Falling Fast

by Neil Broadfoot

  Good questions. Susie wished she had some answers.

  ‘Sir, I…’ Susie was cut off by the shrill ringing of the phone from the hall.

  ‘Excuse me, Detective,’ Buchan said as he got up and strode or the door. ‘But my wife is resting, and I don’t want the phone to disturb her.’

  Susie nodded and watched him go. She looked down at her notes. This case, like her handwriting, was a mess. So many questions, so few answers. Burns hadn’t been too happy when Susie had told him about the £5,000 missing for Katherine’s account. The missing money put the whole suicide angle in doubt, which would drag out the investigation. And the longer the investigation ran, the longer Katherine’s body lay in the morgue, the longer the Buchans would have to wait to bury her.

  Susie knew as well as Burns that that wouldn’t sit well with Richard Buchan, who would make his displeasure known to his friends in high places. Fuck ’em. Let the heidyins grumble as much as they wanted. A woman had died in a horrible, brutal way, either driven to it or murdered. Susie didn’t know which it was yet, but she was determined to find out.

  She could hear Buchan speaking from the hall. He didn’t sound happy.

  ‘Ah, Andy. Yes, thank you, thank you. Linda? She’s coping, as you can imagine, this isn’t easy for any of us. What can I do for you?’

  A pause as Buchan listened to his caller. When he spoke again, his voice was a shout that made Susie jump in her seat.

  ‘What? What photograph? What are you talking about? What do you mean, Katherine’s in it?’ Another pause. ‘WHO?’

  Susie was on her feet now. What the hell was going on?

  ‘No,’ Buchan snapped, his voice rising with anger. ‘I know nothing about this, nothing at all. How did you get this, anyway?’ Another pause. Then Buchan, voice heavy with disgust. ‘Oh, and you’re going to publish it, I take it? I expected better from you, Andy, I thought you had morals. Don’t you think we’ve been through enough?’

  Pause.

  ‘That’s shit, Andy, and you know it. No, I have no official comment to make, thank you very much, other than that my lawyers and I will be studying your work very closely and will no doubt be in touch with your editor.’

  The sound of the phone being slammed down was like a gunshot. A moment later, Buchan strode back into the room, door banging against the wall as he threw it open.

  ‘Mr Buchan, what…?’

  He glared at her, then remembered himself and the mask of civility slipped back down. He took a deep breath, straightened up and ran a hand down his chest to smooth his already perfect tie.

  ‘I suggest you have a word with your superiors,’ he said, the anger still present in his voice. ‘That was Andy Wilkes, the Tribune’s’ – he said the name as if it were an obscenity – ‘political editor. It would appear they have received a photograph of Katherine with a less than savoury character.’

  Susie blinked, why hadn’t she heard anything about this? Then, Doug’s words: I’m heading for an interview. The way he was being mysterious when she had called him. What the hell was going on?

  ‘Who did they say is in the photograph with her?’ Susie asked.

  Buchan’s shoulders slumped slightly. ‘That rapist who’s been in the papers recently.’

  ‘McGinty?’ Susie offered. ‘Derek McGinty?’

  Buchan nodded. He wouldn’t look Susie in the eye.

  Susie felt a headache snarl behind her eyes. Derek McGinty. Doug’s pet subject. Derek McGinty, who had been chased out of his Fife home a month ago and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Derek McGinty, just the sort of man to whom five grand would come in very handy.

  ‘Could there be any truth to what they’re saying?’

  Buchan ignored her, heading for a drinks tray in the corner of the room. He poured himself a large whisky, downed it. ‘Please, just leave,’ he whispered.

  ‘Of course,’ Susie said as she headed for the door, trying to keep her pace casual. ‘But I’m afraid this means I will have to…’

  Buchan waved a dismissive hand as he pushed his glasses aside and massaged his eyes. His skin was the colour of rotten paper. ‘Yes, yes. You will have more questions, no doubt. But please, just not now. Not now.’

  Susie nodded and kept walking. Paused on the doorstep after she stepped outside. A photograph of McGinty and Katherine together. Jesus. Why hadn’t the paper, why hadn’t Doug, told her?

