Falling Fast Page 7

  The reply was flat, final. ‘She was pushed.’

  Be calm, Doug told himself as he scribbled notes, this could just be another hoax, another nutcase. But he didn’t think so. There was something in the voice, wasn’t there?

  ‘You saw her being pushed off the Scott Monument?’

  ‘No, but I know she was pushed. Know it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I fuckin’ DO, okay?’ the man bellowed, voice raw with fury and something else. It took Doug a moment to catch what it was. Sorrow.

  ‘Look,’ Doug said slowly, ‘whoever you are, you’re not giving me anything to go on. You say you know Katherine Buchan’s death wasn’t an accident, but you won’t tell me anything about yourself, how you know this, or even how you know her. If you think someone pushed her, then who?’

  Another pause on the line, the only sound harsh, uneven breathing. And then, just as Doug was beginning to think the caller was about to hang up, he spoke again.

  ‘It was McGinty,’ the voice said. ‘Derek McGinty pushed her, McGregor. Derek fucking McGinty. You know, the bastard you wrote all those stories about?’

  Doug felt as though he had just taken one too many fast turns on a rollercoaster. McGinty? Jesus Christ. It sounded insane, unreal. Why would McGinty, whose face had been splashed over every newspaper and TV station in Scotland, be in the centre of Edinburgh when he was trying to keep a low profile? And, even assuming he did, why the hell would he spontaneously decide to throw a woman he had never met off the top of a busy tourist attraction?

  It made no sense. Didn’t add up.

  Except…

  Except McGinty hadn’t been seen since being driven out of Cairneyhill. If the thinking that he would head for his parents was true, and he didn’t have a car, he’d have to go through Edinburgh to get to Prestonview. He’d need money to get there.

  Susie’s words now, ringing in Doug’s ears: We’re not ruling out a robbery gone wrong. Something else flashed across his mind’s eye, caught, then disappeared again like the afterglow of a camera flash. What…?

  Doug closed his eyes, trying to rein in his thoughts.

  ‘What makes you think it was McGinty who murdered Katherine?’

  ‘I don’t think, McGregor, I know,’ the voice spat. ‘You’re meant to be the crime reporter, do some fucking reporting. Derek McGinty pushed Katherine Buchan to her death. I know you don’t believe me, but don’t worry, I’ll send you a little reminder of our chat. Something to convince you.’

  ‘Look, if you’re worried about being named, don’t. I’ll keep you anonymous. If we can just meet and…’

  ‘No fuckin’ chance,’ came the harsh reply. ‘But don’t worry, like I said, I’ll send you something special.’

  ‘Hold on, I…’ Too late. Whoever had called, they’d hung up.

  Doug cut the connection then dialled 1471, only to hear the ‘sorry, the caller withheld their number’ message. Predictable.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered. Now what? Derek McGinty? Could it be true? The rational journalist in Doug was telling him it was a hoax – that someone had seen the stories he had written in the Tribune, added two and two and come up with five. But, then again…

  And what did whoever had just called him mean by ‘I’ll send you a little reminder of our chat, something special’?

  Doug wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  13

  Rita McGinty was just settling down to her nightly soap ritual – Emmerdale, Coronation Street and EastEnders – when Sam shrugged his jacket on. She glanced up at him, worry etching its way across her face.

  ‘You’re going out? Again?’

  He had nipped to the shops earlier this afternoon, ‘just to get a pint of milk,’ he had told her. Which was true. What he hadn’t told her was he wanted to pick something up for tonight, just in case.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just for a little while, love. Thought I’d get out, see Mike and the boys down at the House. Give you peace to watch your soaps. I won’t be long, promise.’

  Rita glanced nervously at the curtains. ‘But what if they…?’

  Sam went to her, leant over and kissed her gently on the forehead. He could kill Derek for this. Rita didn’t deserve any of this. Neither of them did.

  ‘They won’t, love,’ he said, as soothingly as he could. ‘It’s dark now and getting cold. There’s been no sign of Derek for a month. He’s not coming back here, they know that. And besides, they’ve got that poor girl’s family to go and pester now.’ He nodded to the copy of the Tribune lying on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  Rita nodded, curling her feet under her on the couch. He could tell she wasn’t convinced, but she wasn’t going to stop him, either.

