Hit and Run (4 page)

He could feel the thud of a hip-hop beat as he stood digging for his keys. He opened the door and got a blast of Wu-Tang Clan. He followed the noise downstairs and found Charlie at the kitchen table with a sandwich in one hand, fingering the touchpad of a laptop with the other. A San Miguel bottle sat sweating on the table.

Billy grabbed a remote and turned the docked iPod off. Charlie looked up and swallowed a mouthful of sandwich.

‘Hey, Bro.’ He pointed at the laptop. ‘Just checking to see if there’s anything about our little incident last night.’

‘Little incident? Is that what you think it was, a little incident?’

Charlie took a swig of beer. ‘OK, calm down. I’m only saying. Doesn’t look like there’s anything come out about it yet, anyway.’

‘There won’t be. We’re first with the story, no one else has it yet.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘Rose is sleeping with the detective inspector in charge of the case.’

Charlie laughed. ‘Naughty girl.’

He took another bite of sandwich. Billy watched him chew then turned away. His stomach felt tight.

Charlie pointed at the laptop again. ‘Been googling your man Whitehouse, quite the little one-man crime industry. Well, two-man, seems he did everything with his brother Dean.’

‘I met him at their house. Little shit.’

‘Brotherly love, eh?’

‘He threatened to kill whoever was responsible for Frank’s death.’

Charlie looked at Billy and slugged his beer. ‘Look, we’re going to be OK.’

Billy stared at his brother. ‘How the hell can you say that?’

‘Because it’s true. We just have to stay calm.’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, me and my boss are investigating this story.’

‘And?’

‘What if Rose finds something out?’

‘How is she going to do that?’

‘I don’t know, we haven’t had the forensic report yet. That could incriminate us.’

Charlie smiled. ‘It’s not going to say he was killed by a red Nissan Micra at 2.30 a.m. at that exact spot on Queen’s Drive, is it?’

‘I have no idea what it’s going to say. Anyway, he wasn’t killed there, was he?’

Charlie didn’t speak.

‘Did you hear me?’ Billy’s voice rose and he swallowed hard.

‘I heard you.’

‘You said he was dead last night. On the road.’

‘I thought he was.’ Charlie’s voice had gone quiet and his eyes were on the laptop screen.

‘Really?’

‘Of course.’

‘Maybe you just didn’t want me to report it, so you said he was dead. That way, he was already gone, we couldn’t have saved him anyway.’

‘That’s not how it was.’

‘Look at me.’ Billy’s head was pounding, his neck muscles strained. He felt dizzy.

Charlie’s gaze didn’t budge from the screen.

‘Look me in the eye,’ Billy said, ‘and tell me you thought he was dead.’

Charlie looked up and stared straight at Billy. ‘I thought he was dead.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

Billy shook his head.

‘Look,’ Charlie said. ‘I was fucking loaded. We all were. And we were in shock. I made a mistake. He must’ve been past help anyway.’

‘But he got up and walked two hundred yards.’ Billy felt his legs twitching. He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself.

‘Yeah, and then he died. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re wasting your time worrying about Frank Whitehouse. Word on the net is that he was a nasty piece of work and the world’s better off without him.’

Billy had both hands on the back of the chair now, gripping hard.

‘He had a son.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Five years old. Ryan.’

Charlie shrugged.

‘Charlie, we both know what it’s like to grow up without a dad.’

‘OK, I feel sorry for the kid. But we’re getting way off the point here. We did the right thing.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘And I suppose you’d rather be locked up in jail on a murder charge?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What then?’

‘You were only worried cos we were all on those stolen pills of yours.’

‘I didn’t see you turning them down in the bar.’

‘You weren’t interested in saving me, you were only interested in saving yourself.’

‘If that’s all you think of me, Bro, it breaks my heart.’

‘Fuck you, Charlie, don’t get all superior with me. I know you.’

‘I had to make a decision, you and Zoe were rabbits in the headlights. I did what Mum would’ve wanted.’

