‘What?’ he asked as gently as he could. ‘Bethany, if there’s something else. Anything…’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, shaking her head. It’s just Buchan. When the kinky stuff started, he always made me wear a wig. A blonde one. And he always called me Katie. But there’s nothing really weird in that, is there?’
47
As usual, the curtains were drawn tight at the McGintys’ home. Susie walked up the path briskly, keen to get this out of the way. After talking with Allan, she was convinced Derek had been in touch with his parents, but if they hadn’t come forward so far, she didn’t think there was anything she could say to change their minds and get them to talk now. But then, what parent would give up their child to the police?
The moment she left the McGintys she was going to find Richard Buchan and have a talk with him about Charlie Morris. He could hide behind meetings and parliamentary business if he wanted, Susie didn’t care. She would ask her questions in front of the First Minister if she had to.
Sam McGinty opened the door when she rang the bell, keeping the chain on. The strain of everything that had happened was getting to him, she thought. His eyes had the dark, twitchy look of a man who hadn’t sleep for weeks and his skin was a sickly white that glistened with sour sweat. When he spoke, his voice trembled.
‘Yes?’
Susie showed her warrant card. ‘Mr McGinty? I’m DS Susie Drummond. I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you about your son?
‘No, not today,’ McGinty said, his words coming in quick, clipped barks. ‘My… ah, my wife isn’t well. Tomorrow, come back tomorrow.’ He began to shut the door.
Susie put her hand out, stopping him from shutting the door fully. ‘Look, Mr McGinty,’ she said, aiming for her best we’re-all-friends tone. ‘I’m sorry. I realise this has been quite an ordeal for you and your wife, but this is important. I’ll be as brief as I can, promise.’
‘Go away!’ McGinty hissed, slamming the door. Susie staggered back, then strode forward and banged on the door with her fist. Fuck this. No one slammed a door in her face.
‘Mr McGinty,’ she shouted, ‘open the door, sir. I have to talk to you. Now. If you don’t talk to me, I can charge you with obstructing a police officer. Is that what you want? To put your wife through that?’ It was a cheap shot but she was sick of being given the run-around.
The door swung open. Sam McGinty stood there, shoulders hunched. His eyes found Susie’s and glared into them desperately. Susie stepped into the hall. The door slammed shut behind her. But how could that be if Sam was…?
There was a sickening crack as Charlie pistol-whipped her from behind, blood exploding from the wound and gushing down her neck and back. Susie fell forward, her knees unlocking from the explosive pain and confusion. She hit the floor heavily, heard herself grunt as the air was driven from her lungs. Tried to get up, tried to speak. Couldn’t. Too much effort, anyway. The world was getting dark. From far away, she heard Sam McGinty cry out, first when she was hit, then when he was folded over by a vicious punch. She was dimly aware of being flipped over, and then a nightmare leered down at her. A nightmare with a blue-green face, jagged teeth. A monster pointing a gun between her eyes.
A monster named Charlie Morris.
• • •
Doug arrived back in Edinburgh at just after 11am, having paid a taxi driver a stupid amount of money to get him back to East Midlands Airport as soon as possible and then persuading the desk clerks in the terminal to change his return ticket for the next available flight.
Striding, almost running, back to the car, he tried Susie’s number. Still diverting to answer machine. Shit. He hung up, tried her at Gayfield and was told she was out. The officer taking the call, who Doug could have sworn was that officious little prick Eddie King, asked if he wanted to leave a message. Doug declined.
He drove back to the Tribune offices, ready to fill Walter and Greig in on what he had found out. As Bethany wouldn’t be named officially, he wasn’t sure how much they could print yet, but he was damned if he was going to let Buchan stay quiet and get away with everything he had done. Again.
He got to the newsroom, slightly out of breath from bounding up the stairs to the editorial floor three at a time, and headed for Walter. He was expecting to have to talk Walter out of giving him a bollocking for just flying down to England at the drop of a hat, but he thought his findings would grant him a stay of execution.
But when Walter saw him, he merely nodded, his face a carefully composed mask of calm. He held a hand up as Doug opened his mouth to speak, calming him and pointing to his desk.
