really like to discuss it with, of course, was Beth.
Stewart froze as her image rose in his mind. Beth. Next to the unwanted image of Hamish, grinning, boasting. He felt his expression sour, his shoulders slump, tiredness overwhelming him as the thoughts and images began to flow through his mind.
Hamish. And Beth. Lying naked, next to each other. But strangely, that part, that part didn’t bother him anymore. The worst part, the part that made him want to curl up into the foetal position, was an image of Beth smiling, and laughing, and hugging Hamish, and have a joke with him as they cuddled, under the co—
“My brother?”
Stewart looked up with a jolt. “What?”
They were sitting at some traffic lights. Dakar was looking searchingly at him.
“Are you well, my brother?”
“What? Aye, fine.” Stewart felt the tiredness flow through him again as the short adrenaline spike ebbed. “Well, you know. I’ve been better, let’s say. But aye. Grand.”
Dakar looked at him in silence, a gentle look, but it was enough for Stewart to crumble entirely.
“Well … It’s Beth. My f
latmate. You know, the one who … the one I spoke to you about. The other time. She … she got together with a guy. That guy at work. Hamish. I found out at the office party last night. Hamish was boasting about it. And then …”
He took a deep breath.
“Then I went back to the flat and went mental at her. I mean really mental. Like, you think you had a go at me last night? Nothing compared to what I said to her. Nothing.” Stewart could hear his voice quivering as he spoke, and his body shivered as well.
Dakar signalled the car to pull over, and drove into a parking space on the street. He killed the engine, and remained silent until Stewart spoke.
“Well, yeah, that’s it, really. I mean, yeah, when I heard Hamish was boasting to the rest of the guys, and I came home, straight away afterwards, and … Jesus. She was just there. And I just let fly, with everything I was feeling. I was so angry.”
Stewart felt his face was wet. Christ. Crying. Again. Twice in two days. But bollocks to it. Too tired to care. And besides, it didn’t matter. Not in front of Dakar.
“I am full of sorrow, my brother.”
Stewart just nodded, looking down at his feet. A tear rolled down his nose and plunked onto the ground.
Normally, he knew, crying in front of any other male would … Stewart kicked the thought out viciously. Who cared what he did normally?
“Aye, well, only myself to blame really, isn’t there? I mean, she doesn’t owe me anything. She can go and do whatever she wants with whoever she wants. Without the threat of a verbal doing from one of her flatmates who’s stupidly in love with her.”
Stewart kept looking down into the foot well as silence settled in the car, interrupted only by his own occasional sniff. He looked back up after a minute or so. Dakar’s gentle expression hadn’t changed.
“So what would you do now, if you were me?”
Pause. “Were I you, my brother, I would forgive myself, and then apologise to Beth.”
“Forgive myself?”
Pause. “Indeed.” Stewart shook his head at the absurdity of the suggestion.
“What do you mean?”
Pause. “My brother, to forgive another is a demanding task. To forgive oneself is harder still. For all the little mistakes we make, we have a choice. We can use them as a whip to beat ourselves, or we can forgive ourselves the things we have done to others. Many choose the former. But unless you forgive yourself for what you have done, then your life will be a hard one.”
Stewart looked at him through the mist of tears, then turned away.
“And apologise to Beth?”
Dakar inclined his head.
Stewart nodded in turn. That was something he could do.
“And then what do I do?”
Pause. “It is all you can do. It is for her to decide whether to forgive.”
“But what if she doesn’t?”
Pause. “You cannot control the actions of others, and so there is no point concerning yourself with them. Apologise. There are few actions in the world that are truly unforgiveable. And have the strength to forgive yourself. You can do no more.”
Stewart wiped his face. The tears were drying up now, the fear and pain coming back down to manageable levels. He nodded once again. There was something else he could do.
“You still doing your rich and famous one-hour gigs?” Stewart asked, still looking down.
Pause. “Yes.”
“Want to do me a favour?”
Pause. “Tell me, my brother.”
“Give one over to Beth, will you?”
Pause. “My brother—”
“Not for me, to try and impress her. I don’t care about that. Just … She deserves it. I know she’s not rich or famous, and neither am I, but … Just give her one hour. She’s a good person, trying to improve herself. And you can help.”
Pause. Long pause. “One day, my brother, you and I will talk more.”
Stewart nodded wearily. “Okay. And Beth?”
Pause. “She has her hour.”
Chapter 54
Stewart arrived at work, checking his watch as he flew past the secretaries to the lift, where he jammed his finger on the button. Ten to twelve. It seemed to take forever, Stewart alternating between bouncing up and down and trying to smooth his hair, tie and suit into place. In spite of knowing it was useless, he pressed the button a few times more.
Eventually it arrived, and he went up to his floor. He ran to his office and burst in.
Michelle and Jennifer looked up in surprise as Stewart hurried over to his desk.
“Hello,” he called as he arrived at the desk. He dumped his bag and coat, and grabbed out his notepad and pen.
