Falling Fast Page 5

  £30. Could he leave it at that? Could he? Would he?

  Doug slipped the car into gear and headed out of the car park.

  Gambler in the house.

  • • •

  Even muffled by his jacket, the sound of the window smashing seemed to fill the street. Derek McGinty tensed for a moment, scanning the houses in front of him for a light going on or a door rattling open as someone came to investigate. Surely someone must have heard?

  No one had, or they weren’t bothering. He couldn’t blame them. He’d chosen this car – a battered-looking Polo – because he knew it stood the least chance of being alarmed. With its rusting bodywork, sagging tyres and dirt-smeared windscreen, why bother?

  He pulled up the door lock, swept glass from the driver’s seat and slid inside. Breaking open the steering column was laughably easy – it crumbled when he gave it a good knock – then he busied himself twisting wires together to jumpstart the car. The engine coughed into life after a moment, like a sixty-a-day smoker trying to get out of bed in the morning.

  Nice one, Derek. Nicked a real beauty here, didn’t you? Ah well, at least the tank was half-full. The joke was, with the money he had in his pocket, he could have rented a car, bought one even. But he didn’t want the attention. And besides, old habits died hard. He drove away slowly, eyes sweeping across the street to make sure no one was about to try and stop him. No, still in the clear.

  He headed out of Gilmerton and on to the bypass. Took out a cigarette, then rolled down the remains of the window he had smashed and stuck his elbow out. To the casual observer, or any half-asleep copper, he was just having a smoke while driving.

  He drove down the slip road, instinctively putting his foot down as he joined the bypass. The Polo coughed in protest as the speedometer climbed shakily to 50 mph.

  It would be good to see home again. He had been away too long, living in self-imposed exile, dragging himself around the country when, by right, he could go anywhere he wanted. He had seen a few articles in the Tribune about how Prestonview was ‘living in fear’ of his return. He even recognised one of the names quoted, an old prune-face fucker called George Amos who used to chase him off the playing fields when he took his airgun down there as a boy. ‘We don’t want his sort around here,’ he told the reporter, some shit-stirrer by the name of McGregor. ‘Derek McGinty has been nothing but trouble to this town and his parents since the day he was born. If he had any decency, he would stay as far away from here as he could.’

  Decency? That one made Derek laugh.

  Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all. If he wanted to go home, he would. He had served his time, he was a free man. During the trial, and afterward, he had been branded a monster, a pervert and worse. People were quick to judge – his jury took less than two hours to do that – but throughout the whole trial, no one had asked one simple, obvious question: why?

  But then, the answer was obvious, wasn’t it? Bethany Miller was a beautiful young woman. He had seen her and decided to have her by any means necessary. That’s just what monsters do, that’s what perverts do. Isn’t it?

  Maybe. And what he had done was monstrous and perverted; he was old enough and self-aware enough to admit that. He was ashamed of what he had done, more ashamed of what his mum and dad thought about it – and him. But still, the question had never been asked, not even by them.

  Why Derek? Why?

  He had spent a long time asking himself, though. And, although it wasn’t a justification, he kept coming back to one answer. Love.

  He swiped at his eyes angrily, mashing away the tears as he stomped down on the accelerator. He forced the Polo up to 60 mph, feeling it shudder slightly as he ground the gearstick into top. He offered a silent prayer. All the car had to do was last him to East Lothian. After that, the fucking rustbucket could fall apart in the street for all he cared.

  Not much longer, he told himself. Soon it would be payday. Soon he could say goodbye to shitty little jobs, petty thieving and scrounging from the bottom of the barrel to get by. Just a little business back home, and that would be it.

  He would demand what he – what they – deserved. And if he didn’t get it, he would take it. By force, if he had to. For them. For love.

  The thought kept Derek warm as he drove.

  9

  Hal Damon stepped out of the arrivals lounge at Edinburgh Airport into a near-deserted concourse at just after 11pm, his only company an exhausted-looking man pretending to read a magazine as he glanced nervously up at the arrivals board, and a cleaner making herself busy moving non-existent dust from one moulded plastic seat to another.

