‘Katherine Buchan,’ she said.
Doug tried the name out, ran it through his mind. It didn’t ring a bell.
‘Sorry, who?’ he said. ‘Someone with previous? Drug dealer, shoplifter, prossie, what?’
‘Try daughter of Richard Buchan,’ Susie replied.
‘Richard Buc…’ The sentence trailed off as Doug’s jaw fell open. Susie had never seen it happen outside of cartoons before. The effect was almost surreal.
Doug cleared his throat, buying time as he tried to put his thoughts in some vague semblance of order. ‘You don’t mean the Richard Buchan?’ he whispered, leaning closer to Susie over the table. ‘Not Far Right Marmite?’
‘If you mean Richard Buchan, Tory list MSP for the Lothians who just happens to be proposing a Bill that advocates full-term sentence serving for all convicted criminals and the basic abolition of time served or appeal, then yes, I mean Far Right Marmite,’ Susie replied. ‘A uniform recognised Katherine from a family photograph used by one of the papers in a profile of her dad around the time of the last election.’
‘Jesus,’ Doug whispered. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, we’re still waiting for the DNA testing to be one hundred per cent certain, and the family is being brought in to identify the clothing and jewellery, but yeah, the newspaper shot matches the CCTV footage.’
Doug whistled between his teeth. The daughter of a high-profile MSP dead, apparently by throwing herself off one of Edinburgh’s most famous landmarks. The McGinty story suddenly didn’t look so important. This was big. National big.
Buchan had risen to prominence after the last elections to the Scottish Parliament, partly because he was one of the few Tories to survive the SNP onslaught, partly because he was defiantly proud of being an old-school Conservative in a country that had never forgiven the party for the legacy of Thatcher. He wasted no time in making his mark in parliament, going out of his way to comment on every controversial or sensitive policy that arose. Gay marriage? Hated it; it was perversion of an age-old institution. Union strikes over public-sector pension changes? Irresponsible and selfish, and any public-sector worker who supported the strikes should be reprimanded. Scottish independence? The politics of grievance pedalled by disgruntled little subjects who were being disloyal to their Queen and country.
But it was on the issue of justice that Buchan really made his name. A lawyer by trade, he turned his legal expertise to campaigning for full-term sentences for all prisoners, doing away with appeal for all but the most questionable cases. He latched on to the release of the terminally ill Lockerbie bomber on compassionate grounds, saying this was the action of a soft-touch government that lacked the ‘moral fibre or conviction’ to see justice done.
So far, so Tory. His plan was, naturally, controversial, and the debate raged across the media, from late-night politics shows to newspaper columns and colourful online blogs.
Somewhere along the way, Buchan earned a nickname: Far Right Marmite. He was loathed by liberals and the Cameron-era Tories, who were trying to rally around a smear of paint that looked vaguely like a tree with the cry of ‘we’re all in this together’, but he was loved by the Presbyterian right-wing torchbearers of the party; the twinset, pearls-and-perm brigade who applauded his hard line on everything that threatened ‘traditional morals and standards’.
So he was already big news – and now his daughter was a bloody smear across Princes Street Gardens. Love him or loathe him, Marmite was now flavour of the month.
‘Well,’ Doug said, trying to stop his mind from racing ahead. ‘What can I use?’
‘Like I said, this is anonymous for the moment, Doug. In the meantime, this gives you lead-time on everyone else. Understandably, the bosses are keen to be seen to be taking action on this, given the media shitstorm that’s about to hit, so make sure you talk up the “investigation is ongoing” angle and the fact we need to track down anyone who was up the Monument or in the Gardens at the time who hasn’t come forward yet. There was a lot of screaming and hysterics after she landed, so a few people could have just bolted.’
Doug ignored the flash of anger he felt at being told how to write his copy. ‘And when will my “source” confirm that the body is that of Katherine Buchan?’
