Dave looked him over and made estimations for any report that might be necessary as was his habit. Male, Caucasian, early/mid 30’s, 6ft 2, 12 and a half stone. Eyes blue, hair black. Medium length, untidy. Last seen wearing dark jeans and a dark top. No wonder they never picked up the right guys with these sorts of descriptions.
'Fine thanks.'
He was deliberately evasive. Rather than his usual willingness to interact with the public he maintained a professional and cold distance when it came to matters like this. After all, these were remains that they had found. This was serious business and confidentiality could be key with regards to any forthcoming investigations. Then again, you could always rely on Steve to choose the most inopportune moment to practice his public relations.
'Found a body.'
Ignoring the death stare that he was probably getting, Steve looked steadily at the man and saw no reaction. Only a careful nod. Finally acknowledging his partner's glare, Steve attempted an innocent shrug to accompany his explanation.
'I know him. Trust me, it's OK.'
Extracting the cigarette form between his lips with his left hand, the man extended his right towards Dave with a grin on his face.
'Luke Calvin. I knew your partner a lifetime ago.' The handshake was tentatively taken. 'He was about a stone lighter then but still just as happy.'
Placing the cigarette back in his mouth, he fumbled in both pockets at once and came up with a business card for the young officer and the packet and lighter for his old friend. Both were taken readily and inspected. As Steve lit up, Dave was too distracted by the card to even deliver his customary withering glance. Pocketing it finally, he seemed satisfied and addressed his new friend.
'A friend of Steve's then? You must be ex-forces.' Now he took the time to look disapprovingly at the older man who was facing away toward the city, smoking peacefully. 'He never really talks about it to be honest.'
Luke thought about it for a second before responding. No one who ever actually saw any serious action or was involved in anything heavy would ever want to relive it again. Trading war stories was for blowhards and plastic soldiers.
'Most of us just do our time and get out. I don't talk about it either too much.' He clapped a hand on the flawless lapel of Dave's jacket. 'Don't take anything he says to you to heart man, because now you have my number and I'll give you some ammo for a counter attack if he's ever over stepping the line.' He finished with a conspiratorial wink and removed his hand.
Steve was now facing them both with a smile that made the lit smoke stick up towards his eye.
'Still stirring Calvin eh? After all these years?'
Luke said nothing and Dave was too distracted by the fact he was seeing Steve smile to register anything else. It was wildly unnatural; like seeing a giraffe riding a tricycle. Luke returned the smile then indicated the younger man questioningly with his eyes. Steve made no response and that was as good a recommendation as a man could get. Luke beckoned them both towards him.
'OK then boys. I need to know as much as possible about what these idiots find up here. Off the record though – personal phones and that sort of thing. I know it's not protocol but I would appreciate the head start. I'm looking for this guy.' He produced another slip of paper from his back pocket with Rab's details and a copy of his photo. 'It's been put out on all the official networks but I could do with any unofficial info you can get me.'
To their surprise, it was Dave who's hand extended and received the paper willingly. He placed it beside the business card in an inside pocket and nodded. Steve spoke up.
'I didn't think you'd go for this sort of thing Dave?' For Luke's benefit he placed a hand by his mouth and pretended to whisper in a voice loud enough to be heard half a mile away. 'Bit of a “Rulebook Jones” this one.'
'I haven’t agreed to anything. No law against taking details and a photo is there?'
Luke nodded his approval and waved a hand briefly before turning on his heel and beginning the walk back downhill. The two officers stood and watched him go. Steve scratched the stubble on his neck and elbowed his partner gently.
'What did you think of him then?'
'Nice guy.' was the non-committal response.
Steve was in agreement. Luke Calvin had been the nicest officer he had served under. He also happened to be the most ruthlessly efficient killing machine that he had ever known. As Dave took the pieces of paper out of his pocket to re-examine them, Steve thought it prudent not to disclose any information of that ilk. Trading war stories was for blowhards and plastic soldiers anyway.
Chapter 12
Grant snapped into consciousness and propped himself up on one arm in the bed. His mouth felt like a junkie's carpet and the headache that was pounding around inside his skull had moved onto the quick cycle with the sudden movement. Gradually, he realised it was his own bedroom. He let rip with a burp that brought the taste of vomit into his mouth and he had to swallow hard while he talked himself out of spewing. Moving slowly over to the far side of the bed and reaching for the curtains he found they lay just out of his reach from the bed. Placing his feet on the floor and his head in his hands he paused to take stock and slow his breathing. Why had he drunk so much last night?
Trying to piece it all together was difficult: once the Bull had settled down he'd headed up town with his two pals and the lager had started flowing in earnest. The memories from midnight became patchy and ended entirely when he was waiting on a taxi, swaying dangerously with a chippy in his hand. On the bedside table there was a glass full of clear liquid which he sniffed before downing as quickly as he could – no point in playing water/vodka roulette in the state he was in this morning.