  So much for the red-carpet welcome.

  It had started earlier that day, with a call from Conservative Campaign Headquarters. He’d listened carefully, agreed to take the job, then put the phone down slowly, cursing softly under his breath.

  Edinburgh. Fuck.

  He had stood in the calm of the kitchen, surveying the wreckage of baby bottles, sterilisers, soiled bibs and abandoned cups of half-drunk coffee in front of him. Absently, he’d wandered around, picking up cups and placing them in the dishwasher, pulling bottles apart with practised ease and loading up the steriliser. From the living room, he could hear Colin cooing and soothing Jennifer. Hal had smiled, made a bet with himself that they were standing in front of the window that looked out onto the back garden.

  ‘It’s the way the light catches in her hair,’ he told Hal one rare, rare night when they got Jennifer to sleep in the cot next to their bed and managed to steal five minutes together. ‘I just can’t get enough of looking at her in that light.’

  She had arrived three months ago, the product of Colin’s sperm and a surrogate’s egg. They had been together for eight years by that point, bought the trendy garden-flat conversion in Kensington, built up careers, friends, a life. Had a wedding – or as near to one as closed-minded bigots thought acceptable at the time – then convinced themselves they were ready to be parents.

  Then found out how wrong they were when Jennifer arrived. They transformed from a quiet, professional couple into a pair of sleep-deprived zombies who shambled around a home that looked as though Hurricane Mothercare had ripped through it. Luckily, Hal was able to work from home, advise most of his clients by e-mail or phone, while Colin’s work as a graphic designer allowed him to choose his own hours.

  Slowly, the sleepless days and nights became weeks. A juddering, faltering routine had started to form – Colin would take the days and then work at night, leaving Hal free to deal with his business, which was concentrated on more traditional working hours.

  And now, one phone call had screwed it all up.

  Hal had run through a mental list of what he would have to do. Phone his mum and Colin’s dad, get them to come round and help Colin when they could. Dig up background on the shitstorm he was flying in to – Janey at the office could do that – book flights for Edinburgh. Janey again. Get a hotel. Pack.

  Oh, and tell Colin he was abandoning him with their three-month-old daughter so he could go and clean up someone else’s crap.

  Hal headed for the living room, already readying his excuses and reasons. Colin would understand, grudgingly, he always did. But he wouldn’t like it. Hal didn’t, either.

  Edinburgh.

  Fuck.

  Now, several hours later, he wandered out of the terminal building, flicked his phone on and thumbed in a quick text to Colin without really thinking about it. ‘Just arrived. Miss you both. Give J a kiss from daddy. Love you both, Hx.’ Hit send, told himself it was better than calling, just in case the phone woke Jennifer. He knew it was shit, he just didn’t want another argument about leaving so soon.

  He shrugged off the thoughts, suddenly angry that his promised lift wasn’t here to meet him. Started thumbing through his phone contacts, looking for a name to call and rant at.

  ‘Ah, Mr Damon?’ A timid voice, heavy West Coast accent. A thin-shouldered kid with perfect hair and a suit that looked like it h
ad been ironed on smiled at him nervously. ‘Mr Damon, I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Parker. Sorry for the delay in meeting you, the parking here…’ he nodded slightly over his shoulder, ‘is a nightmare.’

  Hal took the kid’s hand, shook it. Tried not to wince at the sweaty palm. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.

  Jonathan’s face cracked into a horrible fixed smile. All teeth and twitching dimples. It didn’t hit the eyes. Politician in training, Hal thought.

  ‘Shall we?’ Jonathan asked, motioning towards the double doors. ‘We’ve got you booked into The Royal Scot on Princes Street. Shouldn’t take too long to get there at this…’

  Hal shook his head. ‘Forget that. Get on the phone, round everyone up, tell them to meet us at the parliament. Sooner we start getting some lines on this, the better.’

  • • •

  ‘So tell me, ladies and gentlemen, how the fuck did this get out in the open?’

