She turned away from the window. No. Whoever had leaked this, it wasn’t Doug. Which wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. Because if he wasn’t responsible, then someone else was.
Rebecca grabbed her jacket, headed for the door. If Burns wanted her, or a reporter wanted the line again, they could get her on the phone. Right now she needed to be out, away from this claustrophobic office that seemed full of questions.
Now, she needed to go get some answers.
37
The phone’s screen cracks easily, a cheap brittle thing that shatters into an intricate kaleidoscope of colours as I push my fingers down on to it. I slip out the SIM card and hold it up, the small gold chip winking in the light. I snap it and pocket it to dispose of later. Not that there’s any real risk of it being traced – the phone is a pay-as-you-go that I bought for cash at an anonymous shop, and no-one has the number unless I think they need it.
I could have kept the phone, but there’s no point. With the final call made, there’s no need for it any more. It’s obsolete, like I will be in a few short hours.
Only one last monster to slay.
One more mission to complete.
Then we can all rest.
38
After the call with Susie, Doug threw himself into work, desperately trying to outrun the memories of Greig as he walked aimlessly around the hotel car park, circling his car as though he were its moon.
His first port of call was Rab MacFarlane. With his security business covering most of the doors in the city, if anyone could get a line on what happened with Pearson, Rab would be it. When he called, it was his wife, Janet, who answered, and he was forced to run the verbal gauntlet of how-are-yous and “When ye comin’ tae visit us, son? Rab’s fair woond up aboot a’ this – and I’m no’ so happy ’bout it either.”
Doug promised he would visit as soon as he could, listened to the clicks as Janet transferred the call. He knew she would be listening though, hunched over her desk in the small reception room that led to Rab’s office, her skin not so much as tanned as varnished by the salon treatments she was addicted to, hair coiffed and frozen into position with enough hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer.
“Doug? Doug? How you doing, son? You decided to let one of the boys look after you yet?”
“No thanks, Rab, I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. Besides, I’m in Skye, a long way from any hassle.”
Rab grunted. Unhappy. They had met when Doug had done a feature on the licensing of doormen in the city; Rab had given him the inside view of how the industry worked and Doug had mentioned him favourably in the copy. Since then, they had developed what Rab called “a mutually beneficial relationship”, with Doug running the odd helpful story and Rab helping him with some of the less-legitimate lines of inquiry he needed to chase up.
Case in point, Gavin Pearson.
“Well, listen, you change your mind, come see me when you get back. And do it oanyway – Janet’s doin’ my heid in asking after you.”
Doug smiled. When he first met Janet, he had fallen into the role of cheeky young man, all harmless banter and studied compliments about her appearance. But over time, the banter had given way to a real affection. He was under no illusions, the steel in Janet was razor sharp and lethal, but there was also a warmth to her that he liked. Almost like the aunt who made the rude jokes at family get-togethers and snuck you an extra drink when no-one was looking. And he knew she liked the attention. After all, family was everything to her. Even if they were journalists.
“Tell her I said thanks. Listen, Rab, I was wondering if you could do me a wee favour?”
Rab’s voice grew cautious. “This something to do with what happened to your boss?”
Doug swallowed. “Maybe. Look, I need to find someone. Name is Gavin Pearson, done for murder in an Edinburgh nightclub in 1993. Released a couple of years ago. Fell off the radar since then.”
“Fuck, don’t make it too easy for me, Doug, will you?”
Doug closed his eyes, ground his fingers into them. Heard Susie’s voice whisper in his ear. No fucking around with this, I need a result. He thought about Janet listening, hanging on every word. Janet, the Lady MacBeth of Edinburgh’s security industry. If you wanted a broken jaw or a shattered ribcage, you pissed Rab off. If you wanted to go to the morgue, probably by the scenic route, you crossed Janet. Or someone she cared for and “did Rab’s heid in” about.
And yet…
I need a result.
A flash of Greig standing, paralysed, mouth open in a silent scream, blood spurting from his mouth. The echoing crack as his head hit the table. The feel of his blood oozing between his fingers.
Fuck it.
“Pearson’s ex-military. First Gulf War. Spent a lot of time in the desert looking after firearms, including the type that was used to kill Greig. He comes home, might be a lot of call for his kind of skills in certain circles. So anything you can find out would be appreciated, Rab. Really.”
From the other end of the phone, Doug heard a soft swallowing sound, saw Rab down the whisky he no doubt had on his desk. Whisky and business: Rab’s favourite tipple.
“And you think he might be the man who killed your boss?”
“It’s a theory, I’m checking it out for a friend.”
“By friend, you mean that copper you’re determined to help out all the time?”
“Yeah, Rab, that’s her. Drummond. Susie Drummond. She’s one of the good ones. She knows not to ask where I get my information.”
Rab grunted, the sound of stones being chewed. He had a natural distrust of the police, tolerated Doug’s closeness to Susie only because of Janet’s fondness for the boy. The fact that he had a direct line to the ear of a police officer via Doug was mere coincidence.
Honest.
