The Storm

by Neil Broadfoot

“Ho… hold on a minute there, Stevie. Thought Frankie told you to look after me? I’ve no’ shot up for years, don’t do that any more. Sure Frankie wouldn’t want me to…”

  Stevie shook his head, bit back the impatience he felt and the urge to just stab the little cunt with the syringe and leave him on the floor. “Paul, it’s fine,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm, reassuring. “Why do you think Frankie asked me to have this ready for you anyway?”

  Paul’s eyes darted to the needle then back to Stevie. Fear and hunger fought for control in that gaze – it was like watching a sea churned by a storm. “What? Really? But I thou… Frankie said…”

  Stevie took a half step forward. “Look, Paul. Frankie sent you here so I could look after you. This is what you need. So trust us. If you can’t do it yourself, I’ll do it, okay? But you need this. Frankie says so.”

  Paul bit his lip slightly, then raised a thin, pallid arm, like a child expecting to be given a sweet. Stevie took Paul’s arm just above where the bicep should have been, his arm so skinny he could almost get his hand all the way around it, then squeezed, trying to coax a vein to the surface. After a moment, a thin, purple-green line popped up from the skin and Stevie drove the needle home.

  Paul winced and let out a moan as he drew his arm to his chest. Gave a smile so grateful and sickening it made Stevie want to cave in the ruined stumps of his teeth with a hammer. Stevie nodded and led him to the spare bedroom, where he’d set up towels, water and a pot to be sick or piss in. He hadn’t had time to put a rubber sheet under the bed. Fuck it, just have to run the risk.

  Paul collapsed in a heap on the bed and Stevie lifted his feet onto it. He pulled the wet towel off him and threw the quilt over him, listening as his whispered thank yous grew quieter and his breathing grew deeper. He had waited until he was sure he was out and then went back to the bathroom, dug through his clothes until he found Paul’s wallet, which he held in his hand now.

  “Paul’s fine, Frankie,” he said into the phone. “He’s still whacked out in the bedroom, just like you wanted.”

  “Good. Did you find what I was looking for?”

  Stevie opened the wallet, pulled out a small, tattered business card from between a condom and a ruined picture of a woman who, he guessed, had once been attractive before the weight of life had hit her like a right hook.

  “Yeah, Frankie. Right where you said.” He read the card. The name on it meant nothing to him. “Work address is right here. You need something sorted out?”

  “Not yet,” Frankie said, suddenly sounding tired. “Just keep that card safe for now. And as for Paul, you know what to do?”

  Stevie shuddered. How the fuck had he let it get to this? “Yes, Frankie, I know.”

  “Good. Don’t let me down, Stevie. It’ll just be like he went to sleep. If you do it right, he’ll never know. If you do it wrong, then I’ll know. And I’ll be very upset. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “No, Frankie,” Stevie mumbled, pressing his head against the cold glass of the window and looking down at the sheer drop. “I don’t want that at all.”

  35

  It had rained through the night, the cobbles of the street gleaming in the morning sun, framed by sandstone buildings that bled moisture marks from their eaves and window frames like sweat patches, and pavements that always looked dirtier after a downpour.

  Susie stood on Cockburn Street just off the Royal Mile, outside Diane Pearson’s office. Across the road was Fleshmarket Close, a small, dark vennel that ran down the hill to Market Street and the entrance to Waverley Station. Halfway down the lane was Doug’s favourite pub, the Jinglin’ Geordie. He loved it because it was a reporters’ pub, or had been before redundancies, closures and cuts became almost weekly events in the newspaper industry. From what Doug had told her, the Tribune hadn’t fared much better, hence the sale of their office complex on the edge of town and the move into their city office.

  But still, Doug loved the Jinglin’. He was, Susie thought, more of a romantic than he cared to admit.

  She shook her head, focusing on the job at hand. She had arranged to meet Diane to learn more about Gavin, see if there were any clues she could give her to his location. Burns had been right about one thing, they needed to find him. Now. And not just because Burns had threatened to throw her to the wolves if she didn’t.