‘You got another package,’ he said, making sure Doug understood. Walter couldn’t remember a time when he had seen McGregor so wound up. ‘It arrived this morning.’
Walter said something else, but Doug didn’t hear it. It felt as though he floated to his desk, his legs were so numb.
It was a small jiffy bag, about A4-size. Doug sat in his chair heavily, ripped it open. It felt as though everyone in the newsroom was watching him. He pulled the contents of the bag out, which were accompanied by a note. It was one line, but it spoke volumes to Doug. ‘This is what Lizzie Renwick died for,’ it read.
Doug turned his attention back to the contents of the bag. After a few moments, he understood. In journalism, he had been taught that a story should always answer six basic questions: who, what, when, where, how and, most importantly, why. He knew all of it now. It was obvious, really. He should have seen it sooner. The first phone call had been the key. And he would have seen it sooner, if he hadn’t been so caught up with his obsession in finding Derek McGinty.
• • •
Susie came round slowly, a monstrous, grinding pain pounding in her head in time with her pulse. She looked round, her neck feeling stiff and brittle and took in her surroundings. Moving her eyes was agony.
She was slumped on the living room couch, Sam and Rita McGinty beside her. She tried to move her hands to her head, realised they were bound tight behind her. She tried to move her legs, found they were also tied at the ankles. Shit, what…?
‘Ah, so you’re awake,’ Charlie Morris said as he turned from the window and looked at her. ‘About fucking time, too.’
‘Morris,’ Susie said. Her voice sounded like a stranger’s to her ringing ears. ‘Don’t do this, I know that…’
‘SHUT UP!’ Charlie bellowed, levelling the gun at Susie’s face. She whimpered, screwed here eyes shut and winced away. She didn’t want to die.
‘That’s better,’ he said, his voice bubbling with amusement at her terror. ‘This is all your own fault, you know. If you’d done what old Sam there had asked and just left like a good little pig, you wouldn’t be here right now.’
Susie hitched in her breath, biting back the scream that was clawing at the back of her throat. She refused to give this bastard the satisfaction. ‘Charlie,’ she said slowly, ‘I know about Buchan. If you just talk to me, I…’
The sound of a door rattling cut her off. Charlie’s head whipped towards the kitchen as he smiled his ruined smile. He stalked towards the kitchen, paused and turned round. ‘Any of you peep and I’ll blow his fucking head off,’ he whispered.
Rita McGinty squirmed beside Susie, trying to bite back her sobs. ‘Shh,’ Sam said softly. ‘Shh. It’ll be alright, love.’
From the kitchen, Susie heard the back door opening. And then Charlie’s voice again, more smug than ever. ‘Ah, Derek. Nice of you to come. Come on in. Now the party can really get started.’
• • •
Doug had the accelerator to the floor all the way to Stockbridge, ignoring speed limits and, where possible, traffic lights. He screeched to a halt outside the Buchans’ home, drawing a harsh look from the Pc stationed at the front door. He looked about ten years old to Doug, his uniform about a size too big for him.
‘Morning, sir,’ the Pc said as Doug walked up to him. ‘You looking to break a speed record or just lose your licen
ce?’
Doug flashed a smile he hoped was sheepish. ‘Sorry, running late for a meeting with Mr Buchan.’
‘And you are…?’
‘Doug,’ he replied, offering the officer a hand. He didn’t take it. ‘I’m one of Mr Buchan’s assistants. I’ve got to deliver these’, he lifted a bundle of papers and folders for the Pc to see, ‘to him for a briefing. But you know how Edinburgh traffic is, I’m running late.’
The Pc looked him over, expression set; the wee boy playing polisman. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, ‘but lay off the loud pedal the next time, okay? That’s not a toy car you’ve got there.’
Doug bowed his head in thanks and hurried for the front door. When Buchan answered it, Doug felt a wave of rage so strong it was almost uncontrollable.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Buchan hissed. His tie was yanked down, and Doug thought he caught a whiff of whisky on his breath. His hair, so perfect in all the press shots Doug had seen, was unkempt, as though raked with his fingers.
‘Doug McGregor.’
