Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (5 page)

I'm not sure whether I ought to tell him the other bit, about the maybe-connected murder in Elgin. After a moment, I do, and he reacts with more of that heavy silence, but his shoulders lose a little of their tension.

"So it's not just us, then."

"Doesn't look that way." I pull off my boots and curl myself up in my now-familiar corner of his bed. 

Taog's small laugh makes me jump. It's sharp and bitter and wears pain like an overcoat, but it's a laugh. It may be the first one I've heard from him in weeks. 

I give him a quizzical look. 

"I feel like I've been playing Russian roulette for the last month, Gwen," he says. "Each day feels like there could be a bullet in the chamber, and I won't know till it buries itself between my eyes."

I think of stab wounds and see Taog's body riddled with them, and I close my eyes for a moment before I trust myself to speak. If I could stay by his side twenty-four hours a day, I would. He's safest with me, and his words terrify me because they echo the same fear I already carry with me whenever I leave him. Maybe this is why we always keep our clothes on. We're both afraid of how naked we'd really be if that gun goes off with a live round and one of us finds ourselves sitting on this bed alone. 

five

The weekend passes with no more murders, and I spend it with my normal patrols and Seth Jones's funeral.

The funeral is one of the least pleasant pairs of hours I've ever experienced. It goes by in a blur of collapsing family members, time seeming to both speed with the force of a rocket launch and hold me frozen with only the tight, sweat-slicked grip of Taog's hand as an anchor.

There is something that cannot be fathomed or processed about the murder of a young person, of a life cut short with such brutality. A future snuffed out with a knife. 

The weight of the day brings Seth Jones's loved ones falling to the grass at his graveside, trying to support one another and failing. Taog and I hang back, but the heaviness of the air around us threatens to pull us both to our knees with them.

It's a day I hope I never repeat.

Taog and I watch Doctor Who reruns for the entire evening afterward because we need something safe and comforting, but it neither reassures us nor comforts us, and by the time I leave for my patrol I want to run to the top of Arthur's Seat and scream until my lungs bleed. Sunday I am naught but mechanical habit and pass the day feeling hungover.

When Monday dawns and the noon hour approaches with still no email from Ross, I send him one myself. He doesn't respond. 

By four thirty, I still haven't heard back from him. Frowning, I pick up my phone and dial Hammerton. 

I punch in his extension, but no one answers. Instead of leaving a message, I dial the switchboard. 

"Hammerton, Inc., how may I direct your call?" It sounds like they've gotten a new operator. The male voice on the other end of the line is pleasant and demure.

"Hiya, can you tell me if Ross McIntyre is in the office today?" I balance the phone on my shoulder and reach over to staple the report that's just finished printing. 

There's a pause. "I'm sorry. He's not in right now."

At the man's tone, I set my report down on the desk. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I'm afraid not."

I hang up and dial Ross's mobile. No answer. 

I'm beginning to get a bad feeling. He'd mentioned that he'd had to go in for a second interrogation. On impulse, I hit my speed dial for Sergeant McLean.

At least he answers.

"I don't have time to talk right now, but I'll ring you as soon as I hear from the investigator up in Inverness who's looking into the Elgin murder." 

Belatedly, I remember he was going to let me know when he heard more. "That's not why I'm calling. Ross MacIntyre," I say. "Works at Hammerton. I've been trying to get ahold of him all day."

For the second time in five minutes, the pause is louder than words. "He's been arrested."

I let out an explosive gust of air. "He's what? Why?"

A shuffling sound comes through the phone line, and I sit back in my chair. Ross. Arrested. Bugger. 

"The charges are obstruction of justice and aiding and abetting a terrorist."

"
What?
" This time I almost yell. "That's not possible, McLean." 

One of the assistants in the bullpen outside my office looks up. Hurriedly, I hop up to close my door. 

I modulate my tone. "Tell me you're joking."

"You don't think he could have done it?"

"He's my friend, Trevor. He…" I trail off, thinking of how Ross helped me into the lab the day Sophie de Fournay died. He said Stan from maintenance showed him the door, but maybe not. 

I shake my head. No. Ross wouldn't have done that. Ross couldn't be involved in something like this. 

"What evidence do they have?" I ask finally. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

"He admitted to knowing about the lab during questioning."

"That's circumstantial at best," I say, proud of myself for remembering the word. 

"There's more." Trevor takes a breath and exhales slowly. "They printed the bomb. They found his prints on it. He could offer no explanation for how they got there."

I feel like my skin's been frozen. Ross's prints on the bomb that almost blew a million people into chunks. That's anything but circumstantial. "Are they keeping this quiet, or am I going to see his face splashed all over the news?"

"They're keeping it quiet. Some things don't add up. We're not holding any press conferences until the facts are straight."

I don't ask how they're crooked, but I want to agree. Ross was my only friend at Hammerton. Could he have been a member of Britannia? "Is there any way to explain his fingerprints on the bomb?"

"That's one of the things that don't add up. His prints aren't anywhere else in the lab or near it. There's not even a hint of him anywhere else in that building except for the floor where his office is and the bathrooms."

It's my turn to be quiet. 

"I'm sorry, Gwen," Trevor says after a beat. "Either way, we'll get it sorted."

I hope he's right. But if Ross is innocent and getting framed, where else could Britannia have their tendrils? And if he's not innocent, if he is part of this…

I can't follow that track to its terminus.

"Can I come visit him?"

"He's allowed a thirty minute visit three times per week. If you come tomorrow, you can see him. He's already had people in twice this week. Your name is on his list of acceptable visitors. If you like, I'll set it up."