‘Stop fucking using Mum like that.’

‘She wouldn’t want us to destroy our lives over this.’

‘I said leave her out of it.’

‘Reporting the accident would’ve been like disrespecting her memory. Is that what you want to do, disrespect Mum?’

Billy lunged for his brother, grabbed his shirt and shoved him so that the two of them spilled off the chair and on to the floor, beer and sandwich flying. They struggled on the ground for a while, Billy trying to punch Charlie but only glancing the side of his head, his knuckles crunching into the floorboards. Charlie backhanded Billy across the face, knocking him sideways and bringing tears to his eyes, a sting of blood to his cheek. Charlie scrambled on top and used his weight to pin Billy down, holding his wrists against the floor in a gesture of surrender. It was all over in a few seconds, Charlie getting the better of his little brother as usual.

‘Just relax,’ Charlie whispered in Billy’s ear.

Billy was struggling to get free from the weight of his brother, but Charlie had a firm hold, a lifetime’s experience of keeping Billy pinned down.

‘Take it easy.’ Charlie spoke softly, like he was comforting a baby.

Billy’s breathing slowed and the tension left his body. He caught his breath back. ‘It’s OK for you, I have to follow the story. It’s in my face all the time.’

 ‘I know.’ Charlie was still holding Billy’s wrists and sitting on top of him. ‘It’s fucking stressful, I understand that. I know all about stress. I deal with dying people every day at A&E, you think I don’t know? But we just have to stay cool, and this will all blow over.’

‘You think?’

‘We have to keep it together. Help each other through.’

Billy looked at his wrists, Charlie’s thick fingers still holding tight. ‘I’m OK, you can let go now.’

Charlie considered this for a moment, then released Billy’s wrists and stood up.

Billy pushed himself up on his elbows and rubbed his cheek where Charlie had slapped him. It felt alive with blood, just below the surface.

‘Sorry about that,’ Charlie said.

‘It’s OK.’ Billy looked at the mess on the floor, bits of sandwich floating in a pool of beer.

‘I’ll clean up,’ Charlie said.

He offered a hand out. Billy took it and got up. Charlie put a hand on Billy’s shoulder.

‘Why don’t you try to get some sleep,’ he said. ‘You look like shit.’

Billy stood rubbing his neck.

‘That whiplash still bothering you?’

‘Yeah, a bit.’

‘Want something for it?’ Charlie pulled a couple of blister packs from his pocket, one painkillers, the other sedatives. He handed both to Billy.

‘Two of each should sort you out. Just keep the packs, in case you need more.’

Billy looked at the packets in Charlie’s hand. ‘Keeping me doped up and out of trouble, yeah?’

Charlie gave a mock reproachful look. ‘Just trying to help my wee brother out. Is that a crime?’

Billy took the packs and pocketed them.

‘Maybe I should go for a lie down.’

‘Now you’re talking, it’ll all seem better once you’ve had some proper rest.’

Billy turned and went upstairs, leaving Charlie to clean up the mess. At the top of the stairs he stopped. He looked back down. The Wu-Tang Clan had started up already, quieter this time.

He walked to Charlie’s room, went in and opened a drawer in the bedside table. It was full of medication. He rifled through the drawer until he spotted a brand name he knew was methamphetamine – Anadrex. They’d laughed about it in a club once because it was one letter away from toilet roll. He popped two pills out and swallowed them, then stuck the rest of the packet in his pocket and left.

In the hall he picked up his bag, pulled the strap over his head and let himself out of the front door, making sure to pull it closed softly so that it made no sound.

He kidded himself that he was just out for some air, but he knew where he was going.

His feet took him to the end of Rankeillor Street and he turned left into the bus fumes and noise of South Clerk Street. Kebab houses, corner shops, pubs and greasy spoons, the pavement in the early evening teeming with people heading home from work or out to the pub. He walked until South Clerk Street became Newington Road, past cafes and wine shops, smarter flats towering above, cleaner stonework and larger windows.

