Chapter 9

Driving away, I started slamming my fists against the steering wheel, roaring inside the confines of the car.

Torn between wanting to find the girl.

And wanting to find Burns guilty.

Of anything.

After the incident at the Western Necropolis where I had shot one man in self-defence, came close to killing another, it had been Susan who responded to the emergency call, who saved me from becoming a murderer.

I remember her riding with me in the back of the van. I was shivering from shock, my hand having been broken. She sat across from me, and when I think back on it I know that she wanted to reach out and offer comfort. But she was a professional. Had to let all of that go when she was on the job.

“Did it have to end like this?”

I didn’t have a response to that.

“Why’d you even get involved in the first place?”

Did she really want me to answer?

She’d reached across, then, and touched my upper arm. I looked up, caught her eye, finally.

She said, “What is it about your life that means you take other people’s business so personally? None of this needed to have involved you. You could have walked away from it all. So why didn’t you?”

I didn’t have an answer.

I guess I still don’t.

From the office, I called Connolly.

“Tell me you have something.”

“I’m backing out,” I said.

I’d been thinking about it, driving back. Susan had said that I get involved in some cases because of guilt, not because they’re a sound business decision or because the pay off is worth the risk.

She was right. If I wanted to live – and not just survive – I had to learn to distance myself from some things, to know when it was wise to step away.

I had to pay attention to my own life. Stop getting so deep in other people’s affairs.

“We need to let the police handle this one,” I said. “They’ll let you know when –”

“This could be an exclusive.”

“No,” I said, a little harsher than I meant to. “You’re not my client. This was a favour, right? So this isn’t my case. And I…I need to make a business decision. It’s what I’m doing here. I’m walking away.”

I slammed down the receiver before he had a chance to reply, walked over to the window and looked outside. Night had come fast, ink falling over the city. Orange street lights seemed to take on a strange haze, and I realised there was a gentle mist rolling in the streets.

I expected the phone to ring.

Connolly to call back with the offer of my standard fee plus expenses.

Never happened.

I decided to call it a night. Head home. Call Susan in the morning, tell her she didn’t need to worry about me stepping on anyone’s toes. I was listening to her for the first time in my life.

I was walking away.

It felt good.

At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself of as I trudged out into the stairwell, ignoring the rising tightness in my chest and stomach and the nausea in my throat.

Walking down the stairs, my leg began to stiffen.

Old injury. One the doctors seemed unable to find a reason for. What was the word one of them had used? Psychosomatic?

Aye, what did they know?

“Steed.”

I hadn’t seen her, and she waited till my back was turned and I was locking up before she called my name.

I clicked the key home, turned and said, “I was thinking about you.”

“Sounds romantic.”

I shook my head.

“I should be so lucky,” she said, with the kind of smile that I couldn’t quite read.

“I’m walking away from this one,” I said.

“The Furst case?”

“Aye.”

“You never went to see Richie Harisson.”

We walked down the stairs together. Slowly. Neither of us wanting to reach the bottom.

“Thing is…you have to look at why you take on a case. This one…there are elements that strike close to home. That threaten my…impartiality.”

“You almost sound professional.”

I grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Almost.”

At the foot of the stairs, before we hit the main door, she stopped, turned and leaned in. Kissed me briefly on the cheek, and when she pulled away I could still feel the ghost of her touch on my skin.

“You’re doing the right thing, Steed,” she said. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

She slipped out the door and was gone before I could say anything.

I couldn’t help but wonder why she’d come to see me. But maybe I’d saved her a speech.

I’d like to think so.

That night, I didn’t sleep well.

No dreams. But I kept waking up. Anxious, like there was something I’d forgotten. I’d sit bolt upright, hit the bedside lamp and check the clock.

I’d wander around the flat for a while, maybe grab a drink before diving back under the covers, trying to get comfortable. And failing. Miserably.

Sleep took me at some point, but when I woke up again, it was as though I’d had no rest at all. My only clue that any time had passed was the light streaming between the curtains; brighter than it had been when I closed my eyes.

The clock provided another clue.

Half seven.

Sodit.

I showered and shaved. Stretched in the living room, listening to the radio.

Looking out the window, I could see a thin layer of snow covering the city. By mid-morning, it would be slush or maybe even gone, but somehow it seemed to have quieted the usual noises from outside. Traffic drove slower, the early morning voices were muted. The world was holding its breath.

I ate breakfast in front of the TV and took in next to nothing on the news.

Just past eight o’clock, the phone rang.

A rough voice on other end of the line, said, “McNee, you’re going to want to come down to your wee office. Someone broke in last night. Gave the place a good going over. Real fucking mess, pal. Unless you need to employ better cleaning staff.”

Christ, one of the last voices I needed to hear.