‘Goes to take a look at the parliament site, becomes victim of a mugging gone wrong.’ Linford puffed out his cheeks. ‘Lots of possible motives.’
‘And they all have to be looked at.’
‘Yes.’ Linford didn’t look too happy at the prospect. ‘Some hard work ahead. No easy answers.’
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself the whole thing was worth the candle. ‘John’s reliable, is he? Just between you and me.’
She thought it over, nodded slowly. ‘Once he gets his teeth in, he doesn’t let go.’
‘That’s what I’d heard. Doesn’t know when to let go.’ He made it sound like something less than praise. ‘The ACC wants me running the show. How do you think John will take it?’
‘I don’t know.’
He attempted a laugh. ‘It’s all right, I won’t tell him we’ve spoken.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, though partly it was. ‘I genuinely don’t know.’
Linford looked disappointed in her. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said.
But Siobhan knew that it did.
Nic Hughes was driving his friend Jerry through the city streets. Jerry kept asking him where they were headed.
‘Christ almighty, Jerry, you’re like a broken record.’
‘I just like to know.’
‘What if I say we’re not going anywhere?’
‘That’s what you said before.’
‘And have we reached a destination?’ Jerry didn’t seem to understand. ‘No, we have not.’ Nic told him. ‘Because we’re driving aimlessly, and sometimes that can be fun.’
‘Eh?’
‘Just shut up, will you?’
Jerry Lister stared from his passenger window. They’d been south as far as the bypass, taken it to the Gyle and headed back towards Queensferry Road. But then instead of heading back into the centre, Nic had forked off towards Muirhouse and Pilton. They saw some guy urinating against a lamp-post and Jerry said to watch; pressed the button so his window slid down, and as they passed he let out a blood-curdling scream, laughing afterwards, checking the result in the rearview. You could hear the guy swearing.
‘They’re dogs out here, Jerry,’ Nic had warned him, as if Jerry needed telling.
Jerry liked Nic’s car. It was a shiny black Sierra Cosworth. When they passed a group of lads, Nic sounded the horn, waved as if he knew them. They stared, watching the car, watching its driver watching them.
‘Car like this, Jer, those kids would kill for it. I’m not joking, they’d do their granny in just for the chance of a test drive.’
‘Better not run out of petrol then.’
Nic looked at him. ‘We could take them, pal.’ All bravado with some speed in his system and wearing his blue suede jacket. ‘You don’t think so?’ Slowing the car, his foot all the way off the accelerator. ‘We could go back there and...’
‘Just keep driving, eh?’
A few moments of silence after that, Nic caressing the steering wheel round all the roundabouts they came to.
‘Are we going to Granton?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘What’s there?’ Jerry asked.
‘I don’t know. You’re the one who brought it up.’ A sly glance at his friend. ‘Ladies of the night, Jer, is that it? You want to try another?’ Tongue lolling from his mouth. ‘They won’t get in the car with two of us, you know. Too sussed for that, the night ladies. Maybe you could hide in the boot. I’d pick one up, take her to the car park... There’d be two of us, Jer.’
Jerry Lister licked his lips. ‘I thought we’d decided?’
‘Decided what?’
Jerry sounding worried. ‘You know.’
‘Memory’s shot, pal.’ Nic Hughes tapped his head. ‘It’s the drink. I drink to forget, and it seems to work.’ His face hardened, left hand twisting the gear stick. ‘Only I forget all the wrong things.’
Jerry turned to him. ‘Let her go, Nic.’
‘Easy for you to say.’ He bared his teeth as he spoke. There were flecks of white at the corners of his mouth. ‘Know what she told me, pal? Know what she said?’
Jerry didn’t want to hear. James Bond’s car had an ejector seat; all the Cosworth boasted was a sunroof. Jerry looked around anyway, as if seeking the ejector button.
‘She said this was a crap car. Said everyone laughed at it.’
‘They don’t.’
‘These kids out here, they’d tear this car up for an hour and then get bored. That’s all it would mean to them, which is a hundred per cent more than it meant to Cat.’
Some men got sad, emotional; they cried. Jerry had cried himself once or twice — a few cans of beer in him and watching Animal Hospital; and at Christmas when Bambi or The Wizard of Oz was on. But he’d never seen Nic cry. Instead, Nic turned it all into anger. Even when he was smiling, like now, Jerry knew he was angry, close to blowing. Not everyone knew, but Jerry did.
‘Come on, Nic,’ he said. ‘Let’s head into town, do Lothian Road or the Bridges.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Nic said at last. He was stopped at lights. A motorbike drew up alongside, revving. Not a big engine, but those things had no weight either. Kid on it, maybe seventeen. His eyes on them, face masked by the crash helmet. Nic’s foot went hard on clutch and accelerator, but when the lights changed the bike left them squashed like a hedgehog.
‘See that?’ Nic asked quietly. ‘That’s Cat waving me and my crap car bye-bye.’
Back in town they stopped for a breather, burger and chips, ate from the box, standing roadside, leaning against the car. Jerry’s jacket was cheap nylon. He had it zipped but was still shivering. Nic had his jacket open, didn’t look to be feeling the cold at all. There were kids in the restaurant, girls in their teens sat at a window table. Nic smiled at them, tried to catch their eyes. They sipped milk shakes, ignored him.
‘They think they’re in control, Jer,’ Nic said. ‘That’s what’s so funny about the whole thing. Here we are, standing out here in the cold, but it’s us that have the power. Their world’s forgotten that, but it would take us ten seconds to haul them into our world.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘No, you’ve got to say it. That way, it becomes true.’ Nic dropped his burger box on to the pavement. Jerry hadn’t finished his, but Nic was getting back into the car, and he knew Jerry didn’t like smells in the Cosworth. There was a bin near by. He dropped his meal into it. One minute it’s food, the next it’s rubbish. The car was already moving as he pulled himself inside.
‘We’re not going to do one tonight, are we?’ The food seemed to have calmed Nic.
‘Don’t think so, no.’
Jerry relaxed as they cruised Princes Street — wasn’t the same since the council had made it one-way for cars. Headed up Lothian Road. Then down into the Grassmarket and up Victoria Street. Big buildings at the top. Jerry had no idea what any of them were. George IV Bridge: he recognised the old Sheriff Court, which was now the High Court, Deacon Brodie’s pub opposite. They took a right at the lights, tyres rippling over the setts as they cruised the High Street. Bitter outside, not many people walking. But Nic was pressing a button, lowering the passenger-side window. Jerry saw her: three-quarter-length coat; black stockings; short dark hair. Good height, trim figure. Nic slowed the car beside her.
‘Cold night to be out,’ he called. She ignored him. ‘You can catch a taxi outside the Holiday Inn if you’re lucky. It’s just down there.’
‘I know where it is,’ she snapped.
‘You English? On holiday?’
‘I live here.’