The Storm

by Neil Broadfoot

  Eddie took a step forward, offered his warrant card, made sure it was in front of Paul’s good eye. “Paul, I’m DC Eddie King. I wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier today.”

  Paul shook his head, tried to set his jaw. “Got nothing to say,” he said, false bravado trembling in his voice. “Private, between me and Stevie.”

  Eddie shook his head. Typical. “Well, I’m afraid not, Paul,” he said, hoping his tone sounded patient and understanding. He didn’t feel it. “You see, when our officers arrived, they discovered a significant quantity of Class A, B and C drugs, including the heroin in the needle Mr McInnis, ah, attacked you with.”

  Paul’s head jerked towards Eddie. “Heroin?” he whispered. “He was giving me heroin? But why would…?”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t go to Mr McInnis to purchase heroin?” Eddie asked.

  “Wha’? No, no, I went because I… well, I…”

  Eddie looked at him. Counted to ten. “What? If you weren’t going for drugs for yourself, who were you going there for, Paul? You know distribution is a more severe crime than personal use, don’t you? Especially with something like heroin. If you were collecting it with the intention of distributing, that’s a world of shit for you.”

  Paul looked at him, panicked. “No, I wasn’t, I went there because I was told to, because I…”

  Eddie had a sudden image of a rat running around a maze, bumping off the walls. Poor bastard didn’t know which way to turn. He decided on a change of tack, add to Paul’s confusion.

  “Okay, okay,” he said soothingly. “We’ll get back to that. Paul, can you tell me why Stevie would attack you like that?”

  Paul’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat as he swallowed, the memory flashing through him. “I… I dunno,” he said, more to himself than Eddie. “He said Frankie told him to… to… but I don’t understand why.” He turned to Eddie, eye pleading from behind a cloud of pain and fear.

  Frankie? Eddie thought. Bingo.

  “Paul, who’s Frankie?”

  Paul went as white as his bandage. “No-one,” he snapped. “No-one at all. Just a friend, okay? Got nothing to do with this.”

  Eddie shook his head. “Paul, you’re not helping yourself with this. I know you’re in a bad place right now, and I can only imagine what you’re going through, but lying to the police is a serious offence. And the last thing you want to do is rack up any more problems.”

  Paul shook his head in the bed, the mock bravado settling on his face like modelling clay. He clenched his jaw and gave Eddie what he guessed was a defiant stare. To Eddie, he looked vaguely constipated.

  “I’m no’ saying anything,” he said. “So piss off.”

  Eddie sighed, shook his head. Fuck it, he had other things to do today. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll get Stevie’s side of the story. I get the feeling he’ll be interested to hear that you brought Frankie up in our chat. See you.”

  He headed for the door, nodded to the PC who was sitting outside the room. There was another outside Stevie’s room.

  “Stupid little shit,” Eddie said.

  “Aye,” the PC replied wearily, as if he’d seen this kind of thing a million times before. Given his age, maybe he had. “You gonna check in on the other one?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Maybe later. Listen, they have anything interesting on them when they were brought in?”

  The PC shrugged. “If there was, it’ll be in the office on the second floor, unless it’s already been sent back to Fettes.”

  Eddie nodded. Helpful.

  He made his way down to the second floor, to a small office that had been set aside for police use. Given how often they were at the hospital, bringing in injuries or calming the A&E down at weekends, it made sense to have a satellite office they could work from if needed.

  He buzzed in, asked another uniform for the details of the personal effects from Stevie and Paul. She smiled at him, rummaged through a drawer and brought out two lists detailing what was found on McInnis, S, and Welsh, P.

  It didn’t surprise Eddie that Paul travelled light. All that was on his list was a smattering of change, a cheap mobile phone, a lighter and a condom. There was also a wallet listed, no cash or cards present, holding a picture of a woman, thought to be in her late-twenties, red hair, blue eyes.

  Stevie’s list was more or less the same. A wallet that contained three bank cards, £23.72 in cash, a small pocketknife, a pack of cigarette skins. And a business card.

