Falling Fast

by Neil Broadfoot

‘“My husband and I,”’ he murmured with a shake of the head. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  He walked to the window, stared out at the night.

  Damon had been right about one thing, the press would be looking closely.

  But Buchan prided himself on being a cautious man.

  And a prepared one.

  29

  She had never seen the aftermath of an earthquake for herself before, but if asked to describe it, Susie would have said it looked like the scene before her at the Altered Perspective gallery that night.

  The sculptures and glasswork, so delicately arranged only hours before, were strewn across the floor, shattered like chunks of rubble from a demolished building. The coloured shards of glass glinted, reflecting the streetlights outside – pathetic remnants of the beautiful objects they had once been. Susie felt heat rise between her eyes at the thought. She wasn’t sure why. Photographs and prints had been ripped from the walls – some canvases now lay at odd angles on the floor, frames splintered and broken, while others had been angrily slashed and reduced to streamers.

  And then there was the blood. It glistened in the middle of the gallery floor in a dark, oily pool. Susie tried to tell herself that’s all it was, oil. Tried to ignore the cloying, bitter smell. She felt the urge to vomit, clenched her jaw against it. She could deal with that later. Right now, she had a job to do.

  A trail led off from the puddle, twisting a staggered, smeared path towards the back of the gallery. Scene of crime officers flitted around, taking photographs or bending to take a sample of this or that as Burns led Susie through the gallery to the back office.

  Lizzie Renwick lay slumped at the foot of her desk at the end of the blood trail, arms and legs spread out as though she were a doll thrown away by a careless child. Susie had seen bodies before, of course, but just hours ago she’d had coffee with this woman, bullied and intimidated her to get the answers she wanted. Now she was just another victim of violent crime. Just another statistic to be filed away and forgotten.

  From near Lizzie’s left shoulder a pair of scissors protruded at an obscene angle, framed by a stain of dark blood. Susie felt her gorge rise as she realised the blood was almost the same colour as Lizzie’s hair. She overcame a physical urge to touch her. To help. But the police officer in her told her to get a grip. What was wrong with her? Lizzie was quite clearly beyond help.

  The office itself was a disaster area. Papers were scattered across the floor, drawers had been pulled from tables and smashed, the two desks upturned. Susie noticed the high stools she and Lizzie had been sitting on earlier in the day lying in the corner, overturned like wounded animals.

  ‘Whatever happened, it looks like she was trying to get to the phone and call for help,’ Burns said, jutting his chins towards the trail of blood. He turned towards Dr Williams, the tall, almost gangling coroner who was crouched over Lizzie’s body.

  ‘Any idea of a time of death, Stephen?’

  Williams sighed as he got up. He was in his late fifties and had been dealing with police officers for a long time. They never learned. ‘You know better than to ask that, Jason,’ he replied. ‘I can’t be exact until I can run more tests.’

  ‘I’m not looking for exact,’ Burns said, trying and failing to keep the note of impatience out of his voice. ‘Your best guess will do for now.’

  Williams sighed, pulled off the rubber gloves he was wearing with a theatrical flourish before running a hand through his iron-grey beard. ‘Well, this is only a guess…’ He fixed Burns with a hard stare to made sure he understood. Burns nodded slightly. ‘However, it appears you got lucky. You say that officers found her about an hour ago?”

  Burns grunted something that could have been mistaken for a yes.

  ‘Hmm. Well, she hasn’t been dead for much longer than a couple of hours at most,’ Williams said, turning back to the body.

  Susie’s throat went dry. If she had only come to the gallery to see Lizzie later in the day…

  ‘Jesus,’ Burns whispered. If those bloody uniforms had just got to the alarm sooner. Williams seemed to read his thought, held up a hand, shook his head slowly. ‘She was dead the moment she was stabbed,’ he said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Susie asked, dragging her eyes away from the wound. Her lips felt numb.

