5

Sitting on the southern border of Edinburgh heading into Midlothian, the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary is a sprawling network of buildings sitting at the foot of a hill, the ruins of Edinburgh’s other castle, Craigmillar, looming over it. It was built to replace the old Royal, a Victorian building that loomed over the Meadows in Edinburgh like a gothic nightmare. It was shops and flats now, the dark, glowering wards replaced with walls of glass and penthouse apartments with price tags so high they would give most people nosebleeds. Ah, progress.

Susie drove in the entrance closest to A&E, took one look at the over-rammed car park and bumped up on the pavement of what she hoped was a side-road that led round the back of the hospital. The last thing she wanted was to block an ambulance from getting in or out, especially today. She propped a Police on call card on the dashboard then headed for the casualty department, wishing she was wearing her trainers instead of heels and a business suit.

Early afternoon and the reception area was quiet. Gone were the scenes she was used to from night and weekend shifts – the stunned faces of those forced to sober up too quickly after a night out went suddenly wrong, or those ripped from their beds by a loved one clutching at their chest and gasping for air. Instead, she found a couple of harassed parents on either side of a young boy with a towel wrapped around his arm and a bruise the size of an orange on his head.

“But Muuuum,” he whined, “it doesnae even hurt now. I dinnae need tae see the doctor.”

Susie watched as the mother, a thin woman with greasy black-grey hair and eyes filled with disappointed resignation, shot a quick glance over the boy’s head to what looked liked a man-shaped mountain of lard packed into a ragged Snoopy T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms that had obviously mastered the trick of defying gravity.

“Now listen, Zac,” the man said, his voice surprisingly soft for such a massive frame, “that was a hell of a spill you took, son, better to get it checked out. It won’t hurt, promise.” He leaned forward to reassure his son, the cheap plastic chair beneath him squealing softy.

Susie walked on, leaving the sound of the boy’s mewling pleas behind her. A quick flash of her warrant card at the reception desk and she was pointed towards the triage centre for assessing patients who had just arrived. She found Doug in a curtained bay, perched on the edge of the bed and hunched over his phone, fingers darting across the screen. He was wearing a set of pale blue hospital scrubs, which looked less wrinkled than the suits he usually wore, and it struck her that his clothes would be sitting in a police lab somewhere, packed into neat evidence bags, waiting to be studied. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. His brown hair, which Susie once described as “fashionably tousled”, stood up in crazy whorls and spikes – raked into an expression of his mood by his hands.

He glanced up, the movement almost a spasm, and Susie saw shock and exhaustion etched across his face, making his normally high cheekbones, thin lips and slightly crooked nose look brittle, one good shake away from cracking. The impression wasn’t helped by the faint glistening of sweat on his forehead, and the hectic smudges of colour on his usually pale cheeks.

He studied her for a moment, his green-brown irises framed in bloodshot eyes as they darted across her, like he was looking for something – which, Susie realised, he usually was.

Finally, his eyes locked with hers. She felt a momentary flash of discomfort, forced herself not to look away or move forward. She felt as though she was under a microscope as he stood there, breathing calmly, as though that cold, even gaze could tell her everything he couldn’t find the words for.

He nodded once, almost to himself, then dropped his head to his chest. Looked back up with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes and spoke, his voice a cheap imitation of his usual calm, soft tones.

“I didn’t do it, detective. I know I had motive, God knows the nasty bastard had it coming, but it wasn’t me. I’ve got witnesses. And a reporter’s salary doesn’t exactly stretch to a hitman.”

Susie snorted back a laugh despite herself, glad the tension was broken. She stepped forward, fought back the sudden, stupid urge to reach out to him by crossing her hands behind her back.

“Well, if you’re looking for a character witness, don’t think about asking me, I’ve tasted your cooking. Now that was murder.”

Doug flashed another smile, nothing more than a brief twitch of the muscles, then went back to concentrating on his phone.

“What you working on?” Susie asked.

“First-person piece on Greig’s, ah… you know, the shooting. Spoke to Walter earlier, says he can’t let me do the story as I’m involved, prick, but I talked him into at least running this.”

Susie sighed and took another step forward, noticing for the first time how bloodied and raw Doug’s hands were.