  The answer was depressingly obvious; Doug had to know what the story was. And to do that, he needed to poke around without the police getting in his way. Wherever he had been heading when she called him, it was connected to the picture, she knew it.

  Back at her car, she punched in Burns’ number and listened to it ring, trying to keep her anger in check. She had to remain calm, let Third Degree know what was going on. She could only imagine what his response would be.

  Everywhere she turned, there were questions. Most of them, she couldn’t answer yet. But Doug, it seemed, had more answers than she did. And, as soon as she had finished with Burns, he was going to share them.

  26

  The conference room where Jonathan had assembled the MSPs and party officials for the briefing was in chaos by the time Hal walked in. Even Jonathan had lost some of his enthusiasm, and was standing in the corner busily running a pen over a document as his lips moved silently.

  About four different arguments were going on at once, all of them focused on how fucked they were and what the hell could be done. Hal felt a moment of panic so strong it was like vertigo as the thought flitted across his mind that they had found out about his chat with Ronnie and his follow-up call to the Chief Superintendent. Knew that wasn’t the case when he felt the weight of the room’s gaze fall upon him, eyes looking for answers, not his head.

  ‘So,’ he said quietly, keeping his voice low so the others in the room would have to shut up to hear him. ‘What’s happened?’

  Three people – two balding MSPs and a party official who looked like she had been freeze-dried in the early 1970s – tried to tell him at once.

  ‘The papers have got a hold of this picture…’

  ‘Rapist everyone’s looking for…’

  ‘Buchan’s daughter with…’

  Hal held up a hand, waited for them to stop talking. ‘Please,’ he said softly, ‘one at a time. Jonathan?’ The kid jumped in the corner as though he’d been electrified. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Me? Ah…’ Red crept up from his collar, as though bleeding from his lurid tie. ‘Well, ah, ah…’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ snapped The Creature The Seventies Forgot. ‘What’s the point of getting…?’

  ‘Because,’ Hal said sharply, voice hardening, ‘I want to know what the hell is going on, without the hysteria and politics. Jonathan can tell me that, then we can figure out what we’re going to do. Go ahead, Jonathan.’

  ‘Well, ah, Mr Buchan just took a call from a reporter at the Tribune.’

  ‘McGregor?’ Hal asked.

  ‘No, ah, Wilkes. Andy Wilkes. Something about a picture of his daughter with that rapist that has been all over the TV recently. Asking for a statement; reaction.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Hal sat back in his seat, tension in his chest easing. Nothing to do with Ronnie’s chat, then. Thank God. ‘How old is the picture?’

  ‘Ah, not sure.’ Jonathan said. ‘Can’t be that recent though, there’s no way it would have stayed quiet until now if McGinty had been spotted since he disappeared from Fife.’

  Hal raised an eyebrow. Smart kid.

  ‘Good. Simple response for us, then. Jonathan, type this up, will you? Get it out on the wires for the later editions: “This is a personal matter for Mr Buchan and his family, and we are not going to add to their distress at this time with lurid speculation about who his daughter may or may not have known.”’

  He paused for a moment, smiled. This actually worked out quite well. ‘“Mr Buchan has today indicated that he will be taking a leave of absence
from his seat as the MSP for Lothians as he and his wife attempt to come to terms with the tragic loss of their daughter.”’ Paused. Looked around the room for disagreement. Didn’t get any. Good. He didn’t have time for it.

  ‘We’ll follow that up with a few calls to the newsdesks. Go heavy on the line asking for them to respect the family’s privacy at this time.’

  ‘And what the hell are we meant to do now?’ a florid-faced suit asked.

  ‘Support your colleague,’ Hal replied. ‘Don’t deviate from the line I’ve just given you, don’t go looking for interviews. You need to keep this low key, let it die out on its own.’

  Murmurs of agreement around the room. Hal took this as his cue, got up and headed for the door. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to tell Mr Buchan about his decision. Jonathan has my number if you need me.’

  27

  By the time Doug got back to the Tribune, Susie was already waiting for him in Greig’s office. She had called him just as he was driving into Cockenzie, a small town on the East Lothian coast memorable only for the large, glass and concrete-faced power station that dominated it. He had hit the road hoping for a chance to think, find some answers. For all he good it had done, he may as well have saved the petrol.

