“You see,” he said, lifting the lids of the eyes gently and nodding towards the small blotches of red flecked through the whites of the pupil. “Petechial haemorrhaging. Classic sign.”
Classic, Burns thought. And just like Daniel Pearson.
So there was a possibility that Pearson had killed his son. If so, that was three murders in the city within the space of twenty-four hours. But was he the common cause?
And if so, why? He had been released about two years ago, led a quiet, anonymous life off the radar, with no-one sure where he was or if he was still alive. So if Gavin Pearson had suddenly decided to go on a one-man killing spree, why? Why start with his son, then move on to two people who were, from everything Burns had seen, total strangers to him?
There was nothing in any of the files that indicated a link between him, Jonathan Greig or Charming Charlie. Burns had briefly toyed with the idea that Charlie had been part of Pearson’s trial, but there was no record of that. Same for Greig. Nothing to show why Pearson would assassinate him in such a brutal, public manner.
Burns pushed the Pearson file aside, glanced briefly at the report on Charlie’s death, shuddering at the image from the scene of the knife jutting from his ruined temple.
Steeled himself and opened the Greig file. It was like turning the page to a nightmare. Blood and terror seeping from every page, violence described in minute detail in all the reports.
Just three shots – one, ballistics said, to calibrate for wind and range, and two dead centre on Greig.
Burns grunted. From the report, McGregor had been a lucky wee cunt not to have been hit by the first shot, which had burrowed into the wall less than a foot from him.
Pity. It would have made for one less problem. McGregor was at the top of the Chief’s most-hated list. Which was, Burns had been told, the reason for Susie being kept out in the cold.
“We need to contain this McGregor,” the Chief had told Burns after summoning him to his office not long after the Buchan shitstorm had subsided. “It’s obvious Drummond fed information to him. While we can’t act against her, especially in light of the way she dealt with Charlie Morris and Derek McGinty, we’ll have to watch her closely. Understood?”
Burns said he understood completely. What he didn’t say was that he could smell shit when he was near it, and that was what this was. Bullshit. Cops talked to reporters and the media all the time, it was part of the game, especially these days, when careers could be made or broken by a tweet or a cameraphone snap. And Susie had done nothing but work every angle she had to solve a very messy case.
No, this was something else. If they were pissed about McGregor getting information, they would have hauled her in on a disciplinary and made an example of her. Whatever they wanted her sidelined for, it was a hell of a lot more than her relationship or otherwise with Doug McGregor. And she deserved better than that. Despite her temper, and a way with insults and soap-boxing that reminded Burns of his daughter Maria, Drummond was a good copper. Hardworking, diligent, intuitive.
He smiled, remembering her words from yesterday: By keeping me on the sidelines of this case, you are depriving this investigation of a valuable asset, sir.
Cheeky bitch. But she was right. And, looking at the carnage spread before him, he needed all the assets he could get.
He reached for the mangled cigarette packet, picked out the remnants of a broken cigarette. Laid it carefully on the table and plucked out the tobacco, making a small pile in his hand.
Fuck it.
He reached for the phone as he shoved the tobacco into his mouth and started to chew. Almost gagged on the vile, burning taste that flooded his mouth, like swallowing a bottle of Tabasco. He took a moment, blinked away the sudden tears in his eyes, then dialled the number from memory.
Drummond was right. Pearson was a strong lead, one of the few they had. He had to keep her on the sidelines, make sure she jumped through all the hoops the brass wanted her to, ensure anything she found was totally watertight.
Fine. But nothing said he couldn’t give her a little help with that.
Off the record, of course.
41
Esther was in the dining room by the time Doug walked back into the hotel, clicking off the phone after phoning the Tribune. He had stayed away from the newsdesk, calling straight to the number of Chris Blackley. He was a graduate from Napier, taking shifts and hoovering up the shit jobs as if they were candy, working his ass off to try and get a full-time job and start a career in the business. Doug wanted to warn him, tell him not to bother, but he couldn’t. After all, hadn’t he started the same way? The only problem was, there wasn’t likely to be a Harvey Robertson in Chris’s future.