He saw recognition crawl over Buchan’s face, disgust and outrage twisting his mouth into a savage sneer. ‘I suggest you don’t make a scene, Dick, unless of course you want me to show this’, he lifted the package from the folders and papers, ‘to that nice policeman there.’
Buchan’s eyes flicked between Doug and what he was carrying, torn. Could he grab it before Doug had time to pull away, could he explain the commotion to the policeman?
No.
‘Come in,’ he said, swinging the door wide. He watched Doug as he stepped into the house, eyes burning with hate. Doug didn’t mind. The feeling was mutual.
Buchan moved across the living room to a large cabinet, tried to block Doug’s view of the whisky with his back as he cleared a glass away. Took a moment to smooth his hair, straighten his tie. To this man, image, control, was everything. But Doug saw through the façade now, knew the real man that lurked beneath the surface.
He was a worse monster than McGinty ever was.
‘So,’ Buchan said, ‘what do you want?’
‘Nothing, really,’ he said. ‘Just to tell you that I know. At first, I couldn’t figure it out – why you would set a thug on me just for finding out about Katherine’s drug problem? Seemed like a bit of an overreaction. After all, the public loves a good sob story. Spin that the right way, you’ve got a guaranteed vote winner. So it didn’t add up, until I looked a little deeper, and found out about your… arrangement… with Bethany Miller.’
From the corridor, Doug thought he heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs. Probably just the old floorboards in the house settling.
Buchan’s eyes were chips of ice behind his glasses. ‘Just get to the point, Mr McGregor. I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
Doug laughed. He couldn’t help it. ‘Mutually beneficial? Oh, you mean like the one you had with Katherine.’ He watched Buchan’s eyes go wide. Tried not to enjoy it too much. ‘Oh yes, I know about it all, Dick, it’s all right here.’ He slid a small A5-sized book from the folder and thumbed through the pages.
‘Oh yes, Katherine kept a diary of what you did to her. From the first time you assaulted her when she was twelve. Every single time.’ Doug’s voice was hoarse with rage now.
‘How DARE you!’ Buchan roared, his face contorted into an almost feral snarl. ‘She was my daughter, I would never….’
‘Forget the act, Dick,’ Doug said. ‘It’s all in there. But it wasn’t about sex for you, was it? Never was. That’s why you went to Bethany when Katherine couldn’t take any more and ran away. Your money, your say, your humiliation. Tell me, Dick, is that what it was? The control? The power?’
He paused, heard Bethany’s voice whisper in his ear. You get him for me. Took a deep breath, drove the knife home.
‘Is that why you had Bethany raped after she took things too far? To show her who was boss? Who was in charge?’
Buchan’s face flushed. A muscle twitched in his jaw, as though he was chewing on something bitter. Maybe he was.
Buchan opened his mouth to speak, took a step forward, hands bunched into fists. As he did, the door creaked open and a haggard-looking woman with lank hair and dead eyes shuffled into the room.
‘Richard,’ she said, her voice as dead as her eyes. ‘I heard voices, what…?’
‘Get out, Linda,’ Buchan hissed, voice so full of rage that his wife flinched away from him. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy here?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ Doug said, forcing his eyes from Buchan’s clenched fists. ‘We’re done, Dick. I’ll assume you won’t want to make an official comment?’
With a roar, Buchan lashed out, grabbing for the folder and the diary. Doug span away, but Buchan knocked his arm up, the folder and papers spraying into the air. Doug lunged forward for them, was grabbed by Buchan and slammed against the wall, making his wounded side scream in protest. Was vaguely aware of Linda Buchan falling to her knees where the folder and diary had landed.
Don’t let her see them, Doug thought. Oh please, Jesus, don’t let her see…
‘You bastard,’ Buchan whispered, his breath sour in Doug’s face. ‘Who do you think you are to…?’
‘Let me go, you sick fuck,’ Doug bellowed, thrashing against Buchan’s grip. No use, the bastard was strong, fuelled by rage.