  DI Jason Burns was not a happy man. He was pacing around in front of the assembled officers in Gayfield Place police station’s CID suite, trying to give his best pissed-off sneer. His jowly face reminded Susie of raw cookie dough, and it had turned an angry scarlet that eclipsed even the shock of thinning bright ginger hair on top of his head, which, coupled with his blunt, relentless style in the interviewing room, had earned him the unkind nickname of Third Degree Burns around the station.

  He was holding up a copy of the morning edition of the Capital Tribune – complete with the headline ‘MSP’S DAUGHTER IN “SUICIDE” DEATH RIDDLE’ and a huge picture of uniformed officers cordoning off the Scott Monument yesterday – as though it were the head of some enemy he had just decapitated.

  So much for the hope of a better day. Susie had woken up early, been staring at the ceiling when the alarm screeched at 5.30am. Thought about going out for another run but the dull ache in her legs from the previous night talked her out of it. She had finally got home at 10pm, head swimming with forensic reports, witness statements and the hellish freeze-frame images of Katherine Buchan’s shattered body. Before she left last night, she had called the hospital to see if Brian Edwards, the poor sod who had been closest to Katherine when she landed, was in any fit state to talk.

  After being bounced from extension to extension at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary for a good five minutes – her nerves becoming increasingly frayed every time she was subjected to another synthesised version of Madame Butterfly when she was put on hold – Susie had managed to speak to the nurse on Edwards’ psychiatric ward.

  ‘There’s no real change, DS Drummond,’ the nurse, whose name Susie had forgotten, told her. ‘We’ve managed to get him sedated, but he’s still in deep shock. When they brought him in, he was manic, clawing at his face, screaming about the blood and brains.’ The nurse sighed, his deep voice at the wrong end of a very long day. ‘Poor bastard. Seeing something like that…’

  Susie murmured agreement. She didn’t need reminding. She thanked the nurse for his time, got him to promise he would call her if Edwards improved, then headed for home; a two-bed flat a ten-minute walk from the station on Broughton Road.

  She had fought the temptation to just flop down on the couch and flick the TV on, got into her running gear and hit the streets. Ran along Bonnington Road then took a left down to Leith, following the coastal path. She ran for an hour, heavy bass pulsing in her ears, trying to shut out the day. It didn’t work. Home, and with mind still racing, she hooked a chin-up bar to her bedroom door frame and put herself through a circuit of pull-ups, press-ups and sit-ups, only stopping when her arms were numb and shaking.

  After a shower and a tasteless microwave meal, she flopped into bed and pretended to concentrate on re-reading The Old Curiosity Shop before falling into a sleep that was more blackout than restful.

  And now, here she was, confronted by an enraged DI. Perfect.

  She resisted the urge to slump into her chair and drop her gaze. No one knew it was her who had given the story to Doug, and no one would. But in a room full of detectives, and with Burns glaring around the room, looking for the smallest sign of guilt, any embarrassed shifting in her chair would be the same as hanging a sign reading ‘IT WAS ME’ around her neck. Doug had been as good as his word, talking up the fact that suicide was the way the police were thinking and witnesses were being sought urgently, but keeping her quotes just bland enough to make sure they couldn’t be tied to her.

  But still, she wondered, had she done the right thing? She had gone to Doug because she knew she could trust him, knew he was the best way to get the story out and handled – at least, initially – the way she wanted it to be before it was thrown into the bear pit of national coverage. But he was getting more out of it than she was. His editor was no doubt ecstatic that Doug had managed to bag an exclusive, but what did she get in return? Answer: nothing, or a severe bollocking, suspension or worse if she was found out.

  No matter how much she owed him, was it worth the risk?

  Case in point, the fuming DI Burns now pacing up and down in front of her. His skin was a dusty purple now, nostrils flaring wildly as he spoke. He looked ready to have a stroke.

  ‘If I find out who leaked this, I’ll rip their balls off,’ he whispered. ‘This is a delicate case. Yes, we need witnesses, but we need to go through the right channels. King!’

