But this one had caught him by surprise. One call from Tory headquarters looking for some PR advice on a ‘delicate situation north of the border’, the promise of a mid-five-figure payday and the hint of future work, and here he was. Although, given the move to get him on board, Hal wasn’t sure the Tories really needed another spin doctor on the case: they seemed to be masters at the game themselves. After all, who better to defend a man known for his objections to gay marriage and threats to ‘traditional values’ than a gay man with a husband and baby at home? The party could bleat on all it wanted about ‘getting the best man for the job’, but Hal knew he was the message as much as the messenger. And the message was clear: ‘We’re supporting Buchan in his time of need, but any views he has that could alienate voters are his alone. Just look at who we’ve got to work with him.’
After assuring everyone in the room that he wasn’t there to impose the CCHQ line, Hal had got to work crafting a response to the Buchan situation. The reactive stuff was easy; go heavy on the family grief line, release a prepared statement (that he would write) and get them off the stage as quickly as possible.
The trickier part of the problem was the bigger picture. Public sympathy for Buchan could galvanise support for his ‘full-term sentencing plan’, and that was what had the London Tories’ blue blood running cold. With the independence referendum looming, they didn’t need or want anything that cast them in the light of the bad old days – crime and punishment nuts who didn’t give a fuck for a non-existent society. And Buchan’s plan was too hardline for them to stomach. But the harsh truth was that there was also mileage in his daughter’s death; public sympathy to capitalise on. And if he could be softened, if Far Right Marmite (Hal hated the nickname) could be shown to be a vulnerable, grieving father, it was a vote winner.
They had worked late, crafting a line that was respectful yet emphatic. Agreed a statement from the family for the press conference the next day, made sure Jonathan got it to the family for sign-off. Hal then made the MSPs brief him on the wider picture – the support for Buchan across the parliament, who might decide to back him, who could carry a Bill forward in his name.
That done, and satisfied that everyone was on message, Hal had got Jonathan to drive him to his hotel. He checked in, ordered a drink from room service then, restless, walked out into the rain. Wandered along Princes Street, which, from what Hal could see, was nothing more than a cheap outdoor shopping arcade stuffed with discount stores and burger joints with a castle looming over it. He stopped a block from the hotel at the police tape that was fluttering in the wind. Looked up at the ornate stone monument that Katherine Buchan had thrown herself from. He stared at it for a moment, touched the phone in his pocket, willed it to ring. For Colin to phone him, tell him it was okay, he understood.
When it didn’t happen, Hal had headed back to the hotel. Read for an hour, press clippings, mostly, from reporters likely to be at the press conference.
He had woken up late, was just pouring his first cup of coffee when Jonathan knocked on his door. The horrible fake smile was even more grotesque in the daylight.
‘It’s all ready,’ he told Hal. ‘Police have a room set up at their HQ, they’ll take the lead and we… ah, you, of course, can present the family statement. We’ll e-mail it out when the presser starts. I’ve also got hard copies here’, he waved a thick sheaf of papers in front of Hal’s nose, ‘in case anyone needs them. Oh, and I got you the morning papers like you asked for as well. They’re in the car.’
Hal nodded, murmured thanks between sips of coffee. Useful little go-fer.
‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get going, shall we? After all, we don’t want to keep the press waiting.’
• • •
Home for the Buchans was a Georgian townhouse down a tree-lined, cobbled street in Stockbridge, a fairly well-heeled area of Edinburgh only a couple of miles from Fettes and the Botanic Gardens.
The drawing room that Susie had been ushered into by Linda Buchan, the small, matronly looking woman who had answered the front door, was immense, there was no other word for it. The far wall was dominated by a large window, which looked out onto the street below and flooded the room with natural light. A few tasteful – and no doubt expensive – watercolours hung from the cream walls, while a display cabinet of what looked like antique crystal shimmered lazily in the sunlight. With its high, corniced ceilings, ornate wooden fireplace and stripped wood floors, the room couldn’t have been more different from the two-bedroom, Ikea-furnished flat in Broughton that Susie called home.
