‘But why did she die, then?’ Susie asked, feeling like she was on the wrong page. She hated playing catch-up. ‘Why, if she was about to disappear with the man she loved, did she end up at the bottom of the Scott Monument?’
‘To let Derek be free,’ Doug said, feeling tears behind his eyes. What a fucking mess. ‘It’s all in the diary. She loved Derek. She really did. But this man made himself a rapist for her, a monster, an animal. He basically became her father. And she knew that he – they – would never be free of Buchan’s influence. So the only way to escape for both of them was to take away the control he had over them. It’s the last line in her diary: “This is my choice. Not my father’s, not Derek’s. Mine. Derek always told me to have faith. Believe. And I do. I believe he’s a good man. And I have faith that he will do the right thing.”’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Susie whispered. What would it be like, knowing death was your only option, that it was better than the life you had endured? ‘If Lizzie didn’t have the diary, then who did? Who sent it, and the photo, to you?’
‘McGinty,’ Doug said simply. ‘Think about it, whatever we might think of him, he’s not stupid. He knows that the moment Katherine is dead, Buchan has no reason to keep him alive. So fuck it, why not try to hurt the bastard? But no one is going to believe him if he just rings up and tells his story. No, he needs someone to figure it out for themselves, find the truth on their own. With Bethany, he already showed that he could use people like chess pieces to get what he wanted. So he decided to use me to get at Buchan.’
‘You sure it was him?’
‘Check when you speak to him, but yeah, it was him,’ Doug said. ‘I should have seen it when he first called me. It was the way he spoke, what he said. “Derek McGinty pushed Katherine Buchan to her death.” Not Derek killed Katherine, but pushed her. He blamed himself for putting her in a position where she thought the only way out was to kill herself. And how would she feel, knowing he raped another woman for her? So he phoned me and put me onto his trail, giving me a juicy little titbit to make sure I was interested.’
‘You mean the photo?’
‘Yeah,’ Doug said. ‘A shot like that, Terry says it was most probably taken on a timer from his camera.’
They sat for a moment, alone with their thoughts, silence hanging between them. Doug was turning it over in his mind, how easily he had been played and manipulated by McGinty. And something occurred to him. Being played. Was that it? He thought back to how easily Mike Granger had let him in to the Halfway House, how he was always happy to answer questions. Mike Granger, who, he had once told Doug, moved to Prestonview after working in Edinburgh pubs where ‘he saw some crazy shit’.
Doug thought he was using Mike, but was it the other way round? Was Mike another piece of the puzzle? Did he know Charlie – or Croal or Tomlin? Had he been using Doug the entire time to get to Derek?
A quick call to Rab would answer the question. But later. Not now. He glanced over at Susie.
‘Right, get your jacket,’ Doug said, draining his pint and standing.
Susie’s mind was filled with Charlie’s gun, the impotent terror she felt when he pointed it at her face, the sound it made when it went off, the feel of it when it was smashed over the back of her head. She had thought she was going to die, that…
She blinked back the tears that had been welling in her eyes. ‘Wh… where are we going?’
‘My place,’ Doug said, not taking his eyes off her, hoping she hadn’t misread what he’d said. Her eyes told him she had. ‘Look, we’ve both had an utterly shit day. If you’re like me, you’ve seen a few things that you probably don’t want to sleep with in your head. So, we’re going to my place. We’ll watch a crappy film, get shitfaced and talk until we’re ready to sleep.’ He paused, added: ‘And no arguments, you get the couch. I insist.’
Susie laughed. It hurt her head, but it felt good anyway. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘But how about my place instead? I’ve seen your TV. I’ve got enough of a headache as it is without trying to watch a film on it.’
Doug tried to look hurt. It didn’t work. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, heading for the door and holding it open for her. ‘After you, ma’am.’
They walked out into a typical Edinburgh night; cold and wet. Susie didn’t mind, the chill helped her head.
‘Want to get a taxi?’ Doug asked.
‘Nah, let’s walk a bit,’ she said, pulling her jacket tight against the cold.
