49

Eddie King hated hospitals. The smell; the squeak of rubber soles on hard, over-polished floors; the hushed, almost breathless conversations punctuated by a moan or a barking cough.

It was, he supposed, an after-effect of what had happened to his granddad. When Eddie was eleven, John “Jock” White had walked down the front path of the house he shared with Elizabeth, Eddie’s mum, and collapsed halfway to the gate with a massive stroke. Eddie could still remember seeing him in the hospital not long afterwards, the strong man he had known replaced by a twisted, empty husk that could do no more than flail and grunt as Eddie walked into the room. The prognosis hadn’t been good – the doctors had said that Jock wouldn’t walk or talk again – but somehow, he defied the odds. He got confused easily, slurred his words and walked with the aid of a Zimmer frame, but he got there. His recovery, though, was agonisingly slow, and Eddie remembered months of evenings and weekends that were arranged around visits to the hospital and, later, the specialist unit where his granddad was sent for rehab.

Eddie hated those visits. The tension slowly filling the car like an inflating balloon as his dad drove them to the hospital, the crushing boredom of sitting around the bed, the unspoken despair and frustration festering in the car as they drove home.

Jock had lived for another eight years after his stroke, eventually succumbing to a heart attack while sitting watching the football. Eddie wasn’t sure if they were happy years for him. He hoped they were.

Now, walking through the corridors of the ERI at Little France, he remembered those visits, felt the old tension and unease settling into his chest.

He had called ahead, been told that Stevie Leith was still out of it – he had suffered a severe concussion when he cracked his head off a bed frame in the fight. Scans had shown no brain damage, but he was still babbling nonsense and the doctors advised that a visit at this time would be pointless.

Which left Eddie with Paul Welsh. He found him in a private room in the east wing of the hospital, lying small and pale in a bed that seemed three sizes too big for him. The roller shutter had been pulled down, leaving the room gloomy and making the eyepatch that was over one of Paul’s eyes almost glow in the half-light. Eddie had read the report before getting out of the car – paramedics had found him with a syringe sticking out of his eye socket. The syringe had punctured the eyeball and caused it to leak, what the medical report called a “globe rupture”. The doctors didn’t know if they could save the eye yet.

Paul tensed as he heard Eddie come into the room, head twisting on the pillow.

“Who… Who’s there? Can’t see, too dark… Who?”

Eddie took a step forward, offered his warrant card, made sure it was in front of Paul’s good eye. “Paul, I’m DC Eddie King. I wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier today.”

Paul shook his head, tried to set his jaw. “Got nothing to say,” he said, false bravado trembling in his voice. “Private, between me and Stevie.”

Eddie shook his head. Typical. “Well, I’m afraid not, Paul,” he said, hoping his tone sounded patient and understanding. He didn’t feel it. “You see, when our officers arrived, they discovered a significant quantity of Class A, B and C drugs, including the heroin in the needle Mr McInnis, ah, attacked you with.”

Paul’s head jerked towards Eddie. “Heroin?” he whispered. “He was giving me heroin? But why would…?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t go to Mr McInnis to purchase heroin?” Eddie asked.

“Wha’? No, no, I went because I… well, I…”

Eddie looked at him. Counted to ten. “What? If you weren’t going for drugs for yourself, who were you going there for, Paul? You know distribution is a more severe crime than personal use, don’t you? Especially with something like heroin. If you were collecting it with the intention of distributing, that’s a world of shit for you.”

Paul looked at him, panicked. “No, I wasn’t, I went there because I was told to, because I…”

Eddie had a sudden image of a rat running around a maze, bumping off the walls. Poor bastard didn’t know which way to turn. He decided on a change of tack, add to Paul’s confusion.

“Okay, okay,” he said soothingly. “We’ll get back to that. Paul, can you tell me why Stevie would attack you like that?”

Paul’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat as he swallowed, the memory flashing through him. “I… I dunno,” he said, more to himself than Eddie. “He said Frankie told him to… to… but I don’t understand why.” He turned to Eddie, eye pleading from behind a cloud of pain and fear.

Frankie? Eddie thought. Bingo.

“Paul, who’s Frankie?”

Paul went as white as his bandage. “No-one,” he snapped. “No-one at all. Just a friend, okay? Got nothing to do with this.”

Eddie shook his head. “Paul, you’re not helping yourself with this. I know you’re in a bad place right now, and I can only imagine what you’re going through, but lying to the police is a serious offence. And the last thing you want to do is rack up any more problems.”

Paul shook his head in the bed, the mock bravado settling on his face like modelling clay. He clenched his jaw and gave Eddie what he guessed was a defiant stare. To Eddie, he looked vaguely constipated.

“I’m no’ saying anything,” he said. “So piss off.”

Eddie sighed, shook his head. Fuck it, he had other things to do today. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll get Stevie’s side of the story. I get the feeling he’ll be interested to hear that you brought Frankie up in our chat. See you.”

He headed for the door, nodded to the PC who was sitting outside the room. There was another outside Stevie’s room.

“Stupid little shit,” Eddie said.

“Aye,” the PC replied wearily, as if he’d seen this kind of thing a million times before. Given his age, maybe he had. “You gonna check in on the other one?”

Eddie shook his head. “Maybe later. Listen, they have anything interesting on them when they were brought in?”

The PC shrugged. “If there was, it’ll be in the office on the second floor, unless it’s already been sent back to Fettes.”

Eddie nodded. Helpful.

He made his way down to the second floor, to a small office that had been set aside for police use. Given how often they were at the hospital, bringing in injuries or calming the A&E down at weekends, it made sense to have a satellite office they could work from if needed.

He buzzed in, asked another uniform for the details of the personal effects from Stevie and Paul. She smiled at him, rummaged through a drawer and brought out two lists detailing what was found on McInnis, S, and Welsh, P.

It didn’t surprise Eddie that Paul travelled light. All that was on his list was a smattering of change, a cheap mobile phone, a lighter and a condom. There was also a wallet listed, no cash or cards present, holding a picture of a woman, thought to be in her late-twenties, red hair, blue eyes.

Stevie’s list was more or less the same. A wallet that contained three bank cards, £23.72 in cash, a small pocketknife, a pack of cigarette skins. And a business card.

Eddie read the details of the card on the itinerary. Stopped, read them again. Felt his mouth go dry and his eyes widen. What the fuck?

He looked at the PC. “Have you still got this here?” he asked, pointing to the itinerary. “Item 1863241-a?”

She looked, went back into the filing cabinet. “You’re in luck,” she said. “They’ve not been sent back to HQ yet. This what you’re looking for?”

She held out a small, clear plastic bag. Eddie took it carefully, as though it was precious china. Held it close, smeared the plastic tight against its surface so the strip lights overhead didn’t distort what he was reading.

It was a standard business card. Just a name, a contact number, office address, email address and a logo in the right-hand corner.

Eddie knew the address. He’d been there an hour ago.

The logo was for Edinburgh City Council. The details were for Diane Pearson, Case Worker, Department of Social Care and Community Support.