  ‘Right, I’ll see you in a bit,’ he said, heading for the door.

  ‘Don’t be too long, love,’ she said, the pleading tone in her voice stabbing at him.

  ‘I won’t, love. Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  The night was cold and clear, the stars bright chips of ice. Sam kept his eyes straight ahead, watching his breath as it plumed out in front of him in frosted clouds. At the end of the street he came to the small vennel that would lead out of the estate. If he turned left and kept walking, he would come to the Halfway House. Straight on took him across the fields and towards the old railway line.

  Sam paused, undecided. The thought of just turning left and heading for the pub flashed across his mind. It would be so easy. A five-minute walk and he would be there, sharing a joke with Mike and the others, warming himself beside the open fire as Denver farted his way through another evening while the regulars made their usual jokes about it. Just one of the guys. Just an old man living an ordinary life. A man whose wife was at home waiting for him, happily watching her soaps, not glancing nervously at the phone every two seconds, body tensed for the next call, the next knock at the door, the next question. A man whose son wasn’t a rapist.

  But then, if he abandoned Derek, what would that make him? Just the same as his father, who walked out on his mother after fucking his way through most of the women he met on his all-too-frequent ‘boys’ nights’? The rest of the world had given up on his son, but Sam hadn’t. He could not, would not.

  Would he?

  He had crossed the road and was heading for the railway line before he knew the decision had been made. As he walked, a growing unrest filled his mind. It wasn’t fear exactly – even after everything that had happened he wasn’t afraid of Derek – it was more unease at not knowing what was coming next.

  He hadn’t seen his son in years – he had visited briefly when he was released from prison – and it had been one of the most excruciating experiences of Sam’s life. Rita sat in her chair, glaring at Derek with open contempt and hatred. It hadn’t surprised Sam. Rita’s upbringing had been small-town strict; a steady diet of strict morals, propriety and church on a Sunday. The opposite sex were a temptation, and sex itself outside marriage a sin, she had been taught. So when her son, her only son, was convicted for a depraved sex assault on a defenceless, innocent young girl, her reaction was predictable.

  Trying to get beyond that, Sam attempted to break the ice, tried to engage his son in small talk about the future and his plans, flailing for something, anything, to rebuild their relationship on. To try to understand what had driven Derek to do what he had done.

  He had failed. The oppressive silence in the house proved too much for Derek, who stormed out of the door, telling his parents to go and fuck themselves. And that was it. They hadn’t heard from again since. Until yesterday.

  Sam climbed over a stile and trudged across a field – frosted mud crunching beneath his boots – then headed down the path that led onto the old railway line. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and he could dimly hear traffic on the new stretch of A1 that ran behind Prestonview, linking East Lothian to the main road down to Newcastle, but, other than that, everything was silent.

  The t
ree he had arranged to meet Derek at was an old, gnarled oak about five hundred yards in front of him, its thin, skeletal branches the colour of bone in the moonlight. Sam walked up to it and stopped, heart pounding in his ears. He looked around. Nothing. Typical Derek. Come out of nowhere, upset everything, and then…

  ‘Dad?’

  Sam jumped back as a shape emerged from the shadows that pooled around the tree’s trunk. He peered into the darkness. ‘Derek? That you?’

  ‘Naw, it’s fuckin’ Santa,’ Derek snapped. Stopped. Sighed. Forced back the anger and churning in his guts. Spoke more softly. ‘Yeah, Dad, it’s me.’

  It took Sam a moment to believe it. The last time he had seen Derek, his son had been overweight and flabby, his face drooping with jowls of fat. The man who stood in front of him now was gaunt, almost overly thin, with defined cheekbones and a square jaw. He was wearing a heavy jacket, but Sam could still tell that underneath it, Derek’s beer belly had gone as well.

  ‘It’s… it’s good to see you, son,’ Sam whispered, trying to keep his voice even as he spoke.

  Derek laughed sharply. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. ‘We both know that’s a pile of shit, Dad, but thanks anyway.’

