Susie sighed. “Nothing definitive yet. Diane Pearson was at work in Edinburgh at the suspected time of her son’s death – claims she was with clients all morning. CCTV from the hospital is inconclusive – there’s a fair bit of activity in the main hall at the supposed time of death as it’s near the start of visiting hour. A couple of potential matches with Pearson’s description in the footage, but the video quality isn’t great and there’s no facial recognition given the angle of the cameras to ‘protect the rights of patients’.”
Rebecca nodded. Not a good news story. “Anything on Pearson himself?”
Susie shook her head, ponytail whipping lazily in and out of the water. “Again, nothing concrete. Last known address was in Union Place. He must have been taking casual work, as there’s no list of him taking benefits or registering for the dole. His Army pension was paid into his account as normal, records show he was making fairly regular withdrawals, keeping himself quiet. We’ve got officers asking neighbours, but nothing conclusive. Seems he kept himself to himself. Hasn’t been seen for a couple of weeks.”
“So, what’s next?”
Susie shrugged, stood up, sleeked her hair back and waded towards the steps of the jacuzzi. “Keep watching. Look for known associates, though there’s not many of them, put a quiet bulletin out to all areas asking for them to be on the lookout. We’ve got his car registration, so if he’s using that it should help. But still…”
“Not great.” Rebecca paused, a thought she didn’t want to have occurring to her. “Have you thought about asking…?”
Susie shook her head. “Yes, I have. But no. He’s in Skye, trying to get his head together. I’ve already got one missed call from him, last thing I need is to call him back and give him an excuse to get involved in this.”
Rebecca thought of her own call with Doug, before the shit hit the fan at the press conference. Surely he couldn’t have, wouldn’t have?
“But if he could help?”
Susie chewed her lip, stared at Rebecca. Seemed to be on the verge of saying something then turned and dove into the pool. Rebecca watched her, feeling that familiar pang of jealousy as Susie cut through the water almost effortlessly, long toned limbs moving like the parts of a machine as she swam.
When they’d first met down in the Borders, they were both new to their jobs; Susie was freshly promoted to plain clothes, and they bonded over their shared awkwardness. As time passed they became friends, sharing their frustrations at the job and the inbuilt sexism they faced. From the start, Susie’s attitude had impressed Rebecca. She wished she had her confidence, the ability to go for what she wanted no matter what, to take no shit, whether that was from colleagues or superiors. Coming from a farming background, with three brothers and a father whose idea of weekend fun was a trip to the church followed by Songs of Praise on the TV, Susie’s attitude was a revelation.
And now there was Doug to consider. Yes, Susie had introduced them, ostensibly so they could work together, but still, was there something more to it? She could see how worried Susie was about him – she felt the same way – but there was something else. Something about the way she silenced her when she suggested calling him to help find Pearson.
Susie had told her about the Buchan case, about how Doug had found leads that she couldn’t as a police officer, so what was the problem? After all, Doug had told her about their night, hadn’t he? She had told her that he called to say he had had fun. But still, there was that nagging feeling of an invisible border about to be crossed. What was it Doug had said? It’s a date. But was that what she wanted? Is that what Susie wanted?
With a sigh, Rebecca hauled herself out of the jacuzzi and jumped into the pool. To hell with it. They were going for a drink after this, no matter what Susie said. And while they were drinking, they were going to have a talk.
33
Doug woke with a start, temporarily disorientated. There was an awful moment of vertigo when he didn’t know where he was, couldn’t figure out why nothing in his room was where it should be, why his bed had sprouted four posts and ornate carvings overnight.
He reached for his habitual glass of water where he thought his bedside table would be, swore as a glass hit the floor and the smell of whisky stung his nose. Slowly, realisation slipped into his mind as the fog of dreams rolled away. Skye. He was on Skye. After saying goodnight to Harvey last night he had gone to the bar, ordered a whisky and come to bed. Lain down and closed his eyes, tried to force his thoughts into some form of order as he avoided remembering…
Look at me.