The drawing room door swung open and Susie was startled from her thoughts by the echoing report of shoes on the polished floor. She turned to see Richard Buchan striding towards her, hand already reaching out to shake hers.
If Susie had been asked to draw a photo fit of a stereotypical Tory, Buchan would have been roughly the opposite. Growing up with a father who worked through the miners’ strike, forced to face friends at the picket lines, called ‘scab’ and attacked, she had been raised to believe that all Conservatives were either starch-haired, severe-looking women with a penchant for power suits and vampiric overbites, or tired-looking old men in pinstripes who peered out at the world from behind thick-framed glasses.
Buchan, though, was something different. He was about the same height as Susie; 5ft 9ins, with the thick-set, stocky body of a rugby player gone to seed. His neatly styled back hair was peppered here and there with the first tinges of grey – either that or the grey was staging a defiant fightback through Grecian 2000. His glasses, which slightly magnified his watery blue eyes, were wire-framed and unobtrusive.
She noticed dark rings under his eyes and the sparkling, slightly wild-eyed look of a man deprived of sleep but, other than that, he was hiding his sorrow well. It must, she thought, have something to do with his legal background. As a QC, Buchan would have projected an air of unflappable confidence. In grief, he seemed little different.
‘Richard Buchan,’ he said, giving Susie’s hand a brief squeeze as he shook it. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, but, as you can understand, there is a lot to organise at the moment.’
‘Not at all,’ Susie replied, giving Buchan what she hoped was understanding smile. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Susie Drummond. I’m sorry to intrude on you and your wife at such a difficult time, but, if you could perhaps answer a few questions…’
Buchan nodded his head slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said, gesturing towards two large, black leather couches that faced each other over a coffee table. ‘Shall we sit down?’
Susie took a seat, Buchan adjusted his suit as he sat on the other couch. She reached into her bag and produced a notepad and pen.
‘Is Mrs Buchan joining us?’ she asked.
Buchan sighed slightly. ‘I’d rather she didn’t if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘This has almost been too much to take for Linda. I think she’s still in shock. Going over it all again, talking about Katherine…’
Susie nodded, remembering the blank gaze and small, disconnected voice that had greeted her when Linda Buchan opened the door. ‘No, that’s fine, Mr Buchan. As I said, I’ve only got a few questions, and they’re merely routine.’
Buchan nodded but said nothing, happy to sit in silence until Susie made the first move. She took a deep breath, ran through the questions she wanted to ask in her mind, and then got started.
‘When was the last time you saw Katherine?’
‘About a week ago,’ he replied, eyes drifting towards the window as he spoke. ‘Last Monday, it would have been. She had a little time off and was in town for the day – shopping, or something – so we met up and had lunch.’
‘And where was that?’
‘The Grain Store restaurant on Victoria Street. It’s only about fifteen minutes’ walk from the parliament at Holyrood, so it was ideal.’
‘And how was Katherine when you saw her?’
‘Fine,’ Buchan replied. ‘Her usual self; better, in fact.
She had just started planning a new exhibition, and she was quite excited. Something about landing a famous photographer for the show.’
‘Show?’ Susie asked.
‘Why, yes,’ Buchan replied, the sofa creaking slightly as he shifted his position. ‘Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t know. Katherine works…’ He paused, lowered his head and took a ragged breath. ‘Sorry, worked, as the manager of an art gallery in the Old Town. Modern art, glasswork, photography, that kind of thing.’
Of course, Susie already knew that. But sometimes, playing dumb in an interview yielded results. Like now. She could have sworn there was something else in Buchan’s voice. Disapproval? The proud father disappointed by the path his little girl had chosen? Maybe. Or maybe she was just hearing an echo of her own dad in Buchan’s words.
‘And she said nothing to indicate that she was depressed or worried about something?’