  She was about to press the buzzer on the office door when her phone rang. Doug-mobile, it flashed.

  She paused. Torn. After her conversation with Rebecca last night, she had called him, not sure of what she was going to say, only that it was going to be loud. And angry. If Rebecca was right, then he had jeopardised both their jobs by leaking the possible link between the Greig and Montgomery murders. And, on top of that…

  Being put through to his answerphone was like being slapped in the face. The anger bled out of her, leaving only a dazed exhaustion that left her unable to think. She had clicked the phone off, resolving to give him a piece of her mind later.

  And now, here was the perfect chance, with him paying the bill, and she wasn’t sure what to do.

  Fuck it.

  “Doug? How’s Skye?”

  “Great, Susie, how you doing? Burns still making you look bad?”

  She ground her teeth, bit back her anger. “It’s not Burns that’s making me look bad at the moment, Doug, it’s you. Nice work. Fucking me and Rebecca over at the same time. That a new record for you?”

  Rebecca? Doug felt a hot flush rush through his cheeks. “Susie, I don’t know what you… Look, I’m sorry, I…”

  Susie’s voice grew dull and cold. “Sorry? Sorry! She tries to help you out, and the first thing you do is leak a potential link between the two biggest murders in Edinburgh in the last ten years? Putting both of us in the shit with Burns and the top brass – and for what? To show you’re still the big name in town, even though you’re not here? ‘Sorry’ doesn’t seem to cover it, Doug.”

  Doug took a breath. Susie at full tilt was like a force of nature – when the fury broke through that veneer of control and discipline she had constructed, it was like standing in the path of a hurricane. Doug had seen it a few times, been the focus of it more than once and hated every second of it. And yet, despite that, Doug felt something different this time. Not fear. Not intimidation. Not even the usual admiration. No, this was something totally new to these meltdowns.

  Relief.

  “Susie,” he said tentatively, eager not to wake the volcano between eruptions. “Look, I’m sorry. But I promise you I didn’t leak the link between Montgomery and Greig. Honestly. Rebecca only hinted at it – until now, I didn’t know it was an established fact. So thanks for confirming that for me. Care to tell me what the link was?”

  A moment of silence on the line, long enough for Doug to wonder if she’d hung up on him. Shit, that last smart-arse comment had been a mistake, but he hadn’t been able to resist.

  “Susie, after the last few days, the last thing I’m going to do is lie to you – or Rebecca. I promise, it wasn’t me.”

  “Shit,” Susie whispered over the line. Doug could almost picture her, head dropping, hand massaging the stress rash she got at the top of her neck. “You better not be fucking around here, Doug.”

  “I’m not. Promise.”

  “Shit,” Susie whispered again. “But if you didn’t, then who did?”

  Bingo. Thoughts tumbled through Doug’s head. All of them giving him the same answer. And the same opportunity.

  “Only two options,” Doug said. “Either you’ve got a leak at Fettes, or…” He paused, strangely thrilled and horrified by the idea at the same time. “Or, whoever did this decided to have a little fun, put you on the back foot and let the press know.”

  “Jesus, you mean the killer?” Susie whispered.

  Doug shrugged, looked out to the horizon. “It’s possible. There’re only a few
people who know of the link between the murders, even less who would want that information out there before you were ready. So yeah, it’s a thought. How’d it get out, anyway?”

  “Don’t know,” Susie replied, voice vague and distracted. Clearly, he had got her attention. “All Rebecca said was that the press were ready for the Chief and Burns, that they went for the jugular the moment they opened up for questions.”

  Doug nodded. Predictable. He’d have done the same himself. Time to play his card. “Okay, I’ll look into it. Ask around. See if I can find out where this came from.”

  “Hold on, Doug, just wait a minute. You’re not meant to be anywhere near this, remember? If Burns finds out…”

  “He’ll do what? You’ve already said you’re in the shit with him. Maybe if I can find something out, it’ll give you something to take to him, get him off your back. It’s not going to hurt Rebecca if she can find the leak and plug it, either. And besides, we both know there are people out there that won’t talk to you but will pick up to me.”