…what had happened to Greig. He must have blacked out then, from sheer exhaustion. He remembered now. The whisky he had just knocked over had been full when he spilled it.
He stood up, stretched, still not quite able to believe he had slept after the events of the last couple of days. Walked over to the bay window and swept back the heavy velvet curtains that kept the room in unnatural gloom.
The mini-suite Harvey and Esther had put him in was spectacular. It was dominated by a huge four-poster bed, which was separated from a small living area by one of two couches that sat in an L-shape. The layout was similar to his own flat in Musselburgh, but much more tastefully done.
The front of the room was taken up by a floor-to-ceiling bay window, which looked out to the Sound of Sleat and back over to the mainland. The sky was like the blurred palette of a water-colour artist, swirling greys and blues shot through with bronzed fingers of sunlight, as though God was shining a flashlight through the heavy cloud. The light flecked the water with silver, threw the mountains and water into sharp relief against the horizon, highlighting them against the glowering shadows of the clouds.
Not bad for an old hack, Doug thought with a smile. He found his jeans and dragged them on, patted the pockets to make sure the car key was there. He had left his laptop in the boot last night, but he would need it this morning. The view, and a night’s sleep that wasn’t filled with flashes of terror and images of blood, had revived him, woken up the reporter. Harvey’s words from last night came to him – I thought I taught you better than that, Douglas.
He had. And now Doug was going to prove it. No more hiding. This was the biggest story in years. He was damned if his byline wasn’t going to be all over it.
Downstairs, the lounge was quiet, the last of the breakfast dishes being cleared away. Doug glanced at the grandfather clock ticking patiently in the corner of the room – 9.40am. He had slept late.
He ordered coffee and fell into an absent conversation with a woman sitting at the table opposite him, head buried in a book that, reading upside down, Doug thought was about Egypt or something similar.
“Wrong part of the world for that, isn’t it?” he said.
“What, huh?” She looked up at him, startled. She was slim, with high, prominent cheekbones and long brown hair that trailed over the pages of the book as she looked up at him. He could see the slight marks of glasses on the bridge of her nose. Either shortsighted or she had spent a lot of time wearing sunglasses. He looked at her exposed arms, neck and face. Tanned, with a slight blush of red from too much sun. Sunglasses it was.
“Sorry,” Doug said. “I noticed your book about, ah, Egypt. I was thinking it was the wrong side of the world for that, unless you’re reading a very different tour guide from mine.”
She studied him for a moment, as though making a decision, then smiled, accepting the joke. “Ah, no, no. Egypt’s just a fascination of mine. I’m actually on Skye to see An Corran, Mr…?”
“Sorry, Doug, Doug McGregor,” he said, standing up and offering a hand.
She took his hand, shook it firmly. “Pleased to met you, Doug. I’m Kathleen. Kathleen Kendrick. Now tell me, do you always read other people’s books upside down?”
He smiled shyly. “Occupational hazard, Kathleen, sorry. So, who’s Anne Corran?”
She snorted a laugh. “Not Anne Corran,
Mr McGregor, An Corran. It’s a historic site, from the Mesolithic Age, thought to be the oldest site of human habitation on Skye. And,” – she leaned forward, clasping her hands together – “if you believe in monsters, you can see dinosaur footprints on the beach.”
Doug felt an awkward smile arrange itself on his face. Monsters he knew all too well. “Ah well, just as well I’ve not got time to visit then,” he said. “I hated Jurassic Park.”
She nodded, as though disappointed. “Your loss, Doug. Why are you here on Skye?”
Doug cast his arm around vaguely. “I know Harvey Robertson, the owner of the hotel,” he said. “He asked me to visit him from Edinburgh.”
“Wait,” Kathleen said, “Edinburgh?” Realisation dawned in her eyes. “I thought I knew that name. Doug McGregor. You’re the reporter from the Tribune, aren’t you? I heard what happened. No wonder you’re on Skye. Are you all right?”