‘No, nothing at all. I wish she had, though, wished I’d paid more attention when I saw her. If she’d just told me what was troubling her, or if I’d noticed something, I would have been able to help her, avoid all…’ he gestured aimlessly with his hands, ‘…this.’
Susie shook her head slightly. She’d seen enough suicides and those affected by them to know that, more often than people liked to admit, there were no telltale signs. The decision to take your life was a secret you kept locked away.
You would live your life as normal, meeting family and friends, talking, laughing; your thoughts of bottles of pills or slitting wrists safely locked away. Until the moment you were alone, the door bolted, the safety rail on the bridge climbed, the knife resting against your wrist. And by then, it was too late. It was your decision, yours alone. Live or die?
She studied her notes, searching for a way to phrase her next question as delicately as possible. She couldn’t find one.
‘Mr Buchan… did your daughter have any enemies that you know of? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?’
Buchan gave a harsh, humourless laugh. ‘If you had known Katherine, you’d know how ridiculous that question was,’ he said. ‘She would never hurt a fly. Why? Surely you don’t think someone did this to her?’
‘No,’ Susie said as apologetically as possible. ‘As I’ve said, these questions are purely routine. We’re just covering all the possibilities.’
‘Ah,’ Buchan said slowly. ‘Like that reporter from the Tribune, you mean?’
Susie felt heat flash through her cheeks. Shit, she thought she had got away with it, that he wasn’t going to mention it.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said quietly, raising her eyes to meet the intense stare challenging her. ‘We can only apologise for that and assure you…’
He raised a dismissive hand. ‘Forgive me, that was a cheap shot. Besides, I’ve already spoken to the Chief Superintendent, who’s given me a full apology and assurance it won’t happen again. No need for you to worry.’
Chief Superintendent? Oh fuck.
Susie cleared her throat, forced herself to concentrate. ‘Did Katherine have a boyfriend, Mr Buchan? Or a close friend she may have confided in?’
‘Not that I can think of, no,’ Buchan replied, just a fraction of a second too quickly for Susie’s liking. ‘Oh, she was friendly enough with Lizzie.’ He noticed Susie’s quizzical glance. ‘Elizabeth Renwick from the gallery, but you must understand, Detective Sergeant, Katherine was an intensely shy, private person. She loved her art and her work, but she always found being with people… tiring.’
‘Including you and Mrs Buchan?’
‘Of course not,’ he snapped back, impatience bubbling below the veneer of civility. ‘We were her parents. She knew she could come to us at any time, with any problem, no matter what it was.’
Ah, but she hadn’t though, had she? Whatever had happened at the top of the Scott Monument had either happened on the spur of the moment, or Katherine had kept whatever was bothering her from her father when they met for lunch. Susie was trained not to jump to conclusions, to follow the chain of evidence one link at a time, but her gut told her this was a suicide case. There were hundreds of more discreet ways to kill someone than pushing them off a tourist attraction. And if it had been a robbery, surely Katherine would have screamed or lashed out – something, anything, that would have attracted more attention.
No, it was a suicide. Susie was sure of it. And, if that was true, and Katherine had decided to end it all, then she had been keeping a secret, whatever it was that spurred her on, from her parents.
What? And, more important, why?
In the hall, the phone began to ring. Buchan glanced at Susie. ‘Will that be all, Detective, or is there something else I can help you with?’
Susie shook her head as she stood up to leave. ‘No, Mr Buchan, I think that’s it for just now. We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’
Buchan nodded, offering his hand to Susie again as he escorted her to the door. In the hallway, Linda Buchan was standing with the phone cradled to her ear. When she saw her husband, she held out the phone to him and mumbled, ‘It’s for you.’ Her eyes were still blank.
‘Thank you, dear,’ Buchan said, taking the phone and giving his wife a supportive squeeze on the shoulder. He put a hand over the receiver and turned to Susie with an apologetic glance.
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ll see myself out. Thanks again for your time.’
Linda Buchan watched Susie leave as her husband turned his attention to the phone. It was like being watched by a statue.