  Susie paused. People that won’t talk to you. Shit, he was right. The Buchan case had, ultimately, rested on Doug’s ability to get information from sources that would run a mile from Susie or anyone with an official title. It had been useful in the past. Could it be useful again?

  “Okay,” she said. “But be quiet about it, Doug. And if you find anything, I want to know about it first, not read about it in the Trib. Clear?”

  He almost laughed. “Promise. Anything else you need me to look in to while you’re at it? I’m heading back today, but I’ve got to say some goodbyes, make a couple of calls and get things started before I go.”

  People that won’t talk to you…

  “Well, there’s… No. No. It’s nothing.”

  “Susie? Susie, what? If there’s something I can help with, let me know. I promise, I won’t use anything without telling you first, okay? But if I can help, I want to. After the other night, I owe you.”

  Should she? Burns’s words echoing in her ears now. If you don’t get me some answers, I’m going to let upstairs do what the hell they want.

  People that won’t talk to you…

  “Susie?”

  She started, remembering he was on the line. She rubbed furiously at the base of her neck, at the hot, insistent itch, like something clawing at her chest. She took a breath, took a step off the street into a small alleyway that ran up to the Mile.

  “I might have a suspect,” she said, not quite believing what she was doing. Had Burns really left her this desperate?

  “What?” Doug’s voice was urgent and pleading – a child desperate to know what happened next. “Who? How? Why aren’t…?”

  “Burns is playing it cool, by the book. Seems he’s getting a world of shit from upstairs. A kid died at the ERI the same day as Greig. His dad is a former soldier, served in the Gulf first time round. Did time for murder, got out a couple of years ago, disappeared. I need to find him.”

  “What? Wait. Gulf War. You mean…?”

  “Yes, Doug. Guns. He knew all about guns. Including the rifle which uses the ammunition that killed Greig.”

  “Fuck,” Doug whispered. “And I take it there’s no record of him since he was released?”

  “Nothing at all,” Susie said.

  “And no obvious link to Greig or Charlie?”

  “Would I be telling you if there was?”

  Doug grunted, too distracted to rise to the jibe. “Okay, give me the name. I’ll ask around. Rab might be able to help, a few others.”

  She gave him Pearson’s full name and date of birth. Reached out to touch the granite wall of the alleyway as she did. Cold.

  “And Doug, I meant what I said. No fucking around with this. I need a result, not a fucking byline in the Trib.”

  “Understood, I won’t use a thing without your say-so.” He was appalled by how convincing he sounded. He almost believed it himself. “Susie, just one more thing…”

  She held her breath, knew what was coming.

  “What?”

  “The link. What was it? How did you put the murders together?”

  Susie paused. How desperate was she?

  Let upstairs do what the hell they want…

  Find me a conclusion…

  Kill your career…

  Fuck it.

  She retreated deeper into the alley then slowly told Doug about the bullet they found in Charlie’s mouth and the match with Greig’s murder. The silence from the other end of the line was complete, oppressive, almost a living thing that seemed to bleed from the phone and wrap itself around her, pierced only by the rasping sound of Doug fighting to breathe through the growing panic and nausea as he counted the shots in his mind and saw Greig staring lifelessly back at him from a growing pool of his own cooling blood.

  36

  Rebecca spread the papers out on her desk, casting her gaze across the headlines. They were as bad as she feared. Link in Capital killings, Police hunt for one suspect in Edinburgh killings, Killer evades city police and, her favourite, Minister demands answers as city killer evades police.

  It was inevitable really. With this level of coverage, it was only a matter of time before the politicians got involved. Especially in an election year, with the referendum aftermath still fresh in the memory and the controversy about routinely armed police officers on patrol only a Google search away.

  The news websites were similarly grim reading, with the added dimension of video clips from the press conference, with Burns spluttering and stuttering after every question.

