'There's no gain for anyone in killing him. Far less without at least trying to squeeze some cash out of his fat idiot dad first.' He felt like a runaway train pulling away from himself. Every sentence made it more certain than the last that he was getting overly angry. 'Besides.' He found his arm had come away from the sofa and was pointing at her face. 'No one is gonna get their grubby mitts on him without coming through me first or seeing me after. Everyone knows that. No one's that stupid. No one.'
She placed her hand onto his wrist behind the accusatory finger calmly. His skin was hot underneath the ink that ran from the right hand all the way up to his neck and below his vest. She saw in his eyes that he became instantly ashamed of losing his temper and went to withdraw his hand. She kept a grip that he could have broken without even trying but he didn't want to. They faced each other as his anger abated and he began to stammer an apology. She cut him off.
'No one thinks you'd let him be hurt Grant. Far less...' She left the thought unfinished. 'I'll let you know as soon as we get any other news.'
Grant nodded sheepishly and allowed his arm to lower to the seat with her hand still maintaining a grip that barely reached halfway around it. Picking at a bit of fluff on his shorts with his free hand he spoke again, seeming to address his own kneecaps.
'I've got the day off. I'll ask a few questions.' In his head he was running through a veritable who's who of the scumbags in Pilton. 'Your boss's guy came to the boozer last night, gave me a card. Weighed as much as a photo of himself but seemed handy. I'll hit him up, see if we can help each other out.'
Her thumb was making small circles on the inside of his wrist as she thought. Suddenly, she dropped his arm and snatched his phone up from the table. There was no protest as she put her glasses back on, tapped at keys for a while and then stood up and offered him his own phone as if she were doing him a favour.
'I've put my number in there now. You can keep me posted. I need to head back out.'
He took the phone and dropped it back into his pocket as he stood himself, stretching above her. Leading the way to the door, he opened it and she lingered in the doorway. Neither was sure what to do but both decided to take the initiative at once: Grant attempting a firm handshake just as she reached up to put her arms around his shoulders. Trapped in the hug with his arm jammed between them against her stomach, he still enjoyed it. She released him and they both were at a loss again as to how to proceed. He wanted to tell her that he liked her without the glasses even more than he had liked the new ones. That her bow was cute. That her dressed-down look was far better than her office one. He wanted to ask if he could use the number for social calls. If she wanted to hear from him with regards to things not to do with work. Instead, he only spoke two words.
'Bye then.'
'Bye.'
He closed the door and sighed deeply then went back to the living room, downed his own coffee and carried her untouched one to the balcony where he sat and smoked three cigarettes one after the other without knowing why.
Chapter 13
If you were to ask people what sprang to mind when the city of Edinburgh was mentioned, you would get an extremely varied array of responses. Most know that it is the capital; full of historic buildings, tourist trap shops and the occasional festival that is famous worldwide and nothing but an inconvenience for the locals. Sports fans would talk about the Hibs and Hearts rivalry : – never quite viewed as being on the same level as the hatred and bile that flows around Glasgow on Old Firm days and rightly so. If you had an interest in linguistics you could mention the commonly held opinion that there is no “Edinburgh accent” or dialect on the same level as Glasgow. Arguably untrue since it seems to be based only on the weegies with the strongest accents against those in the capital who speak well.
Transport, Education, Law, Art, Music, Culture – these are all facets to the city's history that are touted by all who love it. Drugs, Violence, Poverty, Alcoholism – these too are defining aspects of life that are less readily admitted. You can cherry pick the statistics and the facts to make anywhere in Scotland look any way you want but the overall character of the country cannot be denied. The ease with which many manage to do so is by being so far removed from these issues that it has no impact, meaningful or otherwise, on their day to day existence. You aren't driving your two little terrors to private school in a 4x4 that is impractical and unnecessary in any city and being concerned that someone will try and sell them drugs at the gates. You don't sip cocktails at £12 a pop while concerning if your last tenner should go to keeping the lights on until Giro day or getting some food in the fridge and hoping it doesn't spoil when the power is cut. There is a divide and a disconnect between the people who see the city one way and those who see it the other but they walk the same streets. They use the same supermarkets. They exist together yet they exist in separate worlds.
