10
The wind shimmered in the nearby trees and bushes, a somehow comforting sound that carried away the drone of Princes Street below. From here, Paul could see the entire stretch of the street all the way to the West End, the first of the car lights coming on as street lights began to glow softly. He could see people moving along the crowded pavements, heading home, to the shops, or for a post-work drink.
He wished he could do the same. But no. As they were heading home, closing their doors against the cold and the dark, he was just waking up, another day of sunlight lost to him in a stupor of drink and whatever he could cram up his nose. He was on an addiction counselling programme now, one of the hoops he had to jump through every week to get a benefits payment that barely covered a pint of milk and the electric bill. It was meant to be helping.
If only.
He tucked his hands deeper in his pockets, fingers searching instinctively in the corners for something to take away the steadily rising ache in his muscles and bones. Soon the ache would become sharper, stabbing, an open sore of raw hunger as his body started to protest that his latest hit was overdue.
He would have to see Frankie before that. Frankie would help. Frankie would take the hunger away.
Paul turned his back on Princes Street, eyes scanning the near-deserted car park in front of him. He saw movement in the bushes to the left; a small, squat-looking man in a long jacket moving slowly into the foliage, casting long glances back to him over his shoulder.
He patted the bulge in his jeans pocket – the condoms were still there. He tried to think of Frankie as he followed the man into the bushes, glad that the growing heat in his groin was blotting out the bitter hunger in his veins.
11
Susie glanced up at the clock on the wall as the buzzer echoed through the flat, startling her out of the Zen-like state she’d lulled herself into whilst tidying up. 7.55pm. Doug was early. Definitely not himself – for a man who spent his life chasing deadlines and hitting them, Doug’s personal timekeeping was as haphazard as his hair.
She cast a quick glance around the living room, one final check to make sure there was nothing left out that Doug shouldn’t see. It was one of the least pleasant parts of spending time with Doug – she liked his company, found him easy to talk to, but the copper/reporter issue was always just there, like a fresh bruise still sore to the touch. And with Doug being as observant and quick as he was, she didn’t want him knowing more about what she was working on than she wanted him to know. So the case reports she was drafting were packed away in the bedroom, along with the brochures for cheap holidays she’d picked up on a whim and the latest self-improvement book she’d bought a couple of days earlier. Another little reminder of the Buchan case, she thought. She’d been forced to sit through a series of counselling sessions after the case – for some reason, her bosses were funny about letting her back on the job after she’d had a gun shoved in her face and been taken hostage by a maniac – and while most of it was tedious nonsense, some of what she had learned about using traumatic memories and taking the pain from them had stuck with her, led her to read more on the subject.
She walked into the hall, lifted the handset and pressed the buzzer. The small screen flared into life, slowly resolving into a grainy, black and grey image of Broughton Road with Doug standing just off centre.
She hit the buzzer again, heard the door unlock. “Come on up, Doug,” she said into the handset. He smiled into the camera a little too widely, nodded and pulled open the door. Susie took a breath then opened her front door, listened as Doug climbed the four flights of stairs to her flat.
He arrived on the landing a moment later, the colour in his cheeks only partly due to the exertion of climbing the stairs. He lifted a plastic bag to eye level. “Hey, Susie. Wine as promised, and takeaway menus. Anything in mind?”
She shrugged. “Chinese, maybe?”
“You surprise me,” he said, flashing another one of those false smiles she had seen at the hospital.
They went into the flat, Susie taking his coat at the door, catching a subtle whiff of whisky below the peppermint tang of mouthwash as she did. When he walked into the living room, he followed the same ritual as always – head for the bay window which overlooked the industrial estate behind the flats, glance out then do a slow turn back into the room, eyes darting everywhere at once.
“Take a seat,” she said, “I’ll get a corkscrew for the wine.”
He nodded and flopped down into one of the two sofas that were crammed into the room, both at right angles to the TV that dominated the space. It was Susie’s one vice, and one of the first things she discovered she had in common with Doug – a passion for movies. But while Doug was content to watch them on whatever he could find, Susie demanded the best. Blu-ray DVD player, surround sound speakers – which Doug had helped her fit – and, of course, the monster TV.
She came back into the room with a corkscrew and two glasses, found Doug had placed the wine, and a bottle of Jameson’s, on the table in front of him like a mission statement. His gaze was fixed on them, but Susie knew they weren’t what he was seeing. She had picked up a copy of the Tribune on the way home and read his article on Greig’s murder. It was typical Doug – well written, thorough, concise. No time wasted on cheap plays for sympathy, no attempts to shock or titillate the reader with overly graphic detail, which made it all the more harrowing. Reading it, Susie could almost feel Doug radiating off the page – his frustration, his revulsion, his impotence as a man he knew was slaughtered in front of him for no clear reason.
She placed the glasses on the table, took the wine and poured. Decided against diving straight in.