  ‘Look, son,’ Sam said, ‘we haven’t got much time, what with all these reporters hanging around. When you called, I thought you might need some cash, so…’

  Derek reached forward, taking hold of Sam’s arm as he reached inside his pocket for the cash he had withdrawn earlier in the day. His grip was strong.

  ‘No, Dad,’ Derek whispered, his voice unusually soft. God, but he sounded tired. ‘That’s not why I called, just the opposite in fact. Here.’

  He handed over a large brown envelope. Sam tore it open, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the contents. Even in the moonlight he could see that the envelope was stuffed with money – £20 and £50 notes, by the look of it.

  Sam looked up, straining to read his son’s face in the darkness. ‘Derek? What’s going on? Where did you get this money? Oh God, please don’t tell me you…’

  ‘Give me a fucking break,’ Derek snapped. ‘Christ all-fucking-mighty, Dad, it’s always the same, isn’t it? What, you think I broke into the offy on the high street, emptied the till on the way here?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it, Derek?’ Sam snapped, voice trembling with the old anger. What the fuck was he doing here? Trying to buy them off, say sorry for all the stress and pain he had put Sam and Rita through with a wad of cash and a half-arsed poor-me plea? Fuck that.

  Derek took a step forward, saw the way his dad’s shoulders straightened, felt the prickle in the back of his neck that told him violence was on the horizon. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. I believe in you, Derek, I have faith.

  Bit back his rage. Forced his voice to be calm. ‘I didn’t do anything, Dad, I just collected some of what was owed to me. Look, I don’t have much time. I just came back to give you this and tell you I’m leaving. I’ve got a couple of things to sort out, and then that’s me. Gone.’

  ‘Wh… where?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Derek shrugged. ‘Anywhere away from here. Where they don’t know my face.’

  ‘So that’s your answer is it, run away? Buy your mum and I off with some cash that you got from God knows where and then just disappear? Is that it?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Derek sneered. ‘What choice do I have here, Dad? It’s not like anyone is going to forgive or forget what I’ve done, not like I can start again.’

  ‘You think you deserve that? After what you did?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ Derek sighed, ‘I probably don’t. But I’m going to try anyway. So take this. Do something for you and Mum. Christ knows, you deserve it.’

  Sam was stunned. He couldn’t believe Derek was talking like this. What had happened to him?

  ‘Son, I…’

  ‘Don’t, Dad, just don’t. Just take the cash and go. Please. Tell Mum you won it on the lottery or something, if you have to.’

  ‘Will… will you let us know where you are when you know?’

  It was hard to tell in the light, but Sam thought he could see Derek smile. ‘Aye, I’m sure Mum would love a postcard from me an’ aw. Now go on. If you hurry, you’ve got time for a pint before you get back to Mum. Have it on me.’

  Sam opened his mouth, closed it. He didn’t know what to say. He took a step forward, grasping his son with all his strength. The arthritis in his hands and arms snarled angrily. He barely felt it.

  ‘You take care,’ he whispered.

  ‘I will, Dad, I will.’ And then he was gone, jogging down the railway path and into the shadows. Sam stood watching him for a moment, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes.

  It was a fight he never won.

  • • •

  Derek had left the Polo in a small car park about half a mile along the track from where he had met his dad. He ran the whole way back, lungs burning by the time he got there, eyes dry from the cold and reddened by tears.

  It wasn’t much, but the car would do for tonight. He would drive up behind Pencaitland, find a wooded lane or farm road, park up and sleep there. He had the money for a hotel, but this way was easier. Less chance of being recognised, less chance of some night receptionist phoning the police. The last thing he needed right now was the pigs crawling all over him.

  As he approached the Polo, he noticed something was wrong. The car was sitting at an odd angle. Getting closer, he saw the driver-side tyres were flat.

  ‘Oh sh…’

  He had just enough time to register something glinting in the corner of his eye before his head exploded in agony. Darkness rushed in on him like a wave as he crumpled to the cold ground, blood spurting from his skull and soaking his hair. He cried out, but couldn’t be sure if he would be heard over the roaring that seemed to fill the world. He tried to get up, tried to move, but couldn’t. It was as if he had been disconnected from his body.