‘As soon as the family confirms the clothes and effects are Katherine’s and we get her medical records from her GP.’ Susie glanced at her watch. ‘Buchan’s going to be at the morgue about four. We’ve sent a uniform to pick up Katherine’s records, so it won’t take long for Dr Williams to match things up. The DNA tests will take a day or two, but they’re really just a formality.’
‘So, if I called you at about seven tonight…?’
Susie smiled briefly. ‘I might have something interesting to tell you.’
‘And then what happens?’
‘Buchan will probably clear us to make a statement tomorrow, after he’s made arrangements for the family to visit the body if they want to, by which time you can have a full background piece ready to go. As Buchan’s got pull, we won’t have an official release ready to go until the line has been agreed by him and his family, so the story will be too late for the morning papers, but the Tribune will have it, and quotes from an unnamed source, all to itself.’
‘Except for the TV and radio,’ Doug muttered.
Susie shrugged. ‘Them’s the breaks. Katherine’s body won’t be released to the family until our investigations are complete and the report’s been sent to the fiscal, so you can bet Buchan is going to be bending the ear of his brethren in high places to push for an early result.
‘The important thing is you’re getting the story, and we’re seen to be acting. The last thing we need is some crime and punishment nut with friends in high places taking aim at us because we’re not doing a thorough or quick enough job on his daughter’s death.’
‘Understood,’ Doug said. ‘I’ll let you see my quotes from “a police source” before we run anything.’
Susie nodded agreement.
‘One more question,’ Doug asked. ‘The guy she scared the shit out of when she jumped, any chance of…’
Susie she shook her head, ponytail flicking lazily against her shoulder. ‘Don’t even think about it. The poor bastard’s been through enough. He’s in the Royal Infirmary at the moment, doped up to the eyeballs pending psychological evaluation.’
‘He got a name?’
Susie sighed. Thought it through. The poor sod’s name was bound to come out sooner or later, there was no real harm in Doug having it, but still…
Still….
‘No, Doug,’ she said. ‘Give the guy a little privacy. And please, for me, don’t go looking for him, okay? Trust me, if you’d seen what he did, you wouldn’t be too bright just now, either.’
Doug nodded. Same old Susie. Still trying to balance the hard-nosed cop routine with the caring person she was underneath. He hoped she never stopped trying.
‘You want another drink?’ he asked, noticing the way she was playing with her empty glass and eyeing it nervously.
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘But I better not. I’ve got work to do.’ She glanced at his near-empty pint glass. ‘And I think you do too, Doug.’
‘Understood,’ he replied, folding away his notepad. ‘Thanks, Susie, that’s one I owe you.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Just make me sound good without sounding like me, okay?’
‘No problem,’ he said as he drained his pint and made to leave. He didn’t quite run out of the pub for the car and the phone call that would make Walter’s day.
But he didn’t quite walk calmly, either.
7
The city was always at its best in the rain. Charlie Morris sat calmly, watching the rain spattering on the window and smear the night into a palette of warm orange streetlights and flashes of red from brake lights as he listened to the phone ring. Normally, the delay in answering would have annoyed him but, after everything that had happened already today, he would make allowances.
‘Hello?’ The voice on the other end of the line was tired, wrung tight by stress. Charlie wasn’t surprised.
‘It’s me.’
‘I thought I told you never to call me here!’ the voice hissed. ‘We agreed…’
‘No,’ he interrupted; voice little more than a whisper. ‘You dictated. I never agreed. Now shut up and listen. He’s on the move.’
A pause on the other end of the line, silence interspersed with soft scrapings and shuffling as the phone was lifted and carried to a more private position.
‘You… you’ve found him?’
‘Not yet, but I know where he’s going to be.’ It wasn’t hard – a phone call, a promise, a threat; the information came quickly enough. ‘I take it you want me to proceed as agreed?’
Another pause on the line. The sound of a lighter being sparked, a cigarette being lit. A sharp, greedy intake of breath – a smoker desperate for a fix. He’d heard the same sounds from junkies when he’d handed them bags of smack or speed or E. The substance changed, but the language of addiction stayed the same.
