I adjust the sights, sharpen the image. Feel my finger tighten slowly, slowly, on the trigger. So easy, so, so easy. Slay the monster, complete the mission. Rest. Justice at last.
But no. No. He’s the last link, the final piece of the puzzle. Before he dies, he has to suffer.
And he will.
I feel a shiver of anticipation, spoiled only by the fact that McGregor didn’t find the present I left him when he first opened the car. But he will soon enough. After all, it’s a long road from Skye to Edinburgh.
I swing the sights from Robertson, make a quick count of the car park. Mostly empty, only staff cars and Robertson’s old Land Rover left, the guests have headed out for the day.
I smile, ignoring the pain that’s settled in my shoulders and back like an old friend and straighten up.
Time for my check-in.
44
It was one of those dimly lit, overpriced bars that was aiming for style over substance. The booths were filled with a variety of people in the standard uniform for Edinburgh’s West End – business suits and expensive bags. The thrum of conversation that floated through the place was quiet and reserved, punctuated occasionally by the clink of glasses, or a stab of laugher at a joke that didn’t deserve it.
The finance sector – tackling the recession one lunch hour at a time.
Kevin Drainey toyed with a glass of wine that cost the same as a bottle in a normal pub, a small, amused smile twitching at the corner of his lips. As usual, his eyes were dancing between her face and her chest, and Rebecca felt the growing urge to throw her own drink at the little shit and get out of here. But she couldn’t. She needed him.
“So,” he said, sipping at his wine just a little too noisily, “how can I help you, Rebecca?”
She grimaced internally, took a gulp of her own drink – a soda water and lime she suddenly wished was straight vodka. Even sitting across from this little shit made her feel dirty.
Kevin was a one-man-band news agency, who fancied himself as journalism’s answer to the Second Coming. He’d taken redundancy from one of the broadsheets a few years ago, used the money to go freelance. He quickly found a talent for muck-raking that made him popular with the red tops and the online gossip sites, selling stories such as Starlet’s hot affair with married MSP, Scandal as health chiefs claim overtime for spa visit and, her own favourite, Copper feel of this – cop caught in indecent exposure rap. She’d heard rumours that he was also chasing the story of a certain Detective Sergeant who had a drunken one-night stand with her married boss, but had been warned off it by a crime reporter with permanently messy hair and an eye for trouble.
Normally, Rebecca blanked him at press conferences or conveniently forgot to return his calls. But now, here she was, buying him drinks on the police expenses account, tolerating his leering at her across the table. And all because she was gambling on the one quality that set Kevin apart from all the other dead ends she’d chased today.
Greed.
She flashed him a smile. “I, ah, well, I need a favour, Kevin. As you know, the press conference yesterday got a little bit… heated. There was a rumour going round that someone tipped you lot off beforehand about a link between the Greig and Montgomery murders. I’d like to know where that came from.”
He snorted, leaning back in his seat, a picture of smug arrogance. “Is that a confirmation or a denial of any potential link between the cases?” he asked.
“It’s neither,” Rebecca replied. “It’s a question. I need to know who might have been putting that rumour around. I think you might be able to help me.”
“And why should I tell you that? Got to protect my sources, haven’t I?”
Rebecca watched him for a moment, biting back the bitter laugh that was trembling at the back of her throat. It was the line she had been hearing all day. Every other journalist she had asked, pleaded or begged with had all come up with variations of the same two answers: “I heard it from someone else” or “I never reveal my sources”. It was the journalistic answer to playground rules – It’s our game and we’re not telling.
But not Kevin.
“Look,” she said, leaning forward, feeling disgust as his eyes darted below her neckline again. “Kevin, let’s be honest for a minute, okay? You’re a pain in the arse to me and the police. You’ve written a lot of shit about us in the past, but I’m willing to let it slide. And I’m willing to help you with access in the future. But if you want that, you have to help me first, okay?”