“Any threat to you?” he asked.
Doug shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’m in Skye, best bet he’s in Edinburgh or thereabouts; no indication he’s overly mobile. If it’s him. Besides, whatever the reason, this was personal. Whoever killed Greig fucking hated him – and I don’t think I’ve pissed anyone off that much yet.” Doug winced, the joke sounding like an off-key chord in his own ears.
“Give it time, Douglas,” Rab said, deadpan. “I’ll look into it, see what I can find. In the meantime…” He let the sentence drift off, quiet menace dripping from the phone.
“Thanks, Rab, I owe you. Again. I’ll come and visit when I get back.”
“Make sure you do. Oh, and Douglas?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring Janet something back from Skye. You know she likes her souvenirs.”
39
Diane Pearson’s office was on the first floor of the Department of Social Care and Community Support on Cockburn Street. To get there, Diane had met Susie in reception and led her down a long, echoing corridor with walls painted an industrial green, old double doors with safety glass panes and a battered concrete floor that was pitted and marked with the passage of countless pairs of shoes.
It reminded Susie of her high school.
The office itself was small and cramped, stuffed with an oversized sofa, a small table, a bookshelf and what looked like a reclining chair that had escaped from the Seventies. Various posters adorned the cream walls, advertising everything from the Samaritans to a quick call from the police if “our staff aren’t allowed to work free from the threat of violence”.
Diane ushered Susie to the couch and folded herself into the chair opposite. Susie struggled to sit upright, the cushions were so soft and encompassing she felt as though it was trying to suck her in.
“So, Susie, how can I help you?” she asked, flicking away a strand of her white-blonde hair from her too-thin face. Susie wondered if that was the standard line she used with everyone who came to see her.
“Ah, just a cou
ple of follow-up questions, Mrs Pearson, shouldn’t take too long.”
Diane held up a pale hand. “No problem, I’m out of my office for meetings elsewhere this afternoon, but I’ve cleared my diary this morning, so take as long as you need.”
Too good to refuse, Susie thought. “Well, thank you,” she said. “But if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly is it you do? I know you said you were a counsellor and social worker, but I’ve never heard of this place before.”
Diane nodded, flashed a small, understanding smile. Perfectly friendly, perfectly practised. Perfectly empty. A smile she’d given a million times before in this room.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “We’re a relatively new department, helping those identified with additional mental or physical support needs and trying to help them to lead productive, fulfilled lives in the community.”
Susie nodded. So far, so press release. “Additional needs? You mean like Danny?”
The smile flashed across Diane’s face again, this time looking like a grimace. “Sometimes, though, Danny’s physical needs meant it was more appropriate for him to be cared for at the centre. We’re more concerned with those who have mental and physical issues resulting from chronic addiction. The theory is that if we can offer these people the support they need, we can stop them relapsing, and creating a further strain on the health service.”
Susie flashed her own smile, murmured agreement. She had heard about this – it was an NHS plan to deliver more community care and take the pressure off frontline services such as A&Es by reducing the number of alcoholics, drug addicts and those who self-harmed visiting casualty by tackling their problems before they reached for the bottle, the needle or the knife. Predictably, the Tories hated it, branding the idea “just another government smokescreen to mask the true scale of the problem by reclassifying patients and depriving the NHS of the funding it desperately needed”.
Looking past the spin, Susie thought it made sense, but what did she know? She was a detective, not a self-appointed health expert.
“So, what did you want to ask me, Susie?” Diane asked, glancing at a clock on the wall. Cleared calendar or not, she wanted this over with as soon as possible.
Susie took a moment to flick through her notes. No way was she going to let Pearson dictate the pace of this. Interview technique 101 – always stay in control. It was one of the things she and Doug agreed on.
“Ah, I actually wanted to ask about Danny’s father, Gavin. You said yesterday that he had no contact with you or Danny, has that always been the case?”
Diane picked at the sleeve of her jumper. “Yes,” she replied, voice impassive, the fake empathy disappearing. “As I said, he was jailed just before Danny was born. I took him to visit a few times at Saughton, but that just… just fell apart over time and we never saw him. Which suited me, it was no place for a baby, especially Danny.”
“And you never heard from him when he was released?”
“No,” Pearson snapped back. “Sorry, detective, but this isn’t an easy subject, especially at the moment when… when…”
Susie leaned forward, gave her best reassuring smile. “I know, Mrs Pearson, Diane. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I just need to know a little more about Gavin.”
“But why?” Diane asked. “You don’t still think someone intentionally hurt Danny do you?” Her eyes grew wide, voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t think Gavin did this?”
Susie held up a hand, thought briefly of the nondescript figure in the hospital, the baggy jacket and the baseball cap pulled down tight. Could have been Gavin.
Could have been anyone.
“We’re investigating every possibility, Diane,” she said. “And, as Danny’s father, Gavin is a gap in our knowledge. We just want to speak to him, so anything you could tell me could be vital.”
Diane dropped her head, shook it. When she looked up, the mask had gone, replaced by a haggard old woman with the scars of a hard, loveless life slashed across her face and haunted eyes that locked onto Susie’s.