  ‘Hiya, Derek,’ a voice said from what seemed to be very far away. He knew that voice. Tried to place it, lost it. Wasn’t important, anyway. He was going to pass out soon.

  ‘Long time, no see. How are ya? Me? I’m fuckin’ great.’

  Derek folded over as a boot was driven viciously into his ribs. He felt one crack, screamed as bone ground against bone. The kick was swiftly followed by another. And another. Then, more talking, that same naggingly familiar voice. Dimly, he could hear the sound of boots crunching on gravel as his attacker circled him, gloating. He shut out the words, focused on staying conscious.

  Breathe, Derek, for fuck’s sake, breathe!

  He shook his head, trying to clear the fog in his mind. If he didn’t shape up now, he was in serious trouble. He lay on the ground, gasping for air, willing himself to stay awake. No good, his vision kept on blurring. Desperately, he bit down on his tongue, hard enough for hot, bitter blood to flood his mouth. The pain surged through his body, excruciating, but the world was back in focus.

  ‘You know, when I took this job, I didn’t realise it was going to be so much fun,’ his attacker said. And in that moment, Derek knew who he was. Saw in his mind’s eye a young, brutal man with a taste for violence and knives.

  Charlie Morris.

  Charlie was pulling him up now, dragging Derek’s face close to his, filling his lungs with his sour breath. ‘Come on, Derek, open your eyes at least, so you can see what I’m going to…’

  Derek drove his head forward with all the strength he had left. Charlie uttered a high, muffled scream as Derek felt a nose snap sharply against his forehead. To his left, there was a heavy clanging sound.

  The knife!

  Derek rolled away, pushing Charlie back. He groped desperately at the ground in front of him, got the knife in his hand, closed his fingers around it.

  Play time.

  He stood up, body still feeling shaky and foreign after the blow to the head and kicks to the torso. He wiped blood-soaked hair from his eyes. A hot lance of pain flashed
through his side every time he took a breath. One rib broken definitely, maybe two.

  Time enough to worry about that later.

  About two feet away, Charlie had pulled himself upright. The blood gushing from his nose looked black in the dull orange glow of the car park’s meagre lighting.

  ‘Fugging bastard,’ he gurgled as he spat out a wad of phlegmy blood. ‘Fugging bastard!’

  ‘Who sent you, Charlie?’ Derek asked as he began to shuffle forward slowly, willing his legs to keep working. ‘You said this was a job, so who sent you?’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Charlie barked.

  Derek raised the knife to eye level. The blade caught what little light there was, seemed to bathe in it. Charlie always was proud of that knife. ‘Look, Charlie, I’m not fucking around here, tell me. Was it…?’

  Charlie surged forward, catching Derek off-guard and driving him back onto the bonnet of the Polo. He screamed as his ribs exploded in pain, arms flailing out to the sides, knife squirting from his grip. Charlie grabbed a handful of hair and smashed Derek’s head backwards into the bonnet. Derek lashed out wildly, felt his fist connect with jaw. They tumbled from the car and onto the ground in a tangle of flailing arms and legs, punching, kicking, clawing. Somehow, Derek managed to flip himself on top, using his weight to pin Charlie down.

  ‘Tell me, Charlie!’ he screamed, spittle and blood flying from his mouth and peppering Charlie’s face. ‘Who sent you, was it him? WAS IT?’

  Charlie hawked back and spat in Derek’s face. Rage flooded through Derek, drowning out the pain, the exhaustion, the fear. He pulled back, swinging with all his strength. Teeth bit into his knuckles, bone gave a horrible, liquid snap. He swung again and again and again, only stopping when his arms were too heavy to lift and the world gave a sickening, dizzy lurch.

  Derek got up, staggered away from the pulped mess of sinew and bone before him. Closed his eyes and wished to die as he vomited. Was it always going to be this way?

  He took a moment to pull himself together and make sure he wasn’t going to pass out, then lurched back to where Charlie lay. He fully expected to find he had killed him, but Derek could hear soft, gurgling breathing, and felt a steady pulse when he pressed his fingers into Charlie’s neck. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.