The Storm

by Neil Broadfoot

  “You better not, Paul. You better not. Stevie. One hour. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  And then the phone clicked and Frankie was gone. Paul looked out at the pedestrians on Princes Street, envying them their ignorance as they bustled around the streets, heading for the shops or work or home.

  He wished he had that choice.

  25

  Rebecca was prepping her notes for the afternoon press conference when her phone went. She reached for it without taking her eyes off the screen, annoyed at the interruption. She glanced up at the clock. Twenty minutes. This better not be another agency call asking for advance sight of the release and one-on-ones with Burns, the Area Commander or the Chief.

  “Press office, Summers.”

  “Rebecca? Rebecca, it’s me.”

  She straightened in her chair, a cold prickle running down her back.

  Calm, Rebecca. Calm.

  “Doug? How’s Skye?” Tone light, casual. Good.

  “Great, you should have taken me up on my offer,” he said, his voice hesitant but, she was glad to hear, sounding more like himself. The stress she had heard when he called this morning, like the creaking of a guitar string being over-tightened, was gone, replaced by something perhaps even more worrying.

  Excitement.

  “Maybe next time,” she said, her voice sounding harsh in her ears. “Anyway, why the call? Wasn’t just to say hello, was it?”

  He gave that laugh that only he thought was shy. “Ah, no. ’Fraid not, Rebecca. Look, I heard about Montgomery, wondered if there was anything you could tell me. Don’t think I’m going to make the press conference.”

  She swallowed back the anger, resisted the urge to snap the pen she was holding. Just. “Don’t worry, it’s covered. I got a call from Angus about twenty minutes ago, he’s covering it for the Trib with Robbie.”

  “What, the Dynamic Duo? You’d be lucky if they could write a once-upon-a-time story, let alone this. Come on, Rebecca, please. If there’s something, anything…”

  “Why, Doug?” she snapped, surprised by the sudden anger. “Why ask me? You’re not working at the moment, Walt’s orders, Angus told me. So who are you writing this for? And why call me? It’s not like we can go out for a cosy drink and chat it over afterwards, is it?”

  Silence on the other end of the phone. For a moment she thought he had hung up, wasn’t sure whether she felt disappointment or relief. Then his voice, slow, hesitant. She could see him running his hand through his hair, spiking it up in that way he did.

  “Look, Rebecca. I’m sorry about this. Really, I am. Sorry about the other night, sorry if things got out of hand and I crossed a line. But it’s not like it’s been a normal week for me, is it? I’m a reporter, I want to report. I…” He coughed, frustration as he fumbled for the words. “I need to. If you can’t, or won’t help, I understand, I’ll check the wires and my other contacts and do it that way. But if there’s anything you can do, please…”

  Rebecca chewed her lip, torn. She hated this. He hadn’t crossed any line she didn’t want him to, so why did she feel he had? Why was she at once hurt and elated when he called, why the flash of anger when the call turned out to be all about the work. It had only been one drink, one night, but still…

  Other contacts.

  She sighed. “All right. But this is strictly on embargo until the press conference is over, okay Doug? I’ll send you the release and the copy of the statements by Burns and the AC. But that’s it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Doug said. He sounded like a kid being given a puppy. “That’s great, thanks Rebecca. And listen, I… I really am sorry about all this. Guess it was a bad week to go for a drink.”

  “You can buy me another one to make up for it,” she said, instantly regretting it.

  “It’s a date,” he replied, a little too quickly.

  Fuck it, she thought, go for broke. He owed her. “Look, Doug. I know this is a tough time, and I really hope that seeing your old boss is what you need. But I don’t want to be messed around. Happened too many times before. If that’s that, fine, but don’t string me along, okay?”

  “I wasn’t,” he said. “Really, Rebecca. It’s just, I…”

  Her mobile pinged, no doubt another reporter. Funny how she was everyone’s best friend when there was a big story breaking.

  “Doug, I have to go. I’ll send you that stuff across, let you know how the presser goes.” She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Jumped. Added: “For all the good it’ll do you.”

