Falling Fast

by Neil Broadfoot

  Susie felt her face redden as images of that night flashed through her mind. Pushed down a shudder of regret, collected her thoughts. Self-pity could come later. She had a more immediate problem. ‘How the fuck did you get these? How? Why…?’

  ‘Brilliant interview technique,’ Doug said, smiling slightly. ‘Straight to the point. Must be why you’re in CID.’

  He offered a smile she almost mistook for shyness. ‘I did a little checking. You’ve not long transferred into Lothian and Borders, and I’ve just landed this crime reporter’s job. I figure we could help each other out from time to time.’

  Susie snorted and rocked back in her chair. ‘Ah, so that’s it. You think this gives you something over me, pal? That this makes me a “source”?’

  ‘No,’ Doug said softly, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘I think this shows you I’ve got my priorities right. Man and woman shag while pissed. Great story. Sure, it’ll sell a few papers, but it’s not worth anything, is it? At best, it’ll fuck up your career. That what you want? I don’t.’

  He shoved the ream of papers across the table towards her. ‘I don’t want to write this up, it’s red-top shite at best. So keep all this. You want to cause trouble for me as I got this under false pretences, go ahead. I’m going to tell my boss I couldn’t find out who it was. Oh, and don’t worry, none of the other papers will find out, I’ve already told the Hilton staff to be aware reporters might try to get access to their records to get a story. Not that anyone else will probably be as brilliant as me.’ Again that smile, almost shy, but the eyes said he meant it. Problem was, the arrogant wee shite was right. It was brilliant.

  He stood up to leave. Susie was more confused than ever.

  ‘So why did you want to meet me?’ she asked.

  ‘To introduce myself,’ he replied simply. ‘And to hopefully let you know that all journalists aren’t shit-digging scumbags. Look,’ he dropped a business card on the sheaf of expense records he had given her, ‘here’s my number. If you hear something worthwhile that you think warrants attention, or if I can help you get coverage for something, call me. Who knows, I may call you sometime. See ya.’

  And that was how it had begun. Since that first meeting, Susie had come to understand Doug was something of an idealist. A story-hungry, ruthless idealist, but an idealist nonetheless. He wasn’t interested in gutter press or scandal stories, he wanted to report on the big stories and issues. To start with, he had been good to his word – only calling her when he needed to, never hanging the Hilton episode over her head to get more details. If she didn’t tell him, she didn’t tell him. He could be useful in getting answers to questions and titbits of information from people who wouldn’t talk to the police. And, she almost hated to admit, she loved the thrill of it; throwing him a line that she wanted an answer for, seeing who would get there first. It was almost like a race between them; Doug was smart, resourceful, intuitive, all the traits of a good detective – and Susie thrived on the competition.

  But, no matter how productive their relationship had become, and how they were increasingly blurring the boundary between contacts and friends, there were still downsides. Susie took another deep breath, played with the phone in her hand. Toyed with the idea of phoning him back and giving him another bollocking there and then. Just the two of them. Off the record.

  But no. No. She could wait. And so could he. Wait and sweat.

  • • •

  Doug had spent the rest of the drive trying to think what he could say to her. The truth was, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have an excuse for what he had done, other than the story. Susie was right, he had wanted the scoop, wanted to get to the truth, which had blinded him to the fact that what he was doing was wrong. He could, of course, blame Greig and Walter for not ordering him to hand the photograph over as soon as they heard about it, but that would be a cop-out. The decision was his. True, they had backed it, as eager as he was to get the full story, but at the end of the day…

  And just what had he got by keeping Susie in the dark? Let’s see. He had managed to break an old woman’s heart, push an old man to the brink of a nervous breakdown and harass a small-town sergeant who had only been doing his job. And all to prove what he already knew, what the photo already told him. Great day’s work, Doug.

  Susie shot Doug a cold stare as he took a seat at the conference table in Greig’s office. They had been joined by Walter, Andy and a woman in a severe business suit that Doug could only assume was one of the Tribune’s lawyers.

