14

Eilidh stretched provocatively on the sofa, pouting as if she was posing for a selfie. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘The whole country’s on furlough but you’re still knocking your pan in, working all the hours God sends. No, not God. KP Nuts.’

Jason looked up from his laptop screen, wounded. ‘I’m a key worker, babe. I can work from home, mostly. But if I have to go out in the course of an investigation, I’m allowed.’

Eilidh sighed. ‘I get that. But how come it’s always got to be done this minute? You’re looking at something that happened ages ago, it’s not like anybody’s going to do one in the next couple of days.’

‘Phil always used to say that if it was your kid or your partner, every day without answers hurts as bad as the first one. If we give them some answers, they can start to heal.’

Eilidh snorted. ‘Saint Phil. The way you talk about him, it’s like the guy could walk on water.’

Jason was a placid man, inured to a lifetime of jibes from his older and smarter brother Ronan. But this was a barb that pierced his shell of politeness. ‘Don’t diss Phil,’ he said. There was an unusual edge to his voice. ‘If I’m any good at being a polis, it’s because of what I learned from Phil.’

Eilidh pushed herself upright. ‘Typical bloke. You don’t give the boss much credit.’

He gave her a bleak look. ‘That’s because I’m still learning from her. But Phil’s not here. So credit where it’s due, Eilidh.’ He turned his attention back to the screen of his laptop.

She sighed and turned on the TV. ‘Well, I’m not waiting on you any longer. I’m going to start watching the third series of Stranger Things.’

Jason looked up in dismay. ‘But we’ve been watching that together,’ he protested.

‘I know, but I’m fed up of waiting.’

He felt hard done by, but he knew from past experience that there was no point in arguing with Eilidh when she was in this kind of mood. His mum said she took advantage of his good nature. Mostly he didn’t mind, but when it came to the world of the Upside Down, it was a different story. Jason scowled. ‘Well, put the headphones on at least.’

She reached for the padded over-ear phones and Jason moved round the table so he couldn’t see the TV screen. He sighed and reached for a fresh piece of gum. Stooshie Press named Ruaridh Brown-Grant as their publicity manager. It listed the switchboard number and the generic corporate email RuaridhBG@stooshie.scot. Jason had a feeling neither of those would be much use today. He found Ruaridh B-G on Twitter, followed him and asked him to follow back so Jason could send him a direct message. Then he leaned back in his chair, hands locked behind his head, and waited.

Staring at the unchanging screen, he wondered what cops had done to track people down before the internet. And slowly, it dawned on him that there was olden technology that still worked. He remembered fat phone books from his childhood that listed people by name, address and number. He googled ‘phone book’ and entered Brown-Grant. He took a gamble on Edinburgh as his address, and was astonished when R. Brown-Grant appeared with an address in Gorgie, complete with phone number. Sheesh. Who knew?

Eagerly, Jason plugged his earphones into his mobile and called the number. A man’s voice answered. ‘Hello?’

He didn’t sound nearly as posh as Jason had expected. Nowadays, being double-barrelled was no guarantee of class. ‘Is that Ruaridh Brown-Grant?’ he asked.

‘Aye. Who am I speaking to?’

Jason introduced himself. ‘You’re the publicist at Stooshie, right?’

‘For what it’s worth right now, yeah. It’s not the liveliest time for publishing new titles.’

‘I need to ask you some questions about one of your authors. Well, he used to be one of your authors but now he’s dead.’

A moment. Then Brown-Grant said, ‘Five will get you ten you’re talking about Jake Stein.’

Jason tried to parse the sentence but got nowhere. Except that he recognised the name. ‘How did you know?’

‘He’s the only one of our authors who has died in the last three years. And to be honest, it doesn’t surprise me that he’d have done something to bring him to the attention of you guys. So what’s the hap? What’s he done? And can I talk to the press about it?’

This was all going a bit too fast, Jason thought. ‘No, you can’t talk to anybody about it. This is an ongoing investigation and any unauthorised publicity could interfere with a potential arrest.’

A sharp laugh. ‘You can’t arrest a dead man.’

‘I never said Jake Stein had perpetrated a crime,’ Jason said sternly. ‘Don’t try to trick me, Mr Brown-Grant.’