  “Oh, I’ll talk Walter round,” Doug said, the old practised charm in his voice. “Angus can butcher the presser, I’ll do the follow-up when I get back tomorrow.”

  “It’s not Walter you have to worry about Doug, it’s my boss. And the courts, if and when this goes to a trial. Can’t have a witness for the prosecution being cited as a reporter in the pre-trial media storm.”

  “What? Burns? Look, I know Third Degree doesn’t like me, but he can’t stop me on this one…” His voice trailed off as the penny dropped. Must have still been in shock. It took him longer than Rebecca would have supposed.

  “Wait, Rebecca. Trial? A trial? You’re treating these two murders as one case?”

  “I never said anything, Doug. Just be careful about the questions you ask, okay? And call me when you get back tomorrow, I think we should talk.”

  She cut the line before he could reply, stared blankly at the screen. Hit a few keys and sent him the press release and statements before she could change her mind then rocked back in her chair and thought about two nights ago, when the wine had flowed and the talk had been a world away from murder and press conferences and work. Wondered if that story was over, found herself not wanting to know the answer.

  26

  After leaving Diane Pearson, Susie headed for the police station in Rosyth, which she found – after much swearing at the sat-nav and three passes of a hotel called the Gothenburg, a bookies and a pool hall – was a small, single-storey structure trying and failing to blend into its residential surroundings on Crossroads Place.

  It was probably a waste of time, there was nothing in what Pearson had said to indicate she was lying, but Susie hated loose ends. And an ex who had prison time in his past seemed like a very big loose end. Better to check.

  She showed her warrant card to the desk sergeant – a huge, florid-faced man with sideburns he’d brought from the Seventies and a voice too soft for his massive frame – and asked for PC Mathers.

  “She’s no’ in, hen… ah, Detective Sergeant,” the Man Mountain replied, his face, remarkably, going a shade redder. “She’s at a school visit in the toon. You want the address?”

  Susie shook her head. The last thing she needed today was a visit to a high school. “Nah, but can you give her a message? Ask her to pull the family details on Diane Pearson and send them to me. And ask her to call me when she gets back.” Susie pushed her card under the glass barrier of the reception desk.

  The sergeant picked it up in a hand that looked like a baseball glove, turned it delicately in his fingers as though it was some rare and precious jewel.

  “No problem, guv,” he said. “Will do.”

  Susie nodded and headed for the car. Sat in, stuck the key in the ignition and paused. What now? Burns said he wanted her “out of the way”, meaning she would be about as welcome as a priest at a soft-play centre back at the CID suite. But she was damned if she was going to let that stop her doing her job. He had said she was on the cases, all of them. Fine. She made a quick mental calculation, decided Burns would be out of the CID suite, prepping for the press conference with Rebecca. Called DC King’s number from memory.

  As she expected, King wasn’t there, but a voice identifying herself as PC Chambers answered the line.

  “Hi, Anna? Anna, it’s Susie. Listen, need a favour. I’m on my way to an interview and I need the Mont
gomery and Greig case files. Yes, yes, I know, I shouldn’t ask for copies, but Burns will have my ass if I’m not prepped for this witness. Could you get a set down to the front desk for me, ready for pick up in, say, forty-five minutes? Great, thanks.”

  She cut the line, smiled. Perfect. As long as Chambers didn’t run screaming to King or Burns, she could scoop up the files, read them at home.

  She drove out of the car park, hit the bypass and hammered her foot to the floor. Forty-five minutes to get back was cutting it fine, and she didn’t want to keep Chambers waiting.

  The phone chirped on the passenger seat just as she was crossing the bridge. She flipped it over, saw the caller ID – Doug-mobile. She glanced at the dashboard clock, smiled. 2.51pm. The press conference was due to start at three. So obviously he’d heard about Charlie and was calling for the lowdown. But, she thought, he was leaving it kind of late, especially if he wanted some kind of line he could spin to his newsdesk.

  Unless, of course, she wasn’t the first person he had called.

  Susie turned her attention back to the road, concentrated on driving that bit faster. It was another unanswered question. And right now she had enough of those to deal with – the last thing she needed was another.