“So, you finally call your folks back?” she asked as she sat on the other couch, her legs already starting to complain about the workout earlier.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, yeah,” he said, reaching for the glass in a reflex motion. “Promised I was fine, said I’d go see them tomorrow maybe. Also fended off the offer of a drink and a chat from Rab MacFarlane.”
Susie grimaced slightly. Rab MacFarlane was a big name in the security and events industry in Edinburgh. He had doormen at just about every pub and club in town, all watched over and deployed with military precision by his wife, Janet. Susie knew that Rab had helped Doug out with contacts from time to time. She also knew about his less-than-savoury reputation in some areas of Police Scotland, and a small group of detectives taking a very close interest in his business affairs.
But that was a topic for another night.
“So, what you going to do with all this time off you’ve got?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation light, at least until she’d had a couple more glasses of wine.
Doug shook his head. “Later,” he said, fishing in the discarded bag and producing a pile of menus. “First, we eat.” An image of Greig flashed into his mind. Blood, almost black, like oil. That look in his eyes.
“If we can,” he muttered.
12
Paul swilled the whisky around his mouth, trying to kill the stale, rancid taste. It didn’t work, and he shuddered slightly as he swallowed. Normally he would have insisted on a condom, but the trick on Calton Hill – “Marcus, you must call me Marcus” – had offered an extra £20 if he would suck him off bareback. So he took the money. After all, he needed it.
But he needed something more than a small warm dick and a grubby £20 note now. His skin prickled with cold sweat, waves of hunger rolling through his body in oily cramps. Even sitting in the pub – a small, dimly lit dive just off Leith Walk, five minutes from Calton Hill – with his jacket on and huddled next to a radiator, he felt cold.
Where the fuck was Frankie? Paul glanced across at his mobile sitting on the table beside his whisky. No messages. He swore under his breath, picked up the phone with a hand that wasn’t quite steady and hit Redial, clamped it to his ear as he listened to it ring.
Come on come on come on come…
A standard pre-recorded message filled his ears, asking him to speak after the tone.
“SHIT!” The phone skittered across the table, clattered to the floor. Behind the bar an old man, with grey hair cut so short that his scalp shone through, looked up from pulling a pint of bitter, a don’t-start-any-shit look etching a deep scowl into his forehead and pulling his lips into a tight sneer.
Paul downed the last of his whisky, picked up the phone and headed for the door – the barman’s eyes sliding across the room with him.
Fine, fuck it, Paul thought. Frankie wasn’t the only source in town. Didn’t matter if Frankie had the best stuff, someone else always had what he needed. Maybe that wee fuckwit, Matty.
Paul wrapped himself tight against the wind, crossing his arms over his chest and clamping down on the clenching, gnawing pain as much as he could. He walked with his head down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
Matty would help him out. Matty would take the hunger away.
13
The takeaway cartons lay strewn across the coffee table like rubble, along with scrunched-up napkins and discarded chopsticks. Susie surveyed the wreckage, noting ruefully that most of Doug’s meal – sweet and sour chicken – was barely touched, while she had demolished her Szechuan beef. So much for healthy eating.
With a sigh to disguise a burp, she got up and started clearing, which Doug took as a cue to top up the wine glasses.
“Easy,” she said, feeling a little light-headed as she moved. “I’m back in court tomorrow, don’t want a hangover.”
“Noted,” he replied, nodding the wine bottle to her gently then sloshing what was left into his own glass.
She rolled her eyes and took the containers to the kitchen, where she dumped them into the bin before flicking on the kettle. She only felt a hint of guilt as she glanced at the unused Tupperware containers she had bought to arrange the recycling in.
Back in the living room, Doug was hunched over his phone, staring intently.
“Thought you were here because you didn’t want to be contacted,” she said, putting a coffee down in front of him and hoping he took the hint.
“Research,” he said, handing the phone to her, his gaze only slightly blurred by the wine. The web browser app was open, a Google search for Jonathan Greig displaying a screen full of results.
Despite herself, and the warnings from Burns, Susie smiled. Same old Doug. No matter what happened, the story came first. And, after the hollowed-out shell she had found at the hospital, it was good to see him more like himself, even if he was riding a wave of booze to do it.
“Anything interesting?” she asked as she settled back into her sofa.
“Not really,” he said, the edge of frustration obvious in his voice. “Just what I already know. Jonathan Greig, award-winning journalist and father of three. Started his career on the local press in Stirling then landed a job at the Tribune as a general reporter in 1981. Worked his way up to news editor, deputy editor then editor in 2007. Few links to some of his articles, some not bad stuff there. Lot of headlines around his testimony to the Commons on press regulation around the hacking scandal and his run-in with the Committee chair – you remember, when he compared him to Big Brother and suggested they set up a Ministry of Truth? Other than that, not much. Definitely nothing to explain what happened today.”
“Whatever the explanation, I’d love to hear it,” Susie said. “Must be a hell of a story to justify a professional hit like that.”
A shudder twisted up Doug’s spine. A professional hit. Four sounds, three shots, two hits. The look of terror frozen in Greig’s eyes.