Doug waved a hand away…
Dark blood seeping through Greig’s fingers, like oil glistening in moonlight.
…glad that the waiter had arrived with his coffee. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, pouring a cup with a hand that only shook slightly. “Actually, I’m heading back today.”
“Well, you take care, Doug,” Kathleen said. “And remember, those footprints are always there when you’re ready to see them.”
Doug raised his mug in a farewell toast, then headed for the front door of the hotel.
He paused on the front step, took a few deep breaths to steady himself, surprised by the sudden surge of anger he felt. What the fuck was wrong with him? If he was going to cover this story, and he was, then he was going to have to toughen up and face what had happened, not piss his pants and have a panic attack every time he thought about it. This had all started with Greig’s murder, with the blood and the terror and the pain, and if he was going to figure it out, he was going to have to confront it.
He took a swig of the coffee, strong, hot, smooth, and headed for the car. He was about halfway across the courtyard when his phone started to beep in his pocket, pinging with the emails and messages it missed while in the blackout zone of the hotel. He paused and dug it out from his pocket, scrolling through. It was mostly what he expected, mails from other reporters asking him for quotes on the story, his view of events, and a warning email from Walt about “not getting any ideas and stirring up any more shit”. He skimmed through four messages from his parents – all variations on the same Are you okay? theme. Thumbed in an equally generic response and hit send.
There was also a missed call from Susie, no message. He paused, looking at the screen for a moment. No message. Odd. He looked up at the car, as if seeking an answer. If she couldn’t get him, she normally left a message, or at least sent a text.
The phone pinged again, and he smiled, a vague feeling of relief whispering in his mind. Typical Susie, alwa…
He frowned as he looked down at the phone and the message. Not what, or who, he was expecting. At all.
Doug, saw what happened on the news. Called around, know you’re ok, but wanted to check in. If there’s anything I can do, give me a call. Off the record, of course. X
Doug shook his head as he hit Redial. Cheeky bastard.
The phone rang in his ear, followed by a click as it was answered. Then a soft, cultured voice on the other end of the line, comforting, reassuring. The voice that took control and told you everything was going to be all right in a time of crisis. The voice that said his side of the story was the only one you ever needed to hear.
“Hello, Hal Damon.”
“Hal? Hal, it’s Doug McGregor. How you doing?”
“Doug? Doug! Good to hear from you! And shouldn’t that be my question? I saw what happened. You okay?”
Doug sighed down the phone. “I’m getting there, Hal. It’s not been a fun couple of days though.” He heard the sound of a child burbling in the background. “That Jennifer I hear? How’s she doing?”
“She’s great, Doug, great. Crawling now, into everything. Driving Colin and I crazy trying to keep up with her, but at least she’s sleeping more at nights. Now stop trying to change the subject. You need anything? I can be there today if you need me in Edinburgh.”
Doug smiled into the phone, typical Hal. Mr Efficiency. They had met last year when Doug was working the Buchan case, and Hal was hired by the Tories to handle the PR around the death of the daughter of one of their MSPs. The story had become a little harder to sell when Doug found out that the MSP in question, Richard Buchan, was an incestuous rapist and murderer, but Hal had mitigated the worst of the damage to the party. He had also given Doug a very juicy lead on a wider cover-up involving Buchan and the former Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police.
That story had earned Doug a “Scoop of the Year” nomination at the Scottish Press Awards, and a new friend in Hal in the process. They had kept in touch since the case, Hal’s new profile winning him Scottish clients and Doug giving him coverage where he could. And, over time, they had come to respect each other’s abilities and strengths. They met whenever Hal flew into town from London, sometimes with his husband, Colin, and their daughter, Jennifer. The family was so picture-perfect it made Doug more jealous that he would care to admit.
“No, I’m fine,” he said, dragging himself back to the present. “Thanks, Hal. Though I’m not in Edinburgh at the moment, I’m up in Skye visiting an old friend.”
