33

‘I thought you might like this.’

Campbell handed her an A4 manila envelope.

They were in a grotty pub in Clerk Street, not far from the university. Campbell was drinking an orange juice.

‘Your eye is healing up nicely,’ he said.

‘Thanks, you look nice too,’ she replied. She ran her eyes approvingly over him. Campbell always looked smart. Today was no exception. He was wearing a light grey suit and highly polished black shoes. He was tall and lean. She had seen him swimming once; she knew he was in good shape, muscular and toned, a gymnast’s build.

‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.

‘Your body,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

Campbell coughed and spluttered as some orange juice went down the wrong way. He was very pale-skinned, and Hanlon watched with interest as the blush rose up his face like mercury in a thermometer.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked with concern.

‘I’m fine.’

‘What’s in here?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘It’s information about Millar and his associates,’ he said, calming down, now that he was on safer ground. ‘A prominent Edinburgh drug dealer was beaten up and tortured the other day – we think it’s Millar’s work. Prior to that, Millar’s man in Edinburgh, Jordan McKenna, was found dead. Last Tuesday in fact, shot three times. He’d been dead a while. And a couple of nights ago the body of a man called Chris Harvey, also known as Falkirk Chris, Millar’s man on the east coast, was found shot in an Edinburgh park. The same gun was used that had killed McKenna.’

She remembered a snatch of her conversation with Luke. They’re very moving, Luke, but who was her dealer?

A guy called Jordan.

Millar’s man, known to Aurora. Had she had a part in Jordan’s downfall? Was this why Millar wanted her so much? She looked at Murdo and debated sharing what she knew, then decided against it. Hanlon instinctively hoarded information and only shared it reluctantly. She was a very poor team player.

Campbell watched her reactions closely. Thanks to Calla, he knew a certain amount of what had been going on, but it was information he had no intention of divulging, at least not for the moment.

‘So, a turf war is going on,’ Hanlon said.

‘That’s what it would look like,’ he said, cagily.

‘Just what you feared?’

He nodded. ‘Yep.’

She touched her eye. ‘I think Millar did this, or rather his men did.’

For a moment Campbell was speechless. It was the worst possible thing he could have heard. He knew the kind of man that Millar was.

‘Then you’re bloody lucky to still have an eye, lucky to be alive.’ Campbell felt himself getting angry. He cared about Hanlon and felt she was way out of her depth dealing with Millar. ‘Do you know why they hurt you?’ he asked.

She felt reluctant to share her ideas about the student drug scene and Millar having a man at the university. She thought it was the kind of tip-off that would probably lead to heavy-handed detective work and scare Griffiths (or whoever) into going underground and she’d never get any evidence. That would mean the whole Millar thing would drag on for ever. She was a hunted woman as long as Millar was free to operate and the police had failed for years to bring him to justice. She had more confidence in herself than she did in them.

‘They told me to go home.’

‘Well, quite frankly, you should,’ said Campbell, frowning.

Hanlon felt herself bristle. This was another reason why she hadn’t gone to the police: she knew they would tell her to back off, go home, leave it to the professionals. Sod that. She thought of Ray’s fists laying into her. Well, she’d kind of evened the score, but she wanted more, she wanted to hurt Millar.

Campbell said, ‘You’re not in the police any more. You’re very much on your own.’

She shook her head. ‘When I find Aurora, then I’ll go home, not before.’

She had been wondering whether to tell him of the incident at Luke’s. Campbell’s attitude decided her against this. God knew what his reaction would be if he knew she’d been threatened at gunpoint.

Campbell could see the set of her jaw, that look in her eyes. He knew enough of Hanlon not to argue; he decided not to pick a pointless fight. He changed tack.

‘And Millar’s looking for Aurora, why?’ he asked. He wondered if this might have some bearing on his own investigation, but he was focussed on the McDonald angle and unwilling to be distracted from this potentially fruitful avenue of attacking Millar.