Rising cautiously, he stumbled around the bed towards the bedroom door, finding his t shirt on the carpet (not stained by some miracle) and his jeans lying half in and out of the hallway. His shoes were haphazardly kicked off just inside the door which he had mercifully locked behind him when he arrived. Kneeling beside the jeans he rifled through the pockets – Keys, Wallet.... no phone. The panic rose inside him as he rechecked each pocket, turning them inside out as he went. A vibration from beside the bed caught his attention – his phone was not only there but plugged into the charger. Thanking his lucky stars, he pulled on the nearest pair of shorts and a grubby vest before picking up the phone. The only message was from one of his pals apologising that the two of them had ducked out early because they were too gone to make any of the clubs. A surge of relief ran through Grant once more – no fall outs either. Exiting towards the kitchen and living room, he tapped away on his phone:
“No worries man. Cracking night eh? Give me a buzz when you're free.”
The hangover hunger had not hit quite yet; the thought of food made him feel ill at the moment; but despite his fragile state and the dryness in his mouth he knew he could not put off his morning smoke any longer. Running the water from the sink into another pint glass, he downed it while the water continued to run and topped it up again before heading out to the balcony, cigarettes in tow. Thankfully the day was beginning to warm up as he flopped into his chair and flicked the lighter. No work – the whole day stretched out in front of him, full of possibilities. Sure, the most likely possibility in the immediate future was gouching on the sofa with water and energy juice within easy reach watching the box until he felt like he could face the rest of humanity, but it was always good to feel like you had the option of doing something productive if you were that way inclined. The flat could do with a tidy and there probably wasn't a huge amount in the fridge but aside from that he was prepared for a day of doing nothing and thoroughly enjoying it.
Once he had finished his smoke and washed down a couple of painkillers with another pint of water, Grant brushed his teeth furiously in an attempt to disperse some of the taste that a heavy night always left him with. Returning to his bedroom to use the en-suite all he had been able to smell was booze. It was funny how you never noticed until you left and came back. Pull
ing the curtains fully open and cracking both windows he picked up the obviously dirty clothes to wash and collected the glasses and mugs that had begun to accumulate within reach of the bed. In the kitchen the clothes were put straight in the machine and the dishes loaded with the rest in the dishwasher. As soon as he'd turned both on he found a dirty plate in the living room and a hoody he wanted clean: - typical. Having made what he considered to be a significant dent in the objective of tidying the flat up, he opened the kitchen blinds and the massive curtains that covered the balcony windows before dropping into his favourite seat on the couch and reaching for the remote. As the TV came on, the music that blasted out of it felt like it was vibrating his brain and rattling the windows. Holding his thumb hard over the volume down button he reduced it to a bearable level, making a mental note to adjust the noise level prior to going out in future.
With the worst of his suffering satiated by the recovery of his key items and his immediate physical discomfort lessened by the water and painkillers, Grant was confident that if he waited a few hours he could weather the storm and maybe even leave the flat if required. The repeating single tone of the door entry intercom pierced his ears and his heart raced from the surprise and the jump to his feet that he had made without even realising. As he had aged past twenty, then twenty-five, then thirty he had come to find that the physical side of a hangover was definitely becoming more painful but worse by far was the mental anguish; the “Fear”; the paranoia and depression that could lurk for a day or more. Instantly assuming the worst about every situation and sitting constantly on edge. All that went through his mind as he went to the buzzer was the missing segment at the end of the night. He sincerely hoped that he hadn't jumped the taxi or worse. Surely he'd remember that. Surely.
'Hello?'
'Morning Grant.' Definitely a female. First name as well, so no cops. 'It's Claire. Claire Davidson. Can I come up for a minute?'
The sigh that came out from him was one of unbridled relief. He felt the tension in his body ease off then disappear and the whiteness of his knuckles lessened as he relaxed a death grip he'd unconsciously applied to the receiver.
'Second floor. Lift usually works.'
Depressing the entry button before she had a chance to reply, he removed the chain from the door and opened the locks. Putting his shoes into a random cupboard they happened to be near, he quickly looked over the hallway. The bedroom was a bomb site and there was no way he could tidy it in time – instead, he went for the oldest trick in the male handbook of housekeeping by closing the door. If you can't see the mess it doesn't exist. The living room/kitchen actually looked pretty presentable from his quick scan of it; sure it was a little lived in but Grant was sure she probably expected used needles and bloodstains up the wall. It was only when the knock came at the door that he even realised how strange it was that he'd been caring so much about how his place looked. Walking up the hallway, he opened the door and smiled at Claire.
'Come in.'
He almost fancied that she looked happy to see him as she walked past and into the living room at the end of the hall. A trail of perfume left a subtle path for him to follow and he ran one hand roughly several times over his prickly head before heading there himself. She was sitting in his spot leaning all the way back with her head on the top of the couch and her eyes shut. He loitered awkwardly in the doorway and took her in – she looked more dressed down than every other time he'd seen her and it was definitely a more attractive look.