  DC Eddie King jumped in his chair. He’d been half-asleep throughout Burns’ rant. ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Head down to the press conference at Fettes. I’ve no doubt our friend Mr McGregor will be there. Have a word with him, will you? He’s not going to finger his source, but remind him this is a police investigation and we don’t need hacks getting in the way. Right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ King whispered. He sounded like he’d just been handed a life sentence.

  Burns stopped pacing and glared out at the officers in front of him. ‘No more fuck-ups people. This is a sensitive case. We need to know what Katherine Buchan was doing before she took a dive from the Monument. We need to know who was up there with her, if anyone saw anything suspicious. What type of woman was she? Did she have a reason to top herself, if that’s what happened? Any friends, enemies, lovers in the picture? What was her state of mind? Any money problems, debts, drugs or alcohol problems? We’ve got a lot of questions here, and having a fuckwit MSP who’s on first-name terms with the Chief isn’t making our lives any easier. They want answers. I want the right answers. So no fucking shortcuts. Understood?’

  A general murmur of agreement filled the room as officers got to their feet. Susie headed back to her desk to get ready. She had an appointment with the Buchans in half an hour. It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting.

  10

  Charlie could feel the bass of the music vibrate through the floorboards and up through his spine as he stepped out of the shower. He paused for a moment in front of the mirror, casting an appraising eye over his reflection.

  Not bad. His shoulders were wide and heavily muscled, like his arms, the waist tapered and lean. Although he didn’t really work at it, he had a fairly reasonable six-pack, which was only spoiled by the long, ugly scar twisting its way across his stomach and down towards his left hip. He smiled slightly at the memory of how he got that scar.

  Twenty-one years old, ready to take on the world. He was small-time muscle at the time, little more than a rent-a-thug for bigger fish, so when a debt collection went wrong and a knife was pulled on him, he wasn’t overly surprised. He was, however, careless. He let the guy he was collecting from, a ratty-looking smack-head by the name of Stevie Jones, slice his guts open before he got the knife away from him. He had made Stevie pay for that.

  Charlie walked away with a scar. Stevie lost an eye and an ear. Lesson learned.

  Wrapping a towel around himself, he padded into his bedroom. He opened a drawer beside his bed, pushed his socks and pants aside and pulled out the knife. The very knife that had carved the scar.

  He flicked it open, the blade catching the watery morning light
shining in through the window blinds. Despite its age, the blade was immaculate, razor sharp. Since his meeting with Stevie, he had found the knife to be an invaluable tool in his work, and only a sloppy workman neglected his tools.

  He ran his thumb down the blade, watching as a thin line of blood formed in its wake.

  ‘Make sure the bastard suffers,’ his client had said last night.

  He glanced at the clock. Still early. Perfect. Plenty of time to plan for this evening.

  Gently, he sucked the blood from his thumb, relishing the hot, coppery tang in his mouth.

  Anything to keep the customer happy.

  11

  Despite an enthusiasm as disgusting as his choice of tie, Jonathan proved to be a very useful little go-fer. He had arranged a meet and greet with the party chiefs while driving Hal into the city last night, had them all assembled in a pine-panelled meeting room by the time they pulled up in front of the parliament, which was, Hal thought, the ugliest building he had ever seen. It was all concrete and what looked like bamboo, glowing in the dull orange of streetlights that only served to make the incongruous angles and shapes stand out all the more.

  Hal was greeted with muted politeness by the politicians, party workers and officials Jonathan had assembled. He shook hands and exchanged warm words, could almost smell the suspicion of him as the ‘big gun’ sent in by CCHQ in London to make sure the situation didn’t blow up in the party’s face.

  Hal had made the move into freelance PR about five years ago, taking most of his client list with him when he bailed out on the marketing agency he had worked with since leaving school. He had made his name as a PR fixer fairly quickly, lucky that some of his clients – ranging from a major high street retailer to B-list celebrities –found themselves in trouble more often than not.