“Doug, you weren’t…?”

He looked up at her, then back down at where she was looking. “What, this? No. Just took a hell of a lot of scrubbing to get Greig’s blood off my hands, is all.”

She nodded, thoughts of showers and baths after crime scenes – of scrubbing and scrubbing to try and slough off the smell of death and blood – flashed through her mind. Shook off the thoughts then blurted out the question she wanted to ask since she heard the news.

“Doug. You okay?”

He stopped typing, scanned the screen in front of him as if it held the answer. Somewhere far off, she heard the beep of a heart monitor, as steady as the ticks of a clock, marking time.

“I… I don’t know, Susie,” he said. “I mean, I’ve seen this stuff before, written about it – hell, remember the Buchan story last year? But this… this is different, this is… real, you know?”

She nodded. She knew all too well. All the crime scenes she had visited, the bodies she had seen, there was one constant. Hiding behind the blood and the chaos and the other signs of violence masked by the business of a crime scene – the cacophony of lab technicians taking photographs and officers talking to witnesses, the squawk of radios and calls being made – there was always another presence. Pushing down like an invisible weight, crushing, insistent.

The finality of death – and the realisation that it was waiting for us all in the end.

“So, what you doing here? Burns send you to check they didn’t miss anything in my statement?”

Susie bit back a sarcastic response, ignored the sudden, sour tickle of anger she felt. “No, just wanted to check on you. Got the call from Burns when I came out of the court – he wanted me to hear it from him rather than over the radio.”

Doug nodded, returning his gaze to her face. “And,” he said slowly, “he wanted to tell you that you couldn’t be part of the investigating team because of…” He swept a finger back and forth in the space between them.

Susie nodded, remembering Burns’s words. Look, Drummond, there’s no way in hell you can be anywhere near this one, okay? Bad enough that you know that little shit McGregor, but I’m definitely not having that relationship exposed in court, no way I’m having it used to taint the investigation. Understood?

“Shit,” Doug whispered. “Sorry, Susie.”

She shrugged, forced herself to stay casual. It was a big case, national big, and it wouldn’t have done her slightly dented career any harm to be associated with it – or the coverage.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got more than enough on my plate trying not to let Charlie Montgomery trip me up. Besides, you’d be a shit witness.”

He grunted a laugh, glanced at his phone for a moment then put it aside. It looked as though it were a struggle. “Look, Susie, I should get out of here once the docs say I’m good to go. Do you… maybe… want to get a movie or something tonight?”

It was an unwritten ritual with them, which started just after the end of the Katherine Buchan affair. When one or both had a bad day, they would watch old movies, perhaps drink and talk. About the film, politics, football, the weather – anything but what had led them there in the first place. She had tried to distract him with other, healthier diversions, including her own passion, running, but inevitably, they had reverted to the couch and the chat. Counselling without the bullshit, Doug had labelled it.

“What about Rebecca?” Susie replied. “Shouldn’t you…?”

“I’m not asking Rebecca, am I?” Doug snapped, his voice as sharp as the lingering antiseptic smell that hung in the triage room. He sighed, raised a hand. It was shaking slightly. “Sorry. I’ve spoken to Rebecca, it’s fine. And besides, she knows the score. After all…”

Susie nodded. After all.

“Okay,” she said, suddenly restless and more aware than ever that she was wearing a business suit and heels. “Give me a call when you’re out of here, I’ll meet you then.”

“Thanks,” Doug said, a kaleidoscope of emotions playing across his face before eventually settling on weary relief. “And Susie, would you mind if we went to your place? Last thing I need is my folks turning up at the door when they hear about this.”

“You haven’t told them yet?” she asked, disbelieving.

He pulled a face at her. “Course I have. Made sure I told them I was okay as soon as I could, or there would be hell to pay. But you know what my folks are like. And, besides, why would I want to spoil the full inside story” – he waggled the phone in front of her – “for them?”

Susie shook her head as she turned away. Always the reporter. “See you tonight, Doug,” she said. “And for being such a shit of a son, the first bottle’s on you.”

If she didn’t know him better, she would have almost said it was genuine laughter she heard as she walked out the room.