Hit and Run (2 page)

Charlie opened the front door.

‘I need a fucking drink.’

Billy felt Zoe’s hand on his back, nudging him forward. He stumbled into the flat. Charlie was already heading downstairs to the basement kitchen and they followed like zombies.

Charlie set out three long tumblers and half-filled each with vodka from the freezer. He handed them out.

‘Here.’

The three of them stood around the breakfast table. The spotlighting made it look like they were hatching a plot. Billy stared at the liquid in his glass then looked at Charlie, who had downed his already and was refilling it.

‘We did the right thing,’ Charlie said.

‘Did we?’ Billy stared back at his glass.

Charlie took Billy’s glass from him and set it on the table. He pulled a chair out. ‘Sit down.’

Billy sat. Zoe took the chair next to him, Charlie across the table. Their three glasses made sweat marks on the scuffed pine.

‘We didn’t have any choice,’ Charlie said. ‘There’s nothing we could’ve done for him.’

‘We should’ve reported it,’ Billy said.

Charlie took Billy’s hand across the table. ‘Look at me.’

Billy lifted his head. His brother’s eyes were cold.

‘What would’ve happened if we’d called the police?’

Billy didn’t speak.

‘What would’ve happened?’

Billy shook his head.

‘We would all have been arrested. Breathalysed. Drug tests. Prison. No jobs, no future. Criminal records. You would’ve got it worst, you were driving.’

Zoe took Billy’s other hand. ‘Charlie’s right. I don’t like this any more than you do, but reporting it wouldn’t have made any difference.’

Holding hands like this felt like they were holding a seance.

‘Think about Mum,’ Charlie said.

The mention of her made Billy snatch his hands from theirs and reach for his glass. The cold tumbler felt good against his nettle-stung hands. He downed the vodka, a viscous burn in his throat and chest. Almost five years. A massive stroke, she never regained consciousness. Him and Charlie still kids really, early days at Uni, only each other to cling to.

‘Don’t bring her into it.’

‘She always wanted to be proud of us, and she would be. I’m a doctor, you’ve just landed a proper job. Want to throw that away because of a stupid accident?’

Charlie topped their glasses up. Billy grabbed his and gulped. He lowered his glass and stared at Charlie.

‘Do you actually think we’ll get away with it?’

Charlie held his gaze and shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘What about the taxi driver?’

‘What about him?’

‘He saw the car.’

‘He won’t have been paying attention. It was just a car parked at night. And it’s dark. Even if he did notice anything, there must be hundreds of red Micras in this city.’

Billy shook his head. Zoe reached out and gently stroked his hair, lifting it up at the hairline over his temple.

‘How’s your head?’ she said.

Billy reached up and touched her hand, their interlocked fingers playing over the bump. It felt like an alien egg implanted in his skull.

Charlie went to the freezer and took out an ice tray. He popped the cubes into a tea towel, folded it up then smashed it against the worktop, crushing the ice inside. He pulled it tight then put it against Billy’s temple and placed Billy’s hand on it.

‘Keep that there as long as you can.’

The cold of it stung, sending shivers of pain across his head and down his neck. He realised one side of his face was still numb and began prodding it with his other hand, kneading the flesh. All the while, an itchy pain sparkled across his hands from the nettle stings.

Zoe rubbed his shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

He jerked away from her touch. ‘Sore neck.’ He tried to crick it.

‘Probably whiplash,’ Charlie said.

He dug into his pocket and came out with a handful of blister packs. He sorted through them on the table, picking up one with MXL on it. He pushed out two large orange capsules and slid them across the table.

‘Take these.’

‘What are they?’

‘Painkillers.’

‘What kind?’

‘Good ones. Just take them.’

Billy took the capsules and swigged them down with vodka.

Charlie sifted through the blister packs on the table and lifted one with Sonata printed on it. He popped half a dozen lime-green pills out on the table, split them into twos and pushed the pairs in front of each of them.

‘These will help us sleep,’ he said.

He took his, as did Zoe. Billy felt a bolt of icy pain come from the compress on his head. He looked at them both. He felt Zoe’s hand on his leg, trying to be comforting. He remembered her touching him the same way in the car earlier.

He lifted his capsules, put them on his tongue, and washed them down with vodka. He sat back and waited to feel something.

*

 ‘Hold me,’ Zoe whispered.

They were in bed, almost dawn outside, thin light bleeding through the curtains.

She nestled into him as he lay on his back and stared at the cornicing. She lifted a leg across Billy’s, brushing his crotch, then ran her hand up the inside of his thigh to his boxers.

‘I want you inside me.’ She kissed his ear. ‘Forget everything and come inside me.’

She went to pull his shorts off but he put a hand on hers.

