The Storm

by Neil Broadfoot

  He managed to get away, back onto the street, where he ran into Gavin Pearson. Apparently, Pearson didn’t like the odds and took the three guys down. Forcibly. One thing interested Rab, though. He decided to check out the story and spoke to a doorman called Scott Donald who was working that night, told him what happened.

  “It was fuckin’ weird,” he said. “Wee shit runs straight into this guy, Pearson. He’s a big fucker, like, built like a brick shithoose. He tells the three guys to fuck off but they’re no havin’ it and give him a go, run at him, like. He fucked them up good and proper – an’ just by using his legs. Kicked one guy in the chest, think he broke another’s leg, booted the third in the baws so hard ah fuckin felt it. Never took his hands oot his pockets though, Rab. Weirdest fuckin’ thing.”

  Word of the evening’s festivities must have got back to Dessie, as he put the word out that, if Pearson ever needed work or a favour, all he had to do was call him. Not that Dessie cared about the safety of his employee, but Pearson had provided a very effective demonstration of what happened if you fucked with Dessie Banks’ men.

  The offer went ignored until a week ago, when Dessie was approached for a single favour. The use of a car and a tank of petrol. Plus a very specific firearm request.

  Dessie agreed, a car was nothing for him, one could be stolen at the snap of his fingers. The gun was a calculated risk – by doing him a favour, Pearson was hardly likely to train it on Dessie. And besides, he was a man of his word. The arrangements were made through the little scrote Pearson had saved, a bottom-feeder called Paul Welsh, and the car was delivered to Pearson’s digs, a small, one-bed flat across the road from the nightclub.

  Rab knew Welsh vaguely – he’d been warned a couple of times about dealing in his clubs and the boys were on the lookout for him. What he hadn’t known until today was that he was linked to Dessie Banks. Useful knowledge if he ever needed to get in touch with Dessie or send him a more visual message. Not so useful for Stevie Leith, who had, Rab was told, put the kid in hospital after burying a needle in his eye.

  Bad news for Paul. Worse news for Stevie when Dessie found out.

  Rab reached for the phone, dialled Doug’s number. He wasn’t sure how all this was going to help him, but a promise was a promise. And besides, it might get Janet off his back for half an hour if he could tell her how the kid was.

  62

  Police Scotland was meant to be an integrated national force, the end result of the merger of the eight regional forces around the country into one national entity.

  As Rebecca was finding out, it was a nice theory, just not matched by the reality.

  Trying to co-ordinate the press response to Gavin Pearson’s death was a fucking nightmare. He had been identified by Harvey Robertson as the murderer in the Greig and Montgomery cases. Both of which were Edinburgh-based crimes. But he had taken his life on Skye, which meant the local police were involved. And while the chiefs in Edinburgh were looking to hold off on giving a press conference until the full facts were established and, given what Rebecca had found out, Robertson’s full role had been ascertained, the cops on Skye were desperate to put out a media statement and hold a press conference as soon as possible.

  Why? Because they were looking for a person of interest who had left the scene of the crime before officers arrived. An old friend of Mr Robertson’s; one of the guests described him as tall, with tousled hair, and driving a grey sports car “like he was in the Monaco Grand Prix”.

  Rebecca couldn’t believe it. It had to be Doug, but why the hell was he still at the hotel at the time Pearson had stormed the place? From what she knew, he was leaving that morning, heading home. He should have been crossing the Forth Road Bridge now, not still driving down the road. What the hell had happened to make him turn around?

  As if in answer, her phone rang on her desk. She picked it up, almost fumbled it when she saw it was Doug calling.

  “Doug? Doug, where the hell are you? Are you okay?”

  The line was bad, but she could hear the urgency in his voice. “Rebecca, hi. Yeah, look, I’m fine. Take it you’ve heard about what happened by now?”

  “Heard? Doug, it’s all over the news, what the hell happened?”

