‘My job isn’t dangerous.’
‘Perhaps not, but you present a show on live television with only the barest of scripts. Most people would find that impossible. And look at the way you’ve responded to this crisis. You could have run away, but instead you ran towards it. I’d give odds you’re the kind of person who undertakes extreme challenges for charity.’
Soon after her mother had died Stevie had abseiled down the Forth Railway Bridge in aid of Cancer Research. The thrill had hijacked her, the rush of air and sea, the moment when she had lost all of her thoughts and been no more than one of the gulls swooping above the iron girders.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I always thought those sponsored challenges were ego trips.’
Buchanan made a sound that might have been a laugh.
‘Simon preferred the kind of woman who would contradict him, strong women who weren’t afraid to rise to a dare. I daresay he had the usual moral objections to the sex industry, but it was also the wrong kind of risk-taking for him. He was drawn to people who put themselves on the line. He was especially elated the weekend of the reunion because he’d recently been introduced to a bank robber. “One more specimen for the Newgate Calendar,” was how he put it. Everyone else found his exploits hilarious. Simon was a natural storyteller. But the way his adventures were escalating worried me. I took him aside and warned him that sooner or later these people would want something from him, most probably access to drugs.’
Stevie passed an office block spray-painted with massive green letters: SO LONG AND THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH. A week ago it would have made her smile. She asked, ‘What did he say?’
‘He thanked me for my concern and told me to drink up. I was falling behind and was in danger of becoming a bore.’ The chemist paused and took a deep breath, as if marking a change of chapter, and Stevie realised that he too was a natural storyteller. Buchanan continued, ‘Around seven years ago Simon met a woman called Hope Black. I think her background excited him. Her father had been a bookie, as had his father before him, back in the days when gambling was illegal. The Black family tree was intertwined with the family trees of people most of us would cross motorways to avoid. Hope was as proud of her connections as Simon was fascinated by them. They started to see rather a lot of each other. At some point Hope introduced him to back-room poker; illicit matches, high stakes, and the potential to win the jackpot or lose your skin. Simon was fond of Hope, but he fell in love with gambling. He told me later that he felt like he’d found the thing he’d been waiting for all of his life.’
The mention of Hope’s name had chilled her. Stevie tightened her grip on the Jaguar’s steering wheel, Hope’s steering wheel.
‘Didn’t you try to stop him?’
‘I might have, if I’d known what was going on, but it was only when things reached crisis point that Simon told me the full story.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was so predictable I’m surprised you need to ask. Simon was out of his depth. He got into a bit of hot water and Hope dropped him. Perhaps she didn’t have any choice in the matter. He came to Ahumibe and me with his tail between his legs and we helped extricate him, mainly through a bloody great loan to repay the money he’d borrowed from some rather demanding creditors. We hushed it up, Simon went for treatment with a colleague in Harley Street, who is almost as well known for his discretion as for his ability with addicts. All seemed well, for a while anyway. I thought I’d noticed a certain reckless edge to him over the last few months and wondered if he might be about to suffer a relapse. But when I confronted Simon, he assured me that everything was okay. He was in love, he said, and being in love made him silly. I told him not to be too silly and we left it at that. Now I wish I’d pursued it. If you’re looking for someone with a grudge against Simon you’re more likely to find them amongst his gambling associates than at the hospital, though as you’ll already have worked out, my advice is to let sleeping dogs lie.’
It fitted with what the lonely bookie in Better Bets had told her. Stevie thought of the thirty thousand pounds Simon had borrowed from Hope Black. It was as if Buchanan read her mind. He said, ‘Have you spoken to Hope yet?’
‘Hope Black is dead.’
‘Ah, that’s a shame. She was an attractive woman.’
His reduction of the woman to her looks irritated Stevie, but she asked, ‘You met her?’
‘Oh yes, we all met Hope.’
The doctor’s voice was cool, as if no one was dead, no brains leaked into the carpet, no body cold between soiled sheets.
‘Hope didn’t die of the sweats. Someone bashed her brains in.’ Stevie made her words deliberately crude, wanting Buchanan to picture the blood, the ruined skull. ‘I think they thought she was me.’
There was a roundabout up ahead. Stevie ignored the give-way lines, remembering the way Hope Black’s hand had seemed to beckon her. There was a blur of movement and her stomach swooped. A Honda Civic was travelling from the right and it was almost upon her. The other car had priority but Stevie put a hand on the horn and pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, metal touching metal. She saw an open mouth, a blur of fear and wide eyes, heard the blare of the other vehicle’s horn and the screech of rubber against tarmac, and then she was away, the Honda a reflection skewed across the road in her rear-view mirror.
If Buchanan heard the commotion of skids and warning blasts he ignored it.
‘Hope didn’t look anything like you. She was at least ten years older. She was taller and darker as well.’
He sounded faintly amused. Stevie could imagine his smile, the pale lips stretched in the white face.
‘She resembled me enough for someone who didn’t know either of us to get confused.’
‘Hope lived life on the edge. That’s what drew Simon to her. It’s very probably what drew her death too.’
‘It’s more complicated than that. Someone’s been chasing me ever since I tried to deliver Simon’s package to Mr Reah.’
‘You mean the laptop?’ She heard a faint smile in Buchanan’s voice, as if he had caught her out in some gaucherie. ‘Get rid of it then. Hand it in to the authorities, or bring it here and allow me to dispose of it for you.’
‘I don’t have it any more.’
‘In which case, you’re off the hook. What did you do? Hand it in to the police?’ Stevie let the silence hang between them, and after a pause Buchanan asked, ‘Did you manage to read what was in it?’
‘No.’ It was only a half lie. ‘I couldn’t get past the password.’
The chemist’s voice became serious. ‘It’s possible the laptop might contain confidential information about our process . . .’ The sentence trailed away. Stevie could almost hear the faint murmur of the chemist’s thoughts, potential scenarios turning over in his head. ‘. . . but that wouldn’t have prompted anyone to want to get their hands on it so desperately that they would threaten you. Simon must have encoded other information there. If he had got involved with Hope again, then it could well have been something injurious to his health.’
Stevie drew Hope’s Jaguar to the side of the road. She could imagine Simon as a reckless, put-the-whole-stake-on-red gambler. She realised that she believed Buchanan, and that if Simon was with her now, she would tell him that whatever there had been between them was over. Tears filled her eyes; she wiped them away with her sleeve.