‘That’s the million-dollar question. But I think someone at the university is involved. I want to know who, and I should know soon.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s all I’m going to get from you for now,’ Campbell said. There was a silence as they met each other’s gaze. Both knew that the other was holding something back; it was like a game of poker, but neither was going to fold.

‘More or less. What are your plans for the day?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got this meeting at St Leonard’s to discuss Millar, then we’ll have dinner somewhere, then back to Glasgow some time tonight.’ She nodded. A moment’s silence, then he asked, ‘Where are you staying, by the way?’

‘Morningside,’ she said. ‘I’m sleeping over at a friend’s.’

‘Can I have the address?’ he asked.

Hanlon frowned. ‘Why do you want that?’

‘Because,’ said Campbell simply, ‘I worry about you.’

Hanlon had some time to kill before she met Mhairi. She walked back in the direction of the castle and down the hill called the Mound, which, with its steep but pleasingly uniform shape, was well named. She went into the Scottish National Gallery which was at the foot of the mound, a brownish oblong building with pillars, and killed an hour looking at the paintings. It would give her something to talk about with Luke.

She wandered around the gallery, which was quiet. She looked at several pictures of some fat Greek goddesses by Poussin; in her opinion they should have joined the Olympian equivalent of Weight Watchers. She looked at some very big pictures of long-dead aristocrats and military figures fighting forgotten battles for an empire that no longer existed. Then she got bored and went to the café and opened the manila envelope that Campbell had given her.

It was quite a contrast to the gods and goddesses and figures from Scottish society and literature she’d been looking at in the quiet, slightly musty-smelling corridors and rooms of the gallery.

Here was the face of real violence in the form of Ray Downie, aged fifty-five, and Dougal MacCrossan, aged twenty-eight. The faces remembered from Luke’s. She was surprised at Ray’s age – he looked a good ten years younger. Ray with his silver hair and body-builder physique, he looked almost amiable. Dougie, straw-blond, slightly crazy blue eyes. They didn’t look like killers, but then not all killers did.

And now here was the face of true evil. She looked at the photo of Millar. A brutal, slab-like face, hard eyes, scowling into the camera. There was no humanity in those eyes, no mercy. It was a compelling face and she felt that she had seen it before but couldn’t quite place it. It was infuriating, like having someone’s name on the tip of your tongue. Well, nothing to do but hope that it came to her, which it surely would in time.

Their police records, all the expected crimes. The same dreary old list she had seen time after time in her past career in the force. Multiple offences, multiple jail terms. One surprise, though: soliciting for the purposes of prostitution – that was Dougie aged seventeen. Well, that was unexpected. He’d been a rent boy, available on wherever Edinburgh’s meat rack was. He’d obviously moved into a more robust area of crime.

And here were photos of the dead. Jordan McKenna and Chris Harvey; dead as those generals on their horses in their gorgeous uniforms, but these two were not nearly as glamorous. Jordan, short, good-looking in a way, droopy moustache, tattoos, not the artistic ones she’d been seeing a lot of. She couldn’t imagine Mhairi Ferguson having Love and Hate tattooed in blue ink across her knuckles, or a swallow on her neck. And Chris Harvey, also short, not remotely attractive, bad-tempered-looking, his mouth in a kind of sneer for the camera. The sneer didn’t look forced; she guessed it was always there. The kind of face to make you shudder. She imagined you wouldn’t get very far from those two begging for mercy. The milk of human kindness had very much curdled there, a kind of ricotta of hate.

There was a short description, a briefing note about Millar’s Dumbarton and north-west Glasgow operations. It was mainly drugs, but he also owned several bars and some fast-food outlets and, it was suspected, several upmarket flats that he let out on short-term leases.

It detailed other known information about Millar’s contacts in the Edinburgh area, information on the late Jordan McKenna, his girlfriend Catriona Menzies and the (also late) Chris Harvey, aka Falkirk Chris. No girlfriend. The deaths of two men so prominent in his organisation raised the possibility that he was involved in a gang war with a rival.

