“You’re doing it again,” Hal said.
“What? Oh, sorry.” Doug hauled himself from his thoughts, forced himself to focus on the present. “So, will you do it, Hal?”
Hal let out a long breath. He’d flown up last week, the moment he’d heard what had happened between Doug and Diane Pearson. He told Colin he was going to spend the time working with clients north of the Border, but they both knew it was a lie. Colin sent him on his way, promised to join him with Jennifer as soon as he could. They were arriving tonight.
“Okay,” he said. “But you promise Robertson won’t benefit from any uptick in business we generate for him? That all additional cash will go towards Esther’s care and any charity she chooses?”
Doug nodded. “And when – if – she… you know, then you’re free to gut the bastard any way you want.”
Hal smiled. He’d already thought of a few creative ways for Robertson’s Retreat to take a sudden veer into negative publicity. After all, food hygiene standards were exacting, all it took was one bad meal. Or a well-known name to complain about the “abysmal service and poor management”. He had a couple of willing candidates selected for the job.
“Fine, I’ll start tomorrow. Take Colin and Jen up to Skye, leave them somewhere fun while I go give the place the once over.”
“Thanks, Hal, I appreciate it,” Doug said.
“No problem. But tell me, what are you going to do?”
Good question. Doug had spoken to Walter, who ordered him to take a holiday until the dust settled. The police asking about the Trib’s archive had stirred up a hornet’s nest with the company directors, and Walter didn’t want Doug anywhere near it. Not that they could fire him – his profile was way too high at the moment and to do so would be as good as an admission of guilt.
He shrugged. “I dunno. I’ll probably go back to the Trib when this all clears up. No more newsdesk, though, I’m strictly reporting from now on.”
The thought of Greig’s office reared up in his mind, and he knew he could never step into that room again. Never stand in front of those windows, waiting for that sharp echoing crack, the cries as the window shattered. The splintering thwump as the first bullet dug into the wall beside him, shattering the framed front page that was there – Greig’s first splash on the launch of Operation Desert Storm.
Four sounds. Three shots. Three hits. It took Doug a little while to figure it out, mostly because he was always sitting with his back to the page when he was in conference. But a call to Walter had confirmed it. The first shot hadn’t been a calibration shot. It had been a signal of intent. Doug wondered if Greig had enough time to get the message before the second bullet tore his throat out.
“You know, you could always come and work with me,” Hal said, his gaze cool and even.
Doug coughed in surprise, making his ribs ache. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What me? In PR?” He laughed, slightly disturbed to find he was actually considering it. Better pay. Better hours. Never seeing Greig’s office again, never being threatened with a gun. A simpler life. A safer one. “No way. I’m a reporter, Hal, that’s what I do. Find the stories, tell the stories.”
Hal shrugged. “That’s what I do. Find the lines, sell the lines. Tell the good news tales, minimise the bad news ones. You might find you like it, and I promise it’s a lot more lucrative than journalism. Safer, too.”
“Hal, thank you. But I couldn’t. I’m just not that guy. I’m a reporter, plain and simple.” He flashed back to sitting in the wreckage of Diane Pearson’s living room, willing her to keep breathing as he waited for Susie to arrive. Gave Hal a small smile. “Besides, Harvey’s had enough victims. My byline isn’t going to be another one. There are stories to write – and someone’s got to keep you slick PR types in line.”
Hal laughed, held up a hand in surrender. “Fair enough. Just a thought. And the door’s always open if you change your mind. Now…” He folded away the iPad, stood up. “I have to get going. Colin’s arriving with Jen in a couple of hours, I want to get out to the airport to meet them. You still up for drinks tonight?”
“Oh yes,” Doug replied. Drinks at the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street, where Hal was staying. Definitely more lucrative than journalism.
“Good,” Hal said. “You going to bring Susie along? After all, you owe her after she covered your ass with Diane Pearson.”
“Haallll,” Doug said. But he was right. He did owe Susie. He’d sent her a simple text as he arrived at Diane Pearson’s house: Diane also uses the name Frankie. Linked to Dessie Banks and Gavin through Paul. I’m at the house now. Be good to see you.
When she arrived, he had been sitting with the bloodied remains of Diane, praying he hadn’t killed her. Susie told the police she had a verbal statement from him that it was self-defence.