‘You little shit,’ Buchan hissed, spittle peppering Doug’s face. ‘I’m going to…’
A scream filled the room and Buchan suddenly lurched forward, pinning Doug to the wall. The he fell to the side, hands falling from Doug’s shirt as his wife’s hands snaked around his neck, fingers sinking into his cheeks.
‘BASTARD!’ she shrieked, clawing and biting at him. ‘You bastard! She was your daughter, your daughter, and you raped her. Abused her and drove her to drugs. Bastard!’
Doug lunged for Linda, pulling her off Buchan with all his strength. She lashed out wildly, swinging her arms back and grabbing his head. Doug roared as he felt hair being ripped from his scalp, and threw Linda clear. She landed heavily and slid across the polished wood floor.
Buchan staggered to his feet, using the back of his hand to wipe away the blood gushing from the welts his wife had clawed into his face. He charged into Doug, catching him off balance and driving him to the ground, where he landed on top of him.
‘CUNT!’ he bawled into Doug’s face. ‘I’ll kill you!’ He rocked back and punched Doug in the face as hard as he could. Doug’s head whipped to the side with the impact. His vision blurred, then doubled. His ears rang. Blindly, he flailed out with his hands and grabbed Buchan’s head, driving his fingers into his eyes.
Buchan screeched and fell back. Doug rolled to the side, gasping for breath. Dimly, he could hear the policeman battering at the door, demanding to be let in.
Just kick it down, you stupid little shit, Doug thought as he backed away. Buchan was on his feet again now, wielding a poker from the fireplace. He raised it over his head, eyes burning into Doug’s as he braced himself to bring it down.
Somewhere there was the sound of breaking glass. Maybe the Pc had decided to break in, after all. Too late. Buchan took a step forward.
Doug looked around desperately for a way out, his breath great gasping gulps, searching for something, anything, he could use as a defence, but there was nothing; it was over…
Buchan screamed and staggered backwards, blood spraying from his mouth. The poker dropped to the floor with a heavy clang as he clawed for his back. He crashed into the display cabinet, the crystal inside shattering musically under his weight as wicked shards of the glass dug into his face and arms.
Doug looked around, saw Linda Buchan standing there, her husband’s blood plastering her blouse to her body. She looked down at the jagged shards of the whisky bottle in her bloodied hands, as if reminding herself it was there. Glanced over at Doug and then back at her husband, who was whimpering like a beaten dog, legs prodding out of the ruined cabinet at odd angles. She drop
ped the bottle to the floor, stared at it for a moment, then fell to her hands and knees, scrambling over the shards of glass. Doug could never decide if she was looking for something to finish her husband off, or to use on herself. He managed to find his feet and leapt forward, pushing her clear of the glass. She wailed and lashed out at him, beating at his chest with her small, bloodied fists.
He could feel her hot tears soak into his shirt. Slowly, the screams gave way to bitter, body-wrenching sobs. Doug lay on the ground in a pool of blood and shattered glass, rocking her gently, holding her face tightly to his chest. She had seen Katherine’s diary. Learned the truth. That was enough. He didn’t want her to see the pictures that were scattered across the floor. The pictures of a young woman tied to a bed, naked, humiliated. Broken. The pictures Buchan had insisted McGinty take of the night he raped Bethany Miller.
He closed his eyes tightly, told himself he wasn’t going to cry. Lost the battle long before the ten-year-old policeman charged into the room.
48
Charlie led Derek into the living room, gun trained on his back. When Derek looked to his left, saw his parents tied up on the couch beside Susie, he whirled on Charlie. ‘You fuck!’ he spat. ‘Let them go, they’re just…’
Charlie drove a fist into Derek’s stomach, doubling him over. He gasped and fell to his knees, Charlie following up with a vicious boot to the face. Susie felt bile scald the back of her throat as she heard bone crunch when Charlie kicked Derek in the face again.
‘Leave him alone!’ Rita McGinty shrieked. ‘Just leave him alone, you…’
Charlie pushed the gun into Rita’s face. ‘Shut the fuck up, you stupid old bitch,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll get back to you in a minute, but first…’ He turned back to Derek, swung back his foot and drove it into his stomach. Derek rolled over and wretched, coughing as he fought for breath.
Falling Fast Page 23