  27

  “Come on, Walter, I’m only asking for a look at Charlie’s obit, no’ a peek at the secret archive of Margaret Thatcher’s dildos. Where’s the harm?”

  Doug was pacing back and forth on the driveway at the front of the hotel, feet scrunching on the gravel, phone pinned to his ear, mind spinning. If what Rebecca had hinted was right, then there was some kind of link between Greig’s and Charlie’s deaths. Question was, what? A journalist and a lawyer. Not the most popular of professions, but hardly a prime target for would-be serial killers. Especially not serial killers proficient with sniper rifles. So, what? There must be something to link the two of them, something that made them a target.

  What?

  His first instinct had been to phone Susie and see what, if anything, she knew. No answer, which didn’t surprise him as much as the relief he felt when the phone clicked over to her voicemail.

  He glanced back at the hotel, saw Harvey calmly watching him, lifting his glass to toast him through the window. Doug nodded back. Facts, he needed facts. And the Tribune seemed a good place to start.

  At the other end of the line, Walter grunted. “Look, Doug, ah told you. Take some time off, get away. Last thing you need is to be working a story.”

  “No, what you said was the last thing I needed was to be working Jonathan’s story. And I’m not…” As far as you know, Doug thought. “So come on, Walter. I’ll be back tomorrow, do the follow-ups then. So what’s the harm in me looking at what you’ve got, getting a bit of background on the guy?”

  Walter gave a resigned sigh. “Aye, a’right. I’ll ping you Warren’s obit up when he’s finished it. But nae shit Doug, okay? I’ve got coppers crawling all over this place, camera crews begging for interviews. Last thing I need is you blundering in and stirring up the shit with the cops over this one, okay?”

  “Who? Me? Walter, as if I would.”

  “Aye, right. See you tomorrow.” And the line went dead.

  Doug was heading back to the hotel, casting longing glances at the parked-up cars, when his phone beeped, telling him he had mail. He flicked open the email app, smiled.

  Here you go, the obit. No shit, Doug, or the next masterwork obit will be about the poor crime reporter that didn’t listen to his boss. Drive safe. See you tomorrow. W.

  Same old Walter. A soft, warm core of molten rage hidden underneath that rough exterior.

  He skimmed through the copy, nodding approvingly. It was a good piece, although it was obvious Warren had been forced to pad a lot to hit the wordcount. Lots of detail, not a lot of character.

  Charles Edward Montgomery, born 1960 in Bonnybridge, UFO capital of Scotland, to Edward and Helen Montgomery. One younger brother, Angus. His father was the local bobby, his mother a teacher. Leaving school, he headed for Dundee University to study law. Showed a passing interest in student politics, with references to him being a part of the student Lib Dems during his time there. He graduated in 1981, worked at a couple of small firms in Stirling before being headhunted by Wallace and Dean, one of the bigger legal firms in Edinburgh at the time. He handled a few high-profile cases, soon became known as the defence lawyer no-one wanted to need. Made a name for himself by campaigning against the trams when they were proposed, going so far as to offer free legal advice to any shop owners on Leith Walk who were affected by the work, which was, ultimately, abandoned. Trams go off the tracks as Leith link derailed, was one of the better headlines at the time.

  There was scant information about his personal life in the obit, which only stated that he was survived by his brother. No wife, kids, girlfriend or boyfriend named, and some glowing quotes about his “dedication and professionalism” from Matthew Wallace, the co-founder of Wallace and Dean.

  Doug swore under his breath. Useless. He opened up the internet app, started Googling Charlie’s name, but the pages came back cluttered with news reports of his death and pictures of the News Steps, where he died.

  News Steps…

  Doug stopped dead. Stood up straight. Strained his ears as though listening for a whisper. Something hot and prickly and ancient crawled across the back of his neck and whispered in his ear and he whirled round, feeling the pressure of someone’s gaze on him. Looked up at the hill to the back of the hotel, nothing there but the trees swaying gently in the wind.

  He shook his head. Still jumping at shadows. No surprise really given…

  Look at me.

