Rose sighed. ‘I thought she might.’
‘Dean told her.’
‘I’ll bet he did.’
‘I don’t think I can go home.’
He was angling, and they both knew it. Rose played along.
‘Hell, if you need a place to stay when you get out of here, I’ve got a shockingly uncomfortable sofa bed with your name on it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Just make sure and get better, OK?’
She patted his hand maternally and looked him in the eye.
‘Listen, Kiddo. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask this..’
Billy nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Did you get anything out of Adele when you met, something that might help with the story? And the case, of course.’
‘You still in touch with the detective inspector?’
‘Very much so. We make a pretty good team, I think.’
‘He’s lucky to have you.’
‘Oh, please.’
Billy was surprised to see her blush. He’d never seen her blush before.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘Did you get any info from Adele?’
Billy shook his head. ‘It wasn’t that kind of conversation.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘It really isn’t like that. It’s hard to explain.’
‘You don’t have to explain.’
‘I feel like I do.’ Billy could feel tears welling up, a hot prickle swarming over him. ‘I need to talk to someone about it.’ He looked down.
He felt Rose’s hand on his, a loving squeeze, and tears fell. He caught his breath and sniffed, immediately wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands.
‘I feel something for Adele, but it’s not…’
‘It’s OK.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Billy looked up. ‘Rose, there’s something I have to tell you.’
But he couldn’t. Looking into her eyes, her concerned face, he couldn’t talk, couldn’t work out how to get his mouth to make sound. Couldn’t face the awful fallout, especially not from her. She was like his mum, his memory and imagination blending them into one. His heart plummeted like an anchor.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rose said. ‘Women are trouble, Kiddo, you should know that by now. Best just stay away from us.’
Billy got the tears under control and put on a fake smile. ‘Must be the medication making me weepy.’
‘Must be. Hey, what am I thinking, I’ve got some news that could cheer you up. The police have got a witness.’
‘The Whitehouse case?’
‘Of course the Whitehouse case, what else?’
Billy put his hands on his legs, tried to stop them shaking. All he could feel was a colossal pulse in his ears, bursting to get out.
‘What sort of witness?’
‘A taxi driver came forward. Said he drove past a stationary car on Queen’s Drive in the early hours of that morning.’
‘Did he see anyone?’
‘No, but that’s the thing.’ Rose was excited, newshound instinct kicking in. ‘It was parked, no one in it, lights off.’
‘So?’
‘So, whoever it was must’ve hit Frank Whitehouse, then stopped, got out and moved the body to the bottom of the Radical Road.’
‘And?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I’ll blame the painkillers for your slowness, yeah? That means it wasn’t an accident. If it was an accident, why not report it? Or why not just drive off? Why go to the bother of moving the body to make it look like suicide?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It still doesn’t quite add up, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘The police don’t think the Mackies were responsible, at least not directly. They have a strong alibi.’
‘They could’ve got someone else to do it. Made sure they were somewhere public when it happened.’
Rose grinned. ‘Now you’re starting to think like my Scoop again. But the type of car is unusual.’
‘The taxi driver identified it?’ Billy heard his own voice catch, it was fucking obvious.
Rose shook her head. ‘A small red hatchback, that’s all he could tell the police. That fits with the forensics so it’s definitely the car responsible. But forensics also came up with a definite age limit — at least ten years old. Something to do with polymers in the paint that are now banned or something.’
‘So what?’
‘I can’t imagine an associate of the Mackies, or a hitman or whoever, driving around in a small, ten-year-old hatchback, can you? These clowns all have souped-up racers or executive sports numbers, not wee family cars.’
Billy felt something wash through his body, not pain exactly, but a horrible shiver, like a spirit entering him.
Rose leaned back. ‘Anyway, don’t you worry about it, I’m on the case. I think we’re getting close to finding out who was driving that car.’
Billy closed his eyes and took a slow breath.
‘You OK, Kiddo? You don’t look so good.’
He pushed the button for morphine.
‘Want me to get a doctor?’
He shook his head. ‘Just tired.’
‘Right, I get the message, I’ll leave you to it. Got some loose ends to chase on this story anyway.’
Billy watched fireworks dance on the inside of his eyelids, and felt Rose’s hand on his. He smelt her flowery perfume, a familiar and comforting smell.
‘I’ll pop back in tomorrow, see how you’re doing. Take it easy, Scoop.’
He gave a vague nod of the head but didn’t open his eyes.
The clack of her heels on the floor faded away, then he opened his eyes. He lifted his hands to his temples and began to push in, scrunching his face up and trying to fill his lungs with air.
27
He eased himself out of bed with small, tentative movements. Didn’t feel too bad. His legs were weak but stable. His head wasn’t pounding too much. His heart raced in his chest, but when had it ever not done that?
He crouched down, still attached to the drip, and opened the bedside cabinet. Shoes and socks at the bottom, shorts, jeans and T-shirt, then jacket on top. Methodical, precise. He’d never seen his clothes so tidy before.
He rummaged in the jacket pockets. He pulled his jeans out, and felt the heft of his phone. A whiff of beer and piss. That’s what came from passing out on the floor of a pub toilet. He pulled the phone out. No messages.