  ‘As I was saying to DS Drummond,’ Greig said, ‘the Tribune has already apologised to the Chief Superintendent for this regrettable mix-up. I’ve spoken to him personally, and he agrees that, although what you did was wrong and irresponsible, it is in no one’s best interests to pursue the matter further at this time.’

  Internally, Doug breathed a sigh of relief. He wondered how many police-are-great stories Greig had had to promise the Chief to stop him from pressing charges, and how many he would be writing himself.

  As if reading his thoughts, Greig turned to glare at Doug. He looked more like an undertaker than ever. ‘Do you have anything to add, Douglas?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Deep breath, try not to meet Susie’s gaze. ‘As I’ve already said to DS Drummond, I apologise. However, I think I may have some information that may be useful to her and her investigation.’

  ‘Oh, and what might that be?’ Susie asked, her voice as cold as her eyes.

  ‘Well, according to Derek McGinty’s parents, he and Katherine were an item back in the early Nineties, not long before he attacked Bethany Miller.’

  ‘Oh? Anything else?’ Despite her tone, Doug could tell he had caught Susie’s interest.

  He cleared his throat. He didn’t like talking to Susie with so many other people around, didn’t like sharing leads with other reporters in the room. He had asked Andy to contact Buchan as, with his experience, he might be seen as the friendly face of reporting after Doug had splashed his daughter’s death all over the front page. From what Susie had said Andy hadn’t got anywhere, and now Doug had a rival on the story.

  ‘Well, according to a source of mine, fingerprints matching Derek McGinty’s put him at a crime scene discovered near here this morning. That being the case, there’s a good chance he was in Edinburgh recently, meaning…’

  ‘Meaning he could have killed Katherine,’ Susie muttered. She was onto something, Doug was sure of it. He could tell by the tense way she sat, the gentle chewing on her bottom lip. But what…?

  ‘Mr Greig,’ she said in her most businesslike tone, ‘now that we’ve got all this sorted out, I wonder if I might have a moment alone with Mr McGregor? I need to go over any details he can remember of the phone call he received and the envelope’s arrival. Unless, of course,’ she fixed Doug with a withering glance, ‘you’d prefer to give me a statement at the station?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Doug said, rocking back in his seat. ‘Here’s fine, if that’s okay with you, Jonathan?’

  ‘That’s fine, Doug. Gentlemen, Ms Ackers…?’ They rose to leave and were heading for the door when the woman in the business suit turned back. ‘Would you like me to stay for this, Mr McGregor?’ Lawyer, definitely.

  ‘Nope, I’ll be fine,’ Doug said with more confidence than he felt. ‘On you go.’

  She nodded and closed the door behind her, leaving Doug and Susie alone.

  ‘Look,’ Doug said after a silence just long enough to make it clear Susie was going to make him speak first. ‘I’m sorry, okay, I just thought…’

  ‘No, Doug, you didn’t think,’ she said. ‘Do you realise what an idiot you made me look? Not only did I have to deal with Burns screaming down the phone at me, but I also had to listen like a complete idiot while Richard fucking Buchan told me there had been a major development in the case, which he had just heard about from a bloody reporter!’

  ‘Buchan? What were you with Buchan for?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Doug,’ Susie said, raising a
warning finger. ‘Just don’t. It doesn’t matter why I was there.’

  ‘Oh, but it does. You’ve found something, haven’t you? Something you think ties McGinty to being at the Scott Monument when Katherine fell. Come on, Susie, talk to me. After all, who knows McGinty better than I do?’

  Susie’s face hardened. Damn it, he was right. He had studied the McGinty file in fine detail – almost obsessively – and some of his guesses about the guy had been spookily accurate. Part of her wanted to tell him, to get his opinion, but there was another part of her that was still furious with him for what he had done. And hurt.