Both men, as Campbell had mentioned, had been shot with the same 9 mm handgun. There was no usable forensic evidence from either death. McKenna had been shot elsewhere and his body left in his van in his yard, Harvey in the park where his body had been discovered.

No immediate suspects.

I’ve got one for you, Hanlon thought. She saw again in her mind’s eye the hulking dark-haired figure who had rescued her and Luke.

My name’s Jamie McDonald. I’m wanted by those two’s boss, a guy called Graeme Millar.

Millar wanted him dead because he’d killed two of his employees; it all made sense. She was not going to inform the police though. She’d be in the city morgue if he hadn’t showed up, that much she knew. She owed him. The Edinburgh CID could do what they wanted without her help.

She put the photos and the information sheets away.

Well, that was enough for now. It was nice to be able to put a face to the name of the man who had ordered her to be beaten up and then maybe murdered. She couldn’t imagine what else Ray and Dougie had been there to achieve, and their uncovered faces suggested that they had not been intending Luke to live either.

Seeing Millar humanised him. She could see he was gigantic; the figures in centimetres put him at about six four or five as she understood height. But she could still visualise beating him to a pulp nevertheless. She’d dealt with Ray; she was more than capable of it. The harder they came, the harder they fell.

Where had she seen that face before?

You shouldn’t have picked a fight with me, Millar. You’ll live to regret it.

At quarter to six she walked back into the Grassmarket pub. The barman was beginning to recognise her and put a Diet Coke on the counter for her. She smiled her thanks as she paid him.

At six o’clock, Mhairi arrived. She’d changed out of her work suit into a red tartan miniskirt, black tights and brightly coloured Doc Martens. She was wearing a faux-leather biker jacket and a scowl. She brightened up when she saw Hanlon.

‘Hi, how are you?’

She kissed Hanlon on both cheeks; she was wearing a heavy, sensual perfume and pressed her body close as they embraced.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Hanlon asked.

‘No, you can get me one where we’re going.’

They left the pub and she led the way down into the gloomy night-shrouded cavern of the Grassmarket. To Hanlon’s irritation, Mhairi lit a small joint, the strong smell of the weed billowing around them. A couple of passers-by turned their heads and glared at them.

She offered Hanlon the joint.

‘No, I don’t smoke.’

Mhairi shrugged. ‘More fool you.’

They walked on in silence and crossed under a bridge. The streets were deserted and a cold wind was blowing this cold February night. They walked under a road bridge and then Mhairi turned into a darkened close. Nobody was around. The buildings surrounding them, looming up into the night sky, into the darkness, were shuttered and closed. Commercial properties. The close was a cul-de-sac between two warehouse-style buildings, no lights, nothing in the alley except a couple of gigantic wheelie bins.

Hanlon’s eyes narrowed. This didn’t look like a place for a pop-up tattoo parlour; this looked like somewhere you would lure a victim. Surely Mhairi wasn’t going to try and mug her, or attack her? Well, if she did she was in for a nasty surprise. Mhairi laughed as if she’d read her mind. Behind one of the wheelie bins was a door. Mhairi pounded on it with the edge of her fist.

It opened, a shaft of cold blue light spilling out into the alleyway, the sound of loud music, more cannabis-laden air, a guy with a leather jerkin, a ragged kilt and a T-shirt showing muscular arms appeared. He had the sides of his head shaved to create a kind of Mohican, a beard and multiple piercings. He looked at them.

‘Aye?’

‘Mhairi Ferguson and guest.’

He picked up a clipboard that was resting on a ledge on the wall, started searching for the name.

‘It’s OK, she’s an old friend…’ said a voice.

‘Hiya, Giles!’ Mhairi waved.

A short, slim, elegant man, fifties, hipster trousers, leopard-skin-print brothel creepers and a silk shirt was standing behind the bouncer. His accent was an upper-class English drawl.

‘Mhairi, darling.’ They kissed and he turned to Hanlon. ‘And who are you?’

‘Hanlon,’ she said.