  “I’ll explain later,” he said. “But first, I need a favour.”

  She rolled her eyes, anger and frustration making her grab the phone tighter. Unbelievable. “Doug, you can’t seriously think that…”

  “Rebecca, please,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve fucked you around, sorry I’ve made such a mess of all this. I’ll make it right, I promise. But right now, I just need your help. Please?”

  She paused, let the static fill the line. She wanted to help him. But was he just using her – again?

  “What do you need?” she asked, lips tight, only hating herself a little for caving so easily.

  “You need to speak to Burns,” he said. “Tell him you discovered Harvey leaked the link to the two murders. You also need to tell him you have reason to believe that Robertson deleted information relating to the murders from the archive at the Tribune, and withheld information fundamental to the Pearson murder trial.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “What? Doug. What files? What information? Why would he do that?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. But I need you to do this, Rebecca, please. I need the police to put pressure on the Trib, make sure nothing else has been deleted. They won’t listen to me, I’m too close to this, but they’ll have to listen to you. And…” – he paused, and she could swear she almost heard a smile in his voice – “…it might get you and Susie out of the shit with Burns a bit.”

  Susie again. Shit.

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Not yet, she’s my next call. Thanks, Rebecca. I owe you. I’ll make it up to you when we have that date.”

  The line clicked dead before she could reply.

  63

  “Doug? Doug, where the fuck are you?”

  Doug flicked the wheel to the right, hammered down on the accelerator as he shot past a lorry. “I’m heading down the road now, Susie, should be there soon.”

  “Are you okay? Burns is going fucking mental here. He’s threatening to put an arrest warrant out for you for fleeing the scene of a crime. What the fuck happened up there?”

  “Long story,” Doug said, speeding up for another overtake. There was a sharp turn coming, but he thought he could make it. “I promise I’ll give you a full statement when I get back, okay?”

  “No, not okay,” Susie hissed. “You’ve not returned my calls, we find out that you’re at the scene when a suspect wanted for three murders kills himself, that your old boss is tied up in all of this somehow, and you want me to wait? You ever think we might be worried about you, Doug? What the hell is going on?”

  We? He pushed the thought aside.

  “Look, Susie, you know most of it. Pearson killed Greig and Montgomery, Harvey is tied up in all of it. I’m just finishing up the background now, which is why I called you.”

  “Oh?” Her voice was heavy with warning. Don’t fuck with me, Doug, the tone said.

  He ignored it. “Yeah. Look, I’ve been digging around in Pearson’s background. Seems he was vaguely connected to Stevie Leith and a small-time dealer called Paul Welsh. Rab told me about what happened with them this morning. Anything you can add?”

  Susie bit down on her anger, which was battling with relief for supremacy. Little shit. He ignored calls for almost a day, then gets in touch when it suits him, looking for help with background for his story? Fuck that.

  “Look, Doug, I’m not going to help you with a story at the moment,” she said. “I’m up to my neck in this case, and I need you to give me a statement now. You can come to the station and see me when you get back.”

  “I’m not doing this for a story, Susi
e,” he said, the emptiness in his voice giving her an icy jolt. “I can’t write this one. But I’ve seen too much. I just need to know. Please.”

  She sighed. Emotional blackmail. Classic Doug. And classic Susie for falling for it.

  “Well, if you’ve heard the story from Rab, I’m not sure how much more I can add,” she snapped. “Neighbours called officers to Stevie Leith’s flat this morning. They forced the door, found Stevie unconscious and this kid Welsh with a syringe full of heroin sticking out of his eye. Little shit was lucky Stevie didn’t push down the plunger.”

  “Any indication why they got into it?” Doug asked, the engine roaring in the background as he spoke.

  “Why do druggies always fall out?” Susie said, suddenly tired. “Money, product, something like that. There may be another suspect, though; Welsh kept going on about someone called Frankie.”