‘Call me Ruaridh, for Pete’s sake,’ he sighed. ‘So what do you need to know? What’s going on?’

‘Were you in charge of Mr Stein’s work diary? His appearances and interviews and things? Did they go through you?’ Jason scrabbled for a pen and his notebook.

‘Oh yes. Jake Stein might have fallen from grace, but he was still a prima donna in his head. Any requests for his presence, he punted them straight on to me. I had to sort out all the details and run them past him, to make sure he was happy. And then I had to do his bloody invoicing too.’ The rising tide of bitterness broke on the final sentence. ‘Why are you interested?’

‘I can’t tell you. Sorry. I’m not being difficult, it really is about not compromising an inquiry. Have you got a list?’

‘Have you got a warrant?’

Jason closed his eyes and breathed deeply. ‘No. But I can get one. Why are you bothered? Jake Stein’s dead, he’s not got any right to privacy now.’

Brown-Grant grunted acquiescence. ‘Right enough. I do have a record, it’s on my laptop which is in the next room. I suppose you’ll be wanting me to send it to you?’

‘I’d buy you a pint if I could.’ Jason rattled off his email address. ‘One other thing. I know he didn’t believe you could teach someone to write, but I was wondering. Since he was pretty skint, was he doing any mentoring or workshops?’

A snort. ‘You think anybody would send him a baby writer for mentoring after what he did? No, he never did one-to-one mentoring. But you’re right, he was pretty skint. He’d put together a workshop – “The secrets of story structure – how to tell a bestselling story.” And he was touting it around anywhere that would have him. Colleges, second-division universities, that kind of thing.’

‘Was he getting a lot of pickup?’

‘A bit. Creative writing’s all the rage now, and he had been a bona fide bestseller, even if he was also a bona fide scumbag. He was doing one or two a month. Maximum sixteen students.’

‘Are they on the list?’

‘They are. Complete with the contacts who booked them. Look, is this going to lead to a sudden burst of publicity for Stein’s backlist? Because if so, a wee heads-up would help so we’ve got stock lined up.’

Jason grinned. ‘Good try. But I can’t tell you.’ His email pinged and he checked. A message from Brown-Grant with two attachments. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ll give you a bell next time I get a speeding ticket.’

Jason ended the call, feeling pleased with himself. Since Daisy had joined the team, he’d felt insecure. She had a degree, she knew way more than he did about all kinds of things and he worried that she’d push him out of the way in the boss’s good books. Plus the Dog Biscuit had already tried to sideline him after he’d broken his leg. It still wasn’t right, but at least working from home meant Markie couldn’t see him limping at the end of the day. So every success he could chalk up made him feel a little less anxious.

He opened the attachments – one for readings and book events, the other for workshops – and printed them out. It would be a long tedious task to work his way through them, but Jason was good at tedium. Detail suited his temperament, which was how he’d got to know Meera at the National Library in the first place. He liked her attention to those small points that made a big picture.

Jason was about to make a start, working backwards from the most recent workshops, when his mobile rang. A glance at the screen and he groaned. His brother Ronan. What had he done now? Ronan was the stone in Jason’s shoe. A bad lad, was the consensus of his fellow officers in Kirkcaldy, where Ronan still lived round the corner from their mother. He did things with cars, some of them legal, and had some dodgy pals. Jason wished he’d sort himself out, but knew there was nothing he could do to change his big brother. That was another reason he’d liked working with Phil and Karen. They knew Ronan wasn’t Jason.

With a sigh, he answered the call. ‘Jason?’ Ronan’s voice was edgy and strange. ‘Jason, Mum’s not well. She phoned me to come round because she wasn’t feeling right. And you know she never complains about feeling like shite.’

‘So did you go round?’

‘I had a wee bit of business to sort but I went round as soon as I could. And she couldn’t come to the door. I had to go round the back and let myself in with the key she keeps under the ash can.’ They hadn’t had a coal fire for years, but Jason knew what his brother was talking about.

‘Get to the point, Ronan.’ He was beginning to feel scared.

‘She was lying on the settee in the living room. White as a sheet, Jase. And breathing like a wee puggy. She never even looked up when I went in.’ Proof to Jason that something was definitely wrong with Sandra Murray.