Giles ran his eyes over her and arched his eyebrows slightly. ‘Welcome to my club… Hanlon dear,’ he said, a trace of disapproval obvious in his voice. ‘The Black Velvet… do go through…’

Mhairi led her down a short dark corridor draped with black velvet – ‘See what we’re doing here!’ it proclaimed – to another door, which she opened.

The Black Velvet club. The noise was deafening. There was a small stage, unoccupied, but it was set up for a band. On a raised platform was a DJ behind a deck. There must have been about thirty people sitting around at mismatched tables on a variety of chairs. In one corner was an improvised bar made from small pallets and timber. There was a smell of food from an open kitchen: burgers, falafel, noodles.

Mhairi led her to the bar. The clientele were a mix of the alternative Edinburgh art scene, students, elder statesmen of the counter culture who had not aged terribly well, young hipsters, a sprinkling of drag queens on vertiginous heels, some old hippies sporting the balding head and ponytail look, a few haggard women looking daggers at much younger versions of themselves dancing or chatting animatedly amongst themselves. Some people, mainly the older generation, the baby boomers, were smoking weed or doing coke. The decoration was flags, tribal banners, Extinction Rebellion insignia, rainbow nation colours. There were disco balls and lasers.

Hard to believe it was only six-thirty.

‘This place gets heaving about ten,’ Mhairi said. She inspected the blackboard with wines and beer chalked up on it. The prices were steep. The drink Black Velvet – Guinness and champagne – was available, fifteen pounds a pint.

‘I’ll have a bottle of Sancerre,’ Mhairi said judiciously.

The barman – eyeliner, Daisy Duke shorts, no shirt, leather waistcoat, feather boa, motorcycle boots – opened a fridge and the bottle, gave her two glasses and a wine cooler with ice.

‘And a Diet Coke,’ Hanlon said.

They took their drinks to a table. Mhairi poured a glass of wine and practically downed it in one. She refilled her glass.

‘What is this place?’ she asked.

‘It’s a warehouse. Giles, the short guy you just met, got a six-month lease. He’s running it as a club, coolest place in town… Mind you, that’s not saying much – this is Edinburgh, not Berlin.’

Mhairi drank some more of her fifty-pound wine and topped her glass up; Hanlon sipped her five-pound Coke. The level in the Sancerre bottle was down a third.

‘I hate to remind you why we’re here…’ The music changed from a kind of trance Arab dance with a heavy beat to be-bop jazz. That really got the table of boomers next to her going.

Mhairi laughed. ‘OK, then, come on…’

She took her jacket off and draped it over the back of her chair to reserve her place.

‘Come on.’

Mhairi led Hanlon across the dance floor to a staircase that she hadn’t noticed in the gloom. They walked up the zigzag metal stairs, and Hanlon looked out over the scene below. More people were arriving now. A girl fire-eater was on the stage, smoke filtering up and floating hazily in the lights. The metal stairs ended in a glass-panelled door with a Hell’s-Angel-looking guy in leathers with a cut-off, a big gut and beard guarding it. There were a couple of kids sitting in front of it, waiting patiently for admittance.

‘Oi, don’t queue jump!’ said the girl.

‘It’s social, darling, not business,’ said Mhairi, leaning forward and giving her a menacing look.

She stepped past the girl and her much-inked boyfriend showing off his artwork in a sleeveless vest. ‘Evening, Spider,’ she said to the biker, who nodded and opened the door for them.

Hanlon and Mhairi walked into a very large room overlooking the space below. She guessed it would have been the offices when the place had been a warehouse, with a view over the shop floor. Now part of it was fitted out as a tattoo parlour with couch and tattoo instruments. At the other end there was a small bar and seats, sofas and armchairs with a velvet rope separating the dozen or so people smoking in the shadows from the ink action. A VIP area.

There was a girl, naked except for her pants, lying face down on the black padded bench. Standing over her with a tattoo gun in his hand was a small man with short wavy grey hair and a surgical mask. He was wearing a black T-shirt and hipster trousers. He looked up, oriental eyes.

‘Hi, Mhairi… just finishing off here.’ He had a slight American accent.