  ‘You little bastard,’ she had hissed when he answered the phone. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  Doug swallowed, flailing for a response. ‘I don’t know, I…’

  ‘You know Burns is spitting bullets about this, don’t you?’ Susie snarled. Doug didn’t think he’d ever heard her so angry. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. ‘He’s talking about charging you with obstructing justice and wasting police time, and, you know what, I’m not too sure I disagree with him.’

  ‘Look, Susie, I just wanted to get a few facts before I told you what was going on.’ It was a half-hearted excuse, Doug knew.

  ‘Bullshit, Doug. You wanted to get the scoop. You always do. Jesus Christ, after all this time, didn’t you think you could trust me or something?’

  ‘Well, I… I…’

  ‘Save it. Listen, I’m heading to the Tribune to pick up the photograph now. Let’s just hope you’ve left some trace evidence intact, for your sake and mine.’

  ‘Susie, I’m not a complete idiot. The photo was scanned in and then sealed in a plastic bag, along with the envelope it came in, ready for you to pick up.’

  ‘Oh, and just when was that going to be, Doug? When were you planning to tell me, if I hadn’t been there to hear Buchan’s conversation with your friend Wilkes?’

  ‘Now, Susie, I…’ Too late, she had hung up.

  Susie took a deep breath. Forced herself to calm down. Tried not to feel the sting of anger – and, oh, admit it, hurt – at Doug’s actions.

  ‘You should know him better by now,’ she muttered.

  She had first met Doug about three years ago, not long after she transferred to Edinburgh to take the Detective Sergeant job and, on her part at least, it was hate at first sight.

  The trouble had started just after Christmas, and the big story of the day was that an Assistant Chief Superintendent, Paul Redmonds, had been caught with his pants down with a female colleague at an office party. The story leaked out after a reporter got wind of the fact Redmond had moved out of his family home – after admitting all to his wife and then being kicked out. The tabloids had a field day: a senior, married officer having a drunken fumble at an office party where those charged with protecting the streets were pissed as farts and acting like horny students? Thank you, Santa, we have been good little journalists this year.

  Susie kept her head down, but every briefing she went to, every call she took, she felt the snide, sideways glances, the snickers and sneers, the pointing and elbowing.

  ‘Look, there’s the tart that banged Redmonds.’

  ‘Isn’t she the new girl from Stirling?’

  ‘Yeah, must be desperate to get up the ladder if she’d fuck that greasy little shit.’

  ‘What a slapper. Bit of a looker, though. Think I’d have a chance?

  What the fuck had she been thinking? She’d gone to the party to try and get her face known, try to make a few friends after the move. But when everyone started to divide up into their little cliques, she’d been left on her own, swapping awkward, embarrassed smiles with faces she knew and fending off the drunken dicks who seemed intent on talking to her breasts rather than her face. So she’d floated to the bar, where she bumped into Redmonds. It was a bad combination. Alcohol plus loneliness plus semi-attractive older man, who was more than a little worse for wear on Christmas cheer himself, equalled trouble.

  Before she had known it they were back in her room, pawing at each other on the bed as some bimbo blonde with plastic tits and a frozen smile bounced up and down on the screen in front of them. Redmonds had ordered the movie ‘for a laugh’, but the real laugh had been when he dropped his boxers.

  Merry fucking Christmas, Susie. Maybe the disappointment had been why she had clawed at his back so hard – leaving the marks that forced his guilty admission to his wife. It sure as hell wasn’t the sex.

  Word got round quickly, and she fell victim to typical police humour. The punning asides, from just-loud-enough comments when she walked into the canteen about ‘copping a feel’ and ‘feeling the full force of the law’, to a dose of the morning-after pill left on her desk. There were the not-so-subtle digs too, mostly from those who knew Redmonds’ wife, Alicia. Hard stares in the bathrooms, the haughty sniff when she walked into a room, as if she was carrying a bag full of warm shit with her.