  Eddie read the details of the card on the itinerary. Stopped, read them again. Felt his mouth go dry and his eyes widen. What the fuck?

  He looked at the PC. “Have you still got this here?” he asked, pointing to the itinerary. “Item 1863241-a?”

  She looked, went back into the filing cabinet. “You’re in luck,” she said. “They’ve not been sent back to HQ yet. This what you’re looking for?”

  She held out a small, clear plastic bag. Eddie took it carefully, as though it was precious china. Held it close, smeared the plastic tight against its surface so the strip lights overhead didn’t distort what he was reading.

  It was a standard business card. Just a name, a contact number, office address, email address and a logo in the right-hand corner.

  Eddie knew the address. He’d been there an hour ago.

  The logo was for Edinburgh City Council. The details were for Diane Pearson, Case Worker, Department of Social Care and Community Support.

  50

  Doug barely slowed down over the cattle grid, suspension thudding dully in protest as shock juddered up his back. He pulled into the first space he found, car skidding to a halt in the gravel. He jumped out, grabbing the file and marching for the door.

  When he found it locked, he felt more confused than ever. Started to hammer at the door, ignoring the dull pain that shuddered up his arm into his shoulder with every blow. Why was the door locked anyway? Made no sense for a hotel to lock its doors in the middle of the day. Unless…

  Esther, he thought, tendrils of cold, oily panic slithering around his guts.

  “Harvey!” he roared. “Open the door. Is something wrong? Is Esther okay? I got your little present, think we need to talk, don’t you? Why did you lie to me, Harvey? Why the fuck after all this time did you…?”

  He heard the soft clatter of the bolt sliding clear on the other side of the door, took a step back, breathing rapidly, forcing his hands to unclench, ready to give Harvey both barrels.

  The door opened a sliver, Esther’s face appearing in the crack like an apparition. Doug felt the panic bleed out of him as though he were a balloon that had been pricked, the relief at seeing her face quickly washed away by the roaring terror that suddenly clamoured in on his thoughts.

  She looked like death. It was the only way he could describe it. The make-up that she had used to disguise her condition seemed to mock her – patches of lurid colour covering skin that was grey and slack. Her hair was tousled and unkempt, as though she’d been raking her hand through it. Hands which, curled around the door, looked like rotted stumps. The knuckles a feverish red, the fingers and skin leprously white.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “Esther, are you okay? I’m sorry for the noise, it’s just…”

  “Shh,” she hissed, desperation flashing in her eyes. “Please, Douglas. Don’t say anything else. I don’t want to hear it. Just leave. Please. Now.”

  “I can’t do that, Esther, I’m sorry. Is Harvey here? Why was the door locked? Can I…?”

  “No, Douglas,” she said, her voice sharp with rising panic. “Please, you need to leave. Now. I’ll have Harvey get in touch with you…”

  She flinched suddenly, pain folding her face into a mask of agony. Doug took and instinctive step forward, pushed against the door, reached out for her.

  “Esther? What’s wrong? Come on, let�
��s get inside, call the doctor for you…”

  “No,” she moaned, body shaking with hitching sobs as she leaned into Doug. “Douglas, please. You don’t understand, you have to…”

  The side of his head exploded in pain and Doug was pushed sideways by the force of the blow. He twisted awkwardly, hitting the side of the double door and then falling back, stumbling on the step and tumbling to the gravel, the wind knocked out of him.

  He rolled over, trying to understand what had just happened, tried to think over the roar of black agony in his temple.

  What the…?

  He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to focus as he saw the double doors of the hotel swing open. Started kicking at the gravel frantically, desperately trying to back away from the figure emerging from the shadows.

  He let out a sound that was half moan, half shout of anger. Ignored the daggers of pain in his hands and his back as the gravel dug into them, tearing, shredding.

  Above him, a man with gigantic hands and shoulders smiled. It was a soft, almost gentle smile and Doug felt his bladder weaken when he saw it.

