Falling Fast Page 8

  He patted Charlie down, finding a wallet, some cash and a set of keys. Stashed them in his pocket and lurched back to the Polo. It was a struggle to keep moving. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. It didn’t take long to realise the Polo had had its day – Charlie had slashed all the tyres. Always the professional.

  Derek fished the keys he had taken from Charlie out of his pocket, held them up to the light and examined them. One of them was an oversized car key with a built-in switch for an alarm. Squinting, Doug made out the BMW logo. Despite himself, he laughed. Same old Charlie, always the show-off.

  There were no cars in the car park, but that was to be expected: Charlie wasn’t that sloppy. He would have parked the car somewhere close, hidden but near enough to make a quick getaway. His legs feeling like lead pillars, Derek headed for the lane that led from the car park to the main road.

  About three hundred yards up, he saw a BMW tucked away off the road in a small bank of bushes. He flicked the switch on Charlie’s car key and the car bleeped obediently.

  Derek climbed in, careful to cradle his ribs. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, enjoying the soothing comfort of the leather driver’s seat. It was the most comfortable seat he’d had in weeks. His eyelids slid down. It would be easy to take a nap, so easy. No one would know, he was safe enough. And it was comfortable here. Quiet…

  So easy…

  He jerked forward, wrenching himself from sleep and started the engine. Fuck it, he was finding a hotel for the night. An out-of-the-way travel stop on the motorway would be safe enough, surely. It was worth the risk. Derek gunned the engine and drove away as, in the car park, Charlie Morris lay in a widening pool of his own blood.

  14

  Hal skimmed through the news websites, watching the reruns of the press conference. He hated the way he looked on camera – face pinched and sallow, those high cheekbones, which Colin said were his best feature, appeared blade-like in the glare of TV lighting. His glasses glinted like mirrors, masking his eyes as he turned his head to make sure he was reading to the whole press pack, not singling out one reporter. His voice, which he tried to keep even and sombre, grated like a pop song on his ears. And was he really going that grey already?

  He turned from the screen, focused on the newspapers in front of him that had managed to cover the press conference in their later editions. There weren’t many surprises; most of them focused in on Hal’s statement from the family, backed it up with the police appeal for witnesses and the handout picture of Katherine that he had released. He worked through the papers quickly, taking notes on how the lines he had given played, what might work as a follow-up if needed. Finally, he came to the Capital Tribune. As with most of the other papers, the splash image was a picture of Katherine. What was different was that the headline between first and second edition hadn’t changed. While other papers had re-nosed their stories once Katherine had been officially named, the Tribune hadn’t. Because they had already known.

  Hal wrote down the reporter’s byline. Doug McGregor. Forced himself to slow down and read the copy rather than just skim it, comparing the later version with the morning edition before the press conference had been held. It told him two things: McGregor was a good writer, and he obviously had brilliant contacts in the police. The whole story was there in the first edition; Katherine being identified from CCTV footage, the family going to the morgue to identify the body, the ongoing investigation, the police appeal for witnesses.

  McGregor had also been cute, alluding to the suicide line being the favoured police theory, but leaving it open-ended and hinting at an ongoing criminal inquiry. As he already knew Katherine’s name and family connections, McGregor had also managed to write some fairly in-depth background pieces on the Buchan family and, in particular, Richard Buchan’s work in parliament.

  McGregor’s job must have been easy after the press conference, all he had to do was take Hal’s statement and bolt it onto the copy. But instead of just lumping it in as a three-par addition at the end, Doug had woven it into the story, using the statement to give the family’s grief and shock greater resonance. Hal circled McGregor’s name and made a note to do a bit of digging on him. He was one to watch.

  He was topping up his coffee when his mobile chirped, the ringtone he used only for Colin making his breath shallow and sharp.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, yourself,’ Colin replied, his voice a flat, almost matter-of-fact tone that gave Hal’s guts an oily chill. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Yeah, not bad. Had the first meet and greet with the press today, just getting some lines together at the moment. Should calm down soon. How are you and Jennifer doing?’