  Williams pointed to the ceiling, where there was a dark splatter of blood. ‘You see that, that’s arterial blood,’ he said. ‘Same as what’s around her chest and the wound itself. That’s why it’s so dark. When she was stabbed,’ he brought his arm down in a stabbing motion to illustrate, ‘I’m guessing the scissors’ blades hit her subclavian artery.’

  He was pointing to an area just below his collarbone now. ‘It’s the artery that supplies blood from the heart to the arm. It would have been like puncturing a high-pressure hose, the blood would have sprayed everywhere, including the ceiling. She bled to death. Unless you had a surgical team on the spot, she was as good as dead the moment the artery was compromised.’

  Susie thought for a moment, wished she could sit down. A picture she didn’t want to see was forming in her head. ‘Hold on, you’re saying she died here, at the desk?’

  Williams nodded.

  ‘Then what about all the blood in the gallery? What about the trail leading…?’ Her voice trailed off as the picture developed fully. The urge to vomit was back now, stronger than ever, a bitter taste rising to the back of her throat. She didn’t think she could hold it for much longer.

  ‘You’re telling me that someone beat the shit out of her through there, let her crawl all the way here, then stabbed her again?’

  ‘I’m not guessing anything about what happened her,’ Williams said. ‘That’s your job. But, for what it’s worth, the facts – and the other wounds on the body – seem to support that theory.’

  ‘Other wounds?’ Burns asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s hard to tell until I can get her cleaned up and have a proper look, but it seems there are extensive cuts and stab wounds around the body. The hands, legs, torso and so on.’

  ‘Any of them life-threatening?’ Susie asked. She didn’t like how her voice sounded.

  ‘Again, I can’t say with any certainty, but I wouldn’t think so. They look like fairly minor injuries on their own. I’d guess some of them are defence wounds. Of course,’ he cast an eye over the ruined gallery, ‘any injury, no matter how minor, can be potentially fatal, depending on the victim.’

  ‘No,’ Susie said looking around the office. The ruined desks, the papers lying across the floor, the smashed drawers, the Edinburgh University mug broken on its side. Her jaw was so tight it ached. She felt her legs begin to tingle, jerk with the need to move. To run. ‘They weren’t meant to kill.’

  Saw Burns give her a questioning glance, ignored it.

  ‘Look around,’ she said, hoping she sounded more professional than she felt. ‘Whoever did this, they were looking for something. Beat Lizzie up to persuade her to give them answers, tell them where to find what they were looking for.’

  ‘And when she didn’t…’ Burns nodded slowly. He could see where she was going.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Susie said. ‘Whether Lizzie gave him or her what they wanted is immaterial. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. But either way, she was left to crawl through here, try to get help and then whoever it was came back to finish her off.’

  ‘So, she was…?’

  Susie nodded. The world was beginning to swim. She had to get out of here. Away from the smell of the blood, away from the ruined body that lay in front of her.

  ‘Yes, sir. Lizzie was tortured before she was murdered.’

  30

  Doug hit the log-off icon on his computer and leaned back in his chair, trying to stretch the stiffness out of his back. Enough. He wondered what Susie had found at the gallery, fought the urge to call her and see. He could say he was only calling to let her know what he had found out about the gallery, but knew she would see that for the lie it was. In the car park, it
had felt as though her anger was starting to fade. If he called now, they would both know it was to check if she had thawed any more.

  Instead, he settled for printing out his research on the gallery and stuffing it into an envelope. He would drop it into Gayfield station on the way home so she could have it in the morning, for what it was worth.

  Doug wasn’t sure how much help what he had found would be. After an hour or so digging around the Tribune’s library, all he had to show for his troubles were three pieces connected to Altered Perspective.

  The first piece, the oldest, was a picture story from the opening of the gallery. It was taken back in 1993 for a columnist’s diary piece that was supposed to be a round-up of what was happening in Edinburgh’s society circles. Back then, Richard Buchan had only been a QC – although, from what Andy had said, he was already making his voice heard in Tory circles and was said to be a key supporter of the MP Edmund Harrison. The piece ran under the headline ‘Straight from the art.’ Doug wondered if the sub who had written it had been taken out and shot for crimes against cliché. They deserved to be.