He turned left on Salisbury Road. Bigger buildings, Victorian built, darker stone, walled gardens, a hotel and a medical centre. He felt a familiar chemical rush, the same flood of energy he’d had the night before, a comforting aliveness, a welcome loss of control.

At the end of Salisbury Road he stopped. The Commie Pool was across the road, shrouded in scaffolding and infested with cranes. Behind that Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat glimmering in the early evening sun, the volcanic rock brought to life by the low, angular rays.

To his right was The Crags pub, a large Georgian sprawl, part of a chain aimed at students. He’d avoided it as a student, thinking himself above the sports clubs and booze cruise brigades. Anyway, he’d gone to Napier across town, mostly populated by locals, while Edinburgh Uni down the road seemed a magnet for a certain kind of braying English loudmouth. Zoe had done English literature there, then Napier’s magazine journalism postgrad, where Billy had somehow hooked up with her, despite feeling she was out of his league. He still had a lingering niggle that she was slumming it with him.

Charlie had run with the arrogant medical student gangs for a while, but even he’d got tired of the constant one-upmanship and lager-fuelled bravado. Not that he didn’t still come out with his fair share of bullshit. But maybe he was right about Mum, about last night. Maybe it was the right thing to do. Didn’t make it any easier.

Billy realised he was grinding his teeth and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He could feel the tiny particles of enamel and skin in his mouth. It was incredibly dry, his tongue too big and swollen.

He skittered into The Crags car park. Stopped at the door. Over to his left was a beer garden, a spread of sticky picnic benches sitting on concrete slabs. Just beyond that was a five-foot wall, topped by a latticed wooden fence, barbed wire snagged along its top edge. He knew exactly where he was and why he was here. Over that wall was the Whitehouses’ garden.

He stared at the barbed wire for a moment then shuffled into the pub.

It was quiet, a few punters scattered around on the sofas. A young barman in regulation pub T-shirt flicked through the
Evening Standard
. Must’ve hit the streets not long ago. He closed the paper as Billy approached.

‘Pint of Stella,’ Billy said.

The man started pouring.

‘Mind if I take a quick look at your paper?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

Billy turned the paper to face him on the bar.
edinburgh crime lord dead
. Rose had the headline she wanted. The standfirst named Frank and suggested suspicious circumstances. He scanned the familiar story, looking to see if there had been any edits before going to print. The picture was a dramatic shot of Salisbury Crags, police tape and forensics in white overalls in the foreground.

‘Quite something, eh?’ the barman said as he clunked the pint down.

‘Yeah.’

‘Right on our doorstep.’

Billy felt a tightening across his chest as he paid for the Stella and passed the paper back. He struggled to breathe until he was out of the door and heading for the beer garden, staring at the back wall of the Whitehouse place.

He slumped on a bench and gulped at his pint. He had a fierce thirst. One of the other tables outside was occupied – four girls in hockey club sweatshirts and ponytails. They watched him for a moment then went back to their conversation. He stared at them, then looked over at Salisbury Crags for a moment. Then he turned and looked at the wall.

His left leg was trembling. He put a hand on it but it didn’t stop. He spilled some beer on his jeans, then got up‚ glugging his pint‚ and walked towards the wall. He tried to put on a nonchalant amble, like he was just stretching his legs. He walked the length of the wall to the back of the beer garden and pretended to study a sign detailing the rules and regulations for the pub car park. The hockey girls occasionally glanced over at him.

He stood there drinking till his glass was almost empty, then turned and began sauntering back. Took a final few gulps of beer, his hand shaking as he lifted the pint to his lips. Put the empty glass down on a table then began striding towards the Whitehouses’ back wall. The hockey girls were watching him but he didn’t turn round.

He got to the wall and grabbed the rough stonework, hoisting himself up so that he was quickly on top, his body pressed against the fence there. He laid his hands carefully on the barbed wire at the top of the fence, then brought his foot up to the same level. As he put his weight on it, the fence wobbled and the wire dug into his hands. In a quick movement he heaved himself up and on to the fence, the barbs piercing the skin of his palms, the wooden lattice creaking under his weight, then he launched himself into the Whitehouses’ back garden.