‘Don’t.’ He looked at her and saw that she was scared too. ‘It’s the pills, I can’t.’

She lifted her hand to his chest and snuggled in. ‘Don’t worry, baby. Just hold me.’

He lay for a few minutes until he heard her breath deepen and slow, then he slid out from her embrace and crept downstairs to the bathroom. He took out Charlie’s
FHM
from the cupboard under the sink and sat on the toilet. He flicked through the pages for a while then dropped the magazine on the floor. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

Something was trying to drag him out of a sleep hole. His phone. His phone was ringing.

He opened gummy eyes. He was sitting in the old chair in the corner of the bedroom in his shorts. The room was warm already, sunlight in spears through the gaps in the curtains. He scrunched his eyes and blinked a few times, getting used to the light.

His head and neck throbbed, the skin on his hands was puckered and red. He felt his temple. The bump had shrunk but hardened. He found his jeans and took his phone from the pocket. It said ‘Rose’ on the screen. He pressed answer.

‘Now before you say anything, Kiddo, I know you’re not supposed to be in today, but we’ve got a belter of a tip-off, and I thought you’d want to see some real-life reporting for once, instead of just rewriting boring press releases.’

‘Morning, Rose,’ Billy said.

‘Jesus H, you sound rough as a badger’s arse. Big night last night?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You kids and your parties. I remember the days. Go for it. At your age you bounce back like knicker elastic. Anyway, like I was saying, we’ve got a potential scoop on our hands. Want in?’

‘What’s the story?’

‘Suspected suicide. Word on the street is that it might be someone already known to the police, as they say.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just come meet me. It’s on our frigging doorstep, so we’ve got a start on those tabloid pricks for once. The body was found this morning at the bottom of Salisbury Crags.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me, Kiddo. Got a jumper. Or maybe something a little more interesting, my sources tell me.’

‘Salisbury Crags?’

‘You’re taking a while to wake up, eh?’ She put on a voice as if talking to a toddler. ‘Yes. Salisbury Crags. Why don’t you extricate yourself from Little Miss Sunday Supplement, sling on your outsized trousers and meet me there in ten minutes?’

‘I don’t think . . .’

Rose’s voice turned serious. ‘I know this is strictly my shift, and you’re supposed to be having some well-earned kip, but trust me, if you want to get on at this game and learn the ropes properly, you’ll help me on this one.’

Billy hesitated. He looked at Zoe, still crashed out on sedatives. ‘OK.’

‘Good laddie, see you there.’

‘Wait, where is it exactly?’

‘Can’t miss it, Kiddo, the place will be crawling with police. Look out for large swathes of crime-scene tape.’

‘Right.’

Billy ended the call. A jumper at Salisbury Crags, just a few minutes’ walk from their accident.

He stared at Zoe, thighs white against black lace panties, arms covering her breasts. He reached over and stroked a strand of hair away from her eyes. She looked peaceful.

He pulled on his clothes, his body aching. He left the room and padded along the hall to Charlie’s door. He pushed it open. Charlie was spreadeagled naked on top of his covers, his room the usual mess of gadgets, magazines and junk. He was snoring heavily. Billy found his jacket and went through the pockets. He found two MXL blister packs, lifted them and tiptoed out of the room.

*

The sunlight made him cringe as he stepped out of the front door. A hot day, the air choked with traffic fumes and pollen, making him sneeze. He stopped when he reached the gate. Right in front of the house was the red Micra, parked as if nothing had happened.

He examined it. Ran a finger along the side panel, then the bumper and the bonnet. It was filthy, his finger came away grey and gritty. There didn’t appear to be any damage, how could that be? Now that he looked closely, he could see a slight bevel in the bonnet, a little to the left of centre, and a corresponding dent in the bumper. Hardly even noticeable. In the reflecting sunshine he spotted a few indentations in the roof, small dimples in the curve of the metal. Jesus, was that it?

He looked at their heavy front door, the flat that Zoe’s dad had bought for her when she started Uni, Billy and Charlie freeloading as usual. Further along the road at the end of Rankeillor Street was St Leonard’s police station, an anonymous modern brick block. Beyond that loomed the ragged brown cliff of Salisbury Crags, buttressed by the near-vertical slope beneath, spreads of rough yellow gorse clinging on for dear life.

He turned the corner at the top of Queen’s Drive. It all looked so different in the thick, shimmering sunlight. The expanse of gorse on the Crags seemed to glow. His head throbbed. The cliffs above looked less ominous than last night, just a mottled strip of rock against pale sky.

Cars zipped up and down Queen’s Drive as normal. Two police cars and a van were parked on the large spread of grass to the right of the road, where the slope of Salisbury Crags levelled off and the gorse petered out. A rough square of police tape cordoned off an area of grass and gorse, half a dozen men in uniform or white overalls milling about.