  ‘We’re fine. She misses her dad though, I think she was looking for you last night.’

  Hal shoved his glasses up his nose, rubbed at his eyes hard enough to see dark stars. Guilt. Colin was always good at playing the guilt card.

  ‘I miss her too, Col,’ he said. ‘I miss both of you. This shouldn’t take too much longer. Then I’ll be home.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be there in the first place,’ Col hissed, jagged blades of anger glinting through his indifference. ‘What the fuck were you thinking, Hal? Taking this job? I mean, you do know who you’re representing, don’t you? Or did you think I’d be too busy looking after Jennifer to catch the news?’

  Hal sighed. He had known this was coming. ‘Col, please, I told you. We need this job, and it’s not Buchan I’m representing, it’s the…’

  ‘Oh, don’t lie to me, or yourself, Hal. If he’s not who you’re representing, why were you reading out a statement on his behalf today? I wonder what he’ll say when he finds out that the man hired to media-manage his daughter’s death is one of those nasty queers he doesn’t want tarnishing the institution of marriage?’

  ‘Hopefully, he’ll say that his party had the common sense to see through petty prejudice and hire the best man for the job,’ Hal snapped back, his own anger rising. ‘Look, Col, I don’t like this prick much either, but he’s a means to an end. There’s a big payday at the end of this, and I’m doing this for us – you, me and Jennifer. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like every design brief you work on is for a cure for fucking cancer, is it?’

  Silence on the other end of the phone. In his mind, Hal could see Colin standing in the kitchen, his tall, lithe frame leaning against the breakfast bar. He would be chewing his lip, running his free hand through his blonde hair. If he stayed on the line, he would start wandering through the kitchen soon, absently pulling open cupboards and staring inside as he spoke. It was his routine.

  ‘Look, Hal, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I’m pissed that you upped and left us, especially to go and help a bigoted little fuck like this guy Buchan.’

  ‘I know, Col, and I’m sorry. But it shouldn’t take too much longer, I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Col said, his voice softening. ‘We miss you, Hal. Your mum’s great, but she can’t make a cup of tea for shit, and if she keeps trying to reload the dishwasher after I’ve done it, I might have to kill her.’

  Hal laughed, mostly out of relief. ‘I’ll be home as soon as I can, promise. But now I’ve got to…’

  ‘I know,’ Col said. ‘Get back to work. Love you, Hal.’

  ‘Love you, too,’ Hal said. ‘Give Jennifer a kiss from me. I’ll call later tonight, let you know how it’s going.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Hal cut the line, sat back in his chair, relief flooding through him. He may be a selfish prick for taking this job, but at least Colin had forgiven him for it. Again.

  And, Hal thought, he had raised an interesting point. Why had Buchan’s party decided to hire him for the job? His answer to Colin had been spur of the moment, but surely there were PR firms closer who could have done the job?

  Colin’s words now: You do know who you’re representing?

  No, Hal thought, thumbing through his contacts list. I don’t, not really. Not yet. But I intend to
find out.

  15

  ‘So?’ Doug asked. He took a long drink from the soda and lime in front of him, grimaced. He wanted a pint, but he was driving. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘To be honest, not a lot,’ Susie replied. ‘It sounds like a crank, Doug. I mean, both Katherine Buchan’s death and Derek McGinty on the loose have been big stories, you said so yourself. Like you said, some lunatic’s probably just decided to put the two together to try and get some attention.’

  They were in the Freehope, a small pub that lay on the boundary between Leith and the more industrial Newhaven further along the coast. It wasn’t the most luxurious of pubs, but it had the virtue of being out of the way. Susie had told him about Richard Buchan’s little chat with the Chief Superintendent concerning Doug’s story, so he figured the less they were seen together at the moment, the better.

