‘Yes.’
Elspeth puffed her cheeks. ‘Words really can hurt.’
She was trying to be cheerful for Rebecca’s sake. The phrase whistling past the graveyard came to mind.
Elspeth asked, ‘And Anna Fowler?’
‘No sign of her. She’ll wash up, they say, somewhere. Sometime. Or maybe not.’
Anna. Everything she had done had been haphazard, not properly thought through. She had reacted. Or the child within her had reacted. The child Rebecca had heard speaking towards the end. She killed her brother, using her own sword, for goodness sake. Of course, they only knew that now, thanks to her home being searched and a photograph found of her holding it. It would have emerged sooner or later, though. Then she had killed Lancaster but didn’t dispose of the waterproof clothing with the dead man’s DNA all over it. It was as if she had wanted to be caught.
‘What about Scott Burke?’
‘He’ll live too. Serious concussion, but he’ll stand trial.’
Mo Burke had lost both her sons. Rebecca visualised her sitting in her pristine home in the Inchferry, the dog on her lap, a cigarette burning, the house silent. Her husband in jail. Her youngest son facing it. Her eldest lying on a slab in the mortuary. Was the family business worth that? Was anything worth that?
‘And what about you?’
Rebecca had been staring at the coffee in her mug. She looked across the desk to Elspeth. ‘What about me?’
‘What now?’
Rebecca didn’t know. The job was all but over. She had stared death in the face, a little round hole and a creepy smile behind it, and she had held a man’s hand as he slipped away, a cough, a sigh and he was gone. Life was loss. Her father. Nolan. Her unborn child. She felt these thoughts hollow her out. Was this grief? Was this the way it was to be for her? Loss, always loss? Was it to be a lonely future?
She felt tears smoulder in her eyes but she fought them back. No, she decided. This was self pity and that would not be her way. Yes, she mourned, but she would not allow it to rule her. Her father had once said that life will be what life will be – challenges, opportunities, trials – and all we can do is make the best of it. Rise to the challenges, seize the opportunities, endure the trials. That’s what she would do.
Elspeth waited a few moments before she said, ‘I have a proposition.’ Rebecca waited. Elspeth fired up a cigarette. ‘I’ve got not a bad wee business here, but it only pays for one person. The thing is, I don’t need the cash. I’ve got savings, I’ve got a pension kicking in and Julie’s shop is doing well. The main thing, though, is that I’m too old for all this running around. This place needs someone younger, who can drop everything when needed and head off into the wilds to follow a story. Someone who knows what a bloody story is in the first place.’ Elspeth sucked on her filter tip and gave Rebecca a long look, then said with heavy emphasis, ‘Someone I trust.’
Rebecca squinted at Elspeth as she took this in. ‘Wait a minute – are you offering to give me the agency?’
‘Hell no, get over yourself. I’m offering you a job. I’ll still own the place. Any profit I’ll trouser faster than you can say hold the front page. I can offer you the same as you get at the Chronicle, maybe a bit more. But the good thing will be this – you’ll more or less be your own boss. I’ll be around, if you need help, advice, guidance, a kick up the arse. But apart from that, you’d be on your own.’ Another puff of smoke. ‘What do you say?’
Rebecca was so shocked she forgot to be cold. This was not what she had expected when she had called into Elspeth’s office that morning. She had come here to get away from everything that had happened. Now she had a job offer. However, she didn’t know what to say. Too much had happened in the past few days for her to think clearly.
‘Tell you what,’ said Elspeth, ‘you think about it. The offer’s there, if you want it. If not, no problem.’
Rebecca was still trying to formulate a response when her mobile rang. She thought it was the office again, but she didn’t recognise the number. She thought about ignoring it but then decided to risk it. If it was a cold caller asking her about an accident in which she had been involved but wasn’t her fault, she might blow off some steam giving them a few choice words.
But it wasn’t a cold caller. ‘Ms Connolly? It’s Tom Muir . . .’ She didn’t recognise the name. ‘We met the other night, in Inchferry?’
The man who had spoken so passionately against Dalgliesh’s people. The trade unionist to whom she had given her card. ‘Ah, yes, Mr Muir. What can I do for you?’
He exhaled hard. ‘Well, love, I’m not one to trust the press as a rule. I think I said that. I’ve got my issues with the Chronicle but to be honest I think it’s time I spoke to someone about this. You’re the only reporter I know and I read your account of the demo the other night. It was accurate and fair. I liked that. I’ve also read some of the material on the murders. You seem to have a grasp of how these events affect people.’
You don’t know the half it, she thought. ‘What is it you want to talk about, Mr Muir?’
‘You know anything about the Kirkbrig murder?’
She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Aye, maybe before your time, love. Ten years ago. Young lad sent away for killing a lawyer up from Glasgow in Kirkbrig. It’s a wee village down the west coast there. I’ve been working with his family to clear his name . . .’
Rebecca listened as Tom Muir filled in some of the details of the case. And as he talked she felt the cold that had permeated every cell of her body dissipate. Her mind sharpened, her instincts sat up and took notice.
‘I’m very interested in this, Mr Muir,’ she said. ‘But I should tell you that I’m leaving the Chronicle.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his voice suddenly guarded. ‘Well, maybe someone else . . .’
‘I’m not moving away, though.’ Rebecca met Elspeth’s gaze across the desk and gave her a tiny nod. ‘I’ve got a new job here – and I think I can help you with more than just the Chronicle.’
As Rebecca explained, she watched Elspeth sit back, her cigarette still clamped between her lips, smoke curling towards the blackened ceiling, and smile.
Rebecca smiled back.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Highland Chronicle does not exist. It and the parent company are fictitious, although the challenges they face are very real. Inchferry also doesn’t exist. I made it up. Don’t look for it.
This has been a tough year and the book a tough one to write, so there are many people I need to thank. I am bound to forget someone so apologies in advance.
Professors Lorna Dawson and James Grieve answered queries expertly, as did Laura Thomson, Advocate. Any errors are mine, of course. David Kerr also helped me with some Inverness colour. I have, however, taken a few liberties with actual police procedure.
Crime writer pals helped keep me keep on track with this one – thanks must go to Neil Broadfoot, Gordon Brown, Mark Leggatt, Michael J. Malone, Denzil Meyrick, Caro Ramsay and Theresa Talbot. If I have flown off the rails, it’s no fault of theirs.
To those friends who rallied round during a difficult time, my heartfelt thanks. There are too many to mention but a special nod must go to Gary McLaughlin for looking after the boys (Mickey the dog and Tom the cat), allowing me to attend events.
As ever, my gratitude is extended to all the bloggers, reviewers and booksellers who supported Rebecca’s first venture and who, I hope, will do the same this time around.
My editor Debs Warner did a wonderful job of turning this into a finished product and I also thank Hugh Andrew, Alison Rae, the entire team at Polygon and my agent Lina Langlee for everything they have done.
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The Blood is Still Page 31