He took his time reaching for his wine and taking a long sip, enjoying the moment of power. Rebecca felt anger flash behind her eyes, the near-overwhelming urge to just tell the little shit to go fuck himself, and instead look for the answer somewhere else.
Only problem was, she couldn’t think where that could be.
She was starting to think he wasn’t going to say anything when he put his glass down, arranged it carefully on the table, then smiled.
“I want an interview with Burns,” he said. “Exclusive. If and when there’s a definite line of inquiry on this case and you confirm there is a link. Okay?”
Rebecca weighed it up. It would be a disaster. Kevin trying his smart-arse hack routine with Burns? It would last about five minutes, with Rebecca giving even money on Burns keeling over with a heart attack or Kevin getting his neck snapped.
But…
Any interview would be under her control. She’d be the chair, with a ringside seat to the carnage. And the thought of Burns using this little shit as a chew-toy for a while had a certain appeal.
“Okay,” she said. “Done.”
He smiled, leaned over to offer her his hand. She took it, gave his knuckles a hard sudden squeeze that caused the smile to slip and his eyes to widen. The gym sessions with Susie were working.
“Okay,” he said, eyeing her warily as he took his wounded hand back. “But this is strictly off the record, okay? Last thing I want getting round is that I can’t be trusted by sources.”
Fuck forfend, Rebecca thought.
She nodded agreement. “Fine. So, who did you hear it from?”
The name meant nothing to her at first. But as he droned on, embellishing the story with his own great achievements, she felt something click in her mind.
She knew that name. Had heard it on the phone only yesterday. Had been talking about it last night.
But that meant…
…meant…
She stood up, made her excuses about going to the toilet. Barely felt Kevin’s eyes on her ass as she walked. Turned the corner calmly, calmly, until she knew she was out of sight of the booth. Bolted for the door, adrenalin and panic searing her lungs and burning her blood as she flailed for the phone in her bag, hoping she was in time.
45
Doug’s phone started to ring just as he was approaching Eilean Donan – an imposing castle fortress sitting on a small island that lies in a section of water where three lochs meet. It was a magnificent sight – the stone it was made from seemed to glow like burnished bronze in the sun, reflecting strange ripples onto the water that lapped around the rocks running up to the main bulk of the island.
It was an ancient site, its origins dating back to the sixth century, which made Doug feel vaguely embarrassed when he realised his knowledge of the place stretched as far as knowing it featured in the film Highlander.
He never was one for history.
He drove into the car park, gravel spraying onto the underside of the car as he turned a wide arc and parked up facing the water. Reached across for the phone sitting on the passenger seat, clicked Answer with a smile.
“Hal? Hope you realise I parked up especially to take this call. Safety first and all that. I know how you worry.”
Hal Damon laughed down the line. “I’m honoured,” he said. “Wish I had better news, though. There’s nothing in any of the cuts agencies that has a story featu
ring Greig and Montgomery. They both pop up, of course; Greig’s byline is everywhere for a few years, and then there’s the shitstorm he kicked up at Leveson. Love his line about the Ministry for Truth, by the way. And Montgomery is all over the court scene in Edinburgh, and for going after the council over the trams. But as for something that ties them together… sorry.”
Doug chewed his lip. He wasn’t totally surprised. “Well, thanks for trying, Hal, I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem. And I’m not done yet, I’m checking with a couple of clients and sources in Edinburgh, see if they know anything.”
“Cheers.”
“You had any luck your end, anything else I can help out with?”
Doug looked out on the water, considering. It was probably a waste of time; after all, Chris was already running Pearson through the Tribune’s library, which would give him the whole story on that. But he could trust Hal to keep it quiet – and not scoop him on the story.
“Actually, there is one more thing. There’s a possible suspect in the Greig killing. Gavin Franklin Pearson. He was done for murder in 1993. I’m guessing there’s going to be court copy on it from the time. I’m already getting the Trib’s version of events, but it would be useful to see other takes, see if there’s something I’m missing.”