Luke Calvin was sat in a cafe on Rose Street – the lane that runs between Princes Street and George Street – with his notebook out, thinking these thoughts about Edinburgh and watching the world going by. Coming back from the crime scene he had decided to stay in the town centre for a bit and sort out his plans instead of going back to his flat. Tucking into the fancy looking toastie that he'd pointed at through the glass and having been curtly informed that it was a “Croque Monsieur” by the employee, he was sat on a high stool at the window eating off a ledge that masqueraded as a table. Poor show when you're getting called uncultured by someone selling you sandwiches. On the way down he had been in contact with the office and Laura had very graciously decided to get over “wife-gate” and got him more detail on the employment history of the missing man.
It was actually surprisingly extensive: The Magistrate was clearly trying to instil a decent work ethic in his offspring if nothing else. There were no jobs directly with his father or even in a related field. It seemed that Geoffrey's shame held him back from being seen to help too blatantly in that respect. The majority seemed to have some sort of relation, even if only a passing one, to the tourist industry. In fact, he'd worked at no less than five locations or venues where the public went to gain some historic experience of the city. Sometimes for periods of up to a year. Luke had fully expected to find a CV full of gaps and holes to indicate tardiness, poor attitude or general unwillingness to work. Instead it seemed that there was something else other than money and hard drugs that held Rab's interest at one point. As tempting as it was to zip around town to each place after the other, start shooting questions at employees who didn't care and get nowhere, he knew he needed a little outside assistance. The obvious option was Grant, but given that it wasn't quite midday yet he didn't reckon that he'd have surfaced. Besides, in a perfect world he wanted the big man to reach out to him and ideally, he wanted to have something of substance to give to him when he did. Some direction to be headed in or a new discovery that he could hang his hat on – prove his investigative chops.
For the moment he was content to investigate the rest of his lunch and watch the strangers passing by outside the window. The sun had come out for the second day running and as he chewed he tried to remember if two days of sunshine in Edinburgh was one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse. He was pretty sure it was. Soon the sky would turn black and the four horsemen would appear – Death, Pestilence, The Horseman of Coupon Busting Dead Certs and The Rider of Minging Lager In An Overpriced Nightclub. Luke sipped his Latte and waited for the end of days with a casual indifference. Surely the world couldn't end when he was learning so much about sandwiches every day?
There was an interesting scene unfolding beneath the canopy on Arthur's Seat. One of the junior technicians had begun to photograph the skeletal remains that they had unearthed and was meticulously itemising every aspect of the scene. The rags that were draped around it were charred and burnt and the bones that were easily visible without interfering too much seemed blackened by smoke, yet there was something very curious about it. He sidled up to the commanding officer – not
an easy task when everyone wore the exact same protective clothing and had only their eyes visible – and voiced his concern. The clothes were burnt but not rotten, yet the body was reduced to a skeleton. There was no smell of decay or putrefaction. There was no real overpowering scent of death and no visible flesh whatsoever. The reply was brief and final and he sheepishly returned to continue taking photographs and cataloguing all the evidence he could. He did notice that his superior had come over beside him and was looking with renewed interest at what he'd pointed out. Just as he pressed down to take another snapshot of the grim scene a gloved hand clapped his shoulder twice and he was again alone. The shame disappeared and he glowed inside as he retook the picture of the corpse just in case the apologetic tap had knocked it out of focus.