“Doug, hey! You okay? Everyone’s worried about you,” he said after Doug said hello.
“Yeah, Chris, I’m fine. How you doing?”
“Busy,” he said. “Trying to get into the Greig death and away from the back-of-book fill. You looking for Walter? He’s in conference just now.”
Doug smiled. Fancy that. In conference and unavailable. Shame.
“No, I actually wanted to talk to you, Chris. Need your help with something.”
“Really? What? Anything you need, Doug, just tell me.”
“You know Walt’s keeping me off the Greig story, but I’m going nuts here, so I thought I’d catch up on a feature I was meant to write. It’s about former soldiers and what they’re doing now, how they fit back into society when their duty’s done. I’m nosing it on all the publicity about veterans coming home injured at the moment, and all the moves in the Middle East.”
“Nice,” Chris said, his voice horribly eager. “But what can I do?”
“Well, Walter doesn’t want me working at the moment, but I need to do a bit of background. So I was hoping you could run a library check for me, see what comes back?”
“No problem, Doug. The classified team are logged into the library now, but I’ll do it as soon as they’re out. What do you want me to look for?”
Doug sighed. Fucking typical. Ten years ago, the Tribune had a physical library, with every copy of the paper stretching back over its 137 years neatly filed away. With the downsizing and the move, the number crunchers had decided to do away with all that – and the staff who maintained it – and transferred everything online. Problem was, the online search only allowed for ten users to be logged in at one time. And when advertising targets were looming and the sales teams wanted to look back at what had worked for previous customers, reporters were the first to suffer.
“I’m looking for stories related to a Gavin Franklin Pearson,” Doug said. “Former Gulf War vet, got himself into a bit of trouble around 1993, I think.”
He could hear the faint scratch of pen on paper, remembered that Chris insisted on using fountain pens. “Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll have a look, send you what I find.”
Doug thought of what Hal had said earlier. “Send it to my Gmail account, will you? Easier to access on my phone. And Chris, don’t tell Walter, okay? He’ll just give me a bollocking for working at the moment.”
“No problem,” Chris said. “And, Doug?”
Doug nodded. The quid pro quo. “I’ll speak to Walter when I’m back, try to get you on something front-of-book, okay?”
Chris’s voice was an explosion of gratitude. “Thanks, Doug! I’ll get this to you as soon as I can.”
“Great, thanks, Chris. Speak soon.”
Esther was sitting at one of the tables with an ornate silver teapot in front of her and a rack of toast she had barely touched. She smiled as she saw him, waved him over.
“Douglas! Good morning. I hear you slept late. Come have breakfast with me.”
Food was the last thing on Doug’s mind, but he crossed the room and sat opposite her. “Thanks, Esther,” he said. “I’m starving.”
She nodded, pleased. She looked better
in the daylight, the sun restoring some warmth to her pallid skin. But Doug could still see the sickness there, lingering beneath the make-up she had caked on, plain in the lines etched around her mouth and eyes and the sallow skin around her once-tight jaw. Her hair, which she had styled, looked thin and brittle, and he noticed the spattering of liver spots and fading bruises on the backs of her hands.
“So, are you feeling better this morning?” she asked, sliding a small menu over the table towards him. “You seemed very upset yesterday when you arrived. Not surprising really, given what you’ve been through.”
He smiled. Same old Esther. Always the worrier. He remembered when Harvey had started dragging him home after late shifts at the Tribune, partly as a shield against Esther’s wrath for the late nights or the drinking, partly to make up for the shit wages by giving him a decent meal. She had always fussed over him like an honoured guest, made sure he had enough to eat and warned Harvey not to “drive this boy too hard. We’re not all as obsessed as you.”
Problem was, Doug was worse than Harvey.