For an instant, something caught in the back of his mind. Like the after-image of a dream that fades the harder you try to remember it. Something. Like rocks just below the tide.
What? Four sounds. Three shots. Something about that.
Exact. Clinical. Professional.
He shook himself from his thoughts, vaguely aware Susie had been speaking to him.
“Sorry, what?”
“I was just reminding you not to get too involved in this. I hate to admit it, but your boss is right. You can’t look into this, Doug. You’re a witness. Give your statement and walk away, let us handle it.”
“But you’re not, are you?” he said, anger clearing the wine-induced blur in his eyes. “And that’s my fault, isn’t it? You’re sidelined on a national case because of me. And we both know you’d do a better job than Burns, King or the rest of those fuckwits.”
The reply was out of Susie’s mouth before she could stop it. “You have the same opinion of Rebecca? Or is she excluded because she doesn’t carry a warrant card?”
Doug stared at her, wine glass halfway to his lips, an expression she couldn’t read flitting across his face like a fast-moving weather front.
“Susie, I…”
“No, Doug. Just fucking leave it, okay?” she snapped, surprised by the anger that flashed through her; sudden, blinding, like metal catching dazzling sunlight. “Yes, you’re right, I’m off the case. And yes, I could do with being on it. And yes, I’m being watched a little too closely by Burns and all the wankers upstairs, mostly because of the shitstorm you stirred up with Richard Buchan last year.”
She threw back the rest of her wine in a jerking motion then clattered the glass back onto the table, hoping it would cool the rage bubbling in the back of her throat. It didn’t.
“But you know what really fucks me off, Doug? After everything, you think I’m just another one of them, just another copper blundering through their job, waiting for the brilliant Doug McGregor to ask the questions they were too stupid to think of. Well I don’t fucking need it, okay Doug? You want someone to swoon at your genius, go talk to Rebecca.”
Doug stared at her in confusion. He opened his mouth, closed it, and the sudden silence rushed in on them. He reached forward, took the whisky, and sloshed a shot into her wine glass before pouring one into his own. Raised his glass, tipped it towards her slightly. When he spoke, his voice was colder than the rain pitter-pattering on the windows.
“I don’t want to talk to Rebecca just now, Susie. I’ve had a shit, shit day, and all I wanted was to talk to my friend. If that’s overstepping the mark, especially now, I’m sorry. But I just thought that…”
His phone started to chatter on the table’s glass surface. He reached for it, ready to switch it off, then paused. And for the second time in a matter of minutes, a wave of expressions Susie couldn’t understand flitted across his face, until one settled on his features that she did understand.
Relief.
He glanced an apology to Susie and she waved him away almost angrily, biting back whatever it was that was clawing up her throat and stinging her eyes.
When he spoke, his voice was nervous, tentative, the coldness from only moments ago gone.
“Hello? Harvey? That you?”
He paused, listening. The first real smile she had seen twitching across his face as he ran his free hand through his hair rapidly. “Aye, fair enough. Should have known better than that. Sorry.” Pause. Enthusiastic nodding. Then sudden laughter, sounding all the more surreal in the charged aftermath of their argument. “Fuck off, you’re no’ getting a quote from me.” Another pause, chin dropping to his chest. “Really? That…” A glance up, shy, apologetic. “That would be great, Harvey. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Silence as the other end of the line spoke. “Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. Give Esther my love, too. See you.”
He clicked the phone off, let his hand drop slowly into his lap. Chewed his lip for a moment, then downed the whisky in a gulp. When he looked at Susie, she felt a jolt of cold shock as she saw tears glisten in his eyes.
“Who the hell was that?”
Doug shook his head, the smile returning to his lips. “I’ll get to that in a min
ute,” he said as he reached for the whisky. “But first, let me ask you a question.”
“What?” she said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.
“Ever been to Skye?” he asked, eyes dancing with mischief as he reached for her glass and downed her whisky as well.
14
Charlie Montgomery loved the morning. He loved to rise early and work while the world roused around him. He loved the thought of his opponents stirring from their warm, soft beds, sleep-addled and slow, groping for coffee, while he was already in top gear, ticking along with the precision of a fine watch, already well on the way to beating them.
The thought made him smile as he finished his morning ritual of press-ups and coffee, the first sunlight paling the darkness outside to a deep burgundy that made it look as if the sky was a huge stage curtain draped in front of his windows.
Home was a penthouse flat in Leith, tucked behind the Ocean Terminal shopping centre. It had been overpriced when he bought it seven years ago, and the crash a few years back had done nothing to help its value, but it was worth it. Charlie loved the open-plan design, the space and the balcony that, on a good day, gave him clear views across the Forth to Fife and beyond.
It was a long, long way from the council house he had grown up in with his parents and brother in Bonnybridge. He had a picture on the partition wall between the kitchen and the living area of him and his brother aged about twelve standing in their garden, the house a pebble-dashed monstrosity sitting squat and ugly and grey behind them. He hated the picture, hated his brother even more, but he kept it there as a reminder.
The Storm Page 4