‘Did she speak to you?’

‘I put my hand on her forehead and she was burning up, Jase. Like she was on fire. And then she started coughing. Like she couldn’t get a breath. I went and got her a drink of water, but it didn’t help.’

Jason could feel a strange tightening in his chest. ‘Did you phone the doctor?’

‘I’m not fucking stupid,’ Ronan shouted. He took an audible breath. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just scared, Jase. The GP’s on her way. Can you come?’

Jason felt a deep wrenching pain in his stomach. He knew the rules. He knew the price he might have to pay if he was caught out. Into the silence, Ronan spoke again, angry. ‘Jeez, Jase. This is your mum we’re talking about. When you broke your leg, she dropped everything and legged it to your bedside. Not a fucking thought for herself. Why are you still standing there?’

For once, Ronan was right. ‘I’ll get my coat,’ Jason said and ended the call. He noticed his hands were shaking as he got to his feet and hurried across the room to the narrow hall. He was reaching for his puffa jacket when Eilidh grabbed his arm, headphones dangling round her neck.

‘What’s going on? Are you going out?’ she demanded.

‘It’s my mum. Ronan rang. It looks like she’s got the COVID. They’re waiting on the doctor.’

‘And? You’re not thinking of going there, are you?’ Her eyebrows rose in perfect curves of incredulity.

‘I have to. She’s my mum. When I needed her, she came like a shot. Now it’s my turn.’

Eilidh shook her head. ‘No. You can’t go there. If she’s got it and Ronan’s with her, he’s probably got it as well. You go, and you’ll get it too, then you’ll bring it home to me. And what use is that to your mum? Christ, Jason, people are dying of this thing. And you want to dive into the thick of it?’ Exasperated, she grabbed his jacket and stuck it back on the peg.

‘She’ll be scared, Eilidh. She needs to know we’re there for her.’ He reached for his jacket again.

‘Your mum loves you, Jason. She wouldn’t want you to put yourself at risk for her sake. You know that.’

Jason shook his head, mulish stubbornness in his expression. ‘I have to do this, Eilidh. How will I look myself in the eye if she dies and I ignored her?’

Eilidh made an impatient noise and neatly stepped around him, back to the front door. ‘She’s not going to die, Jason.’

‘You just said—’

‘Most people don’t die. And she’d be mortified if she passed it on to us. Plus, if you get caught driving across to Fife, you’ll be fucked. You’ll get kicked out of the polis, no question. And then where will we be? No wages coming in, no furlough because I’m classed as self-employed. We’ll lose the flat, we’ll lose our savings. No way would Sandra want that for us. She’d never forgive herself. You know that, Jason.’

He felt on the verge of tears. Eilidh made a kind of sense. But Jason loved his mum. How could he decide? He took a step forward but could go no further without manhandling Eilidh out of the way. Jason had never lifted a hand to a woman and he didn’t want to start now.

The sound of his phone cut through his indecision. Ronan. He took the call but before he could speak, Ronan was already gabbling in his ear. ‘Fuck, Jason. They’re taking her to the Vic. The doc took one look at her and called an ambulance. Dinnae bother coming, Jase, they’ll not let you near her. They willnae even let me in the ambulance, the doctor says no way.’

‘Is she worse?’

‘She’s burning up and when she’s not coughing, she’s wheezing like grandad when he had the bronchitis.’ He drew a breath in audibly and when he spoke, his voice shook. ‘I’m scared, Jason. What if she dies?’

Eilidh, who had heard this exchange, grabbed the phone from a shocked Jason. She spoke calmly. ‘It’s Eilidh, Ro. She’s not going to die. Sandra’s a fighter, you know that. And the Vic’s a great hospital. The best place for her. Just let the doctors and nurses do what they do.’

They heard Ronan choke back a sob. ‘You’re right, Eilidh. I’ll phone back after the ambulance has been.’ The line went dead.

Eilidh threw her arms round Jason and stroked his back. ‘It’ll be OK, darling,’ she said softly.

He hoped she was right. He couldn’t imagine how they would get past this moment of indecision if she wasn’t.