“I’m fine, Esther, thank you. It was just a bit of a shock, is all. And besides, shouldn’t that be my question? How are you feeling this morning?”
She gave him a smile that once would have made him weak at the knees, now did nothing more than twist a knife in his guts. “I’m fine, Douglas. You know, good days and bad. But I’m getting there. And Harvey is being wonderful – though he’ll deny it if you ask him.”
Typical Harvey. For a man who made a career of chasing headlines, he hated the spotlight or publicity more than a Catholic priest at a child abuse inquiry.
“Speaking of Harvey, where is he? I’ve not seen him this morning.”
“Oh, oh, he had to nip to Broadford for supplies,” Esther said, busying herself with calling over a waiter. Doug looked at her for a half a second. Something about the way she had said that, the kneejerk call for the waiter…
…what…?
Oh, for fuck’s sake, he thought, now you’re jumping at shadows. This is Esther, not Derek McGinty. Give it a rest, Doug.
He asked for coffee, leaned back as the waiter poured a cup. He skimmed the menu, aware of Esther watching him expectantly. Went for salmon and scrambled eggs, hoping he could shovel at least some of it down.
The waiter retreated and Esther shifted forward, looking at him.
“So, Douglas, what have you got planned today? There are some beautiful places on the island, and the MacDonald castle is just up the road, you could visit that…”
“Thanks,” Doug said, sipping his coffee. “But I’m heading back today, I’ve got work to do.”
Esther’s skin paled behind the make-up mask. “Oh, Douglas, is that a good idea? I read about what happened; surely after what you’ve been through, you’d be better up here with us than in Edinburgh?”
He took another sip of coffee, considered. It would be so easy just to stay. Lie to himself that he was doing it for Esther, stay where it was safe, where his boss wasn’t killed in front of him, where people weren’t beaten to death. He swallowed the thought down with the coffee. No. He had a job to do, a story to cover. And if he didn’t go back now, he knew he never would.
“I’m sorry, Esther, but I have to. And I’ve already started the ball rolling, so there are people waiting for me. But I’ll come back and visit, I promise.”
Esther gave him a long, even glance. Her eyes, which had once been so clear and piercing, were yellowing with jaundice, dulled by a rheumy film that was slowly dropping over her pupil like a curtain. How sick was she?
“I hope you will, Douglas,” she said. “And please, don’t leave it too long. After all, Harvey… Harvey will…”
He reached over, put a hand over hers, ignored the clamminess he felt. Saw the tears welling in her eyes, felt something twist in his guts. Took a breath, asked the question he didn’t want answered.
He started slowly, picking the words as though he were navigating loose stones across a stream. “Esther, what is it? I know you’re getting the scan results next week, but is there something else? You said something about Harvey. Is there something wrong, something I can help with?”
She looked up at him, something like confusion dancing across her face before it settled back into the impassive mask she was hiding behind. She patted his hand. “Oh, ignore an old woman, Douglas, it’s just this medication, it puts me under a black cloud sometimes, you know? Makes me see the worst. We’re fine. We’re both fine. We just miss you, is all, and we’d like to see more of you.”
He leaned back, gave her hand a gentle squeeze, scared he was going to crush it. Gave her the reassuring, confiding smile Harvey had taught him for interviews all those years ago. “Well, I’m sure we can arrange that. Now that I know where you are, and how well the hotel is doing, I’ll be back. Who knows, I may even write up a holiday piece for the Trib.”
“Don’t you dare,” she replied. “Last thing we want is all you uncouth lowlanders coming up here and spoiling the peace and quiet. There’s been enough of that already.”
Doug laughed. “Aye, fair enough. Don’t want to scare off the rich foreign tourists, after all. Though it seems like you’ve got your fair share.”
She nodded, cup chittering gently against her saucer as she picked it up. “We’ve been lucky, but it’s a lot of work. Especially now. But Harvey says he’ll cope and he really loves it here, has since the moment we arrived.”
Harvey says he’ll cope?