There was a pause on the line, Doug could almost see Hal working the angles in his mind. “Who is this Pearson guy?” he asked. “Why did he want Greig dead – and why like that?”
Doug ran over what he knew about Pearson – the Gulf War service, the proficiency with firearms. What he knew about the nightclub murder.
“Sounds like a charming man,” Hal said slowly. “Just your type, Doug. You always seem to attract the bad boys.”
“You know me, hate a boring life. Besides, we can’t all work with the corporate criminals you consort with.”
“Cheap shot,” Hal replied, the tiniest glimmer of hurt in his voice. “I’ll look up Mr Pearson for you, see what I can get. In the meantime, you take care, okay?”
“Promise. Thanks, Hal,” Doug said, and cut the line.
He sat for a moment, looking out at the lochs, trying to put it all together. A Gulf War veteran assassinates Greig, kills his critically injured son and a well-known lawyer, none of whom seemed to have a relationship with each other.
Greig made himself a pain in the arse to the government over the Leveson inquiry into press freedom, and pissed off more than a million Scots with his editorial stance against independence, neither of which was enough to earn him the kind of death he had endured. Meanwhile, Charming Charlie’s biggest crimes seemed to be breathtaking arrogance, a lack of morality when it came to defending little neds who were obviously guilty and a hatred for the trams project. None of which explained why he was beaten to a pulp and stabbed through the brain.
And where did Gavin Pearson fit into all this? He had the skills to kill Greig, the criminal history to take out Charlie, but could he really kill his own son? And why?
Frustrated, Doug thumbed through his contacts list and found Chris’s number. Glanced at the clock and realised Walter would be out of conference and back on the desk. Flicked to his mobile number and hit Dial.
His voice was low and secretive when he answered. Probably in the stairwell away from the newsroom, hand scooped around his phone. “Hello, Doug? You okay?”
Doug fought back a sigh. Great question. The real cutting edge of journalism there. “I’m good, thanks, Chris. Just wanted to call in, see if you’d found those cuts yet?”
“Ah, well, no,” Chris replied, embarrassment heavy in his voice.
“Oh, don’t tell me advertising are still in the fucking library?”
“Actually, no, it’s not that, Doug. I managed to get in five minutes after you called.”
Doug felt irritation prickle at the back of his neck. He reached back to scratch, absently thinking of Susie and her stress rash. “Then what? Don’t tell me the fucking server has crashed again? How long’s it going to take to get back online?”
“No, Doug. It’s not that, either. I ran the check. We’ve got nothing in the library that refers to a murder case involving a Gavin Pearson.”
Doug felt his entire face fold into a question. “What? How the hell is that possible? He shoved a bottle into a kid’s neck in a city centre nightclub. That’s a splash right there. Plus, all the copy from the trial, family interviews, veterans’ comments, etc. There’s got to be something there.” A thought occurred to him. “You sure you got his name right, Chris?”
Chris grunted annoyance down the phone, the hushed whisper giving way to wounded impatience. “I’m not a complete moron, Doug. I tried the search with every variation and spelling I could. Gavin Pearson. Gavin Franklin Pearson. Franklin Pearson. Frank Pearson. Frankie Pearson. There’s nothing there.”
Doug shook his head. “But that’s not possible,” he said. “There has to be something. It would have been a massive Edinburgh story at the time. The Trib would have had to have covered it.”
“Well, not according to the library,” Chris replied bluntly.
Doug sighed again. Outside, the tranquility of the loch seemed to mock him. On the line, there was a discreet beep to tell him he had a call waiting. Pulled the phone from his ear, checked the caller ID. Ignored it.
“Look, Chris. Do me a favour, run it again, will you? Maybe there’s a problem in the system, maybe it’ll hit lucky this time. And check the picture library, too. Surely we’ve got images of him in the system somewhere.”