“And why do I get the feeling that’s a temporary situation?” Hal asked.
Doug laughed. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I’m heading back home today, going to get on the story, see what I can find out.” He paused, a thought occurring to him. “Actually Hal, you could do me one favour.”
“Name it.”
“Walter’s being a bit more cautious than usual with me covering this one, seeing as I’m a witness to the crime. But, and this is off the record, I’ve been given a strong tip that there might be a connection between Greig’s murder and the killing of a lawyer in town, Charlie Montgomery, you hear about that?”
“Hard not to,” Hal replied, “it’s all over the news. But connected? How?”
“That’s what I don’t know. Do you think you could run a cuts check for me, see if there are any stories where Jonathan Greig and Charles Edward Montgomery connect? If there’s something that ties them together, it might help me make sense of this.”
Hal’s voice was muffled and Doug could see him standing – tall, shoulders back, body sculpted by long hours in the gym – with the phone wedged into the crook of his neck and a notepad in his hand as he wrote the names down. “No problem, Doug, I’ll get that started now. Want me to send what I find to your private account, just in case Walter is watching?”
Doug smiled again. Ever the professional. “Yeah, thanks Hal, that would be great. And if you find anything, give me a buzz, will you? I’ll be driving but I’ll use the hands-free, honest.”
“Yeah, right,” Hal said through a snort of laughter. “You take it easy, Doug, and if you need anything else, just call, okay? Colin’s worried about you, so am I.”
“Thanks, Hal, but I’m fine. Give Colin and Jennifer my love, will you?”
“Will do, Doug. And give Susie a kiss from me, will you?”
“Away and fuck yersel’,” Doug said with a laugh, and cut the line. Typical Hal. He was relentless in pushing Doug about Susie, convinced he was a matchmaker to compare with Cilla Black and that they were the couple he should buy a hat for. It was a running joke between them, but somehow, this morning, it didn’t seem so funny any more.
One missed call. No message.
Doug stood for a minute, looking out at the water as it glinted silver and grey. Then he dialled Susie’s number and clamped the phone to his ear.
34
“Stevie?”
Stevie took the phone to the window, glanced down at the street belo
w. He was on the third floor of a new development just off Leith Walk, all laminated floors, designer kitchens and “well-proportioned rooms, offering an oasis of calm in the hustle and bustle of the city”. To Stevie, it was all marketing bullshit – he preferred the character of a tenement any day – but tenements didn’t tend to have video entry, security card-activated elevators and five-bolt deadlocks on the doors of the entrance halls and flats themselves. All of which he found handy in his line of work.
“Frankie? Frankie, that you?”
“No, it’s your mother. Who the fuck you think it is?”
Stevie flinched at the venom pouring down the line, gave the street below another nervous glance. The last thing he needed was a visit from Frankie today, especially in this mood.
“Sorry, Frankie,” he whispered. “But it’s not the best line. Where are you?”
“Never mind where I am,” Frankie hissed, voice carried on a wave of static. “The only person you should be worried about now is Paul. You are taking care of him, aren’t you?”
Stevie let out a sigh. Paul had arrived last night, not long after a call from Frankie that left Stevie in no doubt that he was getting a house guest for a few days. It was the last thing he needed, but it didn’t pay to say no to Frankie – especially at the moment.
Paul had been a mess when he arrived, strung out and hurting, skin the colour of wallpaper paste and glistening with sweat. His eyes were huge, sparkling black pits that twitched around the room in time with the spasms racking his body.
Stevie bundled him into the shower, ignored the screams and pleading as he turned it up as far as he could and forced Paul to stand under it. By the time he came out, pigeon chest hitching and gasping as he clawed for breath, emaciated muscles clenching feebly with every spasm, Stevie had the present Frankie had told him to prepare waiting. Paul glanced at the needle in his hand, ran a thick, slug-like tongue over cracked lips, then took a step back, almost falling back into the shower.
The Storm Page 13