Emerging from the tent and going through the decontamination process, the Sergeant got clear of the exclusion zone and stripped off the suit and mask. It was just before 2pm and the shift change was taking place at the scene for the two cops that were standing by. The younger one (Daniel or something. Maybe David?) looked as if he was conducting an entirely too thorough briefing of the two uninterested officers who had showed up to begin their stint of standing around. Steve stood a little way away smoking with his hat held at his side, squinting at the sun. They had joined at the same time, both ex-forces and had maintained what could maybe pass for a friendship for the years in-between. Replacing his own cap on his head, he walked towards all four officers and Steve seeing his approach came towards him, tucking his hat under his smoking arm so his other was free for a handshake. Clasping hands, Steve greeted him with his favourite sarcastic cliché.
'Never gets any easier.' The cigarette was bouncing slowly with every word and the Sergeant smiled appreciatively into the cynical face.
'Cut the routine man. I've got something you might be interested in. One of the boys told me your old buddy was around earlier. Showed up before even they did.'
'I know blind dogs with no legs that could show up before your boys.'
'Very good. You wanting to hear this or no?'
Steve shrugged and ashed his cigarette. That was about as much enthusiasm as you could reasonably expect from him. He was off shift. He was tired. He was hungry. But if he could help Luke out in any way he was going to do it. He owed him that much.
Round Grant's flat in Pilton the washing machine and dishwasher had finished at the same time and he swung himself up off the sofa to empty them. The worst of the hangover had passed and a long shower he had taken in the interim seemed to rejuvenate him. After drying himself, he had pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a black t shirt before looking out a clean hoody and his boots to wear later when he left. The music channels were still cycling through their flashing images over noise and he was even less connected to it than usual. As he methodically started shaking each damp item then draping them over the clothes horse to finish drying he ran over the early morning visit for the hundredth time. It made no sense for Claire to have been asked to come round in person when a phone call would have done. He was happy to have seen her, but there was definitely something off about the whole thing. The only solution he could come up with was the same one he had arrived at every other time before putting it off or dismissing it: he was going to have to call the Magistrate and find out what was going on.
Once the dishes were all stacked back in the cupboards and the clothes laid out as well as he could be bothered, there was nothing more to stop him from making his call. Proceeding to the balcony with a certain amount of foreboding he had his phone in one hand and his cigarettes in the other. He was certain he'd need them. Dialling the number before he had a chance to change his mind he lowered himself into the sunlit seat and lit up. It was picked up with the usual punctuality.
'Hello? Yes? Who is it?
Geoffrey Reid sounded well and truly rattled. This was not an everyday occurrence nor was it an opportunity to be passed up. His defences would be lowered in this frantic state and if there was one thing Grant needed it was honest answers.
'It's your favourite meathead.' Grant surprised himself with the coolness of his voice. 'Just calling to see how you are. What you're up to. Why you're sending your secretary round my flat. The usual.'
Through the phone the voice sounded tinny but the lack of quality couldn't mask the obvious deceit in the Magistrate's tone.
'Claire was just telling you about what the police found.' He sounded too huffy: too flustered. The statement hadn't merited the defensiveness that the answer was wrapped in. 'Thought you might be interested. That's all.'
Grant licked his bottom lip carefully and took a draw. He exhaled as he spoke. 'Why don't you just ask me what you want to ask me like a man?'
There was barely a pause before the Magistrate responded.
'I don't know what you're talking about...'
The defence was paper thin now. He had him on the ropes and was just toying with him, bobbing and feinting.
'You want to ask if I knew anything about it. If it was my doing. If I'd taken your request a bit too literally and caused you more problems.'
'I have no idea what...'
Grant cut him off. Once again he could feel his temper fraying. This fat old fool was playing games with him again and didn't even have the common decency to just come out with a question or the guts to lay an accusation on him.
'You wanted to know if I'd topped your boy and stuck him in a shallow grave.'
Silence from the other end of the phone gave Grant a second to consider, for the first time, that discussing being accused of murder was perhaps not a conversation to have in the early afternoon on his balcony at full volume.
'Well did you?'
There it was. The only reason he'd sent Claire round. To see if he was spooked. Gauge his reaction. He hoped with all his heart that she was unaware of her role in this because he knew he'd have to try very hard to hate her. Taking a long indulgent pull, he let the Magistrate sweat before he replied.