‘There,’ he told the girl, ‘all done for now.’ He wiped her shoulder, she sat up and walked over to a full-length mirror, she watched Mhairi’s frank gaze evaluating the girl presumably in terms of attractiveness and the tattoo in terms of skill. The tattooist held up a mirror behind her so she could see the work he’d done.

The image was breath-taking. It was a circular version of Hokusai’s wave, the water curving up, full of life and energy as if about to burst from her skin. So much energy and movement, and the colour, the water was an amazing cerulean blue. The small group who’d been watching in the dark shadows burst into spontaneous applause. Hanlon joined in. She wasn’t a great tattoo fan, but she recognised genius when she saw it.

‘Come back tomorrow,’ said the tattoo artist. ‘There’s a couple of things I need to finish off.

‘Now…’ he removed his mask ‘… how are you, Mhairi?’

They kissed. He was a small man, his thick salt and pepper hair atop a lively, humorous face. He had a pair of tortoiseshell glasses through which his brown, intelligent eyes evaluated Hanlon, who was standing next to Mhairi.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Joon Woo Lee, Busan Jon, but you can call me Jon.’

They shook hands. ‘So you’re a friend of Mhairi’s – are you here for some work? There’s a bit of a waiting list, I’m afraid, but for a friend of Mhairi…’

Hanlon shook her head, took out her phone and showed him the screenshotted image of Aurora’s arm.

‘My name is Hanlon and I’m looking for this girl,’ she said.

Busan Jon looked at the phone. She watched his reaction; immediately the shutters came down. His expression changed from friendly to blank. He knows her, she thought. He’s trying not to react. The blonde girl with the tattoo was putting her clothes back on; Mhairi was talking to her and examining one of her breasts that had a delicate tracery of flowers and leaves snaking over its surface.

Hanlon turned back to Jon, who handed her the phone back. He was stony-faced.

‘Sorry, excuse me.’ A dark-haired girl with heavy Goth make-up and a Korn tee-shirt emerged from the dark shadows of the VIP area and pushed past Hanlon, making for the door. Her head was down; she was staring at the floor. Hanlon looked at her as she brushed by, wondering if she was maybe feeling sick or having some sort of drug-induced bad time. As she reached the door, her back now to Hanlon, she straightened up. She was very tall. There was something about her that seemed familiar. A new song came on the sound system; it was deafeningly loud, even up here, high above the dance floor. Mhairi was deep in conversation with the blonde girl. Goth girl opened the door that led to the stairs; the music crashed through, like Hokusai’s wave, louder than ever.

Hanlon looked at Jon enquiringly. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you,’ he said.

‘But this is your work?’ insisted Hanlon.

Jon shrugged and turned his back on her. That was it, she’d been dismissed. He obviously knew the girl. She glared at him in rage, felt the old-familiar desire to smash something up when she was thwarted. She looked around the VIP platform in the half-darkness, the tattoo couch an island of brightness, the knot of people in the shadows at the end of the room that was the bar, cigarettes and joints glowing in the darkness, the music thundering up from below, strobes and coloured lights flashing from the stage and dance floor. It was a dead end.

‘Come on.’ Mhairi came up to her and put an arm over her shoulders. ‘Time to go.’

‘But…’ she struggled to find the right words ‘… but he knows…’

A couple of Jon’s entourage approached them, more Hell’s Angel biker types, Jon’s security obviously. ‘Time to go, Mhairi, you and your friend.’ The voice and demeanour quietly menacing. Nothing to be gained by starting a fight.

Hanlon marched away angrily, leaving the room and pointlessly slamming the door behind her, its sound drowned out in the heavy disco music now playing. She recognised it – Sister Sledge. She squeezed past the couple still waiting patiently outside and started clattering down the metal stairs.

The Goth girl was at the bottom; she looked up at Hanlon and their eyes met.

IT’S AURORA! flashed into her mind.