“Gavin was a soldier,” she said. “We met when he was on leave, just down the road in the old Alcove bar, you know it?”
Susie nodded. She had heard of the place. It was gone now, destroyed years ago in a fire that ripped through the heart of Edinburgh’s Old Town. A fire that smouldered for days and put Edinburgh on the map for all the wrong reasons.
“Anyway, we got married, and everything was fine to start with. But then… then he got shipped out to Iraq and it all went to shit from there.”
“Why?” Susie asked.
Diane paused for a moment, cold eyes searching Susie’s. Then she twitched her head, as though making a decision. “Susie, have you ever heard of Gulf War Illness?”
“Vaguely,” Susie said. “Some soldiers who came home said their service in the Gulf made them ill, called it Gulf War Syndrome. Is that it?”
“It’s more than reports,” Diane said. “And it’s not a syndrome, it’s an illness. When Gavin went to Iraq, he was a strong, vital young man. Was in the gym five days a week, ran a couple of infantry marathons. Six months after he came home he was riddled with arthritis, skin lesions and acute paranoia. The Army drummed him out, gave him a medical discharge and a pension not worth a shit.”
“And that’s why you… ah, drifted apart?”
Diane flashed the horrible, leering smile again, as though she were talking to a child who didn’t know that there was worse than fairy tales beyond the bedroom curtains.
“He came home a stranger,” she said. “Couldn’t do what he once could, trapped in a body that was failing him with a mental timebomb ticking in his head. He went to get his passport photographs taken one day – the flash triggered an episode and it took three security men to subdue him.”
It fitted, Susie thought. The reports on the nightclub referred to the assault being “extremely violent”.
“So, what happened?”
“What happened?” Diane spat, anger flashing behind her glasses. “We tried to get him help, but no-one wanted to listen. The Army turned their back on him, called him a nutter, local doctors didn’t know what to do. Local politicians ran a mile from us, no matter how many times we told our story. He couldn’t hold down a job, took work where he could, and then… then, that poor boy.”
“Martin Everett,” Susie whispered.
Diane nodded, tears threatening in her eyes. “We tried to tell them it wasn’t his fault, not really, that the illness made him paranoid. Unpredictable. But they wouldn’t listen. And when he was sentenced, well, he just shut us off. Said he was a monster and deserved to be locked away.”
Susie took a breath. She didn’t want to do this, but had no choice.
“And you’ve no idea where he could be now, what he might be doing?”
Diane looked away at the clock on the wall. She watched the seconds march by – one, two, three – then turned back to Susie.
“I have no idea where he could be, Susie,” she said, “but I do know one thing. Wherever he is right now, he’s suffering. And he won’t want to keep that to himself. He always used to say ‘suffering shared is suffering halved’. And I imagine he’s working very hard on halving his pain right now.”
40
Burns sat barricaded behind his desk, worrying at the cigarette packet he had fished from the bin like he was torturing a small animal. In front of him, the Pearson file sat open, dog-eared by the number of times he had run through the pages.
Suggestive, not conclusive, he had told Drummond. Looking at it now, it was a hell of a lot more than that.
He made a sound halfway between a cough and a growl, squeezed down on the cigarette packet as though it had insulted him. Drummond was right, it was a strong lead, but thanks to the diktat from upstairs to “make sure she stays on the straight and narrow and on a short leas
h”, he had to make doubly sure that she was playing by the book. But did that mean he was hampering the investigation by doing so?
He leaned back, considered what he knew. The son of an ex-soldier with a criminal record had been killed after being in a freak accident. Looking at the file of Daniel Pearson, it was obvious that the poor kid had been suffocated.
Burns had seen it before – years ago when he was a young PC working in Dundee. A man had suffocated his wife at their home, snapping one night after dementia robbed her of her memory of him and their forty-six years together. Burns could still remember him, a small, neat man, with snow-white hair and an old bobbled green cardigan draped around blade-like shoulders. He had called the ambulance and police himself after he killed her, had the tea made and waiting by the time they arrived. He had taken a seat in the front room, in a battered old leather chair that seemed to be moulded to him, drank his tea with a shaking hand, tilting the cup at an odd angle so he could drink around his long, hook-like nose.
“I just couldn’t stand her not remembering us,” he said quietly, eyes red-rimmed and strangely peaceful. “We always said we’d know when the time was right, and when she looked at me tonight, all that confusion and loss, I knew. So I settled her the best I could, gave her her tablet, then…” He trailed off, lost in the memory of what he had done. Then he looked up, fixed Burns with a cold, hard glare that was full of pain and defiance.
“Forty-six years and I never raised a hand to her once,” he said. “And by Christ, that woman could give me cause. But not once. Never. Not until tonight. And I did it because I loved her, you understand? Because I loved her.”
While the confession had been enough, cause of death was also quickly confirmed. The pathologist at the scene, a small, squat man with a taste for Paisley ties and hideous waistcoats, had shown Burns when he was sent to see the body.
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