Charlie looked at his watch. It was getting late, and he was a busy man. So many deliveries to make, so many addictions to satisfy, so many accounts to settle.
‘Well?’
‘Yes,’ the voice replied in a whispered monotone. ‘As agreed. I trust I can count on you to be discreet, as usual?’
Charlie grunted harsh laughter down the line. He couldn’t help it. After everything that had happened, this bastard was still more concerned about reputation than anything else. Wanker.
‘You don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of it. But there’s a lot of heat around this, I’ve heard that bastard McGregor is poking around for a start. I’ll be wanting a little bit extra for this one.’
‘Don’t worry,’ the voice said, colder and more remote than ever now. ‘You’ll be well paid for your services. Just get it done, and make sure the bastard suffers.’
Charlie felt a smile cross his lips in spite of himself. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘He will. I guarantee it.’
8
Doug knocked gently on the door of the editor’s office, wincing slightly as the noise echoed through the open-plan newsroom, drawing a few curious glances from the subs and reporters busy working on the next day’s paper.
‘Come!’ came the call from the other side of the door. Taking a steadying breath, Doug stepped inside.
Jonathan Greig was sitting barricaded behind his huge oak desk, a hard copy of what Doug had written so far strewn out in front of him. With his dark, swept-back hair, angular features and immaculate suit, he looked more like a lawyer than an editor. Or an undertaker.
Walter sat at the opposite side of the desk, the pen he was playing with looking like a twig in his hands. It was a standing joke at the Tribune that Walter ‘Bulldog’ McKay was Greig’s enforcer. If the boss didn’t like a story, he would send Walter – who was 5ft 6ins with a weightlifter’s physique – to sort you out. Standing there, both of them glaring at him expectantly, Doug didn’t find that joke quite so funny anymore.
‘Well?’ Greig asked, his voice as stiff and exact as the suit he wore. ‘What’s the news?’
‘I’ve just been on the phone to my police contact,’ Doug said, glancing down at his notepad as he spoke in an attempt to get away from Greig’s stare. ‘She’s confirmed it. Richard Buchan and his wife visited the city morgue earlier tonight, where they identified jewellery and personal effects recovered from the Scott Monument jumper earlier today as belonging to their daughter, Katherine Patricia Buchan. Final DNA tests are pending, but the blood tests match the medical records Katherine’s GP supplied. They also matched the scar from where Katherine had an appendectomy two years ago and a tattoo she had on her left shoulder. There’s no doubt, boss, it’s her.’
Greig rocked back in his chair, nodding slowly. Doug was fairly sure he could see a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. ‘So, now that we know, is there anyone you can get to comment on this while keeping it semi-quiet until the official statement is made?’
Doug chewed on the end of his pen. ‘Well, the Tory press office will be in full swing to get the release agreed with the police, so I could start there. They’ll be desperate to get as much early coverage as possible. I know a couple of people who work down at the morgue, too, so they could give me “sources said” reaction pieces; how the Buchans took the news, that sort of stuff. Other than that…’
Greig raised a thin hand, gold cufflink winking in the light. ‘That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think, Walter?’
Walter clicked the top of his pen a couple of times, then pocketed it. ‘Yeah, that should do it for starters. We want to get the story in for first edition, break it before anyone else. We can get all the big quotes after the official press conference tomorrow. What time’s that going to be at, anyway?’
‘About noon in police HQ at Fettes,’ Doug replied.
Walter nodded. ‘Perfect,’ he muttered. ‘We can cover it for second edition.’
Greig grunted in agreement. ‘Right, Doug,’ he said as he sat up straight in his chair, smoothing his tie as he did. ‘You going to be okay with all this, or do we need to get you some help while you’re still trying to track down Derek McGinty?’
Doug shook his head. No way. These were his stories. In a way, newspapers operated by playground rules; this is mine, and I’m no’ sharin’.