12
It was 2pm by the time Doug got back from the press conference at the Fettes police centre, feeling for all the world like he had wasted his time. Most of what the police had given him merely confirmed what Susie had told him last night. The only new lines were the official statement from Katherine’s family telling of their ‘shock and heartbreak’ at their daughter’s death. The statement was read out by a guy so well-manicured Doug knew he had to be a hired mouthpiece, along with a direct appeal for anyone who had seen anything or was up the Monument at the time, to get in touch ‘so we can ascertain our beloved daughter’s final moments and find some peace.’ The suit also released a family picture of Katherine in the hope it would jog some memories.
Sitting in his car outside, reporters and TV crews milling around in the street like supporters dispersing after a football match, Doug had written up the story and sent it to Walter at the Tribune by e-mail so it could go in the second edition. He was just waiting for Walter to call to tell him whether the story was fine or missing something when there was a soft tapping on his window.
Doug rolled down the window, and a reedy-looking DC stuck his hand through to introduce himself as Eddie King. He had heard Susie mention the name before, not always in the kindest of terms.
‘Yes, Eddie, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, I’ve been asked to have a word with you by DI Burns,’ Eddie said. He was, Doug guessed, aiming for a tough, official tone. It came out more school prefect than CID officer.
‘Ah, and how is the Third Degree?’ Doug asked. ‘Still brow-beating suspects into submission?’
King bristled noticeably. The friendly, we’re-men-of-the-world smile slipped from his face. ‘Detective Inspector Burns has asked me to remind you this is an official police investigation, Mr McGregor. He was none too pleased to read your “exclusive” this morning, especially with this being such a delicate case.’
On the dashboard, Doug’s phone began to ring. Saved by the bell. He flicked answer. ‘Hold on a minute, Walter, I’m just finishing something up here,’ he said as he turned back to Eddie. ‘Thanks for the advice, Eddie. I’ll bear it in mind. Oh, and remember to tell Third Degree I said hello.’
King was still trying to think up a comeback when Doug turned his attention back to the phone. He spoke to Walter for a couple of minutes, going over the story and press conference, making sure he hadn’t missed a line from the story he had filed. When they were both satisfied he hadn’t
, Walter had told Doug to head back to the office.
Now, sitting back at his desk, the soft cacophony of phones, chattering keyboards and undercurrent of conversation surrounding him, Doug slumped in his chair. He hadn’t got home until three in the morning – blame a blazing run on the poker table which saw him climb from £30 to £400 before he came crashing down to earth – and he was back in the office at 7am. His stomach burned from all the coffee he had drunk to try and stay awake, and he could feel the caffeine jangling sourly through his nerves, but still, all he wanted to do was sleep. Just five minutes, that was all, just a little shut-eye…
His phone rang, jarring him from his dazed near-sleep. He fumbled for the handset, almost missing it and knocking over a thankfully empty coffee cup in the process.
‘Hello, Capital Tribune.’
No answer on the other end of the line.
‘Hello?’
A pause. Then a man’s voice. Soft-spoken, hesitant. ‘Can I speak to Doug McGregor?’
‘Speaking.’
‘You the one who wrote the story about the girl who died at the Scott Monument?’
Naw, Doug felt like saying, I just put my name on it for the fun of it. He sighed internally. So began the nut calls. It was always the same with the big, colourful stories. They attracted nutters like flies. He would have to talk to Emma on reception again, ask her not to put everyone who called for him straight through.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Doug said. ‘Can I help you at all, Mr…?’
‘Disnae matter whit ma name is,’ the voice said, growing harder. ‘What matters is you don’t believe what they tell you.’
‘What who tells me?’
‘The polis,’ came the reply, an edge of frustration and anger creeping into the voice. ‘They’re trying to say she killed herself. She didn’t. Believe me.’
Doug sat bolt upright, fumbling for a pen and notepad. Ignored the curious glances from around the room. ‘What do you mean, she didn’t kill herself?’
Falling Fast Page 6
