Hanlon stood stock-still for a heartbeat. Flight was impossible; she thought she might as well try and own the situation. She had no choice.
She walked out of the study. Griffiths was standing in the hall. He looked round, saw Hanlon and started violently.
‘Jesus Christ, what are you doing in my house?’
He was more frightened than anything. Well, that’s a good start, she thought. Let’s build on that.
‘There are things we need to discuss, Griffiths.’ Her voice was level but menacing, her eyes hard.
‘How did you get in here?’ His voice was ostentatiously angry, but she could detect a current of fear underneath. ‘You can’t just break into people’s houses…’
‘Get in the lounge.’ Hanlon’s voice was like a whip-crack; she saw him flinch. ‘I know what you’ve been up to, Dr Griffiths.’
He shook his head disbelievingly but obediently went into the living room. She pointed at a sofa.
‘Sit down.’
‘No,’ he protested, but weakly; he seemed to accept that she was in charge. ‘This is my house. I want you to get out.’
‘What you want no longer matters, Dr Griffiths,’ Hanlon said matter-of-factly.
She had her phone in her hand; she unlocked it and showed Griffiths the picture that she had taken the night before.
‘Explain that, then.’ Her voice was a mix of anger and triumph.
Griffiths did sit down now, looking at the image of himself with Ray and Dougie.
He stared up at Hanlon with perplexity.
‘What’s my private life got to do with you? We’re all consenting adults.’
Now it was Hanlon’s turn to feel puzzled. ‘What do you mean, “consenting adults”?’
‘Are you some sort of homophobe?’ He shook his head angrily. ‘What’s this all about?’
Hanlon hadn’t got the faintest idea what he was on about. She said, ‘Look, Griffiths, these two men are career criminals. They are implicated in drug dealing to your student body and, three days ago, they tried to kill me. So cut the crap, OK. This is your last chance to explain yourself, to put your side of the story, before I go to the police.’
Griffiths looked bewildered. ‘They’re criminals? That’s not what they told me… What on earth are you on about?’ It was now her turn to look unsure; he carried on. ‘I met them on a dating app for professionals…’
‘I’m sorry?’ Hanlon thought incredulously, he met them for sex? And they said they were, ‘Professionals?’
‘Yes, professionals,’ explained Griffiths. ‘Uranian, that’s the app, is for the older gentleman, no twinks, no time wasters.’ He frowned at her. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got your wires badly crossed, Hanlon? These men are not criminals.’
‘They most certainly are!’
Griffiths sighed, as if humouring her. ‘Anyway, this is exactly what happened, not that it is any of your business. After the meeting, I hooked up with Ray and Dougie, who I had never met before in my life and, for your information, are perfectly charming. I’ll spare you the details, but we spent the night together in a nice cottage in Dalkeith.’
‘I’ve got the picture,’ said Hanlon.
Had she got the wrong end of the stick? If he wasn’t Millar’s contact, then there was only one other possibility.
Wyre! She suddenly felt very alarmed now. He knew where she was going – he’d given her the bloody key. Shit. He’d have contacted Millar.
‘Is there a back way out of here?’ she asked Griffiths urgently.
‘Yes, why?’
Hanlon looked out of the window. A black BMW was parked across the street and as she watched the driver’s door opened and a man got out, joined by a second man from the passenger side.
‘Fuck!’ she said. Griffiths looked puzzled.
‘Quick, let’s go…’ Griffiths looked at her with a resigned ‘what now?’ kind of expression. ‘QUICK, you cretin, they’re coming for us!’ she shouted.
Griffiths jumped to his feet, alarmed.
‘What the hell…?’ He looked around, thoroughly bewildered.
‘Come on, out the back now!’
She practically pushed the protesting academic into his kitchen and threw the bolts open on the back door. They stumbled into the garden and as she closed it behind her she heard the doorbell ring.
‘Come on…’
There was a smashing sound of glass as someone broke the pane by the latch.
‘Hurry!’ Griffiths didn’t need to be told any more. Not now he had heard someone breaking into his house. They ran down the short garden, which ended in a tall stone wall, about two metres high. There was a substantial gate, a wooden door, painted red, set into the wall. Two strands of barbed wire ran along the top of the brickwork above it. Griffiths, thoroughly scared now, lifted a plant pot and picked up a sizeable key hidden beneath it, which he inserted into the keyhole of the garden gate. The lock was stiff and the key turned slowly. They could hear a second pane of glass break. Sweat beaded Griffiths’ brow as he frantically tried to move the key, then reluctantly it gave.
They slipped out of the door, closed it behind them and locked it. Hanlon looked around quickly. They were standing in a long grassy lane. On their side was the wall that extended the length of the street that Griffiths’ house was in. Opposite an identical wall with gates set into it for the houses in the parallel road.
‘Where does it go?’ she demanded, staring at the path.
‘Up to a crescent—’ he pointed to the right ‘—and down to the cemetery.’ He pointed to the left.
‘Well, run!’ She pointed in the direction of the graveyard.
The two of them sprinted left down the footpath at the back of the houses towards Newington Cemetery. Hanlon stayed behind him, forcing him to run. She knew they didn’t have much time. Trapped in the lane between the high walls, they would be sitting ducks. Griffiths was in poor shape, but fear kept him going. He was gasping his chest heaving, taking great lungfuls of air to try and get enough oxygen into his burning muscles. The gate wouldn’t detain their pursuers long; she wanted to be out of view before they burst into the lane.
They entered the graveyard via a rusted turnstile. She looked around; the place was mournful and desolate. Her spirits rose. It was huge, there were gravestones everywhere, and plenty of trees and bushes to screen them. There was a lot of stonework, much of it covered with ivy, there were catafalques, stone family chambers and stone angels and obelisks. Griffiths flung himself down on the grave of a sixty-nine-year-old widow, Sarah MacFarlane, who had died in 1902.
‘I can’t go on,’ he groaned.
‘Listen, Griffiths,’ hissed Hanlon, standing over him, glaring down, ‘there are two men who are armed looking for us and I can’t think of anywhere better to be murdered than a graveyard. So unless you want to join Sarah MacFarlane in the great beyond, get your fat arse into gear and let’s go.’
Whimpering and practically in tears, Griffiths got to his feet and followed Hanlon, her running with an easy muscular jog, he in a staggering, painful, bent-over shuffle as they made their way down a broad avenue flanked by trees and funerary statues.
They exited the graveyard onto the main Dalkeith Road. A black taxi with its light on came by and Hanlon flagged it down.
‘Regina Hotel, Royal Mile,’ she said. Griffiths lay back in the seat, his chest heaving. Hanlon could see the driver looking at them curiously in his mirror.
‘I’m his personal trainer,’ she said. ‘He’s getting in shape for the marathon.’