The next morning, while the cleaners and chambermaids were still doing their best to remove the debris of the night before, McBride checked out of the Apex. He drove the short distance along the shore to the airport, dropped off his hired car and bought a seat on the London flight that departed twenty minutes later. He was one of only three passengers on the plane. The other two were obviously together but had apparently fallen out. They did not speak to each other or to McBride, which suited him – he had things to occupy his mind.
He had to decide, for instance, how he would explain to the news desks of at least three national papers why he would not be accepting any assignments for the foreseeable future and that he would be moving out of London to live in Dundee again. Whatever explanation he gave, he knew it would not be the truth, which was that he had become convinced an innocent man was languishing in prison for a murder he did not commit, though he had absolutely no evidence for that belief.
And nor could he tell them that he had examined the details of the case many months earlier when he was doing the research for a book and yet had found none of the circumstances exceptional. It would be safer, if he wanted to be offered well-paid employment in the future, to find a more acceptable excuse.
He would tell them he was taking a short sabbatical. Some would see that as a euphemism for laziness, of course, but at least it sounded semi-professional. Besides, if the best possible scenario – reporter springs convicted killer – came to pass, he would have one helluva story to sell them. McBride smiled wryly at the thought.
When he arrived back at the Maida Vale flat, which he had never considered home, he exhaled with relief. Nothing seemed to have been smashed and a quick inspection of his wardrobe revealed that no sleeves had been cut off his jackets. More importantly, the Trek still hung gleaming and unmarked on its hook in the small room that doubled as an office and bike shed. Sarah had evidently moved on to pastures new, taking her promise of destructive reprisals with her.
He was still checking for damage in the more obscure parts of the apartment when his mobile sounded ‘Strangers in the Night’, the song he shared with Caroline.
McBride did not recognise the caller’s number but the voice on the line was instantly familiar. Adam Gilzean was apologetic. ‘Mr McBride? Sorry to trouble you on Boxing Day, while you’re probably still recovering from a riotous Christmas, but it’s about the visit to Bryan. I went to see him yesterday and he can’t believe you might be prepared to speak to him. Actually, he’s ecstatic at the thought and said I couldn’t have taken him a better Christmas present. Will you go?’
It was a plea, not a question. McBride could sense Adam Gilzean’s anxiety as he silently awaited a response. He replied with matching gentleness. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Gilzean. I meant what I said. Can you give me a few days to sort things out? I’m back in London – I’ve got some stuff I need to do – after that, I’ll be heading back up as quickly as I can. We can get everything organised then.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, thank you.’ Gilzean rang quickly off, as though any delay might bring a change of mind from McBride.
It did not take McBride more than forty-eight hours to temporarily close down his life in Maida Vale. In fact, it surprised him just how loose the connections were. Everything he required to transfer his existence to another country fitted easily into the back of his estate car. Reporters do not travel with bulky paraphernalia. What cannot be fitted into jacket and trouser pockets goes into the bag with the laptop. He loaded the car with more than he thought he needed and it was still half empty – even with the Trek carefully protected by a heavy-duty winter duvet.
McBride did not relish the 400-mile journey north. Although he never acknowledged it, he was not a good driver and his short fuse burned at its brightest when he was behind the wheel. His impatience had led to more roadside confrontations that he would admit to. The only reason he possessed a vehicle the size of a Ford Mondeo Estate was to transport his cycle without having to first dismantle it – a simple task which he found difficult.
The trip to Scotland was relatively uneventful, thanks mainly to the absence of heavy lorries, most of whose drivers were still on holiday. McBride had sworn at no more than twenty other road-users all the way north and congratulated himself on his unaccustomed restraint. His most practised motion had been to repeatedly switch off the radio at the sound of seasonal music.
He returned to the Apex on his first night back in Dundee. The following day, he took up the tenancy of a furnished flat. The choice of its location had been straightforward. It was on the Esplanade at Broughty Ferry, three minutes’ walk from The Fort and overlooking the River Tay, the banks of which presented the finest running routes in the entire city. Even without a story to chase, he knew he would be content.