  She shook her head. No. ‘Look, from what you’ve said, there’s a good chance that McGinty was at the Monument. More than that I’m not prepared to say, okay?’

  Doug nodded, held out his hand and slapped his wrist. ‘Hokay,’ he said, flashing his best aw-shucks smile. ‘I deserve that, I’ve been a bad boy. Seriously, Susie, I am sorry. I won’t do it again, okay? I just got caught up in the moment. But I promise, the next time I get an anonymous note, you’ll be the first person I call. And I’ll get you that info on Altered Perspective tonight.’

  Susie held up her hand. ‘All right, all right,’ she sighed, suddenly tired. ‘Come on, I’ve got to go and face Burns, try to cool him down. He’ll be raging now that the Chief Superintendent has saved your arse.’

  ‘So, what am I going to do about that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Susie said. ‘But the least you can do is walk me to my car.’

  • • •

  Doug made a show of opening the car’s door for her when she released the central locking.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said. Doug hoped he wasn’t imagining the smile he heard in her voice. ‘I hate it when men get pathetic.’

  He smiled sheepishly. He felt pretty pathetic. ‘So, how do you feel when men offer to buy you a drink to say sorry?’

  Susie laughed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I feel kind of…’

  Her phone rang, cutting her off mid-sentence. ‘Hello, DS Drummond speaking.’

  She listened for a moment, clamping the phone tighter to her ear. Her mouth drew in, turning into a thin, bloodless line across her face. ‘Hmm, yes,’ she said. ‘Uh, uhh… Jesus.’ She reached up and massaged the bridge of her nose. ‘Yes, sir, I understand. I’m on my way.’ Then she cut the line.

  Doug gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Not good news, I take it?’

  Susie shook her head and looked at him, torn. Tell him or not? He would find out soon enough, the press office would have to put a release out ASAP, but still…

  Still…

  ‘C’mon, Susie, no more secrets. Promise. Whassup?’

  Ah, the hell with it.

  ‘That was Burns,’ she said. ‘There was a report of an alarm going off at a gallery in the Old Town about an hour ago. Uniformed officers went to take a look, found the back door of the premises had been smashed. When they went inside they found a pool of blood and a woman, badly mutilated in the gallery.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Old Town gallery? Woman…’ Doug’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened.

  ‘Yeah, Doug,’ Susie said as she started the car. ‘Lizzie Renwick’s been murdered. ‘Looks like she was stabbed.’

  Doug couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘How do you know…?’

  ‘Because Burns just told me the murder weapon is still sticking out of her. Whoever did this, they left a little calling card. Doug, that research you promised me…?’

  Doug nodded. It felt as though someone had stuffed his head with cotton wool. ‘I’ll get right on it,’ he mumbled.

  Susie nodded, slammed her door and drove away, leaving Doug standing in the car park.

  28

  The whisky was acid in his throat, poison in his stomach. His eyes, already raw from the lack of sleep, stung as though he were peering through smoke. Above, the floorboards creaked gently as Linda shuffled endlessly between her room and the room that had been Katherine’s so many years ago. He strained his ears, waiting for the next inevitable choked sob. Felt empty when he heard it.

  Richard Buchan threw back the last of his drink, felt some of it dribble down his cheek. Wiped at his face with a hand that wasn’t quite steady, stood up and headed for the decanter in the cabinet. Tore off the stopper, barely fought back the urge to throw the fucking thing against the wall.

  He sloshed another whisky into his glass, raised it to his lips. Stopped.

  ‘Control, Richard,’ he whispered, his voice sounding dead in the quiet of the lounge. ‘Control.’

  Ah, but it was tempting though. And who would blame him? After all, he had reason. His dead daughter now linked to a rapist, his wife a basket case, his career brought to a shuddering halt by a fucking poof who thought he could tell him – him – what he was going to do next.

  Buchan had got the gossip from his few loyal friends in the parliamentary party, and word was that Hal Damon had been brought in from London by the main party. He was, they said, very sharp, very professional. Knew what he wanted and how to get it. And had Jonathan slobbering after him like a lovesick puppy, by all accounts.