  …what he had seen.

  He fumbled to regain his train of thought. Something about the News Steps where Charlie had died.

  News Steps…

  No, not News Steps. News.

  “You fucking moron,” he whispered to himself. Why had he wasted time phoning Walter? Charlie Montgomery was a lawyer in Edinburgh when the reporter who taught Doug the trade had been working the beat.

  The reporter now sitting quietly drinking whisky in the bar of his hotel.

  Doug hurried inside, eager to ask Harvey a few questions, and wondering how, after all these years, he was going to interview him.

  28

  PC Chambers had been as good as her word, getting the copies of the Greig and Montgomery files to the front door of the station without bumping into Burns or King. They were waiting for Susie when she arrived, double-parking and hopping out of the car. She swapped the desk sergeant’s world-weary scowl for a grateful smile as she took the files, dropped them on the back seat and then headed for her flat on Broughton Road. From the station, it would only have been a twenty-minute walk, but she wanted the car with her, just in case Burns got it into his head to send her on another wild goose chase.

  She ran up the stairs to the flat two at a time, partly because she was eager to get reading, partly because she knew it was likely to be about the only exercise she would get for the day. With all the background reading she had to do on the Greig and Montgomery cases, and Diane Pearson’s notes to write up, the gym was off the agenda.

  She was breathing heavily when she got to the front door of the flat, a small tremor in her hand from the exertion as she unlocked the door. Dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes, Susie dumped the files in the living room and headed for the kitchen. She boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea, then carried it back to the living room and dumped the lot on the coffee table. Paused for a moment when she saw the discarded Chinese menu from last night, briefly thought about calling Doug back. She got as far as fishing her phone out of her pocket and starting to dial before she tossed the phone across to the couch he had sat on.

  Doug could wait. If he was desperate, he would get what he needed from Rebecca, just like every other reporter. In the meantime, sh
e had work to do.

  She poured a mug of strong tea – paint stripper, Doug called it – then curled up on the couch and pulled the sheaf of files to her. She decided to take them chronologically, starting with Greig before moving on to Charlie. Aside from being the rational approach, it also, she thought, gave her a little time to prepare for the sight of that knife sticking out of Charlie’s temple again.

  She saw her mistake as soon as she flipped open the file. The pictures were a nightmare of violence, frozen moments of terror and blood screaming silently from the glossy paper. She had met Greig a couple of times, most notably when he had hauled Doug over the coals in front of her for keeping vital information from the police during the Buchan story. Her overall impression was of a man who valued control, respect, dignity.

  There was no dignity in the images in front of her now. Greig was lying on the floor, his head twisted at a horribly improbable angle, eyes forced wide by agony and terror and disbelief, flecks of blood covering his pale cheeks like freckles. A long, deep gash ran across his forehead like a bloody zipper, and Susie shuddered as an image of Danny Pearson and the stitches running across his head flashed into her mind.

  She flicked back and forth through the reports, finding the key details. No real surprise. Cause of death was massive blood loss coupled with catastrophic damage to internal organs. The first shot had clipped his carotid artery in the neck as it tore out part of his windpipe, the second had pierced his heart before depositing what was left of it and the surrounding organs onto the desk in front of him. According to Williams’ report, he would have been dead before he cracked his skull open on the desk.

  She rifled through the pages, coming to the report on the sniper’s nest. Pulled the pictures out, flicked between them and the reports from ballistics and the SOCOs.

  She was looking at a small patch of flattened grass nestled in between two jutting outcrops of rock, only about ten feet across by eight feet long. Another establishing shot of Arthur’s Seat – the extinct volcano that loomed over the Edinburgh skyline like the grass-covered back of a sleeping giant – showed the area highlighted. It was on a slope about a third of the way up Samson’s Ribs, the gravel walkway that led up and around the main body of Arthur’s Seat. It was a steep path, with sheer rocks on the left and a grass bank leading back down to Holyrood Park on the other. At the time of the killing, and with the weather, it would have been exceptionally quiet, giving the killer all the time they needed to take the shots.