She wrote that statement for him that night, after Diane Pearson had told her everything. Got him to sign it the next morning.
But then there was Rebecca to consider. Rebecca who was good to her word and made sure Burns asked the Trib some hard questions; Rebecca who broke the rules and gave him the press statements from Burns and the Chief before they went public. Who had believed him when he said he wasn’t the leak who linked the murders.
Rebecca, who he was keeping at arm’s length.
He shook himself from his thoughts, smiled at Hal. “Look, I’ll see you tonight. Maybe I’ll invite someone, maybe I’ll come on my own, okay? Whatever happens, I’ll still be the most fashionably bruised guy in the room.”
“Fair enough,” Hal laughed. “We’ll see you tonight. Take care, Doug.” He gave him a gentle hug then was off, taking the stairs two at a time, loving being a husband and a dad.
Doug swung the door shut slowly, mind filling with thoughts of Greig and his attitude to parenthood. An inconvenience. An embarrassment, especially when the poor kid had learning problems. And then there was Pearson, who loved the boy as his own, knowing he wasn’t biologically his, desperately hoping he was.
There were theories that he had killed the boy because he was Greig’s, because he was a reminder of the man who had fucked his wife and help ruin his life. Doug wasn’t so sure. He thought it was possible Pearson had smothered Danny to death because he knew there was no future for him – the medical reports indicated that the tram accident had left him with additional brain damage. Chances were, that, if he ever woke up, he would be unresponsive for the rest of his life, unable to communicate with the outside world, locked in a body that had betrayed him. Pearson could relate to that, Doug thought. And he would have done anything to save his boy from that fate.
He hobbled into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Jameson’s from the counter. He shouldn’t be drinking with the medication he was on, but it would help the pain in his leg.
Heard Harvey’s words: Don’t fall into the bottle, Douglas. Poured a healthy shot anyway. Harvey Robertson had nothing left to teach him.
He grabbed his phone on the way back to the living room, got himself comfortable in his chair. Stared at the screen for a moment, considering. Rebecca and Susie. He was treating them both badly, but why? Because he didn’t want to face the uncomfortable questions he was asking himself. Because, he realised, he didn’t want to have to face the truth.
He took a swig of the whisky, decided.
“Time to man up, Doug,” he whispered as he thumbed through the contacts and found the number he was looking for. Hit Dial, smiled when the call was answered.
“Hey,” he said. “What you doing tonight?”
Acknowledgements
Thanks, as ever, to super-agent and all-round super-star Bob McDevitt for his support and wise advice, and to Sara, my infinitely patient editor Craig, Laura and everyone at Contraband for letting me fulfil a lifetime’s dream for a second time. Thanks also to Joe Farquharson for remembering a childhood conversation and delivering another brilliant
cover – and to Alasdair Sim for the early read-through and for keeping me on track with some of the technicalities of transport in Edinburgh.
And, lastly, to Douglas Skelton, Craig Robertson, Russel D McLean, Michael J Malone, James Oswald, Caro Ramsay and all the other crime writers who have made me feel part of the club (even with the odd threat of a food fight or a mean paper cut). Thanks for the welcome – and the reassurance that it’s okay to dream up imaginative ways to kill people, and have a little fun while doing it.
About the author
Neil Broadfoot’s high-octane debut, Falling Fast, introduced readers to the world of Edinburgh-based investigative journalist Doug McGregor and DS Susie Drummond. Widely praised by critics, crime fiction authors and readers alike, it was shortlisted for both the Dundee International Prize and the prestigious Deanston Scottish Crime Book of the Year Award, immediately establishing Neil as a fixture on the Tartan Noir scene.
Before writing fiction, Neil worked as a journalist for fifteen years at national and local newspapers, covering some of the biggest stories of the day. A poacher turned gamekeeper, Neil moved into communications, providing media relations advice for a variety of organisations, from public bodies and government to a range of private clients.
Neil is married to Fiona and has two daughters. An adopted Fifer, he lives in Dunfermline, where he started his career as a local reporter.
Copyright
Contraband is an imprint of Saraband
Published by Saraband,
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road,
Glasgow, G3 6HB, Scotland
www.saraband.net
Copyright © Neil Broadfoot 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 9781908643872
ebook: 9781908643896
Publication of this book has been supported by Creative Scotland.
All characters appearing in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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