  It probably wasn’t wise for them to be meeting at all, but Doug was curious to see if Susie had turned up anything new. He also wanted to get her opinion on his little phone call earlier on. And, as he was the only one with whom she could share her fears about what the Chief Superintendent could and would do, it was a meeting of convenience as much as need.

  The more he thought about it, the more he agreed with Susie. It had been a crank. Nothing more. But still, something about the call nagged at him, something that just refused to show itself. And then there was what the man had said before he hung up: I’ll send you a little reminder of our chat. Something special.

  Doug shrugged, forcing the thought away. A crank. Nothing more. Leave it there.

  ‘So, what did you think of Richard Buchan?’

  Susie took a moment, turning her glass slowly in her hand, remembering the way Buchan had answered her questions. That one, almost too-quick response that had put her on edge.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘He’s not what I expected. Very controlled, disciplined. Oh, don’t get me wrong, you could see he was cut up about what’s happened, but he’s refusing to give in to it. I suppose he’s got to be that way, especially now.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘His wife,’ Susie replied, remembering Linda Buchan’s slack, empty gaze. ‘She’s completely lost it, Doug. I mean, totally. The poor woman was walking around like a zombie. I think he’s the only thing holding her together just now.’

  Doug nodded. It would be bad enough to lose a child, but to lose one the way the Buchans had? Jesus.

  How would it have felt, he thought, to hit the ground from the height? Did you die instantly, or would you linger for a moment, just long enough to feel the agony surge through your ruined body and hear your last breath rattle from your ruptured lungs? He shuddered. Not a way he would want to go.

  Doug shook his head, took another swig of his drink. Maybe he just needed to get used to the taste. ‘So, any witnesses come forward yet?’

  ‘Well, we’ve had a few…’ Susie was cut off by the sound of her mobile ringing. She smiled apologetically then flipped it open and held it to her ear.

  ‘Drummond. Oh, hi, Eddie.’ She flashed Doug a sharp but not unamused glance. ‘What’s up?’ Pause. ‘Uh, yeah.’ She took out a notepad, started scribbling. Doug hoped the fact he was trying to read what she was writing wasn’t too obvious. ‘Okay, fine, 10am tomorrow. Great. Thanks, Eddie. Night.’

  ‘So, what was all that about?’

  ‘Nothing interesting,’ Susie replied, reaching for her drink again. ‘Buchan mentioned that Katherine was quite close to a friend at the gallery, Elizabeth Renwick. I tried calling her earlier on today to arrange a meeting, left a message. Your friend Eddie was just telling me that she’s phoned back, wants to see me at the gallery tomorrow.’

  ‘That the Altered Perspective gallery on Candlemaker’s Row?’ Doug asked, smiling as Susie’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I did a little checking on Katherine myself. Bit of an artist, apparently. Modern art, photography, stuff like that.’

  Susie nodded. If there was something to be found, Doug had to find it first. She often wondered what type of detective he would make.

  She knew the place Doug was talking about, had walked passed it a few times on nights out. From what she remembered, it didn’t seem big enough to be a gallery, with only one small window and a single wooden door. Then again, she wasn’t an expert. And with what passed for art these days, who knew?

  Doug drained his glass, felt his stomach gurgle. ‘Right, I’ve had it. Let’s get out of here. Fancy something to eat?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Susie said, draining her glass and then stretching theatrically. Her legs ached from the run, arms still sore from the pull-ups. ‘I’m beat, I need to get to bed.’

  ‘No probs,’ Doug said as he pulled on his jacket and checked for his car keys. ‘I should probably do the same myself.’

  Doug walked Susie to her car, hands buried in his pockets against the cold. They stood for a moment, staring up at the night sky. The air was heavy with the smell of salt from the Forth – and less savoury smells from the industrial units and sewage plant further down the coast.

  ‘Well, thanks for listening,’ he said as she unlocked the car and got in. ‘And thanks again for your heads-up on the Buchan story.’