  She sighed, pushed the papers aside. What the hell was Burns thinking? With all this going on, the last thing they needed was him to be ignoring a potential suspect, merely because it was Susie who had turned him up and she was in shit street with the top brass. And just what had she done in the Buchan case that pissed them off so much anyway? From what Rebecca had managed to piece together from the coverage – and what little Susie would tell her – she had faced down a gun-toting psychopath, brought in a convicted rapist who, while not guilty of murder, had notched up an impressive tally of crimes, and helped expose an MSP as a paedophile whose main form of relaxation was raping his daughter and prostitutes. All of which didn’t exactly reflect badly on the police. Doug’s follow-up – on the link between Buchan and the then-Chief Constable and a cover-up of a hit and run – wasn’t the happiest of reading, but from what Rebecca had seen, the press team at the time had managed to put the best spin they could on it… this happened years ago, the force was different then, it would never be tolerated now, any allegations will be fully investigated.

  And maybe they were, but Rebecca had heard nothing else about it. So what was the nerve Susie hit? Surely they still weren’t holding a grudge about her fuck-and-forget with her former boss? Police officers could be an unforgiving, tribal bunch, but surely they weren’t going to kill her career over it.

  Were they?

  She looked back across the papers again, then called up the holding line she had drafted and released on the computer. Officers from Police Scotland are currently investigating the suspicious deaths of Jonathan Greig and Charles Edward Montgomery in Edinburgh. Both investigations are proceeding. As with any investigations which run parallel in a close geographic area, departments will be liaising closely to maximise local knowledge and resources to expedite the identification of any suspects. Updates will be given in due course.

  She turned away from the screen in disgust. A no-comment comment, dictated by the Chief after the press conference with the grim warning that it was to be issued “word for word, comma for comma”. She checked the news agency websites and a couple of the bigger media outlets and, sure enough, they had tacked it on to the bottom of their copy. She’d be amazed if anyone read that far to be bothered by it, and it would do nothing to stem the fresh tsunami of queries she would
no doubt face over the day. It was like being told to fight a fire with a water pistol.

  She stood up, walked around her desk, stretching her back, which was complaining from too many hours hunched over a computer and too little relaxation. She stood at the window, looking at the TV satellite vans parked outside, dishes all swivelled to the sky expectantly. She thought briefly of Burns, sitting in his office two floors up, glaring down at the vans, no doubt blowing smoke from his cigarette at them, wishing it would choke every one of the little fuckers.

  Burns. A thought flashed across her mind, like the ghost of a bright light that strobes across your vision after you’ve looked at it for too long. Burns. If he was going to put her and Susie in the shit like this, why couldn’t she do the same to him? The holding line was shit, the press would be hungry for something, anything, new. She could leak the possible suspect line, emphasise enquiries were in their early stages but a positive avenue is being explored, then hint that top brass had ignored it. It would create an unholy shitstorm, but at least it would move them away from this holding pattern, focus their minds and get Susie some of the help she needed.

  Nice fantasy. Pity it wouldn’t work in practice. Burns and the Chief would know exactly who had tipped the press off, plus it could prejudice any chance of a future trial if Pearson really was involved. And, on top of all that, there had already been too many leaks.

  She thought again of Doug, of last night’s conversation with Susie and the vow to let the bastard have it both barrels the next time she spoke to him. But now, in the harsh light of another morning of bad headlines and bosses breathing down her neck, Rebecca wasn’t so sure. Oh, she was certain he would leak a story if it suited him, but she couldn’t see what he got from this. She had only hinted at a link, not confirmed it, so his initial line was fairly weak to start with. His byline wasn’t on any of the copy she had seen today, except as a factual mention as being on the scene when Greig was murdered. So what did it get him? A chance to show off? Get the other reporters to dance to his tune via remote control? He had a grudge against Burns, mostly because of the way he had treated Susie, but this had just made it worse for Susie. And, if it’s a consideration, Rebecca thought, me as well.