  It felt like being back at school, the bullies singling her out again. Not for being different this time. Just for being a marriage wrecker. Not that she felt much guilt over that – the way she saw it, she had saved Redmonds’ wife from a life of quick, blunt sex with a lying prick who thought he was God’s gift. The thought of him touching her, that mewling sound as he came, the jerks of his cock inside her as weak as his technique, made her shudder with disgust. Maybe they were all right. If her personal judgement was this bad, what fucking use would she be as a police officer?

  She was ready to hand her notice in, just get it over with, when Redmonds called her. Apologised for the position he had put her in – Missionary and doggie, she thought, and you were shit – and told her to tough it out. He had read her file, she was a good officer, had the makings of a fine copper.

  He couldn’t help her, of course; after all, how would that look? But the focus of the story was on him, not her. Just keep your head down and it’ll pass. After all, the press had nothing to go on to identify her, did they? None of those at the Christmas party (held at a hotel in Glasgow to make sure nobody made a mess at home) had actual evidence who it was he had been a naughty boy with. There were rumours, yes, but unity in the ranks against outside prying made sure no names were leaving the station, especially for a reporter.

  Unfortunately, Doug proved a little more creative than anyone gave him credit for. After a few fruitless calls to sources in the police, he had headed for Glasgow and the Hilton Hotel, where the party had been held. After making one more phone call.

  By the time he arrived at the Hilton, the staff had printed off a full list of room numbers, guest names and charges for him. Why shouldn’t they? After all, as far as they were concerned, Lothian and Borders Police, as it had been at the time, had simply sent one of their accountants to double-check the figures to see what cash they could reclaim from officers and what was a legitimate expense claim. Good idea, really.

  He had phoned Susie about an hour later, and they had agreed to meet in a small, anonymous café near the bottom of Broughton Road.

  She sat there, staring out the window, coffee forgotten in front of her. Felt angry tears for being so fucking stupid trembling behind her eyes, and rage at this little shite who had found out and summoned her for a meeting.

  ‘Look, I really think it would be a good idea if we had a chat,’ he had said on the ph
one. ‘I know I can’t force you, I could run the story as it is, but just listen to me first, okay?’

  Bastard. Fucking bastard hack.

  ‘Eh, Susie, is it? Hi, I’m Doug.’

  He wasn’t what she was expecting. With fashionably tousled light brown hair, a face Susie would have called handsome if not for the slightly hawkish nose, and inquisitive green-brown eyes that seemed to be studying and recording everyone around him, Doug McGregor looked more like a student than a reporter. And she’d never seen a man look more uncomfortable in a suit in her life.

  She reluctantly took his outstretched hand, eager not to make a scene. He was thin and wiry, but she sensed strength in that handshake.

  He smiled at her, revealing a row of white, if slightly crooked, teeth. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said as he slid into the chair opposite her, his accent pure Edinburgh. ‘I know it mustn’t have been the nicest phone call you’ve had.’

  ‘Look,’ she hissed, leaning over the table so she was almost nose to nose with him. ‘Let’s just cut the shit, okay? So you know about me and Paul. Great, good for you, go write your fucking story. I don’t know why you wanted to see me, but if you think I…’

  Doug held up his hand. ‘I’m not going to write the story.’

  ‘Wh… what?’ Susie leaned back, not quite believing what she had heard. ‘Then why… what?’

  ‘Look,’ he said, leaning forward himself now as he pushed her cup of coffee aside. ‘Bottom line? This is a shit story. So you got pissed and went back to your room to enjoy some room service, porn and whatever else you got up to with a senior officer, so what? It’s not exactly world-shattering, is it?’

  Susie felt her mouth drop open. ‘How did you know about th…?’

  ‘Expense records,’ Doug replied, pushing a ream of papers across the table to her. ‘I got them from the Hilton. After that, all I had to do was look for anything unusual when the party was in full swing. And look what I found.’ He ran a finger down to a highlighted line on the page. ‘At 11:24pm on the evening of the party when, according to the hotel staff, the party was in full swing, a bottle of champagne, two glasses and a “movie event” were charged to your room. By the way, “movie event” is hotel code for porn, so business travellers aren’t embarrassed about their jack-off entertainment showing up on their expenses.’