It sinks in what Trevor's saying. 

Ross has been arrested and charged with aiding de Fournay in blowing up my city.

I'll go see him. If for no other reason than to see if I can figure out what the hell is going on.

Magda and I go out Monday night, just the two of us. She's a bright contrast to Taog's and my competition for Scotland's Most Glum Personage, and it refreshes me to sit next to her as she flips through a large portfolio of her designs and points out the selections that have been chosen to go into production for her new label. I recognise the asymmetrical blue frock from her gallery show, along with several new pieces. Our table is littered with samosas and papadum before long.

It makes me want to thank my new boss Francis Duck yet again. Without this new job and the raise, I wouldn't be able to feed myself. David, my trainer, makes me keep a diary of how much I eat. So far I eat about twelve thousand calories a day. Hunger has become a central facet of my life. Even now, with hors d'oeuvre plates strewn about the burgundy linen tablecloth, I am still hungry. 

Magda brushes a crumb from her portfolio cover and closes it. She tucks it into her briefcase, smoothing the flap and buckling it. I can almost see the thoughts in her mind, glowing and optimistic. Her cheeks have a healthy blush; the china blue of her eyes is painted with dancing sparkle. She is what I wish I could be. 

"Have you thought of a name for your line yet?" I ask her.

She shakes her head, frowning. "Most designers use their names, but mine is hard to pronounce."

"What, Kapuscinska?" I wink at her. 

"You should hear people try." Magda gives me a wry smile. 

"What if you translated it? Does it have a translation?"

Her smile grows even more dry. "The root word is
kapusta
."

"And?"

"It means cabbage."

"Oh." Aye, maybe not the best name for high fashion.

Magda gets up a moment later to go to the loo, leaving me to polish off the plate of samosas. I check my phone. After the referendum and Granger's escape from custody, I set up news alerts. I've got three local news stories lighting up my notifications. I can't ignore them.

The first is about that poor student's murder. Seth's parents are asking for donations to be made to the Edinburgh International Science Festival as well as the University of Edinburgh for improvements to their labs.

I set a reminder on my mobile to donate when I get home. The image of Seth Jones's body still comes all too easily to my mind.

The second news article is a piece on the string of murders and a profile of Rosamund Granger. For as much as her face has been splashed around the news, she's managing to lay low enough to escape notice. No one has sighted her.

The third news article makes my stomach churn around the samosas.

Ross's face takes up the first third.

Shite, bollocks, bugger.

Heart pounding, I skim the article. It's in the Daily-bloody-Mail, and it's written like a scoop. Edinburgh constables refused comment, blah, blah, blah, secret arrest in the Edinburgh bombing case, Hammerton, Inc. loses high-profile clients in wake of scandal.

My throat feels dry like mud that's cracked from soaking up sun. 

Magda plunks back down next to me just as the server arrives with our entrees. "What's wrong?" 

I hand her my mobile. She's met Ross. He came to our flat a couple times back before any of this started. More recently, he visited the hospital on referendum day, as did David. David and I wheeled Taog into Magda's room to watch the news coverage that night, and Ross kept shooting sidelong glances at David over the top of Taog's head as we all ate deep fried haggis and chips until the nurses complained about the smell of vinegar in the room. Every time Ross looked away, David would check him out right back.

Bugger. David. I want to kick myself for not thinking of him sooner. He and Ross have gone out a few times since the vote.

Magda makes a sad exclamation next to me and hands my mobile back, thanking the server for our food and mechanically ordering another plate of naan. She knows me well enough to reckon I'll eat it. 

I send David a text.
You okay?

Then one to McLean.
Read the Daily Mail.

We're at my favourite Indian restaurant, but I almost can't taste the food. I shovel it into my mouth. If one day could go by without bringing terrible news, I'd be right chuffed. 

"I did not know Ross got arrested," Magda says.

"I was going to tell you. Trevor said they were keeping it quiet, but it looks like mum's not so much the word anymore."

"They think he helped set the bomb?"

I look around the restaurant. The music and bustle is loud enough; I pitch my voice low. "They found his fingerprints on the bomb."

Magda's blue eyes bug out, and she looks around wildly. Her left hand twitches around her fork handle, and she almost drops the utensil into her pasanda. In that instant, the glowing, happy halo around her shatters. I see the tightening in her jaw, the way her shoulders draw together, the convulsive movement of her throat. 

Maybe she doesn't have so much on Taog and me after all. I set down my utensils and reach over, taking her hand. "We don't know yet. Trevor said they wanted to keep it quiet because they don't have all the facts yet. It could be a set up."

But my words don't sound convincing even to me. I want to be the type of person who could look at Ross with the steadfast gaze of a friend who knew beyond any shadow of doubt or worry that he would never, could never plot with terrorists to murder hundreds of thousands of people. 

The problem is, you can never really know a person. Not truly. Not all of them. The neighbour who's found guilty of paedophilia. The aunt who's been tucking whisky into her morning cuppa for a decade. The friend who sleeps with your significant other. 

Until September, I didn't want to believe anyone I knew could be so evil. Not even de Fournay. For all she spent her days delighting in my humiliation and ignominy, I never thought her capable of murder — but she'd killed first almost eight years ago.

Now my benefit of the doubt has been depleted.

When I look at Magda, it's clear hers has too.

She finally speaks a moment later. "I hope they are wrong."

I watch her chest expand and contract three times. She closes her eyes for three seconds. When she opens them, her face is calm again. Almost serene. Her fingers steady on her fork, and she goes back to eating.