He stared at his hands.

Drops of blood were forming at several small puncture wounds. He crouched down and wiped his palms on the grass. The lawn was cut short and his hands left dark streaks across the nap of the grass.

He straightened up and looked around. He could see the pond and the treehouse, one wall of the main building. The foliage of the trees dappled everything in evening sunlight.

The air was still, clogged with pollen, gangs of midges dancing in the light as he took a few steps forward. The summerhouse was to his left, sitting in a suntrap out of sight of the main house. The sun glanced off the large front window. Behind the window, he thought he saw movement.

The reflection of the sun was blinding, his head thudding. He remembered the painkillers in his pocket. He fished them out and took two, snorting phlegm into his mouth to swallow them.

He crept towards the summerhouse. As he got nearer, the angle of the reflected sunlight changed and the inside of the building was revealed. Sitting on a low, cream sofa was Adele Whitehouse, no sunglasses, hair tied back from her face, bare feet tucked under her. She had a small copper hash pipe raised to her lips, a lighter held to the bowl. Her eyes were closed and she was inhaling deeply.

Billy walked forwards, drawn by the sight of her. He was only a few yards away when she opened her eyes and turned to face him. Her right eye was bruised and discoloured. She stared at him for a long moment, then invited him in with the smallest twitch of her head.

He opened the summerhouse door and stepped inside. The air was stifling, thick with the sticky smell of skunk. He closed the door. She indicated the space on the sofa next to her. He sat down, unable to take his eyes off her.

She held out the pipe and lighter. He took them, put the pipe in his mouth and lit it. A sweet burning in his throat and lungs, pressure and heat building as he held his breath. He exhaled. An immediate bolt to his brain made his eyes widen. He repeated the process, more ready for it this time, breathing out evenly. He handed the pipe and lighter back. She held his gaze as she took them.

‘I didn’t get your name earlier.’ Her voice was soft and syrupy.

‘Billy Blackmore.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Nice to meet you, Billy Blackmore. Do you want to tell me why you’re creeping around my garden?’

Billy stared at her. She was maybe early thirties but looked younger, faint lines around the eyes the only giveaway. She still wore the black polo neck and skirt, her bare knees exposed.

‘I came to see you.’

She raised her palms. ‘Well, here I am.’

She reached for a tin sitting on the arm of the sofa. It was full of skunk. She crumbled some into the bowl of the pipe and took another hit, breathing out through her nose.

‘And why did you want to see me, Billy Blackmore? To get your story? The grieving widow and all that?’

‘What happened to your eye?’

Adele raised a hand to it, turned her face away from him a little. She pulled a scrunchie out and let her hair fall free, brushing it forwards to partially cover the eye. She laughed as she did it.

‘You know how to make a girl self-conscious, don’t you?’

‘Sorry.’

He was staring at the tender skin around her bruised eye.

She smiled. ‘I walked into a door.’

He smiled too. ‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘Is this an interview?’

‘We’re just talking.’

‘We are, aren’t we?’

Billy nodded at her eye. ‘Did Frank do that?’

Adele frowned and looked away.

‘Sorry, none of my business.’

She turned back, offered him the hash pipe.

‘Of course it is, you’re a newspaper reporter, aren’t you? Everything’s your business.’

He took a hit and sank further into the sofa. Her bare feet were six inches away from his hands. He noticed that his leg twitch of earlier had stopped. Adele’s feet were small, carefully manicured, crimson varnish on the nails. He imagined reaching out and stroking her feet, massaging them and moving his hand up her tanned, bare legs. His brain felt soupy with the skunk and the painkillers and everything else. He handed the pipe back.

‘I’m sorry about your husband.’

‘You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You didn’t kill him.’