  It hadn’t been a surprise when Damon had demanded a meeting, especially after the call from the Tribune linking Katherine to that rapist, McGinty.

  What was a surprise was how much he had managed to find out. And how easily.

  Buchan had ushered him into the room he now stood in, took a moment to study Damon as he settled back into his seat and waved off the platitudes of sympathy.

  A tall man, the broad shoulders and flared back of someone who was a regular at the gym. A face that was too angular to be handsome, smooth pale skin pulled tight over high cheekbones. Close-cropped hair just starting to go grey at the temples, trendy heavy-framed glasses perched on top of a nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once.

  He wore his expensive suit with an ease that made Buchan’s teeth ache, stood at the window and looked out at the view as though he owned the fucking place.

  And worse than all that, he made Buchan speak first.

  ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘You asked to see me. I take it this is about that crap the Tribune is peddling about Katherine’s links to Derek McGinty?’

  Damon turned away from the window, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Partially, yes,’ he said with an accent that reminded Buchan of the Lake District. ‘However, I’d like to focus on what happens next.’

  ‘What do you mean? These rumours are exactly that, tabloid bullshit whipped up to get headlines. Oh, I could sue the papers, but what’s the point? I know that…’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Damon cut in. ‘What I meant is, what happens for you.’

  ‘What? I…’

  ‘Let me be blunt, Mr Buchan. Whether or not your daughter knew this man isn’t an issue. But the fact the press are looking into it so closely, is. And if they found this out, what else are they going to find?’

  Buchan felt a stab of panic, forced his face to remain impassive. Control, Richard. Control.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what…’

  Damon held up a hand. ‘Please, Mr Buchan. It took me a couple of hours to find out about the favour you pulled in from the then Chief Constable after your little car problem. You’ve done a good job keeping it quiet so far, but if the press keep looking at you, how long will it take them to find out what I have?’

  Buchan felt as though the air was being sucked out of the room. How had he…?

  ‘With your sentencing Bill in parliament, the party cannot afford a scandal like this, especially after the cash-for-cooking affair. Can you imagine the headlines? “Justice MSP in hit-and-run cover-up”?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve discussed it with the parliamentary party and the Whip’s office and we agree that the best thing would be for you to take a leave of absence.’

  Damon held out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve drafted a statement. We can release it today.’

  Buchan snatched
the paper from Damon. Skimmed over it, cold rage scalding the pit of his stomach as the terror receded and the air seeped back into the room.

  ‘And just who the hell are you,’ he whispered slowly as he tossed the paper aside, ‘to tell me to stand aside?’

  ‘I’m the man hired by your party to make sure this doesn’t turn into a clusterfuck in the press, Mr Buchan. You have my sympathies for the loss of your daughter, you sincerely do, but my job is with your party, not you. So I am telling you, you will take a leave of absence while this blows over. I’ve already spoken to your friend the Chief, and he agrees that a swift end to the investigation into your daughter’s suicide would be best to spare you and your wife further pain.’

  ‘Pain?’ Buchan sneered. ‘What do you think you know about that?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Buchan,’ Hal replied, adjusting his glasses. ‘My husband and I just became parents for the first time. A daughter. And I can’t imagine what you must be going through. But I can imagine the field day the press will have if they find out about your hit-and-run. Do you really want to put your wife – yourself – through that as well?’

  Buchan shook his head. He couldn’t think straight. He needed this man out of here. Now.

  So he played the role, slumped his shoulders, murmured what the prick wanted to hear about it being a relief, really. After all, Linda hasn’t been bearing up well and, to be honest, Mr Damon, neither have I.

  He finally managed to get him to leave after promising to review the statement and get back to him.

  Buchan shook himself from his thoughts. Walked back from the cabinet, poured the whisky into the bin beside the sofa – and onto the shredded remnants of Damon’s statement.