They set off down the street. As they walked, Susie felt a flicker of panic. She was playing a dangerous game, she knew it. Burns wouldn’t be happy about the amount of time she was spending with the reporter that had caused him – and her – so much trouble. Weighed it up, found she didn’t care. She could worry about it tomorrow.
Tonight, she needed a friend. Someone who understood what she had been through, who would see her as more than the stupid bitch at the office who fucked her boss, ended his marriage and kept her job. Someone to talk to, confide in.
Off the record, of course.
• • •
Hal stood in the kitchen, lights off, the TV on the wall muted as the news ticker crawled across the screen and a presenter with too-perfect teeth and hair so styled it looked painful silently spoke in front of a picture of Richard Buchan.
The story had begun to break just after 6pm. There weren’t many details, the official line was that Richard Buchan, the Tory MSP who recently lost his daughter, had been hospitalised following an incident believed to involve a member of the press at his Stockbridge home. It hadn’t taken Hal long to get the rest of the story. All it took was a call and a few flattering words to Jonathan.
So now he stood, listening to the gentle hum of the fridge, adding what Jonathan had told him to what he knew. Thinking about the woman involved in the hit-and-run that Buchan covered up with a little help from the then Chief Constable. Was she just an innocent bystander, someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was she something more? Another hooker he decided to use and abuse? Who fought back and paid the price?
Maybe. And even if she was, so what? It wasn’t Hal’s business. Buchan wasn’t his client. He had been hired to do a job, had done it. End of story.
Except…
Except, every time Hal thought about it, about what Buchan had done to his own daughter, he thought of Jennifer. Lying in his arms, helpless, defenceless, relying on him – her father – to protect her from the world. And he would. He knew that.
His phone was in his hand before he realised it, the text written. ‘You might want to have a look at Buchan’s car crash from a few years ago. Ask the Chief Superintendent about the girl who wasn’t there and absolutely wasn’t hurt. Call me if you want to know more.’
Hit send, switched the phone off. If McGregor was going to reply, Hal didn’t want to deal with it.
Not tonight. Not when he had a daughter to kiss goodnight and a husband to hold in the dark.
• • •
Sam found the picture two days later, wedged between the shed and fence at the bottom of the garden, roughly wrapped in an old jacket. It was a portrait photograph of a woman on a beach, arms wrapped around herself, smiling against the wind that whipped her hair into long blonde streamers around her head. She was beautiful, but she looked tired to Sam.
There was nothing with the photo, but when he flipped it over, he found ‘Eric Mullard Studios’ printed on the back of the frame, along with a handwritten scrawl: ‘So I can watch you while you work,’ it read. ‘I have faith, Derek, thanks to you. Love you, Kx’
Sam rewrapped the picture in the jacket and took it back to the house. He would hang it in Derek’s room. It would be there for him when he came home.
Acknowledgements
With huge thanks to Bob McDevitt for his unstinting support of my work, Craig and Sara at Saraband for putting me on a bookshelf, Joe Farquharson for the brilliant cover design and the sprints between streetlamps, and my Mum and Dad for (almost) never co
mplaining about the printer churning out yet another story at 2am when I was growing up.
And, of course, to my wife, Fiona, who encouraged me every step of the way and remains the best decision I ever made. Love you, B – always.
About the Author
Neil Broadfoot worked as a journalist for fifteen years at both national and local newspapers, covering some of the biggest stories of the day. A poacher turned gamekeeper, he has since moved into communications: providing media relations advice for a variety of organisations, from Strathclyde Fire & Rescue Service to high-profile sporting clubs in Scotland. He’s now working as a communications officer for the Scottish Government.
Neil is married to Fiona and a father to two girls, meaning he’s completely outnumbered in his own home. He lives in Dunfermline, the setting for his first job as a local reporter. Falling Fast is his first novel.
Copyright
Contraband is an imprint of Saraband
Published by Saraband
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road
Glasgow, G3 6HB, Scotland
www.saraband.net
Copyright © Neil Broadfoot 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 9781908643537
ebook: 9781908643544
Printed in the EU on sustainably sourced paper.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Editor: Craig Hillsley
Text design by Laura Jones
Uncorrected proof copy
Falling Fast Page 25