“Everything all right?” Michelle ventured.
“Aye, grand. Just got one thing I need to run and do, then I’ll be back.” He smiled quickly at them both and bundled back out of the office, high-tailing it towards Sudgeon’s office. The lift again seemed determined to thwart him, but it arrived eventually and he took it up. Five to twelve.
He rushed over to Sudgeon’s office, just as Sudgeon and Green were coming out.
“Mr Sudgeon!” Sudgeon turned and looked at him, his surprise quickly being replaced with mock-politeness. “Mr Sudgeon! Ah! I’m here.” Stewart panted in between his words.
“Ah, Stewart. The prodigal son returns.”
“Good of you to find the time to speak with us, Scott. We know you’re very busy.” Green’s tone could have cut ice.
Stewart nodded, panting. “Yes. Eh, yes. I’m very sorry about earlier. Bad connection, and then—”
“Stewart, you were on the outskirts of Edinburgh, not outer Mongolia. Lying about a bad connection won’t aid your cause.”
Stewart froze as Sudgeon looked at him with all the warmth a tyrant has for a slave.
“Eh, well, the thing was that we had—”
But Sudgeon held up his hand. “Stewart, you will forgive me,” he said, in a weighty tone, “but given your unreliable nature, I took the liberty of finding a replacement for you. Someone who can be trusted.”
Hamish appeared from inside Sudgeon’s office, armed with his own notepad and pen, right on cue. There was no gloat, though. He looked miserable.
“Eh, okay. Right. Eh, Mr Sudgeon, I just want to—”
But Sudgeon held up a hand again, cutting him off. “I don’t really have time right now, Stewart. The meeting starts in five minutes, and I like to be on time for things.” He paused, tilted his head down as he looked at Stewart. “I’ve assigned you the narratives for this month. As you know from last year, it may not be taxing, but it is a time-consuming job. I suggest you get started.”
Stewart’s eyes goggled. “The narratives?”
“Working so hard for Dakar must have been tiring. We don’t want you to burn out.” Green spoke now, his flat tone betraying the insubstantiality of his words.
Stewart looked at Sudgeon’s expression, and saw an absolute remorselessness in his eyes. Green’s eyes were gleaming, but cold. Stewart nodded slowly at them both, then to Hamish, before he turned away and walked slowly back towards the lift.
He reached the office and entered, trudging over to his desk.
“Everything definitely doesn’t look all right now.” Michelle spoke as Stewart traipsed across the room.
Stewart collapsed into his chair.
“I’ve been given the narratives to collate and check.”
Their expressions immediately screwed up, like they’d simultaneously smelled something bad. “The narratives? As in, the explanation for each and every hour billed? But the first years do that. It’s terrible work. And you don’t even get to bill yourself for it.” Jennifer spoke.
Stewart nodded. “Yeah. I hung up on Sudgeon during a phone call, then cancelled him when he tried to phone me again. He wasn’t too impressed, I think it’s fair to say. So now I get to do the narratives. And yes, as I can’t bill, I won’t be hitting any targets this month.”
The girls looked appalled
. “You hung up on Sudgeon?” Michelle, her voice full of stunned amazement.
Stewart nodded miserably.
“And then cancelled his call?” Jennifer now.
More miserable nodding.
“But why?” Michelle.
Stewart just shrugged, looking down. Michelle cocked her head to one side, studying Stewart.
“Guess he’s not going to be inviting you to any dinner parties in the future then?”
“Guess not.”
“So what now?” Jennifer asked.
Stewart shrugged again. “The narratives. Plus I’ll do my report on the Dakar thing. And then I’ll come back in on Monday, and keep on shovelling the excrement until someone else does something worse than what I did.”
“Might take a while,” Michelle said.
Stewart nodded, and got down to work.
Chapter 55
Stewart opened the door to his flat. His mind felt dull, his whole body deflated, as he hung up his coat and took his satchel into the living room, where he put it on the table.
He checked his watch. Quarter past five, the earliest he could ever remember getting back from work, ever. But on the plus side, at least neither of his flatmates would be back. Do the report, and then he could go and curl up somewhere and think about what he’d done.
He slid the notes out, sat down, and began to study them.
Stewart almost had a heart attack when there was a cough behind him. Beth was sitting on the couch, feet curled up below her, blanket covering most of her. Her face was pale, accentuating the darkness of the bags under her eyes. She was clutching a large mug of tea between two hands. The size of the mug, and the blanket covering her, combined to make her look very small and fragile.
As he looked at her, she took a deep breath.
“Hi, Stewart,” she said, with a grim determination in her voice that foreshadowed the difficult conversation to come.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in amazement.
“I took the day off work. I didn’t feel up to it today, so I phoned in sick. I’ve been reading all day.” Her tone remained bleak. There was a book beside her on the couch. Stewart couldn’t make out the title, but he could see the author’s name: S. Dakar.
The Price to Pay Page 29