He looked at her, letting the silence draw out between them, filled only by the tick of the grandfather clock. She smiled weakly around the cup. He could see the tears threaten in her eyes again.
“Look, Esther, if there’s…”
She cut him off with a raised hand. Her voice was as brittle as the china she drank from. “Douglas, please. Enough. Here’s your breakfast. Can’t you just eat and talk to me? I don’t care about what, just not what happened to Jonathan – I’ve had quite enough bloodshed for now, thank you.”
Doug hesitated for a moment, saw the quiet pleading in her eyes. They were both acting now, dancing around a conversation neither of them wanted to have. The problem was, he didn’t know exactly what the conversation would be about. All he knew was, he wouldn’t like it.
Douglas, please, enough.
He raised his coffee in a toast. “Here’s to Robertson’s Retreat,” he said. “And breakfast with old friends.”
She smiled, relief flooding into her eyes as her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Douglas,” she said as he shovelled the first forkful into his mouth and swallowed quickly, not giving his mouth time to register he was eating. “So, tell me, are you seeing anyone at the moment? Harvey mentioned something about a young lady you sometimes work with…?”
He felt his cheeks burn suddenly, and not just from the food. “Long story,” he said meekly.
“So why don’t you tell me?” she replied, a ghost of the old wry amusement dancing in her eyes. “After all, I’ve got time.”
42
Stevie padded along the short corridor to the spare room where Paul was crashed out. He was lying exactly as he had left him, face up on the bed, the quilt pulled roughly over him, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought.
Creeping around the bed, he watched Paul breathe gently. His skin was pale and dull, the only colour a spray of acne that reached from his chin to his forehead in a rough question mark pattern. His lips were cracked and dry, his nose crusted with dried blood, a sure sign that he spent a fair amount of his time sticking things up it.
Not a surprise, that was why he was here.
Stevie leaned forward, gently pulled back the quilt. Looked in disgust at the emaciated body in front of him, the ribs visible through paper-thin skin, which was mottled with bruises and cuts. His eyes drifted down to the withered cock that sat nestled in a thick bush of pubic hair and he s
miled. The poor little shit really hadn’t had a lot of luck in his life.
He took Paul’s arm gently, gently, watching intently for any glimmer of consciousness in his face. There was none; he murmured a little, snored gently. Unaware of what was about to happen.
It’ll just be like he went to sleep. If you do it right, he’ll never know, Frankie had said. Stevie swallowed down the bile that rushed into the back of his mouth, hot and bitter, took a deep breath to steady himself. Drew the needle from his pocket and primed it, not bothering to check for air bubbles. After all, what was the worst that could happen? The little shit would have a heart attack? Different cause, same result.
With his free hand he took a firmer grip of Paul’s arm, squeezed gently as before. Spotted the small red dot from the previous injection that stood out on the blue-green vein under the skin. Closed his eyes, forced his hand to stop shaking, aimed for the dot and drove forward.
The vein squirmed away as the needle plunged into Paul’s arm, twisting and coiling like a worm beneath the skin.
Fuck! Missed!
Paul bucked once, wildly, throwing Stevie off and sending the needle clattering to the floor. Gave a howl that echoed off the walls and hurt Stevie’s ears as he grabbed at his arm, eyes wide and filled with terror and pain.
“What the fuck!” he yelped, scrabbling out of the bed like a stunned animal and throwing himself against the wall. “Stevie? Stevie, what the fuck? My arm, my fucking arm!”
Stevie moved very slowly, hands held up, eyes darting between Paul and the floor, hunting for the needle. “Sorry, Paul, my fault,” he said, keeping his voice calm and even, struggling to hear himself over the roaring in his ears. “Just trying to make sure you were comfortable. Frankie called, wanted me to check you were all right.”
“Frankie?” The name seemed to penetrate the fog of confused pain surrounding Paul. “Frankie called? What’s…? Ah, my arm, my fucking arm! What did you do, Stevie?”
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