“Okay. This is important, Susie. Please. I can’t talk about it over the phone but you’ll understand when I see you.”
“Fine. But Doug, if there’s something about all this that you’re not telling me…”
“There’s not, I promise. And before you think it, Becky didn’t give me anything about the body found this morning. Let just say I’ve got some friends in Midlothian and leave it at that.”
Midlothian. Of course. Bilston was in Midlothian. And Bilston just happened to be the home of Police Scotland’s emergency call-handling centre. The centre had been in the headlines for all the wrong reasons recently – missed calls, IT problems, overstressed staff. And, naturally, Doug had covered all of those stories, built up a few favours as he did.
“You’ll have to introduce me to them,” Susie said.
“Yeah, right,” he shot back, a glimmer of the old Doug peaking out from behind the tension in his voice. “I’ll see you later, Susie.”
He cut the call before she could reply. She stared at the phone for a moment, mind racing with questions. What the hell was going on? What was so important that it couldn’t wait? She shook her head and pocketed the phone. Pulled her warrant card from her inside suit pocket and walked for the cordon, shoulders back.
DS Susie Drummond. Professional. Controlled. Competent. Let them whisper. Let them gossip. She would show them all. She would handle it right.
20
James reviewed events as he worked his way through his morning exercise routine, the sweat hot and cleansing on his brow. As ever, Vic had proven to be a useful, if somewhat blunt, instrument. The message had been sent and, thanks to Mr McGregor and his ilk, it would only be a matter of time before Mark received it. He smiled slightly at the thought, wondered if the little shit would have the courage to make the first move or whether he would have to seek Mark out. Was surprised by the small niggle of anger he felt when he found himself hoping it would be the latter, that Mark would need further, close, attention.
As punishment, he racked another 20kg onto the bench press, strained against the weight. Felt his muscles scream as his arms shook, the acid flooding his veins, burning them, the urge to let the weight drop a growing clamour in his mind.
“Control,” he gasped, holding the weight aloft for another second before lowering it. Slowly.
He thought about the text from Vic in the early hours of this morning, short and to the point: Message delivered. Should be found soon enough. No sign of the item, must be keeping it close. Personal attention needed? He sneered at that. No doubt Vic thought he was being clever, trying to talk in some kind of imagined tough-man code.
James moved around the weights slowly and methodically, the only sounds in the room his grunts or the squeal of trainers on the solid wood floors. Forty minutes later, he was done, and staggered towards the mats in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that dominated the far wall of the room. He paused in front of the mirrors, chest heaving, and considered himself. Tall, lean, muscular. His hair, which was normally impeccable, was plastered to his forehead and messy where he had raked it with his hands.
He grabbed a 12kg medicine ball from the rack in the corner, tightening his grip on the slotted handles that protruded from either side. Fixed his gaze in the mirror and held the ball out at arm’s length before bringing it crashing back into his gut. He grunted, the pain exploding through his mid-section. Repeated the move again and again, driving the ball home harder each time, thoughts focused on McGregor and Mark and what needed to be done, eyes locked on his own reflection.
When he saw his eyes darken, the shadows leaking from the pupils and turning everything black, he paused. Dropped the medicine ball then drove his own fists into his stomach. After the punishment he had already inflicted on his abs, it was like hitting a raw nerve, agony white-hot and all-encompassing. He held onto the pain, savoured it like a delicacy. He lifted his T-shirt, examined the scalded flesh and nodded with satisfaction. Just enough. Nothing that would bruise, but enough to remind him of what he had done here today and what needed to be done next.
He headed for the shower, ready to make himself presentable, to slip on the suit and mask that he showed to the world. But as he went through the motions, Vic’s message echoed in his mind, like a tune you couldn’t quite forget.
No sign of the item, must be keeping it close. Personal attention needed?
Personal attention. Yes. Perhaps that was just what he needed. To lavish a little personal attention on someone. And it would hardly be self-indulgent. And he would be doing it for a very specific purpose. For the greater good of the group and to send a message to anyone, either within the group or without, that defiance brought consequences.
He smiled at the thought as he turned the shower to cold, the sudden shift in temperature causing him to gasp. He had identified a problem and, again, turned it into an opportunity. The thought was as invigorating as the icy water that prickled his skin like needles.
21
Doug had most of the story about the body being found in Leith written up before he even set foot in the Capital Tribune office. He hated the building, felt his heart hammer and his blood chill every time he stepped through the front door, and wanted to minimise how long he was going to have to be there. It was, he thought, not all that different from how thousands of people felt about their places of work. But he wondered how many of those who bitched about “going into the hell hole” for another day had seen their former boss gunned down in front of them?
He sat at his desk trying to concentrate on the screen, skim reading the copy. It was exactly as he’d promised Becky: straight, factual, steering away from making any overt links between this killing and the discovery of Redmonds’ body.
Becky had got the call from DCI Burns when they were in the living room, her halfway through telling him how worried she was about his drinking. Too tired and too wired from the previous day to bother, she had taken the call in front of him, Doug picking out the highlights from her end of the conversation. It hadn’t taken long to agree that it was a media clusterfuck in the making – two violent murders in two days in the heart of Scotland’s capital – and Doug had agreed he would cover the story as non-sensationally as he could. The fact that it helped him as much as Becky to keep some distance between the Redmonds case and this latest killing was incidental.