'No, Geoffrey. I didn't. When you made me your offer to encourage him to “disappear” I told you exactly where you could shove it and I'm a man of my word.'
'I didn't really.... I was just.... I meant relocate elsewhere…. You know that….'
'I didn't tell him what you said either, even though I should have, because my word means something. Unlike yours. I will bet any amount of money you like that the body they found wasn't Rab. And once you find that out for sure you can call me to let me know.' He had begun to point accusingly with his smoke again despite the fact there was no way of Geoffrey seeing it. 'I'm going to head out and find out what I can. If you have any information that will help me, you get it to me immediately and I might consider not pummelling you.'
Geoffrey made an effort to compose himself before he made his reply. The assertion that his son was not the corpse seemed so definite that even without the proof he believed it. In retrospect, accusing a long term associate of killing his son might not have been his slickest manoeuvre. He needed time to think.
'OK Grant. OK OK OK. I'm sorry. My head’s totally gone with all this. I didn’t really think…. Anyway. If you can keep me posted I'll be much obliged and return the favour. There will obviously be a substantial financial consideration for any help you can give.'
Hitting the hang up button, Grant relaxed in his seat. All the adrenaline left his body at once and he felt drained. Then again, it's not every day you get called a murderer to your face. He squinted at the sun as he decided his next move – the guy from the pub seemed decent enough and he was meant to be a pro. Might be worth getting their heads together and working it out. Heading back inside, he found the card crumpled up on the living room table and dialled the number. Grabbing a beer out of the fridge he only just managed to get the lid open before it was answered.
'Luke? Yeah. It's Grant Ferguson, bouncer from the Bull? Aye man, aye. Went out after, feel like a truck ran through my head. You up for some hair of the dog? My brain's a shambles with all the stuff t
hat's happened today. Need a hand straightening some of it out. You know “The Fluke”? Foot of Pilton Drive? Sound. Call it five. Right man, catch.'
Drinking deeply from the can, he wondered why all his other conversations today had seemed so hard. Sitting back on the sofa he sat and thought. There was no logical reason he could give that would explain why he knew Rab wasn't dead but it wasn't even up for debate. What mattered now was how to get his hands on him and he couldn't be sure if he was wanting to hug him or lamp him out. Both seemed tempting at the moment.
Chapter 14
Derek Robertson was sat in his flat in Craigmillar with the telly on for company. Lying along his stained couch, he was trying his best to get motivated to do something – anything – to get out of the flat for a bit. Staring at these four walls was driving him crazy but then again he had his customers to think of. The flat was a bit pokey with peeling wallpaper and a kitchen that needed an upgrade in a hurry but it served his requirements fine. There was beer in the fridge, a kilo of hash in the spare bedroom and four locks on the door. For once it seemed the career officer at school had made a correct prediction all these years ago when she told him he'd end up dealing drugs or going to prison. Two out of two. That was pretty good shooting even for a crackpot trying to help kids pick what they want to do for a living when they're still 15 and younger.
His face was pale, drawn and slightly elongated. A particularly unkind observer would remark that he looked like an unwell horse. The long limbs that sprawled in four different directions over, on and around the couch were stick thin, feeding back to an unnaturally long torso. The stained joggers with burn marks through them were straight from the catwalks of Milan and the hair that sprouted in patches around his angular jaw was going to be the next “in” look. Sniffing deeply, he reached one spidery hand to the ashtray to retrieve the joint that he'd left smouldering there two minutes or two seconds ago: he wasn't sure which. Just then, there was a banging at the door. Something rushed over him, either paranoia or an adrenaline dump and he froze leaning half off the sofa staring at the door as if it's vision was based on movement. If he knew what time it was he'd have an idea about whether he was expecting someone or not but he was too stoned to keep track of such an abstract concept and just kept his eyes on the door.
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