9

After leaving Doug, Susie’s afternoon descended into the type of bureaucratic nightmare that made her question why she wanted to be a police officer in the first place. After all, why investigate crime and stop the bad guys when there was filing to be done, overtime claims to submit and personnel details to update?

It was partly the hangover from the amalgamation of the eight police forces around Scotland into one force, Police Scotland. Although it had taken place a couple of years ago now, there were still the inevitable problems as different forces, each with their own procedures, adapted to being part of one big, standardised family. And, thanks to being on court duty and categorically not allowed to look into the Jonathan Greig murder, DI Burns saw it as the perfect opportunity to give Susie the chance to catch up on the reports she had to write.

She initially thought that it was punishment for pissing him off about something, but when she glanced out of the window and saw the TV camera vans parking up outside, satellite dishes swivelling like oversized bowls into position – Please sir, can we have some more story? – she understood. This was a national story now, and Burns was doing everything to keep her away from it. And, more importantly, he was being seen by the brass upstairs to be keeping her away from it.

After the Buchan case last year, and the fall-out when the former Chief Super got dragged in to allegations of collusion and cover-up, Susie knew she was being watched very closely by her superiors. Burns himself had told her as much one night not long after the case had wrapped up. He had called her into his office, settled into his chair and smoothed his tie over the rapidly expanding beer gut that spilled over his trousers. From the wall behind him, a family portrait stared at Susie as if in judgement. Burns, his wife and their three children – a baby held tight against the woman’s ample chest and two small boys, carbon copies of Burns with their heavy brows, thick-set bodies and flame-red hair – grinning down at her as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Look, Drummond,” Burns said, the reassuring tone he was aiming for butchered by his blunt delivery and the cold, impassive glare that had earned him the nickname “Third Degree” in the first place. “You did good work on the Buchan case, bloody good work, and it’s got you noticed. But them upstairs…” He paused, nose wrinkling at some unpleasant smell only he could detect. “…don’t like it. With the shitstorm this has brought down on the Super thanks to your pal McGregor and that smarmy PR shit the Tories used, they’re watching you. So tread careful, okay? Especially around that wee reporter shite.”

She had assured Burns she would, and quietly vowed to ignore him. But had she? Certainly she spoke less to Doug about stories than before, partly because he was working on the newsdesk more regularly and focusing less on digging up exclusives, and then there was the Rebecca situation. Had she been acting as a friend, or had she engineered it as a diversionary tactic?

And, if so, a diversion from what?

She shook her head and hit the keyboard harder than she needed to start the log-off sequence. Got up and grabbed the gym bag under her desk, suddenly desperate to get to the gym for a workout. A simple run wasn’t going to do it tonight. After a day in court, and being sidelined from the Greig case, she needed to work against something. She needed the burn of weights, the focus that came from the moment when her muscles screamed at her to stop and she forced herself to do another rep. She needed the focus. The discipline. The control.

The gym was at the top of Leith Walk, a Virgin Active in the Omni Centre, which was a collection of restaurants and pubs clustered around a multi-screen cinema. It was post-work busy, with the usual blend of guys who looked like they’d walked out of fitness magazines and office workers sweating their way through workouts they thought would help them look like the would-be models. More often than not using the weights and machines totally the wrong way, promising themselves a takeaway as a reward and wondering why they never got any slimmer.

She got changed and headed to the main floor of the gym, checking her phone to see if Doug had called yet, angry at herself when he hadn’t.

She worked her way around the weights, alternating between upper and lower body moves, pouring the tension and stress of the day into the workout until her muscles burned and her lungs were a furnace. Checked her phone again after she had finished, still nothing, and headed for the running machines to cool down.

Susie was just heading for the showers, gasping for breath after the cool-down turned into a sprint finish, when her phone buzzed. A text from Doug. All done, officially on holiday – so at least Greig was good for something ;-) See you at your place, 8ish? I’ve got the wine and I’ll spring for takeaway. D

She glanced at her watch, just after 7pm. Just enough time to have a shower, get home and make sure she hadn’t left anything lying around that she didn’t want him to see. She pinged him an answer and headed for the changing room, turning up the music on her iPod as she walked to drown out Burns’s words: Tread careful, especially around that wee reporter shite.