The girl disappeared into the crowd below, swallowed up by the dancers. Hanlon ran down the stairs after her. She could see the girl crossing the dance floor. Hanlon strode across it in pursuit – she wasn’t going to lose her now – forcing her way through the crowd on the dance floor. Lost in drugs and music, Sister Sledge had pulled quite a few customers to their feet.

Aurora disappeared into the darkness through a doorway at the far side. Hanlon followed. It led into a short corridor painted dark green, lit by a single low-wattage light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was the Gents toilet on the left, a Ladies on the right, a door marked Private at the end. Nobody around. Which door? Aurora wouldn’t hide in the Ladies, no style. Hanlon made for the door marked Private and opened it. The room was a bottle store, crates of beer, wine racks, several metal kegs. And there was Aurora, her back to her, lighting a cigarette.

‘Aurora!’ Hanlon said.

Simultaneously the door was kicked shut and Hanlon’s arms were pinned to her sides by immensely powerful hands. She struggled and writhed, trying to slip out of their grasp, but the grip was like iron.

‘Stop struggling or I’ll hurt you,’ said McDonald. Hanlon did as he asked. God, that man was strong.

‘Better,’ he grunted as he felt her relax. ‘I’m going to let you go. Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll knock your head off.’

He released her and she shook herself down. She turned around and glared at him. McDonald smiled his unconcern.

Aurora turned around, walked up to her and looked her in the eyes. Her gaze was hostile.

‘Who are you and why are you trying to find me?’ she demanded.

‘My name’s Hanlon. Your father hired me to track you down.’

She looked at Aurora. She had done an excellent job of camouflaging herself. Her long blonde hair was now a short jet-black spiked punk crop, her brown eyes were now green, coloured contacts staring angrily out at Hanlon from under heavy liner and mascara.

‘He’s worried about you.’

‘Is he really?’ Her voice was sarcastic. ‘My father’s a total bastard.’

‘I know.’

Aurora stared at her in surprise.

‘I’m not going to try to defend him,’ Hanlon said. ‘He’s not a nice guy. But he is concerned about you, nevertheless. I said that if I found you, I’d tell you he was worried and maybe take a picture of you to show him I wasn’t lying, but there the matter would finish.’

Aurora said, ‘Give me your phone.’

She did so and Aurora moved next to her, lifted the phone up, the flash dazzled Hanlon momentarily and Aurora handed her the phone back.

‘There, you’ve got your selfie, satisfied?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Now fuck off.’

Hanlon shook her head. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Oh, yes, it is.’ Aurora pointed behind her. ‘That’s a door – use it or Jamie’ll put you through it.’ She smiled menacingly. ‘Head first. The choice is yours.’

Hanlon folded her arms; she wasn’t going anywhere just yet. The music from outside and the smell of weed filtered through the fire door.

‘Someone tried to kill me, and I want to know why,’ she said. ‘Was it because I was looking for you? Or was it because I’m close to finding out something else? And—’ she looked accusingly at Aurora ‘—don’t you want to find out who killed Morag? Or have you forgotten about her?’

Aurora flushed angrily. ‘Get out!’

There was a noise from behind Hanlon. She turned – McDonald had drawn a bolt on the inside of the door, locking them in. Aurora glared at him furiously.

‘Jamie, what are you playing at?’ she said irritably.

Hanlon balled her fists and raised them, head height.

‘Relax, Hanlon,’ McDonald said. He folded his formidable arms and leaned against the locked door. ‘She’s got a point, Aurora. I think you owe her,’ he said mildly. ‘Millar’s men were going to shoot her.’

‘Yes, they were,’ Hanlon said, ‘and your ex, come to that.’

‘OK, OK.’ Aurora accepted defeat and sat down on a crate of Budweiser Budvar. ‘I guess I do owe you an explanation.’ She stared at the floor. ‘You start, then, Jamie.’

McDonald spoke. ‘About three weeks ago I got a call from a guy called Jordan McKenna. He worked for Graeme Millar. And you know who he is, don’t you?’ he asked Hanlon.

‘Yeah, I do.’ Only too well, she thought. And when I get my hands on him, he’ll wish he’d never heard of me, that’s a promise, she thought grimly to herself.