Billy watched her suck on the pipe as silence cloaked them. He noticed her lips were sticky and sparkly with gloss. He wondered what they would feel like against his.

‘So you think he was killed?’

‘I expect so. People were queuing up.’

‘Which people?’

A sound came from his bag on the floor. His mobile. He stared at the bag but didn’t move. His arms felt heavy.

Adele nodded at the bag. ‘You’d better answer that. Probably your boss lady, wanting to know if you’ve got the scoop.’

He took the phone out of his bag. The screen said ‘Zoe’. He switched it off and put it back. He spotted his digital recorder and pulled it out.

‘Would you mind if I got a couple of quotes?’

Adele laughed. ‘So you really are here to interview me? Here’s me thinking you were just worried about my welfare.’

He looked at her, didn’t speak, the recorder still in his hands.

She gave him a sly look.

‘Are you going to mention in your article that we shared a skunk pipe?’

‘I think we can leave that detail out.’

She pointed at the machine. ‘How do I know you’ve not had that on the whole time?’

‘You don’t.’

She sighed and filled the pipe with more skunk. The air between them was a swirling green haze.

‘Go on then, switch it on.’

He fumbled with the buttons till a red light appeared, then held it close to her. It felt intimate, shared.

‘OK, how did it feel to find out that your husband was dead?’

She gave him a flat look. ‘Devastating.’

‘If you’ll excuse me for saying so, you don’t sound particularly devastated.’

She lit the skunk pipe and took another hit. Held it in her lungs. Billy held his breath too, watching her. She breathed out, wet smoke billowing into his face. She nodded at the recorder as if it was an eavesdropper.

‘Of course I’m devastated, what are you trying to suggest, that I didn’t love my husband? Frank Whitehouse was a caring, devoted and loving father and husband, that’s the appropriate thing to say at a time like this, isn’t it?’

‘Have you told your son yet?’

A cloud came over her face and she looked down. ‘No.’

‘What are you going to tell him?’

‘Good question.’

‘What about you, how do you feel about it?’

‘You’ve already asked me that.’

‘I don’t think you were being entirely honest with me.’

She fixed him with a gaze. ‘Have you ever seen a dead body, Billy Blackmore?’

‘I’m asking the questions.’

‘Let’s do a trade, I ask one, then you.’

Billy thought about it. ‘OK.’

Adele passed him the pipe. He had to put the recorder down to take it. He placed it on the sofa, almost touching her bare leg.

‘So, have you ever seen a dead body?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘And how did it affect you?’

‘It’s my turn to ask a question.’ Billy breathed smoke into the thick air.

Adele made an acquiescent movement of her hand.

‘How did it really feel to find out your husband was dead?’

‘Terrible. My turn. What was it like when you saw the dead body?’

‘Shocking. It was your husband.’ Billy thought of the crash last night. ‘At the crime scene. This morning. I vomited.’

Adele shook her head. ‘At least I didn’t do that at the mortuary.’

‘My turn,’ he said. ‘Do you think your husband committed suicide?’

‘Not in a million years. He could no more kill himself than spread wings and fly off Salisbury Crags. My turn. Do you always flirt with recently bereaved widows?’

‘You’re the first. Do you always flirt with journalists right after your husband’s death?’

‘You’re the first. How long have you been a reporter?’

‘Almost a month.’

Adele laughed at that. ‘Wow, they sent the hardened pro to get the scoop, eh?’

‘No one sent me. What I said at the beginning was true, I came here to see you.’

‘And yet here you are getting your quotes. Do you feel like a big-boy crime reporter now?’

‘No.’ Billy handed back the pipe. ‘To tell you the truth, I feel out of my depth.’

Adele took the pipe but didn’t put it to her lips. She stared in Billy’s eyes for a long time, Billy holding her gaze.

She looked away. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Can I ask about your black eye?’

She looked at the digital recorder. ‘That’s enough.’ She picked it up, trying to work out the buttons. ‘How do you switch this thing off?’

He put his hand on hers as she held the machine. She took his hand and turned it over.