A Winter Grave

Chapter Thirty-Two

Addie walked up Renfield Street in the rain. There was not a breath of wind beneath a bruised and ominous sky, and the large teeming drops raised a mist on the pavements and filled the gutters as they ran in spate downhill towards the river.

The city was busy, in spite of the weather. Black and red, and blue and yellow umbrellas formed a canopy over the heads of shoppers as they flowed like rainwater from Bath Street and Renfield Street into the town’s most famous shopping boulevard. Sauchiehall Street, deriving its name from the old Scots word sauchiehaugh, which roughly translated as willow grove. A meadow once filled with trees. A far cry from the tall steel and brick buildings, and the few remaining red sandstone tenements that lined it now.

Addie passed the 3D cinema complex on the corner and glanced up for the first time towards the top of the hill, and the glass tower at the far side of the square formed by the buildings of the Scottish International Media Consortium. The home of Charles Younger’s newspaper, the Scottish Herald. Although most of its publishing these days was conducted online, the Herald still produced a daily newspaper. Its circulation amounted to only a few thousand, but it was read by the country’s top business people, its politicians and regulators, and by most in the legal profession.

She felt fear form a fist in her belly.

Robbie’s old weekend pack, which her father had been wearing when he was shot, weighed heavily on her shoulders, chafing at them even through the layers of her parka. His blood stained the inside face of it, but was not visible to the casual eye.

She could feel the temperature falling, even as she crossed the street. It was forecast to dip below freezing, with wet roads and pavements turning to ice in the coming hours.

The previous evening she had spoken to the newspaper’s editor, Richard Macallan, for less than ten minutes, from one of the few remaining public telephone booths on the south side. The incoming call to the Herald, Tiny told her, would be monitored. It wouldn’t take them long to trace the source of it. But unless Macallan knew she was coming, she would never get past security. So the phone call was necessary to alert him. But the authorities would have been alerted, too. And she could only stay on the line for a few minutes before they would come looking for her.

Now, she knew, they would be waiting for her at the top of the hill.

She skirted the traffic barrier and walked up into the tiny square, which was more of a turning circle, built around a unicorn raised on a tall pillar above an old stone fountain. The unicorn: Scotland’s national, mythical, animal. A symbol of purity and innocence. A sad irony, given Addie’s reason for being there today.

Cars stood parked in a row along the left side, and two men in dark suits and long raincoats emerged from a black Merc. They strode quickly across the cobbles to intercept her. And were exactly as Addie had imagined, living out some comic book fantasy of their own importance.

Both men were startled by the sound of tyres skidding on wet cobblestones, and they turned to see four marked police vehicles speeding through the raised barrier. The cars divided to flank the tiny group in the circle, and flak-jacketed police officers poured out, Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine guns levelled at the men in raincoats.

Almost by instinct, the two men reached for concealed weapons beneath their coats, but stopped as a tall, plain-clothes officer emerging from the lead car barked at them, ‘Remain perfectly still, or you will be shot where you stand.’

‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’ the older of the two demanded, angry spittle gathering around his lips.

‘Yes, sir, I do,’ Tiny said. He felt the rain dripping from his nose and chin. ‘We’re responding to a tip-off about a terrorist attack on the offices of the Scottish Herald. Now, lay your weapons very carefully on the ground in front of you.’ Both men responded, gingerly removing Glock 26 pistols from leather holsters, to place carefully on glistening wet cobbles. One of the uniformed officers moved in to pick them up, then retreated. ‘Now show me some ID.’

The one who had spoken reached into an inside pocket.

‘Careful!’ Tiny warned him, and the man moved more cautiously to produce a leather wallet, which he flipped open and held out towards the policeman. Tiny approached to take it from him. He looked up, surprised. ‘SIA?’ And cast a doubtful look from one to the other. ‘What are you doing here?’

The two men exchanged glances. And after a pause, ‘Same as you,’ said the older one.

‘Oh, aye?’ Tiny’s eyes narrowed doubtfully. ‘How come we weren’t informed?’

The man shrugged. ‘Crossed wires, I guess.’

Tiny handed him back his wallet. ‘We’re going to have to check you out. You’ll come with us.’ And neither of them was going to argue with him.

As they were led to the nearest vehicle, one of them glanced back towards the entrance to the Herald. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

Addie stepped out of the elevator and followed the young woman through a busy newsroom. A few heads lifted from computer screens to glance curiously in her direction. The girl opened a glass door into a fishbowl of an office with windows all along the far side, and ushered Addie in.

Macallan was a man of about Brodie’s age. He had a sculpted face with wary dark eyes, and the remains of once fair and abundant hair gelled back across a broad skull. He stood up from his desk and held out a bony hand, which Addie shook tentatively. He said, ‘I watched that whole debacle down there from the window. You must have friends in high places.’

Addie said, ‘My father had friends who owed him a favour.’

‘What have you got for me?’

Addie swung the pack from her shoulders to set on his desk. ‘Everything.’ She unzipped it to bring out Younger’s laptop, his notebooks and printouts, and the report which had sparked off his whole investigation.

Macallan lifted the A4 ring binder and flipped through the pages of shorthand notes. He lifted a hand to wave someone through from the newsroom and pushed all the notebooks towards the young journalist who entered. ‘I want all this stuff transcribed, as soon as possible. As many people on it as it takes.’ He picked up the report then and shook his head in wonder as he riffled through it. He looked at Addie. ‘You know if this all holds up, it’ll bring down the government.’ He sighed. ‘Of course, they’ll claim that any publication of Younger’s story is in breach of standing DSMA-Notice regulations.’

Addie said, ‘I don’t know what that is.’

‘The Defence and Security Media Advisory Committee decides what is in the public interest, and what is a danger to national security.’

‘They murdered my father.’ Addie stared unblinking at the editor. ‘And your journalist.’ She delved into the pack again and pulled out Sita’s notebook. ‘The pathologist’s notes on his autopsy, before they murdered her, too.’

Macallan looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got ten hours to make this stand up. And if we do, I’ll publish. Then I’ll fight them in the courts if I have to.’ A pale smile flitted across his face. ‘Better to be forgiven than forbidden.’