  Under the headline was a picture of Richard Buchan smiling for the camera, a protective arm thrown around Katherine. She looked so different from the way she had in the photograph with McGinty. Her hair was scraped back in a painful-looking bun, her smile nervous and self-conscious. What was it Susie had told him Buchan had said about his daughter? Katherine found people ‘tiring’, that was it. In the picture, she looked exhausted.

  The copy itself was only three paragraphs long:

  Great day for a show. Pop down to the Old Town and you may find something that will alter you perspective as Katherine Buchan, daughter of QC and Tory VIP has opened her new gallery.

  Katherine, seen here with her dad at the official opening, says: ‘I’ve always loved modern art, and when the chance of the shop came up, I knew I had to do it. It’s a great investment for the future, and, hopefully, I can help people see things the way I do.’

  Dad Richard, who despite his political shortcomings remains a loyal Hibee, adds: ‘I’m just happy to help Katherine do something she loves.’

  Short and sweet, Doug thought, but hardly enlightening. From what he could read between the lines, daddy dearest had bankrolled the project. Interesting, considering Susie had said she got the impression he didn’t approve of his daughter’s artistic leanings. He mustn’t have been that opposed, though. Katherine would have been about twenty in 1992, very young to be set up in business unless her dad had faith in her.

  The other two pieces Doug had found in the library were even sketchier than the diary piece. They detailed an exhibition held to commemorate the opening of the Scottish Parliament – there was a picture of the building draped in Saltires with a huge replica of the Stone of Scone taking pride of place in the centre of the gallery, surrounded by artworks and photographs representing key events in Scotland’s history. The last piece was a review from the Edinburgh Festival a couple of years ago; the gallery was only mentioned in passing as it was being used as a venue for art works and poetry readings that year.

  Doug’s research on Mullard hadn’t been any more productive. As Lizzie had said, Eric Mullard was a photographer, known for his nude and abstract work. A show he put on in London a few years ago had caused a bit of a stir, being branded pornographic and exploitative by some of the more prudish and conservative commentators of the day. Apart from that one piece of information, nothing. He was a respected photographer known to support small, independent galleries by using them to showcase his work.

  Doug packed everything he had found into an envelope, sealed it and wrote Susie’s name on the front.

  The drive to Gayfield Square only took fifteen minutes. On a whim, he asked the desk sergeant if Susie was around, wondering if she had finished at the gallery yet, but was told that she wasn’t available. Doug shrugged, handed over the envelope and left.

  Home was a small two-bedroomed flat in an old-style tenement block behind Musselburgh’s main street. When he arrived, Doug went through his nightly ritual; drove up and down the car-clogged street looking for a space, found one and managed to squeeze the car into it. He really would have to see about getting a lock-up somewhere, or at least a permit parking space. Another job for another day. He sighed as he killed the engine, closing his eyes. The flat was on the top floor. It was only three flights up, but it felt like it was going to be a long climb tonight.

  He got out of the car, walked away, then remembered he hadn’t locked it, started to turn to use the remote… and was driven forward as he was body-charged and slammed back into the car.

  ‘Ah, FUCK!’ Doug cried as he thrashed against whoever it was pinning him against the car. No good. Whoever had him was strong. He was held tight.

  ‘Shut it,’ a voice growled. Pain exploded as a hard jab was driven into Doug’s side. He felt knuckle-dusters bite into his kidneys. The breath was knocked out of him as his knees gave way. He was saved from collapsing when a handful of his hair was grabbed and he was yanked back to his feet. Doug yelped and tried to get away, vision blurring with tears as the pain in his side and head competed for attention.

  ‘Now listen, you little cunt.’ The voice was closer now, sour breath tickling Doug’s ear. ‘You’ve been asking some awkward questions about Derek McGinty. Some people aren’t too happy about that. It’s going to stop, now. Understood?’