It wasn’t the scene of Billy’s accident. That was at least two hundred yards away.

He looked from the crime scene back to the small clump of trees that lined the road. Where they’d left the body. What the fuck was going on? Was the body still in there?

He saw Rose puffing up the hill towards the crime scene. He dry-swallowed two of Charlie’s capsules and went to meet her, the pills haunting his throat. She waved when she spotted him. She had a fag in her mouth and a huge suede shoulder bag. She was fifty, busty, divorced and coughing her lungs up when he met her a few yards from the police tape.

‘Hey, Kiddo.’ She was gasping, getting her breath back. ‘You look as bad as I feel.’

Billy stroked the bump on his head then stole a glimpse at the copse of trees from this angle. Just a tight cluster of beech, cars swishing past alongside, nothing to see.

Rose began walking in the opposite direction towards the cordoned-off area. ‘Come on, let’s find a story.’

Billy traipsed after her. She was surprisingly fast. By the time he reached the crime scene, she was already talking to a middle-aged police officer with a neat grey beard and a smart suit. She had her notebook out and was making shorthand scribbles.

‘Stuart, this is Billy, my toyboy,’ she said. ‘Billy, this is Detective Inspector Price. Or Stuart, if you know him like I do.’

DI Price put on a smile but didn’t offer a hand. He turned back to Rose.

‘As I was saying, the body was found at 9.15 this morning by a local woman walking her dog.’

‘Name and address?’ Rose raised her eyebrows.

Price smiled. ‘I’ll get it from one of the grunts in a minute. Anyway, the body was found in amongst the gorse bushes here, which would seem to indicate a suicide or a tragic accident up on the Radical Road.’

‘Where?’ Billy said.

Price pointed upwards. ‘It’s the name of the path that runs along the base of the cliffs, at the top of this slope.’

Billy shielded his eyes as he looked up. He’d lived in Edinburgh his whole life and never heard the name before.

‘Got an ID on the deceased yet?’ Rose said.

Price smiled and looked at her notebook. ‘Not officially.’

She stopped writing and lowered the pad. It was like they were flirting.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Officially he’s a white male in his forties, average height and solid build, well dressed.’

Billy thought about last night.

‘And unofficially?’ Rose was giving him big eyes.

‘It’s Frank Whitehouse.’ Price had a note of triumph in his voice.

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Holy crap, Frank Whitehouse.’

‘Who?’ Billy said.

Price turned to him. ‘You’re a crime reporter and you don’t know who Frank Whitehouse is?’

‘He’s new,’ Rose said. ‘Learning the ropes.’

She turned to Billy. ‘Frank Whitehouse is, or was, probably the biggest criminal in Edinburgh. First made his mark in the nineties, started in drugs, moved into prostitution, identity fraud, money-laundering, you name it. These days he’s semi-legit, in property and development, with half the council in his pocket, but he’s still a thug at heart. Smart, though, never got caught himself, always got someone else to take the bullet.’

‘Until now, it would seem,’ Price said.

‘I can’t believe it, Frank Whitehouse is dead.’ Rose shook her head.

‘We haven’t had a formal identification yet,’ Price said. ‘A couple of officers are away to collect Mrs Whitehouse, escort her to the morgue.’ He nodded at two men in overalls. ‘We’re just about ready to remove the body.’

‘Can we see?’ Rose said.

Price raised his eyebrows and thought a moment, looking around.

‘Follow me.’

He lifted the flimsy tape and guided them under. He strode up to where the two overall guys were kneeling. Billy hung back, cricking his neck, rubbing his aching shoulders, feeling damp under his armpits. They were amongst gorse bushes now, mustardy flowers and thorns everywhere. Horseflies and midges skittered around them. A bee zigzagged between blossoms. DI Price and Rose were in front of him, looking at the body. He crept forward until he was almost between them.

He recognised the shoes. Expensive brown leather. Scuffed. He could see now that the socks on the ankles he held last night were burgundy. He raised his eyes. Fitted grey suit, cornflower-blue tie. Sturdy chest underneath, thick neck. The face was the same scraped and bloody mess Billy remembered.

He turned and staggered out the bushes, swiping at midges, his forehead wet with sweat. He made it ten yards then fell to his knees and threw up, his vomit blood-red from the beetroot schnapps, tearing at the lining of his throat as he retched and coughed.

He ran his tongue around his mouth and spat. He spotted two orange capsules among the mess. He carefully picked them out of the red swill and put them on his tongue, tried to swallow. He worked up some saliva and threw his head back.

He heard footsteps. Rose and DI Price were standing over him.

‘It’s his first dead body,’ Rose said. ‘He’ll be fine in a minute.’