13

The takeaway cartons lay strewn across the coffee table like rubble, along with scrunched-up napkins and discarded chopsticks. Susie surveyed the wreckage, noting ruefully that most of Doug’s meal – sweet and sour chicken – was barely touched, while she had demolished her Szechuan beef. So much for healthy eating.

With a sigh to disguise a burp, she got up and started clearing, which Doug took as a cue to top up the wine glasses.

“Easy,” she said, feeling a little light-headed as she moved. “I’m back in court tomorrow, don’t want a hangover.”

“Noted,” he replied, nodding the wine bottle to her gently then sloshing what was left into his own glass.

She rolled her eyes and took the containers to the kitchen, where she dumped them into the bin before flicking on the kettle. She only felt a hint of guilt as she glanced at the unused Tupperware containers she had bought to arrange the recycling in.

Back in the living room, Doug was hunched over his phone, staring intently.

“Thought you were here because you didn’t want to be contacted,” she said, putting a coffee down in front of him and hoping he took the hint.

“Research,” he said, handing the phone to her, his gaze only slightly blurred by the wine. The web browser app was open, a Google search for Jonathan Greig displaying a screen full of results.

Despite herself, and the warnings from Burns, Susie smiled. Same old Doug. No matter what happened, the story came first. And, after the hollowed-out shell she had found at the hospital, it was good to see him more like himself, even if he was riding a wave of booze to do it.

“Anything interesting?” she asked as she settled back into her sofa.

“Not really,” he said, the edge of frustration obvious in his voice. “Just what I already know. Jonathan Greig, award-winning journalist and father of three. Started his career on the local press in Stirling then landed a job at the Tribune as a general reporter in 1981. Worked his way up to news editor, deputy editor then editor in 2007. Few links to some of his articles, some not bad stuff there. Lot of headlines around his testimony to the Commons on press regulation around the hacking scandal and his run-in with the Committee chair – you remember, when he compared him to Big Brother and suggested they set up a Ministry of Truth? Other than that, not much. Definitely nothing to explain what happened today.”

“Whatever the explanation, I’d love to hear it,” Susie said. “Must be a hell of a story to justify a professional hit like that.”

A shudder twisted up Doug’s spine. A professional hit. Four sounds, three shots, two hits. The look of terror frozen in Greig’s eyes.

For an instant, something caught in the back of his mind. Like the after-image of a dream that fades the harder you try to remember it. Something. Like rocks just below the tide.

What? Four sounds. Three shots. Something about that.

Exact. Clinical. Professional.

He shook himself from his thoughts, vaguely aware Susie had been speaking to him.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was just reminding you not to get too involved in this. I hate to admit it, but your boss is right. You can’t look into this, Doug. You’re a witness. Give your statement and walk away, let us handle it.”

“But you’re not, are you?” he said, anger clearing the wine-induced blur in his eyes. “And that’s my fault, isn’t it? You’re sidelined on a national case because of me. And we both know you’d do a better job than Burns, King or the rest of those fuckwits.”

The reply was out of Susie’s mouth before she could stop it. “You have the same opinion of Rebecca? Or is she excluded because she doesn’t carry a warrant card?”

Doug stared at her, wine glass halfway to his lips, an expression she couldn’t read flitting across his face like a fast-moving weather front.

“Susie, I…”

“No, Doug. Just fucking leave it, okay?” she snapped, surprised by the anger that flashed through her; sudden, blinding, like metal catching dazzling sunlight. “Yes, you’re right, I’m off the case. And yes, I could do with being on it. And yes, I’m being watched a little too closely by Burns and all the wankers upstairs, mostly because of the shitstorm you stirred up with Richard Buchan last year.”

She threw back the rest of her wine in a jerking motion then clattered the glass back onto the table, hoping it would cool the rage bubbling in the back of her throat. It didn’t.

“But you know what really fucks me off, Doug? After everything, you think I’m just another one of them, just another copper blundering through their job, waiting for the brilliant Doug McGregor to ask the questions they were too stupid to think of. Well I don’t fucking need it, okay Doug? You want someone to swoon at your genius, go talk to Rebecca.”

Doug stared at her in confusion. He opened his mouth, closed it, and the sudden silence rushed in on them. He reached forward, took the whisky, and sloshed a shot into her wine glass before pouring one into his own. Raised his glass, tipped it towards her slightly. When he spoke, his voice was colder than the rain pitter-pattering on the windows.

“I don’t want to talk to Rebecca just now, Susie. I’ve had a shit, shit day, and all I wanted was to talk to my friend. If that’s overstepping the mark, especially now, I’m sorry. But I just thought that…”

His phone started to chatter on the table’s glass surface. He reached for it, ready to switch it off, then paused. And for the second time in a matter of minutes, a wave of expressions Susie couldn’t understand flitted across his face, until one settled on his features that she did understand.

Relief.

He glanced an apology to Susie and she waved him away almost angrily, biting back whatever it was that was clawing up her throat and stinging her eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was nervous, tentative, the coldness from only moments ago gone.

“Hello? Harvey? That you?”

He paused, listening. The first real smile she had seen twitching across his face as he ran his free hand through his hair rapidly. “Aye, fair enough. Should have known better than that. Sorry.” Pause. Enthusiastic nodding. Then sudden laughter, sounding all the more surreal in the charged aftermath of their argument. “Fuck off, you’re no’ getting a quote from me.” Another pause, chin dropping to his chest. “Really? That…” A glance up, shy, apologetic. “That would be great, Harvey. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Silence as the other end of the line spoke. “Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. Give Esther my love, too. See you.”

He clicked the phone off, let his hand drop slowly into his lap. Chewed his lip for a moment, then downed the whisky in a gulp. When he looked at Susie, she felt a jolt of cold shock as she saw tears glisten in his eyes.

“Who the hell was that?”

Doug shook his head, the smile returning to his lips. “I’ll get to that in a minute,” he said as he reached for the whisky. “But first, let me ask you a question.”

“What?” she said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

“Ever been to Skye?” he asked, eyes dancing with mischief as he reached for her glass and downed her whisky as well.