  Susie busied herself getting her key into the ignition. Was she blushing slightly? ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘Just remember, you didn’t hear any of it from me.’

  ‘What’s that? I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Very bloody funny,’ she snorted, slamming her door and starting the car. She waved as she drove out of the car park, mind already turning to thoughts of a quick run before bed.

  Doug waved back, watching her go. He headed for his own car, mentally sorting through the menu of his local Chinese takeaway, trying to decide what to order when he got there.

  He never saw the figure standing in the shadowed alley down the side of the pub. The figure that watched as Doug drove away, memorising his car’s number plate. The figure that smiled slightly, thinking he would be well paid for a job well done.

  16

  Every step was agony.

  Charlie shuffled from the bed, where the sheets and pillow were stiff with his blood, and made his way to the kitchen. He fumbled through a cupboard, found a bottle of whisky, opened it with a shaking hand, took a mouthful. His jaw screamed in protest as he opened his mouth, pain like cold steel needles lancing through the bone and down the side of his neck. He tried to force back the pain as the whisky hit his stomach and spread bitter heat through his body. But it was difficult to stay calm when you were trying to breathe through a broken nose.

  He lurched from the kitchen to the bathroom, bottle of whisky still in hand, to survey the damage again.

  He had become a monster. His entire face was a bruise, a shifting kaleidoscope of dusty purples, angry reds, blacks and greens. His eyes glittered from hollow pits surrounded by swollen tissue and split skin. His nose was worse. It sat at a horribly crooked angle, bent flat at the end and plastered against his cheek like a wad of plasticine. Blood was caked around both nostrils, making it hard to breathe.

  Slowly, he opened his mouth and leered at the mirror. His front teeth were little more than ragged stumps. He looked across to where his toothbrush and toothpaste sat. Somehow, he didn’t think Sensodyne was going to help this time.

  The joke of it was that this was the face of a lucky man. He didn’t know how long he was out after McGinty had finished with him, but, when he came to, he could feel frost forming on his face. Maybe that was what had saved him, forced him to wake up, he didn’t know.

  It didn’t take long to realise that McGinty had robbed him, taking both his car keys and wallet.

  With no cash or means of transport, he had been forced to be creative. He had staggered up into the town, careful to stay out of the light and away from people, found a quiet estate and walked around for a while. If Charlie had been told that Derek had used more or less the same techniques when he stole a car from Gilmerton the night before last, he wouldn’t have bee
n surprised. After all, he had taught the little shit how to steal in the first place.

  He only remembered the drive home in snatches. A blurred roadway here, a street sign there. Somehow, he managed to get back to his flat without attracting any attention, using the spare key he kept hidden on the sill above the front door to get in. He parked a few blocks away – the last thing he needed was pigs at his door, enticed by the stolen motor that was sitting outside it. If he wasn’t so badly hurt, he would have dumped it further away, but it would do where it was. In this part of town, stolen cars weren’t exactly a rare occurrence. If he was lucky, it would be torched before he had to deal with it.

  He headed back to bed, whisky bottle still clutched tightly in his hand. McGinty would pay for what he had done. Oh yes.

  He had been sloppy, underestimated the bastard and paid the price. But he knew what he was up against now. His fee would be higher, but he would get the job done. Next time he saw Derek McGinty, he would walk up to him and gut him like a…

  Charlie’s eyes flew open. The aching wound that was his head roared in protest as he sat bolt upright.

  His knife! He had it last in the fight with McGinty. Did the bastard have it now, along with his car and keys, or…?

  Or was it still lying in that car park, waiting to be found by anyone who happened to come along?

  He slumped back in the bed. What could he do? The answer was nothing. One way or another, the knife was gone. Either McGinty had it, or someone else would find it. He was in no condition to go and get it.

  Something else to make McGinty pay for. When he found the bastard – and he would find him – he would make him pay. If he had the knife, and he gave it back then maybe, just maybe, he would earn an easier death.