“Okay,” Chris said, the tone of a boy given extra homework. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of hours. When you going to be back in the city, anyway?”
Doug glanced at the dashboard clock again. Calculated. Toyed with the idea of turning around and going back to Harvey, asking him about Pearson, then thought of Esther and rejected the idea. “Should be about three hours. But if you find anything at all, give me a call as soon as you can, will you?”
“Aye, will do. And remember what you said, Doug. You owe me for this.”
“No problem, Chris. I’ll speak to Walt as soon as I get back. See you.”
He clicked off the phone, absently glancing at the display. Noticed that the battery was down to thirty-one per cent. He leaned over for the glove compartment and the charger inside, not wanting the phone to die halfway through his call back to Rebecca. He wasn’t sure why she was calling, but it was a lucky reminder that she had. He needed to talk to her about the press conference.
He clicked the glove compartment open, surprised when a file fell out and sprayed into the passenger footwell. Curious, he reached across to scoop it up, froze when he saw the first page.
The impossible stared back at him. He sat pinned in his seat, reading so fast his eyes hurt as he felt the first shudders of shock steal through his body, robbing him of all heat like the embrace of a corpse.
Funny, I didn’t remember racking the seat back.
When he finished reading that first page, he held the file in shaking hands, pain lancing up his forearms from the pressure. He forced his breathing to slow as he pushed away the images and thoughts tumbling through his mind.
What was it that women at the hotel had said? Those footprints are waiting when you’re ready to see them.
Was he ready? Was he?
Ground his teeth. Made a decision. Tossed the file aside and turned the ignition key, hitting the accelerator as soon as the engine kicked over. The car fishtailed in the gravel of the car park as Doug drove out. An instant of second thought flashed through his mind at the mouth of the car park. He crushed it with a harsh turn of the wheel to the left and bulleted onto the road, red-lining every gear as he charged back up the road he had just driven, heading back to Skye.
46
DC Eddie King was waiting for Susie when she stepped out of Diane Pearson’s office, his face as bleak a
s the weather and as cold as the rain-soaked stones of the buildings on Cockburn Street.
“Eddie? What you doing here?”
He gave her a look that was slightly more confused than usual. “I got a call from Burns a while ago,” he said. “Told me I was to put myself at your disposal for the next couple of days, help you with anything you needed. Said he’d left you a message telling you, then told me to get my arse up here.”
Susie smiled. Burns. Always playing the angles. So he’d known she was coming to interview Pearson, but why send Eddie? To help? Or to keep tabs on her?
She pulled her phone from her pocket, saw the missed call and message. She flicked the phone off silent, put it to her ear. “Drummond, DI Burns. I’ve been thinking about what you said, thought maybe an extra pair of hands would help. So I’m attaching King to you for the next couple of days, see if he can help you with the legwork. Oh, and don’t worry, this isn’t a way to try and trip you up, if I want to do that, I’ll do it personally.”
She shook her head as she pocketed the phone. Bastard. Even made a favour sound like an insult. But at least he was helping her. Or trying.
King stood watching her like a lost puppy. He was doing a good job of keeping the petulant annoyance out of his expression, but she could see it lurking there, like a shadow waiting to fall. He’d followed most of the CID squad by keeping her at arm’s length, laughed at his share of dirty jokes and gossip relating to the Christmas party. To be told he was now her gofer must have really rankled.
Shame.
“So, what are we working on?” he asked.
Susie looked around the street, spotted a café across the road, near the mouth of Haymarket Close. Jutted her chin towards it. “In a minute,” she said. “First, let’s get a coffee and you up to speed.”
They crossed the road, took a seat at a window table. Watched a slow stream of tourists and business people pass by, heads down against the dreich weather.
A waiter brought over their drinks, giving Eddie a glance just a little too long to be casual, then quietly disappeared. Susie took her time adding sugar to her coffee, letting the silence stretch out.
The Storm Page 18
