The splash-back from the toilet bowl peppered cold water across his burning face. It only increased the roiling in his guts and he retched again, vomit made acid by the vodka he had drunk earlier to steady his nerves spattering the bowl. He felt his pulse hammer in his temples, vision pulsing in time with his heart. Drew a shaking hand across his mouth as he took ragged, hitching breaths. Fought for control, screwed his eyes shut, dark sparks dancing across his vision, and focused on his breathing.
Then, in that darkness, the memory. That call. Cold. Remote. Businesslike.
His eyes snapped open and he doubled over once more as his empty stomach spasmed. He felt an incredible pressure build in his head, as though it were about to explode. Dimly, he hoped it would. After a moment, he collapsed, chest heaving, his back against the wall of the office en-suite.
At first, he had thought he would be okay. The call had come just after eleven a.m., directly to an anonymous pre-paid mobile to which only the caller had the number. The message had been, like the voice, cold and efficient, with just a hint of something darker beneath the cultured tones.
‘It’s done. Check the news. You should be very happy.’
The call ended before he could say anything. Not that he could speak at that moment. He stared at the phone, a suddenly alien thing in his hand that radiated a numbing cold. He nodded and cleared his throat, horrified at the tickle of laughter that bubbled inside him, then stole a glance at his office door and his assistant, who sat just beyond.
He pocketed the phone, smoothed the lines of his suit and walked to the door, his face contorting into a well-rehearsed smile. It wasn’t hard. He’d been living behind a mask for the last twenty-five years. ‘I’ve got a conference call on some casework,’ he said, in the measured tone he had perfected years ago. ‘Can you hold all calls and see I’m not disturbed, please?’
‘Of course,’ Margaret said, blinking up at him from behind thick glasses. She had been beautiful when they met – young, vibrant, flawless. Now the years had etched thin lines into her waxy skin, twisted her elegant hands into gnarled twigs and slackened a jaw that had once been firm. He used to lust after her. Now he pitied her.
He retreated into his office, made sure the blinds were angled for privacy, then went to the cupboard beneath the wall-mounted TV. He took out the bottle of vodka and one of the crystal tumblers stacked neatly beside it. Poured a large measure, took bottle and glass back to his desk, loosened his tie and gazed dumbly around the room. The enormity of what had happened seemed to scream at him in the silence.
It’s done.
He felt the numbness recede, like the tide going out on a forgotten beach, as panic rose. He took another mouthful of vodka and held it in his mouth for a moment, willing it to burn away the rising terror. It didn’t.
He swallowed, spotted the TV remote on his desk and watched his hand drift to it as though it wasn’t connected to him.
It’s done. Check the news.
He didn’t want to. To see it splashed across the TV would make this nightmare real. Of course he had had no choice, been forced to act by the greed, short-sightedness and self-serving arrogance of others but still . . .
It’s done. Check the news.
He stabbed at the remote. The TV flared into life and he turned the volume down. It defaulted to the internal TV channel: a florid-faced man with bad teeth and worse hair was lecturing a sparse, uninterested audience on a topic only he was interested in. He flicked to the news channel and his breath caught when he saw the caption: ‘Breaking news: murder in Stirling.’
A striking woman with perfect make-up, her expression grave, spoke into the camera: ‘. . . was made at approximately six o’clock this morning. Police have confirmed this was a sustained and brutal attack.’
He fumbled for his glass, felt the veneer of control crack as the camera cut to the police tape strung across the entrance to Cowane’s Hospital, the white SOCO tents visible just beyond. The camera pulled back, the reporter taking full frame.
‘I understand the post-mortem examination will begin shortly, to ascertain both cause of death and the identity of the victim.’
With that, the dam broke and the terror surged. He lurched for the en-suite, the vomit exploding out of him almost before he’d had the chance to raise the toilet seat. It was as though his body was trying to expel not just the vodka but a lifetime of guilt and lies.
Now he slumped in front of the toilet in the office he had given so much for, the office that had ultimately led to the death of the man on the screen. The man who, as the reporter had just said, would shortly be identified. The man who would not be the last to die in Stirling in the days to come.