‘Think I’ll call it a night, if that’s OK?’
‘Of course, you’ve done more than enough. Good work today. You have a wee jar with your mates and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow for the police press conference. Should be good, they’ll have the forensic report by then.’
‘Really?’ Billy felt light-headed. ‘You got the inside track from the detective inspector?’
Rose gave him a coy look. ‘No, forensics are working on it through the night, it’s a high-profile case. We’ll just have to wait and see what they come up with.’
Billy rubbed at the bump on his head. It seemed harder than before, as if his brains were calcifying.
Rose looked concerned. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘Have you had that checked out?’
‘My brother says it’s just a bump.’
Rose nodded. ‘How did you do it, anyway?’
Billy shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’
*
He pushed open the door of the Holyrood and went in. Smell of expensive foreign lagers and home-made burgers. He looked around. The last text from Charlie said he was here. The three of them used to live in this place as students, when it was run-down and full of bikers and crusties. It had closed for a bit and been refurbished, but they hadn’t ripped the heart out of the place. It was halfway between classy bar and scruffy dive.
He spotted Charlie at a table with Zoe. Charlie had a trumpet-horn weissbier glass in his hand, Zoe fingering an enormous glass of red wine. They were alternately staring at each other then looking down, talking quietly, their faces lit by a candle on the table, their hands almost touching. They looked like a couple out on a romantic date. Billy stood and stared at them, some old-school indie washing quietly around the place.
He went to the bar and got two weissbiers and a red wine. He popped two Anadrex and a couple of Oramorphs out of their packets and swallowed them with the wheat beer. The barman stared at him. Billy stared back.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ the barman said, and went to serve another punter.
Billy took the drinks over to the table.
‘Here you go.’
Charlie and Zoe looked up.
‘Christ,’ Zoe said, reaching for him. ‘Sit down, we’ve been worried sick.’
‘Yeah, I can see that.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Billy stared at her. Gorgeous green eyes. He’d missed looking into those eyes. He thought of Adele’s eyes, tried to picture them through the skunk smoke.
‘Nothing.’
‘I called you loads of times.’
‘I’ve been at work. Sorry.’
‘I thought you had the rest of the day off?’ Charlie said. ‘Last we spoke you were heading to bed.’
‘Needed some air. Ended up getting involved in something.’
Zoe ushered Billy into the seat next to her. ‘Like what?’
‘I interviewed the widow.’
‘Jesus,’ Zoe said. ‘Can’t you just stay away from this?’
‘It’s the biggest story the paper’s had in years, and the Evening Standard has the exclusive. There’s no way I can avoid it.’
‘You didn’t have to interview the wife, though,’ Charlie said.
‘Widow,’ Billy said. ‘Not wife.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Her husband’s dead, remember? We killed him.’
Zoe looked at him. ‘Calm down, honey.’ She had her hand on his wrist. He felt his skin itch under her grip and moved his arm to lift his pint, shaking her off.
‘I’ve got tomorrow’s front page,’ he said. ‘From talking to Adele.’
‘Adele?’ Zoe said.
‘Mrs Whitehouse. The widow.’
Charlie frowned. ‘What did she say?’
‘The usual.’
Zoe touched his hand again. ‘Listen, you need to leave this story alone.’
‘I can’t. I am the fucking story.’
Charlie took a drink. ‘Can’t you have a word with Rose, cover something else?’
‘How would that look? As a trainee I just got a front page, an interview that no one else got, and I suddenly ask to cover some bullshit vandalism case in Craigmillar? I don’t think so.’
‘We’re just concerned about you,’ Zoe said.
Billy took a big drink of beer. On the wall behind Charlie, amongst old brewery mirrors and landscape prints, was a framed green and blue map with MAKE YOUR OWN PATH stamped across it in thick red capitals. Billy choked as some beer went down the wrong way. Zoe rubbed his back. He put his beer down, still staring at the sign.
‘There’s a police press conference tomorrow morning at St Leonard’s. They’re expecting to have the forensic report.’
‘Christ almighty,’ Charlie said. ‘That doesn’t matter. They’re not going to come up with anything.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘How?’
Charlie had no answer to that.
11
‘Jesus, Scoop, you stink of bevvy.’ Rose led him into the media room of St Leonard’s police station. ‘And you look like shit. I said have a few jars, not the whole pub.’
Billy let himself be guided. They skulked at the back by the coffee machine. They could’ve been in any anonymous beige conference room in the world, windows shut, light slipping between the blinds. It was already warm outside and starting to heat up in the room. The place was full of hacks and shutter-monkeys. Two camera crews with presenters had set up near the front. Rose’s story yesterday naming Frank Whitehouse had lit the fire under all their arses. The nationals and television were playing catch-up, and Billy’s front page, due in an hour, was another step ahead. A few reporters approached and congratulated Rose on her story, fishing for a slip of the tongue.
‘Just sit there and don’t say a word.’ Rose pushed Billy into a seat and sat next to him.
‘Did you not manage to get an advance report on the forensics from Loverboy?’
‘Shut up.’
Billy had meant it as a joke and was surprised by her tone.
She glared at him.
‘Number one, Stuart Price is a good man. Honourable and decent. Number two, don’t go blabbing about where we get our information. The room is full of Scotland’s biggest dickhead journalists, for God’s sake. Remember that.’
There was a bustle of activity down the front as DI Price came through the door, followed by a uniformed female officer. Behind her was Adele Whitehouse in a tight grey suit, large dark glasses. She looked composed, the glamorous widow, the full Jackie Kennedy.
‘The ice maiden cometh,’ Rose whispered. ‘Looks like she could bust a few balls. How the hell did you get her
