was burning. It looked all too cosy. Henderson set his gaze on the door to the living room and stretched out a pace towards where he knew Crawley would be waiting.

As he entered the room the television blared; Coronation Street was just going into a commercial break, the ginger cat loping over the shed roof. Henderson watched the screen for a second or two, then followed the light as it bounced off the window pane. He moved towards the Venetian blinds, closed them and then returned to the television and switched it off. As he did so, Crawley appeared from the kitchen holding a mug of tea. He stalled where he stood, splay-footed, for a moment and then he proceeded into the living room and resumed his place on the sofa.

‘You must think I’m a fucking daftie, mate?’ said Henderson.

Crawley sipped his tea, rested the mug on the arm of the sofa. ‘I can’t say I’ve given you much thought… Lately.’

Henderson walked in front of him, ‘Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Have you fucking-well lost it?’

Crawley turned the handle of his mug to the other side, raised the tea to his lips and started to blow on it. His lips were pinched as Henderson slapped the mug from his hands and gripped his throat. ‘Don’t get cocky with me, you little cunt. I’m not a man who takes kindly to that.’

‘I’ve cancelled my cards,’ said Crawley.

‘You what?’

‘I think you heard. You’ll get nothing more out of me.’

Henderson stepped back, his brows furrowed and lined. His eyebrows sat low above his thinned eyes. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Do you want me to pick up the phone to the filth? Is that it, you got some hard-on for the world to know you’re a fucking beast all of a sudden?’

Crawley smiled, ‘Ah, now that might have worked earlier… But not now.’

‘Oh, you think?’

‘I know.’

Henderson stepped aside, raised a finger to wag in Crawley’s face. ‘You think that because Ange is on the Links now that makes an ounce of difference… Fucking no chance. They’ll toast your bollocks over a fire, beast.’

‘I don’t think so…’

Henderson smiled, ‘I know you saw her, on the Links… You think putting a scare on her makes any difference? It’s me you have to worry about.’

Crawley crossed his legs, started to drum a finger on his kneecap. ‘ You threatened me… And you put a prostitute up to this. There’s not a court in the land will take your claims seriously. But more than that, I’m sure Angela will be too delicate to go through with any plans you might have.’

Henderson edged forward, a truculent gleam lit in his eye. He dipped inside his jacket pocket and removed the diary, threw it into Crawley’s lap. ‘Read it and weep, beast.’

‘What’s this?’ He raised the diary, turned over a few pages. ‘Some kind of diary… A schoolgirl’s diary.’

‘It’s Ange’s diary… She kept it at school, and guess what, you feature quite prominently in there, beast.’

Crawley thumbed through the pages; his eyes scanned left to right. For a moment he stalled on one of the pages then turned it. He turned another page and seemed to tire of looking at the diary altogether. ‘This is nothing… You can write anything on paper, it’s hardly incriminating.’

Henderson snatched the diary back, tucked it in his pocket. He took his palm across Crawley’s face; the smack lit a red streak from chin to brow. ‘Don’t fucking push it, beast… I could easy beat what I want out of you if you prefer.’

Crawley lifted his hands to his head; his crossed leg raised in time with the movement as his bravado left him. ‘You’ve had all I have!’

‘Bullshit.’

Crawley raised both feet from the floor and cowered on the sofa; he turned his head to look as Henderson raised his hand to level another blow. ‘No. Stop…’ Crawley reached into his trouser pocket and removed a bundle of notes, crumpled fives and tens. ‘Here take it… take it!’

Henderson grabbed the cash. ‘What the hell is this… Thirty-five fucking sheets!’

‘It’s all I have…’

‘It’s not enough!’

Crawley turned away, anticipating a blow, then sheltered his face beneath his elbow. ‘I have twenty more… In my jacket, it’s in the kitchen.’

Henderson’s pallor darkened, ‘You’re taking the piss.’ He slapped the top of Crawley’s head with the flat of his hands, ‘The piss, you’re taking the fucking piss…’ He brought another blow down, then gripped a fist. ‘Do you know what we do inside with beasts who take the piss?’ There was no answer. ‘No. Well, you’re going to fucking find out now, beast.’

Chapter 37

DI Rob Brennan parked on the street outside Robbie’s Bar on Leith Walk. He had a strange tingling sensation playing in the pit of his stomach that he knew signalled apprehension. It had been some time since he had met up with Wullie Stuart, a man he held the utmost respect for since serving under him on the force. Wullie was old school, what they used to call ‘no nonsense’ but would probably be referred to these days as unaware, at best, as difficult at worst. The last time Brennan encountered Wullie he had been shocked, not by the physical deterioration of the man — although that in itself was a sort of shock — but by the way he had gone from a man of action to a man of inaction in seemingly one fell swoop. It had worried Brennan at the time — he felt for the old boy; but it had also been a sobering glimpse of what the future might hold in store for him when he gave up the DI’s role; or indeed, it gave up on him.

Robbie’s was one of the more lauded of Edinburgh’s drinkers; a long, dark and little bedecked bar stretched from the front door to the back where a mix of hardened bluenoses and tabard-clad office cleaners mingled with the shop and factory workers. It was not a place of shirts and ties, the sight of a mobile phone was greeted with disdain, down-turned mouths and headshakes. City people — Edinburgh’s real warts-and-all occupants — held court in Robbie’s. There was an unspoken chivalry that surrounded the interior like a poker-room pall; there were house rules here, but they weren’t written up and framed on the wall. It was the kind of place where, one step inside, you knew it was different from all the corporate superpubs with their cocktail specials, their discount microwave meals and their shiny teenage servers spouting, ‘Have a nice day, sir’.

Brennan walked through the door of the pub and took two paces towards the centre of the room. It was busy, Robbie’s was always busy, but it was a kind of busy that Brennan liked. Not jammed; not jumping. Just filled with enough people to create a homely atmosphere that was far enough away from home to let you forget the cares of such a place. A couple at the bar eyed him cautiously; they had a way of appraising him that made him think they were criminals. Brennan was used to it; he knew police stuck out for them — there was a banner draped around his neck that read ‘filth’ for these people — but that was OK, the opposite was also true. The whole elaborate police-criminal pas de deux was as instinctual as the hair rising on a cat’s back upon encountering a dog. It was as good a warning sign as any to remind them both to steer clear, or face the consequences, which were rarely pretty for either party. The key was toleration; social exclusivity was impossible and so they walked around each other, noting the other’s presence but obviating its impact. Brennan turned a hand into his trouser pocket and drummed fingernails on the bar with his other as he raked the room with his gaze. For a moment he thought he had been the first to arrive but then he spotted Wullie sitting at the far end; the sight of him struck like a lash. His old mentor was slouched over a pint glass, his frame and face shrunken; it struck Brennan that after a certain age time became more precious, the path downhill steeper.

He nodded to the barman, ‘Pint, mate…’ and took a step towards the back of the room.

‘I’ll drop it over to you.’

‘Cheers.’

Brennan tried to keep his mind in gear as he approached Wullie; he knew why he wanted to see him. The

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