  The line fell into silence, only the dull wash of static in Susie’s ear. Then, she heard Doug’s voice. Flat, almost atonal. All too similar to the voice she had heard that first night after Greig’s murder when he had come to her flat.

  “Motherfucker,” he said.

  “Doug? Doug, what? This mean something to you? What?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he said, distracted. It was obvious he wasn’t focusing on her anymore. “Just something I should have seen a lot fucking sooner. Fucking idiot. What a fucking idiot.”

  “Doug, what? I really need…”

  The focus snapped back into his voice. “Susie, it’s fine. Sorry for bothering you. And thanks. I’ll come to the station as soon as I get back. Promise. See you soon.”

  He clicked off before she could protest, bore down on the steering wheel and floored the accelerator, watching the speedo creep up past seventy, eighty, ninety.

  He looked at his knuckles, bones glowing through the skin as he gripped the steering wheel and cursed softly. He was wrong, they all were. All the pieces were there, all the hints, even with Harvey trying to muddy the waters.

  He flicked on the phone, selected a secure website. Waited for it to load, cursing the slow connection, then gave his access code and logged in. Keyed in his request, got what he needed. Mapped out the route in his head. Turned back to the road and drove faster, willing the car to its destination.

  64

  Doug pulled into a parking space halfway down the street, revved the engine for a moment then killed the ignition, listening as the motor spun to a slow stop. No point in playing it sneaky now, he was beyond that. Way, way beyond. As he was waiting he looked around. The voters’ roll search he had run on his phone had spit the address out quickly enough. It was a small street, crowded with cars, a couple of gardens littered with kids’ toys. Hardly a new-build development anymore, but it had matured well.

  Mostly.

  He got out of the car and walked towards the house, a mixture of relief and tension tickling his neck as he noticed a small light was on next to the front door. So she was in.

  He climbed the small step to the front door, took a moment to look at the grab rail put there for Danny. Felt a rush of anger. The poor kid had never asked for any of this. At least he would never know what his father really thought of him.

  He paused at the door, took just enough time to send one text message, then rang the bell. Squared his shoulders, forced his breathing to slow.

  He thought again of the shots ringing through Greig’s office – three shots, three hits, one fatality. He’d worked that out now as well. All it took was the proper perspective.

  Diane Pearson swung the door open, leaned out. The years hadn’t been kind. In the pictures taken to go with Greig’s articles, she was young, vibrant, even with the stress of Gavin falling apart in front of her. Now she looked like a wizened husk of that woman, hollowed out and poisoned over the years by pain and suffering. Left with nothing but her strength, and an obsessive defiance that refused to let her roll over and quit.

  A defiance fuelled by a lifetime of hate.

  “Yes,” she said, giving him an appraising glance. “Can I help you?”

  “Mrs Pearson? I’m Doug McGregor. I work for the Capital Tribune. I was wondering if I could have a quick word?”

  She stepped back, already swinging the door closed. Doug took a half step forward, placed his hand gently on the door, surprised by the force pushing against him. “I know Paul Welsh, Mrs Pearson, I know the whole story. Now, may I come in?”

  She gave him another look, eyes narrowing behind her glasses then, with a grunt, swung the door open and beckoned him in.

  She led him through to the living room, a small, cramped space, toys and ornaments clinging to every available inch of shelf space, the walls crammed with pictures of the most important part of her life. Danny.

  Three shots, three hits…

  “How can I help you, Mr McGregor?” she asked, brushing past him and heading for her seat. She didn’t ask him to sit. “As I already told the police, I may know Mr Welsh, but that’s a matter for them, not the press.”

  He looked at her, thought of Gavin’s smile as he blew his brains out. Of the terror in Greig’s face as his chest exploded onto the conference table. Of Harvey’s pitiful justification for betraying everything he had taught Doug about telling stories as they were. I put this whole mess in place to start with, then tried to make something good out of it. Felt a wave of bilious fury so strong he rocked on his feet. Took a deep, shuddering breath, started talking.