  Gavin Pearson. Thick, bull-like neck, dark suspicious scowl and thin bloodless lips that said violence was his first language, pain his second. The years had taken their toll, but he was still the same man Doug had read about in the car park in Eilean Donan. At the top of the impossible file was a page from the Tribune that wasn’t meant to exist. It was the report on Pearson’s sentencing for the Everett murder. The byline on the piece was Harvey Robertson.

  Pearson grabbed a handful of Doug’s shirt, exhaling sourly as he hauled Doug to his feet. “Hi, Doug,” he said. “Been looking forward to meeting you face to face. You look like a man with a few questions. How ’bout we go inside and have a chat? I bet Harvey’s just dying to see us.”

  Doug flailed out in panic, fists thumping onto Pearson’s outstretched arm. Pain twisted his face into a grimace and, for an instant, Doug thought he might have a chance of getting away.

  The thought died as Pearson twisted away and, with his free hand, pushed a knife into Doug’s face.

  “Quit it, you little fuck,” he hissed, dark grey eyes wild, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, the same, fetid smell on his breath. “Quit it now, or I swear tae fuck I’ll start on you and finish on his bitch of a wife, clear?”

  Doug moaned. He nodded meekly, offered no resistance as Pearson dragged him into the hotel. At the door he barked at Esther to “get fucking moving” and she gathered herself up and hobbled into the hotel, Pearson dragging Doug behind her.

  51

  Susie met Rebecca at a small café on Leith Walk, got her to go over what Drainey had told her.

  “Harvey Robertson,” Rebecca said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Said he got a call from Harvey saying that there was strong evidence that the Greig and Montgomery cases were linked.”

  “He telling the truth?” Susie asked, not wanting to hear the answer. “Or you think he was just playing you to get what he wanted?”

  Rebecca stared into her cup as if the answer was there. “I thought about that, but then I phoned around. No-one wanted to tell me who had leaked the story when I didn’t have a name, but they were happy enough to confirm it was Robertson when I mentioned the name to them, so yeah, it’s legit.”

  Susie took a swallow of her coffee. It was as bitter as her mood. “Fuck,” she whispered. “So Doug caught your hint, got his pal Harvey to phone it around so he could keep his name out of it and watch us squirm.” She shook her head. She had wanted to believe him when they talked on the phone earlier. What was it he said? The last thing I’m going to do is lie to you – or Rebecca.

  So much for that.

  Rebecca swirled the tea in her cup. It had been her first reaction, too. Yet there was something that just didn’t feel right about it. Oh, Doug could be a bastard if he thought there was a story in it, but to see both of them out?

  “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “There’s something that still doesn’t sit right with this. Why would he do it? He told both of us where he was going, who he was going to see. So why get him to phone around the story if he knows we’d link him straight to Harvey anyway?”

  Susie shrugged. She had a point. What did Doug get out of it? He had said it himself, it was a big story, no way he was going to give away a good line on it. And he hadn’t known for a fact that the killings were linked – as he admitted himself, it was only when Susie confronted him that he knew for certain.

  “So what’s the alternative?” Susie asked. “That this guy Robertson found out about the link on his own, decided to phone it around? Why? He’s been retired for years, from what Doug said. Why get back into the game now? And why leak it to rivals when he could just run the story himself?”

  “I don’t know,” Rebecca admitted. “But something just doesn’t add up about this.” She paused. “You had any luck getting in touch with him?”

  Susie shook her head, frustrated. “No. Phone just keeps ringing out or going to voicemail. You?”

  “Same,” Rebecca replied. “I’ve sent a couple of texts, no reply to them, either.”

  “He must be driving,” Susie said. “He said he was coming back today. We can ask him what the hell is going on when he gets here.”

  Rebecca stuck her hand in the air, Susie following her gaze. Grimaced slightly when she saw King at the door of the café, waving enthusiastically. He’d called twenty minutes ago, asking where she was. She’d agreed to meet him, but had hoped he would take a little longer to get here.