McDonald nodded and continued. ‘Anyway, Jordan offered me fifteen K for a contract hit, no questions asked, killing plus body disposal. I needed the money. I said sure.’

Hanlon looked at McDonald. About forty, good-looking, those huge arm-muscles and pecs to match, straining his jumper, his glossy dark hair. He could have been a personal trainer rather than a hardened criminal. The way he had accepted the offer, just another job. He’d done it in the past, he’d do it in the future. McDonald was not as nice as he looked.

‘I assumed it was a job for Millar, taking out some Edinburgh hard man, probably a dealer, it didn’t matter. Then, as we waited in the van, Jordan told me it was a lassie.’

‘Does it make a difference?’ Hanlon asked.

‘Oh, aye.’ McDonald nodded. ‘I’d have been upset. I’d have charged more. But anyway, I’d said yes. I don’t back out of things. So, we’re all set to go, Jordan’s got the van running, I get out, the target approaches, then I see it’s Aurora.’

Aurora took up the story. ‘I’d known Jamie for six months from NA. We were helping each other stay clean…’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘you were helping me… I’d have died without you, dead or in the loony bin, you’ve got a year.’

‘You stay clean by helping others…’ she said.

‘Can we stick to the point, please?’ asked Hanlon. ‘Interesting and moving as your recovery is.’

McDonald laughed. ‘Sure, well, so now I wasn’t going to kill her, but Millar’s a fucking headcase. There was a wee bit of a stooshie in the van.’

‘Stooshie?’ asked Hanlon, confused.

‘Argument, row,’ Aurora clarified.

McDonald resumed his story. ‘And, well, long story short, I killed that cunt Jordan.’

‘Can you please not use the c word?’ said Hanlon, irritably. ‘It’s really annoying, and, quite frankly, offensive.’

‘OK, sorry,’ McDonald said apologetically. ‘Anyway, I drove him back to his yard, put him in his other vehicle, drove out to Craigmillar, torched the van. Then Millar sent Ray and his pal after me.’

‘Oh,’ said Hanlon.

‘Millar knew where I was living – he’d killed my brother-in-law and threatened to throw my niece out the window to find out. Calla, my sister, gave me up. I cannae blame her – she really had no choice.’

Aurora took up the story. ‘That night Jamie told me someone wanted me dead, there was a price on my head. I had to act fast. I went home, packed. I had to go somewhere so I got in touch with Busan Jon. I’d helped organise this gig for him, the whole nine yards. I’ve admired his work for years. He’s been putting me up in the flat I’d rented for him. Cut and dyed my hair. Worked perfectly.’

‘And why not tell Morag?’ Hanlon asked.

‘Morag?’ You could have cut the amount of contempt that Aurora invested in those two syllables with a knife. She pulled a face. ‘I couldn’t trust her. If she could get something out of it, she’d have either put me in that fucking book of hers or shopped me. I wondered for ages if it wasn’t her who was keeping an eye on me for Dad – someone close to me was. Sometimes I’d suspect Luke. I can’t trust anyone.’ She smiled. ‘Except Jamie.’

‘And what happened at Luke’s?’ Hanlon asked McDonald. ‘When you rescued me?’

‘She—’ McDonald nodded at Aurora ‘—wanted us to go and visit Luke, make sure he was OK. We were in the café opposite, we saw you arrive, then when I saw those other two get there, I used her key – she still had it – to get in.’

‘I thought your story about following them and breaking in was bullshit,’ Hanlon said, pleased to be right.

‘Anyway, the rest you know,’ McDonald said.

‘So,’ Hanlon said to Aurora, ‘Millar wants me dead because he thinks I’m close to finding his contact at the university and too close to finding you, probably. But why does he want you dead?’ That had more or less been Campbell’s question, a good one.

‘He doesn’t,’ Aurora said simply.

‘What?’ Hanlon said. McDonald looked at her in surprise.

‘He’s my uncle,’ said Aurora.