Honest.
Now, at his office desk, he was giving the story a final read through when his phone pinged, a text from Rebecca: OTR: Fife’s finest coming down from the Castle to personally oversee the investigations. Might be a late one. Rx
He rocked back for a moment as he considered that. OTR – off the record. By Fife’s finest Becky meant Scotland’s Chief Constable, Cameron Montrose, who was based at Police Scotland HQ at the police training college at Tulliallan Castle in Fife. It was a good line for the story – Police Chief steps in after second murder rocks City – and he leaned forward to the keyboard before he had even thought about it. Paused, then hit Send. No. Becky had done enough for him. And besides, he was putting her into enough shit as it was without that.
He waited a couple of minutes to see if the newsdesk needed anything more from him then fired off a quick email to his boss, Walter, who was hovering over the backbench, watching the last pages being put together. Doug shut down his computer and headed for the door.
Ninety minutes in the office. More than enough for one day.
He took a table at a small coffee shop across the road from the Tribune, watching the slow passage of students and suits as they made their way to lectures at the university buildings nearby or to the Scottish Parliament at the end of the road. The SNP had its main office halfway up an alleyway across from the Tribune, opposite a small BBC studio, and Doug nodded greetings to those faces he recognised.
Walter joined him about twenty minutes later, lumbering across the street like a doorman on the way to
break up a fight, scalp gleaming under the salt-and-pepper stubble of hair that sat on top of his massive head.
He had taken the editor’s chair shortly after Greig had been murdered, and everyone at the Tribune agreed it was the right move. Unlike too many career cockroaches Doug had seen emerge over the last few years – rising far beyond their ability merely by virtue of the fact their schmoozing abilities meant they avoided the P45 when the latest round of redundancies and cuts came down from on high – Walter was a proper journalist. He had worked his way up from being a local reporter to the Tribune, then from general reporting to political editor then assistant editor. He was a hard bastard who demanded a lot from his staff, but he was fair with it, and if he thought his reporters were in the right, he would defend them all the way, which was rare in the post-Leveson world of get the apology in first for fear of the lawsuit.
All of which made Doug feel worse for lying to him, and putting him in the position he had.
“So,” Walter said as he collapsed into the chair across from Doug, the table shifting slightly to accommodate his bulk, “what’s happening? Nice work on the splash, though I thought you could have gone harder on the ‘two in two days’ line.”
Doug twitched a smile. “Call it a favour that could reap benefits,” he said. “If I play straight now, we’ll get first dibs on anything juicy that comes up from either this or Redmonds.”
Walter gave Doug an appraising look. It wasn’t a comfortable experience. “That cast iron, Doug, or just pillow talk?”
Doug held up a hand. “Easy, Walter. We’ll get it as soon as they can give it. Doubt anything we get will make an edition splash, but at least we can get the exclusive online before anyone else.”
Walter’s face contorted in disgust. He hated the drive to digital, the marketing boys’ panting insistence that being first online and “generating the page views and click-throughs was the most viable and profitable business model for newspapers in the online age”. Whatever happened to producing good quality copy on the page, he thought.
“Aye, well, let me know. I don’t need to tell you this is big, Doug. Rumour has it that the Chief Constable himself is paying a visit to keep an eye on things.”
Doug looked up, his surprised expression earning a smile from Walter. “Yer no’ the only one with sources, son,” he said softly.
Doug nodded, made himself busy draining his coffee cup.
“So,” Walter said after a moment, “how’s it looking, you anywhere with the Redmonds case?”
Doug wished he had something left in his mug to hide behind. Aye, boss, you could say I’m somewhere with that. Oh, and just so you know, the splash you ran yesterday was about as close to a witness statement as I could get, so you might want to check with the lawyers on that one…
“Actually,” he murmured, forcing his eyes to meet Walter’s, “I’m just off to see a contact about that now. Might be a line in it. I’ll let you know.” Either that, he thought, or I’ll call you to tell you I’ve been arrested.
Walter nodded, leaned back from the table. “Douglas,” he said slowly, “you alright, son? I know you’re still finding your feet after what happened but I dunno, you seem…”
The laugh was out before Doug could stop it, too loud for the hushed murmur of the coffee shop. He glanced around, saw others looking at him with a mixture of accusation and confusion. Guessed he might have to get used to that.
“Sorry, Walter,” he said. “Really. I’m fine. Thanks. Just this fucking hand hurts a lot, you know? And being back at the Trib always stirs up some nasty memories.”
“Aye,” Walter said, grabbing for a sachet of sugar from the bowl on the table and running it through his huge fingers. “I can only imagine. That’s why I’ve no’ pushed about you coming back to the desk full-time. Just keep filing the stories and checking in. Far as I’m concerned, the high heidyins need never know different.”
“They still keeping an eye on me?”