The first time he'd been admitted to the Magistrate's office she had been sitting straight in her chair with a serious look on her face and shot him looks from over the top of her glasses as she typed furiously on the keyboard. Her heels had clicked as she went in front of him to open the door and she had barely given him a second glance as he entered. He had responded only with friendly remarks and smiles. Every time after that he had been chipping away, getting less dirty looks and occasionally even eliciting a reply that wasn't dripping with venom. The last time he had seen her they had both listened to Magistrate Reid screaming down the phone at someone through the door in silence. She returned to the keyboard quickly but there had been the briefest flash of fear in her eyes which had brought up a feeling of anger in Grant that he couldn't quite justify. Catching her eye over the barrage of noise he had indicated towards the door with a nod then smashed one gnarled fist into the palm of the other hand with a smile. She had actually returned his smile and struck a camp “thinking” pose before shaking her head with a disappointed air. He shrugged as if he wasn't bothered and clasped her shoulder briefly on the way past into the office.
'The offer stands if he ever gets too much.' She hadn't flinched when he touched her but he removed his hand anyway in case it was too much. She had stopped typing. 'Your new glasses look nice by the way. Chin up Claire.'
That was no more than a month ago but he felt it had bought him some leeway. Coming back to his senses in the doorway of his living room he realised two things at once: - he had been staring and she had opened her eyes and was staring back. Shifting his eyes to the television then to the kitchen his hand rose again and rubbed over his shaved head and then settled on his neck.
'You wanting some coffee or something? Sorry the place is a tip, I'm a wee bit rough this morning.'
She was looking at him upside down with the tilt of her head but she could tell he seemed a little sheepish. Without waiting for her answer he had begun to potter around in the kitchen opening one cupboard after the other and generally trying to make himself busy. She reverted her head to a more normal angle and faced the TV full on. Her hands worked in tandem trying to smooth her skirt down before reaching up to make sure she hadn't crushed her bow against the seat. Pausing briefly, she removed her glasses carefully and set them down on the table beside the pint of water.
'A black coffee would be lovely thanks. Or just whatever's easiest.'
There was no response other than the continued opening of drawers interspersed with running water and the occasional mumbled expletive. On the screen there was a group of young guys singing a song about loving some girl forever. None of them looked older than 20. The commotion in the kitchen had stopped and Grant was waiting for the kettle to boil, facing forwards over the island towards the screen. He exhaled slowly through his mouth:
'Change the channel if you want. I just keep the music videos on as a bit of background noise.'
'I hadn't pegged you as the boy band sort to be honest Grant.' Her tone was mocking but she kept her eyes forward. He protested to the back of her head anyway.
'I'm not. I hate they guys.' For some reason he continued explaining despite the awareness that he had just bitten and the wind up was deliberate. 'I can't control what comes on can I?'
'You can if you keep phoning in and requesting the songs......'
'I don't......' he paused for a moment. 'I'm no biting.'
She turned again in her seat, beaming at him. Her glasses were sitting on the table in front of her and he realised it was the first time he'd seen her without them on. The irritation seeped out of his body and he laughed. She turned to face the front once more.
'Sure seemed like a nibble at least.'
He let that one hang as the kettle clicked off and he poured two cups of instant coffee which he carefully carried round. Considering only a second he chose to ignore the empty couch that ran along the balcony window adjacent to his usual spot and sat next to her. Taking a hearty gulp, he immediately realised he'd burnt his mouth but swallowed anyway. “Smooth, man. Real smooth.” Changing the channel one up to a mix of dance tracks he sank back in the sofa as he felt his liquid fire scorch his throat all the way down to his belly.
'So what do you want to see me for then?'
Surprised at how difficult he found it to keep his tone casual, he concentrated on the flickering images and tried not to think about how close she was to him. She too seemed overly interested in the generic video accompanying the music as she addressed
her reply to the screen rather than him.
'The Magistrate wanted me to tell you the cops found a body this morning. On Arthur's Seat.'
Her eyes flicked briefly to his impassive profile then back ahead. If he'd reacted in any way, then it had gone unnoticed. Even though he had left a gap between them, she could feel the warmth emanating from his body.
'And?'
'It seemed very important to him that I told you.'
Claire turned to face him fully, extending her left arm across the back of the seat about half an inch away from his neck. She had expected this news to get some sort of response that would explain to her why she had been send to deliver this mundane news in person rather than over the phone. Instead of that he seemed entirely unfazed by it and it was only when she'd spoken it out loud that the true hollowness of the statement sank home to her. The back of his neck was muscular and there was a fleck of ash on it that had been transferred there by his hand. She struggled to resist the urge to wipe it off for some reason before he responded.
'I guess he reckons it might be Rab?' Shaking his head slowly and finding it brushed lightly against her fingertips, he continued. 'He wouldn't go out like that.'
'It doesn’t look like a suicide. More like a shallow grave.'
Grant also turned so they were facing each other. His arm sat over the top of hers on the back of the couch not quite touching. His right knee was on the cushion against her left and he looked straight at her.
'He wouldn't go out like that either. I know he's not got a lot of mates the way he goes on and the stuff he gets up to but no one's just going to take him out and dump him in the middle of Edinburgh.'
She could sense the intensity building inside him as she took in the broadness of his chest and the biceps bulging above the vascular forearms that could crush her in a second. There was a strong feeling building inside her also but it wasn't the fear she expected. She couldn't think of a response but it made no odds because he seemed to be building up a head of steam:
Shadow of the Castle Page 9