‘No, it’s fine. To be honest, McGinty’s not likely to show up in Prestonview, but if he does, I’ll be told. In the meantime’, he waved his notepad in front of him, ‘I’ve got this to keep me occupied.’
‘Get to it, then,’ Greig said, returning to his work. ‘And forward me your story before you go, I’ll want to check it over personally.’
Doug nodded and headed for the door.
He finally stepped out of the Tribune offices at just past 11pm. A thirteen-hour day, give or take. Not bad. He’d passed a few poor sods on the way out who had been there since seven that morning. Young wannabes fresh out of college, trying to show how committed they were to a career in journalism by letting management work them into an early grave. He sometimes felt he should say something to them, but what? After all, he had broken into the business the same way.
He had always known he wanted to be a journalist. For Doug, it was the only game in town. He was born a rarity in Scotland, some might say a freak: a boy with no interest in football or sports in general. He flirted with football at school, mostly to try to fit in, belong, but he quickly found that the boredom and frustration of not being able to control the ball or understand the offside rule outweighed the acceptance of his peers. So he retreated into the classroom, to the books in the library and the stories they held. But unlike Susie, Doug had no interest in literature. The great works with their archaic language bored him. Shakespeare was a chore, Dickens a trip to the dentist. He wanted stories, plain and simple.
It was, his mother told him, an impatient streak he inherited from his dad. ‘You want it all and you want it now, son,’ she said once, after one too many glasses of white wine. ‘You want to take the shortcut, get to the end, have the answer. Your dad’s just the same, and look where it got him.’
Yeah, Doug thought as he looked at her, half-cut on the sofa – hair the colour of smog, a tidemark of heavy make-up creeping down her neck – just look.
He dabbled with writing fiction, found he had a knack for short horror stories that revolted and scared the shit out of his friends. But he didn’t have the patience to sit down and plot out a novel then write it. He wanted to know the stories. Wanted to tell them.
It was that impatient streak which kept Doug out of university, rejecting the thought of four more years studying in favour of an HND college course in Communications. From there he freelanced for a while, then blagged a work experience place at the Capital Tribune; never left. Worked his way up from subbing the obit
s and letters to general reporter. Took his NCTJ exams to get the qualifications he needed to report on crime then stepped into the job when the previous reporter, who encouraged him to go for his exams in the first place, moved to the nationals. The hours were long and the pay was crap, but it was worth it. He had the stories and the chance to tell them, all against the ticking of a clock as deadline loomed.
He stood in the chill air for a moment, rocking his head from side to side as he tried to ease the knot of tension in his neck. The rain had slackened to a soft drizzle, and he enjoyed the feeling of the fine spray on his face. He could hear cars and lorries on the city bypass behind the Tribune’s offices, heading west toward the airport and Glasgow. He wished he could join them. Just drive to the airport, jump on a flight somewhere, anywhere warm. No deadlines, no stress.
Ah, who was he kidding? He’d be bored shitless after the first sangria.
Sighing, he headed for the car, massaging his stinging eyes. Got in, slid the key in the ignition and stopped. He knew he should head home to the flat – Musselburgh was only a twenty-minute drive and he had another early start in the morning – but then what? Pace the floors, lie in bed pretending to sleep, lobotomise himself with some pointless late-night TV? Drink? It was a common enough problem when working on a big story; the mind kept on ticking long after the body had called it quits for the day.
He could go for a drive, maybe down the coast towards North Berwick or across the bridge to Fife, but he knew he was too tired to enjoy it. A thought occurred to him as he started the car. He got his wallet out of his pocket and checked for cash. Thirty quid. Not a lot, but enough for a couple of hands at the casino. The Maybury was only a five-minute drive away, hell, he could walk it in ten, it was open all night. He could get a drink, play a couple of hands of poker, relax a little…
As long as he could leave it at £30. No more. No more cashing cheques, no more running up a tab of £500. He’d done that once, about a month ago, and what had scared him more than the amount was how easily he got there in the first place. It hadn’t even taken an hour.
Falling Fast Page 4