It was Walter’s turn to laugh. “The fuck you think? You exposed a cover-up at the heart of the Tribune, Doug, showed that a former editor and senior reporter colluded in obscuring vital evidence in a murder trial. Course they’re keeping an eye on you. You’re bad news. But they’re happier with you being bad news in-house than on the street.”
Doug felt his checks redden. “Thanks for looking out for me, Walter. Sorry for being such a pain in the arse.”
Walter crushed the sugar sachet in his hand, gave a derisive snort. “Fuck ’em,” he snarled. “Pencil-pushing wankers who wouldnae know what a newspaper should be if it curled itself up and tanned them on the arse. Just bring me the stories, Doug, forget the rest.”
Doug nodded. Wondered what story he would be bringing to Walter next. Would it be the one about the crime reporter arrested for withholding evidence linked to an ongoing murder inquiry in which he had a starring role? He felt the sudden, overwhelming urge just to tell Walter everything. Knew that for the cowardice it was. If he did that, there was no way Walter would let him meet Susie.
And, like it or not, that was one meeting he couldn’t avoid any longer.
22
Doug was back at his flat in Musselburgh twenty minutes later, taking the fact that he found a space right outside as a good omen that things would work out better than he expected. The illusion stayed with him all the way up the stairs, only beginning to dim when he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He paused for a moment, then shrugged, dumped his laptop bag and threw the keys into the small dish on the unit underneath the coat rack. Got to work tidying the place up before Susie arrived.
He made straight for the living room, intent on clearing away the piles of notes, books and clothes he had left there. Knew he was in deep shit when he reached across the coffee table for an abandoned glass that sat there, a bottle of Jameson standing neatly to attention next to it. The inside of the glass was wet, as though it had been recently used. But Doug hadn’t been back home since yesterday morning, so the glass should have been dry and crusted, just like the one that sat next to his seat. He straightened up abruptly, adrenalin surging through him, his ears feeling like they were twitching towards the slightest foreign sound. He swiped for the whisky bottle, grabbing it by the neck, ignoring the pain in his hand.
…the pain in his hand…
He strode back through into the hallway, making for the front door. Realised now what had bothered him when he opened it. He had used his left hand instinctively, too preoccupied by the thought of what he was going to say to Susie to remember the pain it always caused him to turn the lock. But this time, it hadn’t hurt. Why?
He picked up his keys, ran his thumb along the front door key. Felt something smooth and slick there. Opened the door and wiped his fingers across the face of the lock. Found the same dry smoothness, saw his fingers came away smudged a dark grey-black. Pencil lead. It was an old lock-picker’s trick – blow a little powdered graphite into a lock you were about to work on and it would lubricate the tumblers, making them easier to feel and push aside. He had used it a time or two himself. It was also great for making older locks easier to turn. Just the thing for reporters with hand injuries.
He stood for a moment on the threshold of his flat, torn, the thought of just turning and bolting down the stairs a growing scream in his mind. What if someone was still in there? What if they were waiting to pounce from the shadows, grab him, demand to know where what they were looking for was?
Ah, but what were they looking for? In answer, he fumbled into his pocket with his free hand, closed his fist around the flash drive. Thought of Susie, felt the terror give way to something colder and uglier – the same desire to lash out and hurt someone that had seized him the night he attacked Redmonds.
He tightened his grip on the whisky bottle, moved back into the flat. Slowly, cautiously, senses almost supernaturally charged and alert. He crept from room to room, braced
for an attack at any second, ready to lash out with the bottle and crush it into his attacker’s face. Found nothing but the small, subtle signs that the place had been searched – a draped tea towel caught in a kitchen drawer that had been carelessly closed, half a muddy footprint on a letter behind the front door, piles of clutter not quite where they should be in the living room.
Whoever had been here was gone, not finding what they came for. They had done a good job, mostly, nothing disturbed at first glance, only stopping for a quick drink. He thought of his mystery visitor, standing in his flat, his home, giving the place an appraising glance, contemplatively sipping on his whisky as they did. The anger rose in him again, scalding in his gut and he stepped forward, ready to grab the glass and hurl the fucking thing at the wall.
“Doug?”
He whirled round, raising the whisky bottle above his head in a jerky, unsure spasm. Susie stood there, hands held out in front of her, skin pale, eyes huge and locked on the bottle.
“Whoa, Doug, what the fuck?” she said, taking a half-step forward as she balanced her weight and prepared for a lunging attack. “You okay there? Door was open, thought I’d come in. I shouted, didn’t get a reply. Thought maybe…”
He lowered the bottle, felt the rage and adrenalin bleed out of him, eclipsed by the churning torrent of guilt, fear and shame he now felt.
“Sorry, Susie,” he said, voice hoarse with tears that suddenly threatened behind his eyes, burning. “I was just looking around. Ah, looks like I’ve had a break-in.”
Susie tensed, head jerking around as she took in the room. “What? I don’t see how. Doug? What the fuck is this about? What’s going on?”
He gave her a weak smile, suddenly aware of how tired he was. The bottle in his hand was cool and heavy. And inviting. He thumbed at the cap, spun it free. Dug into his pocket and pulled out the flash drive. Held it out to her with a shaking hand, found he couldn’t look into her eyes.
All the Devils Page 9