  He bustled over to the table, nodded a greeting to Rebecca, who flashed him her best press officer smile in return. He sat down beside Susie, intentionally turning his shoulder to Rebecca. You’re not part of this conversation, the move said.

  Susie rolled her eyes. “Eddie, whatever you’ve got to say, you’ve got my permission to say it in front of Rebecca. If it breaks any regulations, it’s on my head, okay?”

  Eddie gave Rebecca an uncertain glance, then fixed his attention back on Susie.

  “Okay,” he said. “You know that incident with Stevie Leith the boss asked us to look into?”

  She nodded. She’d heard the radio chatter while on her way here, skimmed the initial incident report. The gruesome ones were always talking points and this one, with a kid ending up with a syringe buried in his eye, certainly qualified.

  “Well,” Eddie said, settling into his role as head storyteller, “I went down to the ERI and interviewed the suspects. Took an inventory of items found at the scene as well.”

  Susie made a murmur of approval. Good, solid work. “Anything interesting?” she asked.

  Eddie broke into a smile so wide it could almost be genuine. It made him look like a kid again. A spoiled kid used to getting his own way, but a kid nonetheless.

  “Oh yes,” he said, producing his phone and flicking on the camera. “Thought this in particular might interest you.”

  She took the phone, peered at the image of Diane Pearson’s business card. Looked up at Eddie, her face full of questions.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I asked the one who was conscious about it but he refused to say anything. Guess he could have been a client of hers, but we’ll have to check with her or the office to find out.”

  Susie thought quickly. Phone and make sure she was there or try and surprise her?

  She gulped down the last of her coffee, looked across to Rebecca.

  “We’ve got to follow this up,” she said. “Keep trying to get him. If you do, give me a call?”

  “Definitely,” Rebecca said. “And in the meantime, I’m going to do a little asking around about Mr Robertson.”

  “Good,” Susie said. She stepped away from the table and paused, an idea threatening at the edges of her mind. Something Eddie had said earlier.

  “What?” Rebecca asked.

  Susi
e shook her head. “Nothing, just a thought. Come on, Eddie. Let’s go and have a chat with Mrs Pearson. I want to know how she knows Stevie Leith and Paulie One Eye.”

  King laughed too loudly at the joke, made his way for the door. Rebecca looked up at Susie, rolled her eyes.

  Men, the look said. Susie found it hard to disagree.

  52

  Harvey was slouched in one of the deep leather couches that bracketed the fireplace in the lounge area. His face was a bloodied mess, lips swollen and split, eyes already swelling with bruises, a long gash on his cheek. He was leaning back, making a lisping, spluttering sound with every hitching breath. Doug had heard the sound before. It meant his nose was broken.

  Pearson barked at Esther to take a seat beside her husband, then threw Doug into the couch opposite. He stood at the end of the two couches, like the head of the table, breathing deeply, wiping sweat from his face. Doug noticed blood on his knuckles, most likely Harvey’s, but there was something else about his hands: they were twisted and knotted, warped by arthritis. Doug concentrated, remembered the age he read in the copy, added the intervening years. Pearson wasn’t looking good for a man of fifty-six.

  “Well, well, well, isn’t this nice?” he said, his voice a harsh rasp as he opened his arms out in an encompassing gesture. The knife glinted in the overhead lights. “All of us together like this. Though I’m a little surprised to see you, Doug, I thought from the way you tore out of here this morning, you wouldn’t let off the accelerator until you hit Edinburgh.”

  Doug swallowed down the panic that chilled his throat with an icy caress. Watching, he thought, he was watching. Just like…

  …like…

  Just like he was before he shot Greig.

  Doug forced back the images dancing in front of his eyes, of the blood and destruction and terror, forced himself to breathe, to focus.

  “Why?” he heard himself say. “Just tell me why?”

  Pearson laughed, the sound of glass being dragged across stone. “Why? Don’t you know, Doug, haven’t you worked it out? Hasn’t Harvey here ever told you the story of how we met? Of how he helped destroy my life?”