  Doug lashed out as best he could, trying to push away from the car and get some leverage. He was rewarded with another punch to the kidneys. He stopped struggling. It felt as though someone was stubbing out matches on his side. He wanted to be sick.

  ‘Don’t be a fucking hero, son,’ the voice snarled. ‘This is your only warning. Next time, I fucking gut you, understood?’ Doug jumped as a knife was driven into the roof of his car as though it were a tin can. ‘The questions stop, now. Right?’

  Doug was too terrified to speak. He nodded feebly, the fight in him gone. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blade.

  ‘Good boy,’ the voice whispered. The grip on Doug’s hair tightened suddenly then his head was pulled back and smashed down on to the roof of the car. He slid backwards, blood gushing from his nose, and crumpled to the ground. Dimly, he heard soft footsteps running back up the street. He tried to roll over, get a look at his attacker, but it was no good, he couldn’t make his eyes focus through the tears and pain.

  Shaking, sobbing, gulping in huge, panicked breaths, he got to his feet and staggered for the door to his tenement. Halfway up the stairs he doubled over and vomited, agony stabbing into his side where he had been punched as his body was wracked with retching. He felt the world start to spin around him, closed his eyes and leant against the wall until the feeling passed.

  Finally he made it to the flat, fumbled his keys into the locks and got the door open. Staggered inside and took his time relocking the door, making sure it was shut tight. He didn’t want another visit.

  In the bathroom, he bundled wads of toilet paper into his hand and pressed them to his nose. Blood had soaked down his chin and shirt. He stripped off the shirt and turned; angry red welts were on his side where he had been punched. He thought of the knife, the sound it made as it was driven into the roof of the car. He closed his eyes. Jesus. What if that had been him instead of the car?

  He staggered into the living room and collapsed on the couch, throwing an arm over his face as he fought fresh tears. Whether he was crying from fear, anger or relief just to be alive, he couldn’t tell. He knew he should phone Susie, the police, someone, to tell them what had happened.

  But no. No. Cops would mean statements, would mean questions.

  You’ve been asking some awkward questions about Derek McGinty. Some people aren’t too happy about that. It’s going to stop, now. Understood?

  Doug understood alright. But he wasn’t going to let it stop him.

  • • •

  Charlie snatched up the phone on its third ring. It was raining again, bu
t he wasn’t enjoying the view as much as he had the other night.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, did you get it?’ The voice was sharp, impatient. There was a tone there Charlie didn’t like.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he sighed, trying to move his jaw as little as possible as he spoke. ‘I got it, your money has been well spent.’

  ‘Good, good. Have you found him yet?’

  ‘What the fuck do you think I am, magic? He’s got my fucking car, he could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘That’s not good enough!’ the voice snapped. To Charlie, it sounded like an eight-year-old having a tantrum. ‘You told me you could find him and deal with him.’

  ‘Calm it,’ Charlie whispered, head beginning to throb. He wished he could fire a bullet down the phone line. It would make life a lot simpler. ‘I said I haven’t found him, and I don’t know where he is. But I do know where he’ll be.’

  Brittle hope in the voice now. ‘Oh, and where’s that?’

  ‘Wherever you are, of course.’

  ‘Wh… what?’ the voice spluttered, spiking with panic. Charlie smiled. ‘Wh… what do you mean?’

  ‘Think about it,’ Charlie replied as mildly as he could, straining to keep calm. He needed a drink. No, fuck that, he needed a dentist. ‘After everything that’s happened, you think he doesn’t know it was you that put me onto him? He’s got scores to settle, and I guarantee you he won’t forget.’

  ‘Then you must… you can’t…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘I know what to do. If he’s following you, he’s not concentrating on me, right?’

  ‘Bu… but what if he sees you?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Charlie said, eyes straying to the gun on the table in front of him. ‘He won’t see a thing.’

  31

  By 6.30am the next morning, Doug was back at his desk. After he had managed to stop his nosebleed and the sobbing, he had spent most of the night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, ears straining for the slightest noise indicating that his visitor outside had decided to skip the warning and go straight for the gutting after all.