  “Come on, Diane, cut the shit, will you? I told you, I know the whole story. How you used Paul as a link to Dessie Banks to help sell drugs to the people you were meant to be counselling, giving him just enough to keep him on a chain of addiction. How you made sure Paul was at your beck and call to take messages to Gavin whenever you needed him to, set up little visits to see Danny, and make sure he had his own personal supply of whatever he needed to treat his own pain. Why was that, anyway? Guilt, maybe? Thought you’d caused him enough pain as it was? Thought maybe getting him uppers and downers and God knows what else would somehow make up or that?”

  She glared at him, eyes glittering dark pits in her glasses. “How dare you,” she hissed, her voice a whisper of hate. “Paul Welsh was a client of mine. I only tried to help him, only…”

  “Shut up!” Doug shouted suddenly, temper finally snapping. “I know all about it, Diane; a friend of mine spoke to Dessie Banks personally a couple of hours ago, confirmed everything for me. Wouldn’t have made any sense without this, though.” He pulled from his pocket the letter she had written to Gavin. Doug opened it up, found the sentence he was looking for, the one that was now burned into his mind, read it out to her.

  “You remember when you first asked me to marry you? How you said how much you hated the name Franklin and promised not to give it to any of our kids? I think I said something like ‘If you don’t like it, I’ll have it’. I was joking at the time, it was something corny to say, but over time I’ve realised that, for you, I’ll always be Frankie.”

  He chewed the words over for a moment, then glared at her. “Nice touch, that. Using a name only Gavin would recognise. Keeps you in the clear, doesn’t it? But it let him know what you were really doing. Pretty cold though, manipulating the people you were supposed to be helping to make a few quid and help get revenge for a situation you created.”

  “Where… where did you get that?” she whispered, leaning forward in the chair, her hands claws on her knees.

  “Gavin gave it to me,” he replied, forcing down the sound of the gunshot in his ears. “Or, I should say, he left it for me. I think it was his way of trying to justify what he had done, making sure everything was out in the open at last.” Harvey’s note flashed across his mind. If you want justice – or even revenge – then here’s how.

  Another thought hit him then, washing away the fury as he blinked back sudden tears. The line from Harvey’s note to Gavin. I have
no children of my own, but I think I know what it’s like to be a father. To see a man you consider your son and be proud of him.

  “Eye for an eye,” Doug whispered to himself, breath hitching in his throat. “It was Gavin’s way of twisting the knife on Harvey – exposing him meant he would lose a son as well.”

  “My husband was a very, very ill man, Mr McGregor,” she said, eyes not leaving the letter. Slowly, she reached a hand out. “May I?”

  Doug glanced down at the letter again, swiped at his eyes angrily. “Actually, no, I don’t think so, Frankie. I’m going to need this. Partly to prove you were selling those drugs to Paul, and partly to show you killed Charlie Montgomery. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  She rocked back as though she had been stabbed. “Wh… what do you mean? That’s preposterous, I would never, could never…”

  Doug looked at her with contempt, felt his fury build again. “Stop fucking lying, Frankie. It took me a while to get there, been kind of distracted with all the killing going on around me, but it was the letter that made it all make sense. Back on Skye, Gavin could hardly stand up for more than five minutes. His hands were lumps. God alone knows what it took him to keep them steady to take out Greig. But he managed it. But that was killing from a distance, with a weapon he was an expert with, where he only needed his grip to be steady for a few concentrated seconds. No way he could have gone to town on Charlie the way the murderer did. Beating him half to death then throwing him down a flight of stairs before shoving a knife into his head? No way. What was it he said about the night he killed that kid? Just my body failing me again? Gavin would have had a heart attack about five punches in. But you? Oh, you’d been waiting for years for the chance, hadn’t you, Frankie? The chance to even the score with the man who helped Greig betray you.”